The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(104)

The ceremony, put on by the noble families of the Cliffs of Bellidine to mark the arrival of a new king, was delayed. For the rest of the day, it stormed.

I waited for Benji to find me and Rory and Maude—to meet with us as he had with Hamelin and the others last night, but he did not. He kept to his quarters while the rest of the knights, restless, shuffled through the inn where we stayed. I thought of staying in my quarters, too, afraid to show my stone eyes. But I had banished my shroud to the wind—let go of Six entirely. There was nothing to hide beneath now.

I sat by the fire with Maude and the gargoyle while Rory read a book of poetry aloud, making faces whenever the author said anything too amorous, then tossed the book aside with a snort. The gargoyle picked it up, held it upside down, and spent the next quarter hour hemming and hawing over it, pretending to read.

The knights stared at me. Travelers who stopped in the inn, too. They searched my stone eyes just as pointedly as they once had my shroud—with grotesque fascination or fear—until a murderous glower from Rory or Maude sent their gazes to the wall. And while I was not so restless as I’d been in the Chiming Wood, waiting for the king’s ceremony or an opportunity to snare an Omen, there was a thrumming disquiet in my body. An internal warning I could not translate.

Hours later, well into the night, I lay in bed in my room—still awake. Maude was snoring in the bed next to me, and the gargoyle muttered in his sleep. Rain sprayed the window, thunder rolled, the darkness perforated every handful of minutes by the flash of lightning. It was far from a quiet night.

Still—I heard it. A strange noise, just outside the door.

Clack, clack.

I went still, listening. There it was again. Footsteps in the dark. Not a thump like a cobbled shoe or boot or even a bare foot might make, but harsh. Like stone upon stone. Clack, clack. Clack, clack—

The door creaked open.

A figure in a hooded gray cloak came into the room. Its steps were heavy, the wood groaning in its wake. I lay frozen beneath my blankets, listening as it drew closer and closer to me.

There was a low rasp. Quick, labored breaths. Then the figure was leaning over my bed, standing directly over the gargoyle. I couldn’t see its face. I couldn’t see anything.

But then lightning flashed—the sky a blinding white. I caught a glimpse of a face hidden beneath the shadow of a hood.

And screamed.

The figure turned. Ran for the door. I jolted out of bed and reached out, grasping at it. My hand closed around an arm so hard my fingernails broke. The figure jerked away, its arm flinging out and striking me along the shoulder with bruising force.

Maude sat up and the gargoyle shrieked, throwing his blanket aside. Lighting flashed once more, illuminating our room and everyone in it. Only now, the hooded figure—

Was gone.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


LOVE AND HEARTBREAK




I woke with a terrible ache. The whole of my body was rigid, my muscles hard and overstrained. I let out a creaking groan. Sat up.

Someone cleared their throat.

Maude was sitting on her bed, Benji beside her. He was wearing a beautiful tunic, woven in intricate patterns, dyed astounding colors. The gargoyle sat on the floor next to him, staring at it in a quiet daze.

Rory was near, standing tall. A shadow over my bed.

They were all watching me.

“Pith.” I pulled my blanket to my chin. I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I’d taken it off to examine the mark on my shoulder the hooded figure had left last night when I’d tried to stop them from fleeing. A truly spectacular bruise sat on my collarbone, the skin an ugly shade of purple. Happily, nothing seemed broken. “You needn’t all be here. I told you last night, I’m f—”

“Say fine, and I’ll combust.” Rory reached down, gingerly moving the blanket and examining my bruise. “Well.” His voice was far too calm. He bent, ghosting his lips over damaged skin. “If it was indeed the Heartsore Weaver, I’m going to enjoy killing her.”

He raised himself, kissing my neck as he went, the air between us immediately warm.

“Was she very terrible?” Benji asked, his voice slow, quiet, as he beheld my stone eyes for the first time. “The Weaver?”

“I hardly saw anything besides a face. It wasn’t…” I frowned. “The Harried Scribe and Ardent Oarsman were horrible to look at. But I could still see some humanness in their faces. But the Heartsore Weaver—she didn’t look human at all. It wasn’t just her eyes that were stone. More like her entire face. A strange, distorted face.”

“Did she say anything?” Maude asked.

“No.”

“Likely wanted to eat you,” Benji muttered.

“Did that really need to be said?” Rory snapped.

“Anyway.” The king ran a hand down the back of his neck. “We’ll catch up with her. Lure her out with spring water during the ceremony, like we did the Oarsman.”

We all nodded.

“And while you all are engaging in heroics”—Benji swished his colorful tunic—“I’ll be paraded about in this. Apparently Tory Bassett’s mother made it especially for me.” He frowned. “Not sure what it’s for.”

“At least one of us is dressed,” Maude said. “I can hear the knighthood rumbling about. I need to change my bandages, and Rory’s not in his armor yet.”