The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(52)

It was an ancient thing, the notebook. When Benji opened it, thumbing through the pages, I was assaulted by the smells of aged leather and parchment.

Every page was full. I glimpsed faded ink, lists and logs and maps and art—portraits and landscapes. There was very little art at Aisling, but I could tell whoever scribbled these was gifted at their craft. “Is this yours?”

“It belonged to my grandfather. Benedict Castor the First. He was the king of Traum before King Augur.” Benji drank deeply from his cup. “Have you heard of him?”

I hadn’t. “The abbess says kings come and go.”

“How right she is.” I could tell it troubled Benji to speak of his grandfather. His mouth had fallen, but he kept his tone light. “My grandfather’s hamlet was Coulson Faire, but he was an erudite, multifaceted craftsman—a man before his time. He was elected by the noble elders of the hamlets because of his familiarity with the economics of—” He grinned. “But perhaps this is boring to you.”

I was mid-yawn. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I was getting to the good part. My grandfather was a beloved king—until he wasn’t. I was five years old when he was stoned to death for heresy.”

I went still. “Oh.”

“You see, Six, there are two stories of Traum’s great beginning. The one your abbess touts before a Divination, and the one that got my grandfather killed. He wrote it here, in his notebook.” Benji ran his thumb over the pages. “I’m likely not as eloquent as he was, but I’ll tell it as best as I can.”

I watched his wide eyes, wondering if, behind my shroud, that was how I looked at the abbess: so eager to please. I suddenly felt a surge of pity. Benedict Castor was, after all, only a boy of seventeen, with everything in the world to prove. “Take your time.”

He hauled in a breath. “Approximately two hundred and thirty years ago, before Aisling was built, five craftsmen came to a tor. A thieving merchant—dubbed a brigand—a scribe, an oarsman, a forester, and a weaver. Traum was in discord. That part of my grandfather’s tale aligns with the abbess’s. The hamlets had no gods, no ruler, and were overcome by sprites. The craftsmen came to the tor in an attempt to unify. To decide who among them should lead.”

I had the gutting feeling whatever remained of my devotion to the Omens was about to crumble.

“They fought, of course. Choosing a ruler is never an easy task. The brigand was cunning, the scribe clever, the oarsman strong, the forester intuitive, and the weaver compassionate. Each thought themselves more fit to lead. But just when hope of accord seemed lost—”

He paused for effect. “Someone else came to the tor. A sixth figure, along with a foundling child. They led the craftsmen to the top of the tor, where a great limestone rested. From a fissure in that limestone, water leached, thick and slow and smelling of sweet rot. One by one, the craftsmen drank from it. One by one, they were caught up in a strange, liminal dream.”

I waited for more.

“After, the sixth figure gifted them with these—made from the same limestone as the spring.” He flipped through the pages of his grandfather’s notebook, then turned it, showing me an illustration of five distinct objects.

A coin. An inkwell. An oar. A chime. A loom stone.

“Each object carried magic great enough that the craftsmen no longer had to choose a leader among themselves—they all had power. Heartened, they retreated to their respective hamlets and used their new objects to obliterate sprites. But also, they whispered. Tales of magic, of dreams and portents and the spring upon the tor, abounded.” Benji opened his hands. “And that was how the Omens were created.”

I saw the pieces, like stained glass, come together. “And the sixth figure. The one with the foundling, who made the stone objects. That’s the sixth Omen. The one with no name.” My throat tightened. “The one we call the moth.”

“Indeed. Though if anyone were to know her name, surely it would be you.” He paused. “She’s your abbess, after all.”

The air in my body—the saliva on my tongue—went acidic.

“You saw what the Harried Scribe looked like. Stone eyes.” The king studied me a long while. “No one at Aisling shows their eyes. And the magic stone objects—the sixth Omen would need tools to carve them from limestone.” His gaze lowered to my hands—my hammer and chisel. “Those look quite old. Did your abbess give them to you?”

See what you make of them. Or what they make of you.

I didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“It’s the spring, Six. The strange, magical spring, and the stone it bleeds from. That’s how the Omens came to be. No gods touched down into a dream. There were but six mortal craftsmen—”

I put up a hand. “And the story the abbess tells? That’s… what? Fabrication?”

“Not entirely.” Benji found a new page of his grandfather’s notebook and read aloud. “‘Traum’s histories are forged by those who benefit from them, and seldom those who live them.’” He looked up at me. “The abbess tells of a foundling who dreamed in the spring, because that foundling was indeed placed in its waters. The child drowned, dreamed—and Divination became a very lucrative endeavor. More Diviners were brought to the tor. In fact, Diviners and the Omens have always had a harmonious relationship.”