The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(55)

His cheeks reddened. “Because the name Castor is of a deposed king. And I was likely chosen by the knights—and by extension, their noble families—to replace Augur when he grew too old because they believed I would work hard to rewrite my grandfather’s blasphemies.”

“But you’re determined to do the opposite.”

“I want to replace false gods. To be a ruler unbeholden to Aisling. Maude is my right hand, a knight of noble birth with great sway over the other knights and nobles of the hamlets. Rory is my disrupter, my heretic, my fearless sword. And you—” He looked less boyish. More cunning. “You could still be a harbinger. A holy signet of portents, of truth.”

“But for you instead of the Omens.” I sat very, very still. “So that you can kill them.”

“What the Omens are doing is not living.” The king’s eyes flickered to the pitcher of ale, but he did not pour himself another cup. “I’m going to reclaim their objects and sever their power. In time, I hope to reclaim the kingdom’s faith from the Omens as well.”

It was a compelling story. But it was hard to see myself in it. “I just want to find my friends.”

“Then come with us. Wherever we seek the Omens, we’ll seek your Diviners as well. The Fervent Peaks. The Chiming Wood. The Cliffs of Bellidine. In the meantime”—Benji put his hands together—“I can dispatch ten knights, today. They will venture forth with the sole intent to find your Diviners. How does that sound?”

I’d had mutton easier to chew on. “And if we cannot find either? Omens or Diviners?”

“Have a little faith, Six.”

As if he hadn’t just annihilated it in the Harried Scribe’s lair and here again at his table, with ale and a prolix tale of false gods. But the king seemed without malice—young and a little drunk, but determined. Indeed, the nervousness he’d carried into the room was gone, as if, in proving the story of his grandfather to me, he’d proven something to himself.

I stood from my chair. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. When would you need my answer by?”

“We leave for the Fervent Peaks tomorrow.”

I nodded, then stalled. “If you manage to overtake Aisling Cathedral, what do you plan to do with it?”

“Shutter it.” For the first time, the king spoke sharply. “There will be no more Diviners. No more dreams, no more signs.”

I frowned. Tapped the gargoyle’s shoulder. He stirred, half-awake, but accepted my hand without fuss. I led him to the door, stalling one final time. “There is a part I still don’t understand, King Castor.”

“Benji. Please.”

“Benji.” I paused. “Why did the Harried Scribe lick my blood off his floor?”

A cloud passed over the glass ceiling, marring the light and the illusion of a gold crown upon Benji’s head. “No one should live for hundreds of years,” he said. “The Omens may be mortal, but they have no humanity left. They desire Aisling’s spring water, and they’ll have it.” His voice quieted. “By any means.”

The room was wide, but its walls felt tight around me. “Then wherever they are, the Diviners are in terrible danger.”

The king nodded. “I hope we find them, just as I hope you will help me defeat the Omens.” He smiled, easy and boyish once more. “And I hope, in the vastness of the hamlets, you will stop thinking of signs and start looking to your own future, now that you are finally free of Aisling.”

Benedict Castor was too courteous to despise. But I resented that he was younger than me and had so much more knowledge of the world, and that clearly I, in my shroud and stupid white dress, bore only the appearance of insight.

I led the gargoyle out of the room.

Maude waited on the other side of the door. “Well? How did it go?”

“I’m going to look for the Diviners in the hamlets.” My voice sounded far away. “By taking up the mantle.”

The lines in her face tightened. “You don’t seem very sure about that.”

I handed her the gargoyle’s stone claw. “Will you find a quiet room for him and put a blanket over his head? He’s liable to break something if he doesn’t get at least eight hours of sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

I picked my fingernail with the edge of the chisel. “Wander.”





It was early afternoon when I returned to the yard, the knell of swordplay drawing me like Aisling’s beckoning bells.

The knights were still training. Two of them. The quadrant had been diminished—it was an open square now. Dirt rubbed into my freshly washed feet as I came into the yard, standing at the lip of the square to watch the spectacle with everyone else.

They were evenly fitted in body and weapon, the two sparring knights—each wielding a sword. I couldn’t see their faces behind their helmets, but there was something distinct about the taller knight. The way he bent at the knees, like he was too lazy to stand to full height. And his shoulders, his back, long and broad—

I was growing familiar, even in armor, with the lines of Rory’s back.

They parried, Rory’s combatant the aggressor, his sword thrusting, answered and deflected every time. They churned through the yard, a chorus of clatter and force.