The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(59)

“That’s fine.”

“If it’s too much—”

“It’s fine.”

Rory’s eyes, dark and derisive and guarded, had never been easy to read. They still weren’t. But when he looked up, pinning me with a glare, I was suddenly certain those eyes were deeply unhappy with me. “Have it your way.”

He came forward. Lifted the pitcher. Poured a line of wax from my shoulder to my wrist. It didn’t burn, but it was warm enough to hurt.

I didn’t say a thing.

Rory knuckles went white on the cusp of the pitcher. “This isn’t Aisling.” He took a full step back. “Don’t be such a fucking martyr.”

I bit down. Martyr. “Pith, Myndacious. I said it’s fine.”

He didn’t move.

“The wax will harden,” I snapped.

It didn’t. After a few minutes of staring daggers, he approached once more. The next pass of wax down my arm wasn’t so unbearably hot. Rory molded the wax over my sleeves until it was indeed a kind of exoskeleton, immobilizing my joints in place.

He said the names of the pieces of armor as he worked, as if tethering himself to the task. “Pauldron,” he murmured, his hands manipulating the wax over my shoulder. “Rerebrace.” He pressed over my bicep, then my forearm. “Vambrace.”

He was entirely efficient. By the time the wax had hardened there was not a piece of my arms he had not run his hands over. He did the same to the line of my shoulders, then my back, stopping at the distinct line of my waist. When he was finished he rounded my body, gave me a pointed look—

And dropped to his knees.

I tightened everywhere.

“May I?” Rory poked my thigh. “The fronts of your legs?”

I nodded.

He painted my legs through my dress with broad strokes. When I dared look down, he was pushing fabric aside to get to my shins, and the fabric looked so sheer, and he in contrast so corporeal, like he was tangling with a ghost.

“Hold still.”

“I am.”

“You’re tapping your foot.” Rory gripped my calf muscle. “Now you’re still.” He finished my left leg and turned to the right. “Greaves,” he said, running the wax up my shin. He cupped my knee. “Poleyn.” I heard a tremor in his inhale. Fresh wax poured over my thigh, followed directly by the stroke of Rory’s open palm. “Cuisses.”

“Will I be afforded a helmet?”

“If you like. Though it may be difficult to see through both visor and shroud, and only one will protect you from injury.”

His meaning was plain. Take off the shroud. But he didn’t say it—he seemed determined not to. Rory simply raised himself to his feet and eyed his work. The last bit of my body not encased in wax was my abdomen. My sternum. Breasts. Ribs. Stomach. Every vital thing that resided behind a breastplate.

The red returned to his cheeks.

“You’re nervous,” I said, grinning. “Why is that?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“But you’re blushing. Dying to fidget with that stolen coin in your pocket, maybe. Touching a Diviner must make your heretical heart truly uneasy—”

Rory came toward me until our noses were flush, speaking within an inch of my mouth. “You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think you like that I’m a bad knight. It’s why you feel so righteous, flaying me with your tongue—why you enjoy throwing me down and grinding your heel into my pride. It does something to you.” He wet his bottom lip. “I’d bet my oath your whole body is awake right now, aching and eager at the thought of putting me in my place.”

I couldn’t think. He was breathing against my mouth and I against his and the sound wasn’t like any hunger I’d known. Torrid and depraved and desperate—

“You want to throw me down,” Rory said, eyelids dropping as he whispered into my parted lips. “And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.”

He pulled back, his eyes as black as the Harried Scribe’s inkwell.

“I’ll ask Maude to do the rest.”

He rounded the stool. Walked away. The door to the forge closed. I stood alone in a shell of wax, staring at the wall, willing my breathing to slow.





The Fervent Peaks



Oar.

Torrid and unforgiving, the river carves a path, always. Only the oar, only vigor, can Divine.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


MOUNTAIN SPRITES




I rested my head against the wood lip of a cart, dappled sunlight dancing over my face. We were out of the Seacht, past its cobbled streets and reaching bridges, back on the holloway road. I’d refused to look back. Refused a horse as well. The gargoyle, heartened by the spirit of refusal, had declined to fly, and so accommodations were provided, the two of us riding like cargo, jostled about in a horse-drawn cart.

I was wearing all the clothes Maude had left me, tunic and cloak and leggings. But the boots—the boots sat in a corner of the cart, untouched.

Maude sat next to them, catechizing me on what lay ahead. “The Fervent Peaks are rough—wet and windblown and cold. There’s one road, and it’s steep. The village is scattered upon it, but most of the dwellings sit on a wide plateau where the Tenor River pools. Folk fish there, but rarely go higher into the mountains, which are almost impossible to climb.”