The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

A coin, an inkwell, an oar, a chime, and a loom stone.

The sixth and final window was centered on the east wall—an enormous rose window,

depicting no stone object, but rather a flower with five peculiar petals that, when I studied them, looked all the world ...

It was grotesque, but it roused me.

Coulson Faire, the hamlet of merchants. The scholarly city-heart—the Seacht—the hamlet of scribes. The Fervent Peaks, near the mouth of our river, the hamlet of fishers. The cosseted birch forest, the Chiming Wood, where the foresters dwell. The florid Cliffs of Bellidine, occupied by weavers.”

six gods visited Traum.”

The tor did not offer much life save whispering grass and gowan flowers and pale moths.

“The Omen who bore a stone coin, the child named the Artful Brigand. The Omen fitted with the inkwell was christened the Harried Scribe. The Omen who wielded a stone oar was called the Ardent Oarsman. The Faithful Forester carries the chime.” She pointed at the last arched window. “And the Heartsore Weaver employs her sacred loom stone.”

“But the sixth Omen bore no stone object. It revealed nothing of itself at all, appearing only as a pale moth on tender wing. Some say it shows itself the moment you are born, others believe it comes just before you die. Which is true”—she opened her palms, like two pans of a scale—“we cannot know. We may read their signs, but it is not our place to question the gods. The moth is mercurial, distant—never to be known, even by Diviners.”

“For in the end,” the abbess said, “we are all supplicants. Whether craftsman or a king, knight or foundling or Diviner—faith is the same.

it is the Omens who rule Traum. Omens who scrawl the signs. We are but witnesses to their wonders.

I drowned.

And for some perverse reason, I liked that. Knowing I could hold so much pain without anyone being the wiser made me feel… Strong.

My name is Sybil Delling,

And in all that dreaming, in all the holy things that came of it, I broke my promise. I forgot all about Sybil Delling.

waistband—

Take it easy sister

Were he to bite me, I imagined the indent would be as unique as his fingerprint. What a horrible thought.

“The first man in history to lie about being married,”

Divine in public, human in private.

Don’t smoke it all.)

We smoked all the idleweed.

Permission.

A moth, pale and delicate.

“The abbess promised you’d be the one to stay with me.”

I bet she killed them all and was grooming six to be next abess

“Pith.”

Enough with this

I’ve never felt a Diviner’s pulse before.

every time you feel the compulsion to say something peculiar, smother it.” He sank into his chair and sulked. “You ask a great deal of me.”

That’s the sixth Omen. The one with no name.” My throat tightened. “The one we call the moth.” “Indeed. Though if anyone were to know her name, surely it would be you.” He paused. “She’s your abbess, after all.”

I learned it’s about pain. How girls bear it best.

“I, who threw the first stone.”

“How embarrassing. I would never fall in such an ungainly way.”

“Oh, Bartholomew. He’s dreamy.”

Slamming

Overuse

Starving things are loyal when fed.” For some reason, that made him laugh. “I would know.”

She feeds them the girls

“Don’t worry, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle called. “If you accidentally kill her, I will not be upset.”

He always makes me laugh

I thought of bold Four. How, if she were here, she’d already be naked, and the other Diviners would inevitably follow, Two grumbling, Three and Five half-timid, half-excited, and One sighing as she held her arm out to me. “Come on,” she’d say. “Someone has to mind them.”

and that I had purposely chosen the short straw that day.

it felt almost divine.

“The thing is—I think I’d do anything you asked of me.”

“Live.”

“It is important for a squire to carry a knight’s weapons,”

Crying

“You’ve swallowed so much more of Aisling’s water than the other one. I can practically taste the spring.”

“It’s the only spring water I’m given—their blood.”

“Dead. Your Diviners are all dead.” A terrible gasp fled his mouth. “And so are you.”

“Not so different from the abbess, are you? From an Omen.”

I don’t even know your name”—he drew in a breath—“and I would do anything for you.”

“Good night,” he murmured. “Sybil.”

He blinked. “What would he want with your shoulder?”

It is easier, swearing ourselves to someone else’s cause than to sit with who we are without one.”

That my shroud was not there, between us.