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

by Rachel Gillig

To tell a story is in some part to tell a lie, isn’t it?

To dream of the Omens was to fall into nightmares, and the pain I felt while unconscious was as real to me as the pain in my waking life.

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

Divination takes away the pain of the unknown. Knowing if you are headed for something good or ill-fated is like peering into the future. It’s magic what the Omens do. What I do.”

“But what is a Diviner, really? A foundling?” He looked me up and down. “The abbess strips you of name, face, clothes, distinction—cloisters you to the cathedral grounds, where you are destined to drink blood and drown and dream. You know of the Omens and signs and how to look down your nose at everyone, but nothing of what really goes on in the hamlets.

I told myself it was better sharpening the qualities that made me divine than those that made me human, even if, in a deep, ugly place, I worried I’d made that choice because I did not know how to be human.

Coin. Inkwell. Oar. Chime. Loom stone. Good portent, ill portent.

Coin. The only portent, the only prosperity—the only god of men—is coin.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk.”

“Well, Diviner? What would you have? His hands or throat or both?”

“Happy to disappoint.”

“If it means something to me, then it’s not a performance.”

“Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?” My hammer collided with a chunk of granite. “What is either to the intricacies of women, who reach both?”

“He’s your pet?” “I imagine he thinks I’m his.”

Ink. Nothing but ink and the persuasive quill can devise what is true.

“No is a sufficient answer.”

What has been done to us?

I’m one of six and there are five cracks in my heart for it, he would laugh at me. He’d remind me that the only reason I am distinct now is because there are no other Diviners around to make me indistinct.

“His hands?” Maude offered. The fabric of her sleeve was in tatters, the skin beneath angry and red. “Or his throat?” Rory was without burn. He reached into his pocket. Extracted his coin. “Why not both?”

“I’ll likely regret saying this—but keep your hands out of my pants.”

“It sounds awful when I say it out loud.” “True things often do.”

“If you only ever look up at something, can you ever see it clearly?”

“That. Right there. That is not a normal thing to say. Absurdity will throw the conversation off course, and I need clarity from this boy-king. For the next quarter hour, 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.”

“What do you have to be nervous about?” That made him laugh. “Almost everything.

My gaze fell to my bare feet. “What would you have me say? I have nowhere to go but forward.”

I caught the hint of a flush in his cheeks. “I’m fitting you with armor.”

“You don’t like it when I’m a bad knight,” he muttered, “and you don’t like it when I’m a good one.”

“You don’t have to be good, or useful, for someone to care about you.”

The red returned to his cheeks.

“But you’re blushing.

“I think you like that I’m a bad knight. It’s why you feel so righteous, flaying me with your tongue—why you enjoy throwing me down and grinding your heel into my pride. It does something to you.”

“I’d bet my oath your whole body is awake right now, aching and eager at the thought of putting me in my place.”

“You want to throw me down,” Rory said, eyelids dropping as he whispered into my parted lips. “And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.”

Oar. Torrid and unforgiving, the river carves a path, always. Only the oar, only vigor, can Divine.

Faith requires a display. The greater the spectacle, the greater the illusion.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why help him, I mean?” “Same reason you want to help your Diviners,” Maude said. “Because you care, and because you’re able to do something about it.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” “I’m not.”

compassion is a craft.

“Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” “I’m full of wrong ideas.”

“I was wondering what it would be like. Watching you unravel.”

“Dying, after all, is the risk of killing.”

“I fear she will die without ever having lived.”

“Are you still in pain?” He shivered. “Near you? Always.”

I was losing my faith in everything. But the two of us meeting… it felt almost divine.

I don’t know how to behave around you. You make me so fucking nervous.

He was a thief, stealing my breath, my reason.

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

“You realize if I die you’ll likely lose it.” “Thought about that. Figured out a solution.” Maude hauled me off the bed. Surprised me with a fearsome hug. “Live.”

He held me in his gaze like he needed to.

“It ends when you kiss me.”