The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(60)

“What a horrible picture you paint,” the gargoyle said, smiling and nodding, like he’d paid her a compliment.

“When I dream of the Ardent Oarsman,” I murmured to the sky, “I fall onto rocks. There’s a basin of water nearby, surrounded by seven jagged mountains. That’s where I see the stone oar.”

Maude ran the edge of her axe over a whetstone. No matter the jostling of the cart, her movements remained controlled. “This basin of water. Are there dwellings around it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What is around it?

“Rocks.”

Her eyes lifted. “Helpful.”

I threw my gaze out over the landscape—rolling moors covered in bromegrass and craggy rocks—and tried not to sulk. “I’m afraid I’m of little use. I have no idea where the Ardent Oarsman is. No idea where anyone is.”

“None of that.” Maude’s tone was firm. “You being here is enough.”

“I’m surprised King Castor’s grandfather didn’t document the precise locations of the Omens in his precious notebook.”

“Trust me, he tried. But the Omens have been doing this for hundreds of years. They obscure themselves beneath hoods or use their stone objects to vanish at whim. They know how to hide in plain sight.”

“I say, Bartholomew.” The gargoyle was leaning over the lip of the cart. “Is a road still a road if no one rode upon it?”

“Road and rode are two different words, gargoyle.”

“Really?” A wayward branch swatted him over the face. “Perplexing.”

Maude stared.

“You’ll get used to him,” I mumbled.

She cleared her throat. “Right.”

“Why not find the Ardent Oarsman the same way you found the Harried Scribe? Leave a bit of pilfered spring water lying about. See who comes for it.”

Maude nodded at her axe. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. But first—the ceremony.”

“What ceremony?”

“The noble families host a ceremony when a new king comes. And since this is Benji’s first time in the hamlets as king, they’ll be wanting to put on a bit of a show. Faith requires a display. The greater the spectacle, the greater the illusion.”

“So I’ve heard.” I paused. “Maybe we can use that to our advantage.”

A brown horse came up next to the cart. Fig.

Rory wasn’t wearing his helmet—his black hair a mess. He pushed it out of his eyes. “Anything of note?”

I plastered a smile over my mouth. “Benji and Maude will be at the ceremony, which leaves you and I to sneak off with the spring water and watch for the Ardent Oarsman like good little soldiers.”

Maude’s gaze lifted. “It’s not a bad plan.”

Rory’s eyes flickered to my face. We hadn’t spoken since he’d measured me for armor.

You want to throw me down. And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.

“If you wanted to get me alone, Diviner, all you had to do is ask.”

Maude gave him an exasperated look. But Rory just smiled, his stupid words winning two battles. Maude, irritated—me, flustered. And then he was spurring Fig, riding hastily up the line of the caravan to join Benji at the lead.

I shot air out of my nose. “Idiot.”

“He riles you.” Maude grinned at her axe. “And you him.”

“We’ve made an art of it.” I sat up straighter. Appraised her. “How old are you, Maude?”

“Forty-one.”

“How did you grow so close with the brute and the boy-king?” She wasn’t just older than Rory and Benji. She was more rooted. No derision, no drinking—less at war with herself. “Maybe I’ve only been around women, but you seem better natured than the two of them combined.”

“Don’t be mean.” Maude rubbed the flat of her thumb opposite the axe’s grain. “Benji’s plenty good-natured.”

I chuckled.

“Benji’s grandfather and my mother were knights together, our families close.” Her gaze went soft. “I was already in armor when the little shit was born. His parents passed, and his grandfather was too occupied hunting down information about the Omens to mind him, so we Bauers—that’s my name, by the way. Maude Bauer. We took Benji in.” Maude looked up the line of knights. “It was hard for him, being a Castor. Especially after his grandfather was killed. And Benji can be shy. It took him a while to get good with his sword. The other knights kicked him about. I put a stop to that.”

“So you’re like a mother to him?”

She snorted. “Don’t know a thing about being maternal. But I suppose there’s a pinch of tenderness under all this armor. I do love a stray.”

“Which brings us to Rory.”

“Rory.”

I thought Maude entirely beautiful in that moment, her green, charcoal-rimmed eyes catching sunlight, the lines around her mouth—the crow’s feet around her eyes—deepening as she spoke. “King Castor brought Rory, a scrawny boy of eleven, to Petula Hall when I was the exact age he is now. Twenty-six.” She looked into my shroud, into my eyes, swearing me to secrecy with a simple gaze. “He’d lost all faith in gods and men. Needed a purpose. So I made him my squire.”