The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(53)

He leaned back in his chair and read another page. “‘Faith in the Omens is like a dream. Shrewd, yet shrouded. The signs from the five stone objects are plain, but the Omens themselves are never seen, smoke and mirrors and rumors, seemingly wielding these signs from everywhere at once. It is their scarcity that makes them sacred, their distance that keeps them divine, for only the privileged can access them through Divination, thusly making the master of Aisling the most potent of rulers, and the cathedral itself the most prosperous of markets. No one is above it—not kings, not nobles, not Diviners—not even the Omens. In conclusion: To rule the tor is to rule Traum.’”

“Swords and armor are nothing to stone,” I murmured, Aisling’s creed chafing my tongue. “I can see how your grandfather’s sentiments might be seen as… unorthodox.” Indeed, they made my skin crawl. “Precisely how did he come by this revised history?”

“Quite by accident. As I said—he was a scholarly man. He became obsessed with the history of Aisling, which in time led him upon a personal pilgrimage to see if the Omens did in fact walk among us.”

“Let me guess. He found one.”

“Not at first.” Benji grinned. “He found Rory.”

My brows rose. “Myndacious?”

“Good ole Rory.” Benji poured himself another drink and topped off mine, though I’d only managed a sip and a half. “He was only a child, and my grandfather caught him thieving in the gutters of Castle Luricht—”

“I’m sorry. What do you mean, gutters?”

Benji said it plainly. “He’s a foundling.”

It took me five seconds to speak. “But he’s a knight!”

“Who began as a lowly little thief—just the kind my grandfather liked to talk to.” The king drank, then coughed in an attempt to hold in a burp. “He often said, ‘It’s the folk of the field or kitchen or the beggars on the street who know how to read the signs of life—not those heavy-pocketed nobs who go to Aisling for a Divination.’ No offense.”

I glared from behind my shroud.

“My grandfather gave Rory three gold rings and asked him if he knew anything of the Omens, here in Traum. And what would you know? Rory’s very master, who dwelled in Castle Luricht’s locked chambers on the castle’s highest floor, was an exceptionally singular man. He had fearsome stone eyes and stole all manner of coin and goods from Coulson Faire but was never caught on account of the tool he used. One that could send him through walls—or topple them.”

“The Artful Brigand,” I murmured. “And his coin.”

Benji drank. “A bona-fide Omen.”

“What did Rory do for him?”

“A number of things. Using said coin on the Artful Brigand’s behest, for one. Stealing spring water from Aisling Cathedral, for another.”

My mouth fell open, and the king grinned. “He was a cruel master, I’m told. But the Artful Brigand’s one redeeming quality was that he was a boast. He told Rory as plain as day that while Traum did indeed benefit from faith, it was the Omens who truly reaped the rewards. That as long as they had Aisling’s water to drink, they would live forever, doing whatever they liked. That the abbess paid them to walk the shadows of their hamlets, cloaked and mysterious, like mercurial gods might.”

I felt sick. “The abbess pays the Omens.”

“That was how my grandfather found them. First he smuggled Rory away from Castle Luricht, then he started his investigation. He tracked a shipment of gold from Aisling to a secluded spot in the Chiming Wood. Can you guess who the recipient was?”

This guessing game was infantilizing. “The Faithful Forester,” I snapped.

He noted my tone, eyes wide like a nervous dog. “She was a grotesque figure, the Faithful Forester. Woman, but also twisted—inhuman. Her eyes were hewn of stone. My grandfather demanded answers from her, but she would not heed him until he defeated her at her own craft. Which was… a problem for him.”

“How so?”

“Listen. I’ll be lucky if I end up half as clever as my grandfather was. But in one way, I am entirely like him—I’m useless in a fight. Which is why it’s important to have useful friends. And my grandfather did. A new knight from an old, noble family. A talented hunter, truly gifted with an axe.” He grinned. “Maude.”

My brows rose. “Maude killed the Faithful Forester?”

“My grandfather told her everything.” Benji drew his finger in a line over his throat. “And off went the Omen’s head. Only they never found that magic chime. To this day, it remains missing, hidden somewhere in the Chiming Wood.”

Benji’s cup was empty now, his hesitance to speak without his friends cured by the ale. He poured himself another. “After that, my grandfather was determined to unravel the conspiracy of Aisling Cathedral. To kill all the Omens, starting with the Artful Brigand. Naturally, the nobles of the hamlets did not like that their king was profaning the Omens. It implied that their beliefs, their creeds, their money, had all been spent on a lie. And since the sons and daughters of the nobles compose the knighthood, my grandfather’s own knights turned against him. Called him a heretic—accused him of taking up the mantle.”

And suddenly I remembered where I’d heard that phrase before.