The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(19)

That shut him up, virtue muzzling his desire. He looked so disappointed I almost apologized, but then he said, “Can I at least see your eyes? Or have your name? Some token to prove we were together?”

I left him panting in the glen and hurried back to the road, the colored tents of Coulson Faire beckoning in the distance.





CHAPTER SIX


HIT ME AS HARD AS YOU CAN




Coulson Faire was brilliant. A span of merchant tents in a vast field. On the far side of the field was the great castle that could be none other than Castle Luricht. The king’s castle.

I’d outdistanced Hamelin upon the road, and now walked beneath colorful banners. Writ upon them was the hamlet’s creed: The only portent, the only prosperity—the only god of men—is coin. Beneath it, a coin I knew all too well was depicted. Smooth stone on one side, rough on the other.

I forgot the risk of wandering alone in a place I’d never been, too mesmerized by the colors, the noise, the vivacity of the Faire. Aisling Cathedral suddenly felt as lifeless as a graveyard to this place.

In the distance, pyres burned, dancers moving around them. I could hear the fiddles, drums, but for every tent I passed, the sound of coins falling on counters, coins slapping into palms, coins clinking in pockets, was louder.

Coins, coins, so many coins.

If what the abbess believed was true—that the Omens took corporeal form and visited their hamlets—how the Artful Brigand must grin at his domain. The king’s castle was near, yet it was coin that reigned.

“Toss it. Oh—smooth side up. A good portent. Order more silks.”

“Nay, an uneven sum. A bad sign. Reduce the price or I will work with another vendor.”

“No, I will not pay. The coin fell strangely. I could be ruined.”

I tarried through the Faire, feeling close to Aisling Cathedral still, as if dreaming of falling onto a bed of coins.

Ahead, a few hooded Diviners and their accompanying knights came into view. I hastened after them, only to skid to a stop at the mouth of a stall.

A merchant was there, selling finely carved limestone busts.

“Did you make these yourself?” I asked in wonderment.

He was an aged man with thick knuckles and thinning hair who didn’t look up as he spoke to me. “Why would I sell wares ’sides my own?”

“Just a question.” I leaned close. The nearest bust was of a child, so detailed I could see the tiny chiseled marks between its teeth. “It’s extraordinary work. I wonder—is it a difficult occupation? Working with stone?”

The merchant snorted. “You gonna buy something or not?”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Well then, Miss Questions, kindly sod off—”

He finally looked up. Saw me, leaning close to his work. Quick as a flash, he raised his lantern. “Aisling’s waters,” he murmured. “You’re a Diviner.”

He caught my wrist, bobbing up and down in my face, trying to peer under my shroud. “Didn’t mean to tell you to sod off. I’m on hard times, you see. My business, it’s failing.” He wet his lips. “But if a Diviner came to my stall, gave an endorsement, said that the Omens favored me, perhaps? That would be such a blessing.” His voice dropped. “Or maybe let me have a peek at your eyes. Everyone says that that is how the Omens reach you. Through the spring water, into your eyes—”

“That’s not how it works.” My pulse cantered. “Let go of me.”

He didn’t. He reached his other hand to my shroud instead. “Please, Diviner, all I need is a sign—”

And then he was thrown backward, falling with an ungracious thud onto the floor of his stall.

I felt a presence at my back—saw an armored arm. When I turned, my shoulder hit a breastplate.

Two eyes, unfathomably dark, combed my face.

Gods.

Rory didn’t touch his sword. He didn’t even appear angry. And that made him all the more frightening. He spared me one more moment of his attention, then turned it on the fallen merchant, rounding the stall to look down at the man. “What do you think, Maude?” he called. “Shall I take his hands, or his throat?”

I turned. Maude was behind us, along with Three and Five, who both held cups of ale. I couldn’t see their faces, but given the way they kept bringing their cups beneath their hoods, and swaying with laughter, I imagined they found the commotion, and my mortification, wholly delightful.

Maude shrugged. “Why not both?”

“Please.” The merchant whimpered, knuckles bulging as he held his hands in a steeple. “My business. The Diviner offered to—”

“We both know she didn’t offer you anything.” Rory raised his brows at Maude, then schooled his features, turning to me with the solemnity of a hangman upon the gallows. “Well, Diviner? What would you have? His hands or throat or both?”

“Pith, you brute—none! It was a misunderstanding.” My voice was pitched at a shriek. “No need for violence.”

“Of course there is. He put his hands on a holy Diviner.” Rory pulled a knife from his belt and held it over the merchant, who’d begun to whimper. “Any last words?”

My jaw fell open. I was about to throw myself in front of the merchant when I saw the severe turn of Rory’s mouth slip. He wasn’t solemn—he was smiling.