The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(51)

The gargoyle made a face. Pulled a quilted blanket off the bed, wrapped himself in it, and plunked into one of the chairs. I shot Maude an apologetic grin.

Her eyes darted between us, like she could not decide which of us was the greater oddity. “He’ll be here in a moment. Behave.”

She shut the door.

I hurried to the table. Pulled my chair close to the gargoyle’s and hissed in his ear. “I need you to comport yourself.”

“I have no idea what that means.” He sniffed the quilted blanket around his shoulders. “Sounds like something one does in a chamber pot.”

“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.”

A door on the south wall opened, straight from a shelf. King Castor strode into the room in a fine white tunic, a smattering of scabs across his face where the Harried Scribe’s ink had burned him. Midday light fell upon his head, and though he was not wearing a crown, his golden hair was resplendent.

He carried two things. That ratty leather-bound notebook I’d seen his first night at Aisling Cathedral, and the Harried Scribe’s stone inkwell.

I stood from my chair. “Majesty.”

“Six.”

Bow, I mouthed to the gargoyle.

He made a crude sound of flatulence and didn’t get up.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Apologies, King Castor. He was woken prematurely from a nap.”

“Say no more.” The king put the notebook and inkwell upon the table and took his seat in the last remaining chair, and I fell into mine.

Silence took hold of the room. “Oh,” the king said. “You’re waiting for me to speak.”

The gargoyle and I exchanged a look.

“Forgive me. It’s just—” Benedict Castor’s cheeks grew red. “This was Maude’s idea, talking to you alone. She thinks I need practice, saying things without her or Rory there to fill in my nervous pauses.”

“What do you have to be nervous about?”

That made him laugh. “Almost everything. But enough about me. You must have a thousand questions. Before we begin, however, an egregious oversight must be addressed.” He grinned. “You should really call me Benji.”

“You don’t find that disrespectful?”

“Rory does it. Rory for Rodrick, Benji for Benedict.” He shrugged. “It’s just a nickname.”

“An atrocious one,” the gargoyle muttered.

King Castor—Benji—to his credit, was not provoked. “Likely. But it fits me well.” He reached for the flagon, poured himself, then me, a healthy helping of ale. “Do you drink?” he asked the gargoyle.

“He doesn’t,” I cut in, swiping the gargoyle’s cup.

He pushed out his lips. Pulled the blanket to his chin. Five seconds later, he was snoring.

I looked across the table at the king. “This all feels very strange.”

“Traum is a strange place.”

“Not so strange that five women should vanish into thin air.”

“Fair enough.” Benji gestured at his notebook, then at the Harried Scribe’s inkwell. “Which would you like me to start with? The history of the Omens, or their magical objects?”

It was unbearable that I, a Diviner of Aisling Cathedral, should need to be lectured on either. “Magical objects.”

“My favorite.” The king brought his cup to his mouth, exhaling pleasure as the swallowed the ale. It was hardly midday—early for a drink. But the ale seemed to ease him. He took the Harried Scribe’s inkwell and dipped his finger into its ink. “As you know, the Omens each possess a stone object—the mechanics of which are rather simple. This one, like the Scribe said, never runs dry of ink. Stir it clockwise”—he began to swirl the ink—“then toss it, and that ink will transport you.”

King Castor flourished his hand like a performer upon a stage—flung black ink—and vanished.

He appeared ten paces away and bowed.

If he wanted me to clap, he could die waiting. “Like Myndacious’s coin.”

“Quite. All the stone objects have two properties. Transportive.” He returned to the table, finger back in the ink. This time, he stirred it counterclockwise. “And destructive.”

He poured the ink near the edge of the table, and smoke began to rise. The ink went red—scalding its way through the table—leaving a charred hole and the smell of burnt wood in its wake.

The gargoyle sniffed, sneezed, but remained asleep.

“The Artful Brigand’s coin makes more of an impact—I’m partial to explosions.” Benji rubbed some of the charred wood away from his ale and took his seat once more. “I’m not entirely sure how the other objects work, the oar and chime and loom stone, but I hope to soon enough.” He smiled at me. “They are the only pieces of magic in all of Traum. It is my desire to wield them all.”

What an arrogant little prat. “The stone objects aren’t the only magic in Traum. You’ve forgotten Aisling’s spring.”

“Ah—yes. To be transported into dreams is surely magic.” Benji was quiet a moment. “That spring is where it all began.” He reached for his notebook. “Which puts us squarely in the realm of history, I suppose.”