The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(42)

He came toward me with pounding steps, as if he weighed a great deal, and the echoes traveled far and near. “For nothing but ink and the persuasive quill can devise what is true.”

A chill set its claws in me. I could see his pores—the lines of his face. Save his eerie stone eyes he looked so… mortal. “Those are the words of the Harried Scribe. An Omen. A god.” I stared at his inkwell. “But you—you’re just a man.”

He blinked once, twice, then, far quicker than a man his age had any right to be, he flung the ink from his inkwell.

And vanished.

The ink came at me in a black glob. I winced, waiting for it to splash upon my face. It didn’t. There was a ripple in the daylight, and then the ink was gone, replaced by the man who’d thrown it. He’d traveled nigh twenty paces on that tide of ink, invisible until he was but a whit from my face.

“Are these the eyes of a mortal—the inkwell of a mere man?” His breath smelled of limestone rubbed too hard or too long. Rotten. “I am Traum’s Scribe. I’ve walked the cobbled streets of the Seacht for over two centuries, bearing magic. My ink never dries, a tool—a weapon. I can travel without being seen, lay waste to ravenous sprites. My writings have inspired reason, invention. My inkwell is a portent of things good or bad, but I have ever been an idol of knowledge. A symbol of truth. What is a god, if not that?”

I was shaking.

Rory’s hand found my elbow, a warm stanchion to keep me sound—

“Don’t touch me.”

I jerked away, carrying myself away to the nearest tower of shelves, fighting the rabid urge to be sick.

“And you—” The man, the Harried Scribe, turned his stone gaze to the others. “It’s been a long while since someone has stumbled upon my dwelling.”

King Castor cleared his throat. “It was I who discovered you, Scribe. Last night, in the market square. I placed a rather potent gift upon your altar. When you came to retrieve it, my knight and I followed you hence.”

The Scribe’s nostrils flared. “And you are?”

“I—yes, I can see why you might not know, given that I am new and not wearing my armor—” King Castor labored to swallow. “I am the king.”

The Scribe barked out a laugh. “Truly? Your ilk gets younger with time.” He looked fondly upon his inkwell. “Which is why my ilk remain ever at the helm.”

King Castor turned as red as a pomegranate.

“There are benefits to youth,” Rory snapped. “The mettle to break from tradition, for one.”

That seemed to hearten the king. He drew in a wavering breath. “We have come to challenge you at your craft and claim your inkwell, Harried Scribe. I, Benedict Castor the Third, am taking up the mantle.”

My gasp was a ghost, floating through the room. Claim your inkwell.

I looked to the Harried Scribe, expecting wrath. But he was still, standing in the middle of his great room, fixed in the light of the dome, surrounded by his books. He looked so untouchable, so solemn and imperious that for a moment I wondered if I’d been wrong. Perhaps he was more than just a man with strange eyes and a magic inkwell. Perhaps he was divine, an Omen—a true god.

Which would make what Rory and Maude and King Castor were doing sacrilege. Cold. Hard. Blasphemy.

“Take up the mantle, you say.” Stone of eye, stiff and wan of face, the Harried Scribe exhibited no emotion. But there was an air of menace about him when his attention fixed upon the king. “And when you fail to defeat me at my craft?”

Maude moved to stand closer to King Castor. “Then we will be at your mercy.”

The Scribe bared his teeth. I wished he hadn’t. They were gray and cracking, like he’d pressed his jaw down with too brutal a strength. “Then I accept.”

He flung his ink. Disappeared. When he was corporeal again, he stood directly in front of me. Hard hands found my waist. More ink was flung, and a terrible weightlessness touched my body. I went invisible and was lifted off my feet—flung upward.

I landed in the Harried Scribe’s clutches upon one of his shelves, fifty feet above the floor.

Below, the others were shouting.

“Fear not, my dear.” The Scribe brushed my hair out of my face as I grasped for something besides him to cling to. “I shall protect you against these disbelievers.” He reached for a book—began to thrum through its pages. “This has happened before, of course. Heretics have found me. Tried to take what is mine, tried to steal my inkwell—my power. They never do, and it always ends the same way.” He grinned at me, revealing those awful teeth. “In blood.”

Oh gods. It was a mistake looking down. My stomach was in my throat. “What is taking up the mantle?”

“Thievery. Dissent.” He closed the book he was reading and flung it, its responding thud against the stone floor echoing through the room. “A king’s quest to claim all five stone objects and take the power of the Omens for himself. But to succeed—” He pulled another book, then flung it as well. “My craft is knowledge, and they must beat me by it. Which, of course, they will not.”

He leaned over. Called down to the others. “There will be three questions. You must answer at least one correctly, then you must ask me a question that I cannot answer—”

Rory’s expert profanity drowned him out. “Bring her down, you fucking cur, or I will—”