The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(38)

Rory kept his gaze ahead. “Knights are supposed to be decent.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Violence is a craft. So is compassion. I tend to sway toward the latter. When it comes to sprites, at least.”

Folk were scarce on the bridge, the hour still early. But for every man or woman or child who passed, the gargoyle and I earned a wide-eyed stare. Some even stopped in their tracks or pointed, echoes of “Look, a Diviner!” following me across the bridge.

I pulled my hood tighter over my head.

“You’ll need more of a disguise than that.” Rory spun the pilfered stylus between his fingers. “The Seacht is dense. Populated. There’s no orderly queue like the one you’re accustomed to at Aisling. People will swarm you, just like that pathetic merchant from Coulson Faire. My advice?” He jerked his head at my face. “Lose the shroud. It’s too distinct.”

“Funny. Someone once told me it made me entirely indistinct.”

“Two things can be true at the same time, Diviner.” Rory glowered at a passing cart, and his voice lowered. “Take it off.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No is a sufficient answer.”

He rubbed his face. In the light of the day, even beneath smudged charcoal, there were impressive shadows beneath Rory’s eyes. I wondered when he’d last slept. “You left Aisling,” he said with the effect of a man invoking his last shred of patience. “Broke a few things on your way out. If you’re hoping the abbess will take you back—”

“That’s not why I won’t take it off.”

“Why, then?” He smiled without warmth. “What’s behind it?”

That was the trouble. I didn’t know. The gargoyles provided us with clean shrouds when ours grew dirty, and when we washed our faces, it was with discipline—always keeping our eyes shut and away from the cracked mirror in the Diviner cottage.

I remembered One, searching her reflection in that same mirror two nights ago—her horrified gasp. What has been done to us?

I turned my head away and said nothing.

Rory muttered beneath his breath. “Fine. Don’t take it off, then. But know it will be dangerous.”

“Isn’t that what my knightly escort is for? Besides, I have these for protection.” I wagged my hammer and chisel in his face. “And the gargoyle.”

We both looked over our shoulders. The gargoyle had taken Fig by her lead, his face close to her muzzle as he lectured her. “Never trust anything written in rhyme, Bartholomew. It is trickery—a pretty falsehood. That is something I intend to tell everyone when I pen my own book of tales. Firstly, of course, I must learn to read and write.”

Rory angled his brows at me. “An army of wits, you two.”

“Shut up. He doesn’t have much sense or memory or even a name—just a strange compulsion to serve Aisling. He’s a bit… peculiar.”

“You’re a pair, then.”

If I told him, No, I’m not a pair—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.

I did not need a reminder of that.

When the silence hung too long, Rory pivoted. “Speaking of Aisling, there’s something I’ve been wondering. It involves you, me, my blood on your tongue—and the little matter of your dream.”

My stomach tightened. “What about it?”

“You didn’t say anything in the spring. The gargoyle pulled you out after you—” He exhaled sharply. “You know. Drowned. He laid you on your back upon the chancel and said you were dreaming, but you didn’t breathe a word. Why is that?”

The last lie I’d told was to the gargoyle, and I’d had to feign a vomiting spell to be convincing. Better to aim toward the blurry truth. “I don’t know why I didn’t say anything.”

Rory’s stare warmed the side of my face, dark eyes mapping my every corner, as if he could almost hear me think, I saw the sixth Omen, the moth—and horrible things have been happening ever since. I might have even said it out loud…

Were it not for that strange coin in his pocket.

When the silence became unpalatable, Rory said, “You’ve been Divining a while, I take it.”

“Nearly ten years.”

“How old are you?”

“Bartholomew is quite old,” the gargoyle answered behind us, drawing an idle finger though Fig’s mane. “Though in a sense, she is prodigiously young—”

“No one knows,” I interrupted. “I have no memory before Aisling. But my teeth are healthy and my skin is not so lined yet.” I looked to Rory. “How old do I look to you?”

“If I answer badly, are you going to pulverize my head with that hammer?” He studied me down his nose. “You look…” Was that red in his cheeks? “You look like a young woman. Not far from my age. But your condescension is perfected. Like that of someone old.”

I made a face. “What’s your age?”

“Twenty-six. But my youth felt so endless that perhaps I’m the exact same age as you.” He lifted one shoulder, like a full shrug was not worth the effort. “Young, and also rather old.”