The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(71)

His gaze flashed over my body, the shape of me held close in leather. He, too, was in leather—bereft of armor. When his eyes fell to my feet—my boots—he pressed his teeth into his bottom lip. “The Diviner, wearing shoes. My faith is restored.”

“Explains why you’re drooling.” Maude grinned as she passed us. “How’s our king?”

“Still sleeping under a mountain of blankets. Here.” Rory handed me a cup of hot broth. “Drink up. We have a hefty day ahead.”

An hour later I was close to throwing it up.

“You’re slow,” Rory called.

He stood at the top of a crooked stairwell that cut up the mountainside to a lookout. The steps were uneven and treacherously steep. If I lost my balance, the fall would be excruciating.

“And you’re an ass,” I shot back. “It’s not as if the Oarsman challenged me to a footrace. Besides”—I spat phlegm dangerously near his boot—“I think I can best a craggy old man.”

Rory looked down where I’d spat, nostrils flaring. He shut his eyes. Muttered an invocation of profanity. “The Ardent Oarsman is not old, Diviner. He’s ancient. We still don’t know everything that oar can do. He’ll have no obstacle sending it through your skull if your feet remain idle.” His voice hardened. “I don’t want him touching you like he did last night. I don’t want him within a fucking mile of you. Keep your steps light.”

I ran the stairs again, trying to keep my knees high. “I can feel you scowling.” I coughed and made a truly atrocious retching sound. “Knock it off.”

“Apologies if your heavy-footed lumbering puts a sour look on my otherwise perfect face.”

I pulled myself upright. Reached for his cheek—dragged the corner of his mouth up with my thumb until he wore an absurd half smile. “That’s better. Still foul and unknightly, though.”

“Just the way you like me.” Rory nipped the pad of my thumb. “Now run it again.”





The north wind picked up, and the rain with it. A storm was coming from the peaks—the clawed fingers of the mountains. I put a hand to my face and continued down the path to the village. “I suppose that’s an end to our training.”

“Hardly.”

“But it’s going to storm!”

“All the more reason to practice. If you’re thinking it will be sunshine and clouds three days hence”—he chuckled to himself—“you’re dreaming.”

The stairs were just the warm-up. The true training began on an upland about a mile from the village, away from the intrusive stares of fishermen or the curious knighthood.

Sparring.

“First things first.” Rory bit the finger of his glove and peeled it off. “How well can you actually see through that shroud?”

“I can see just fine—”

He threw his glove. It smacked me on the nose and plopped to the stones at my feet. “A vision issue?” Rory pondered. “Or just slow reflexes?”

I picked up the glove. Strangled it in my fist. “Neither.”

“Uh-huh.” He appraised me, rotating on the balls of his heels. “It’s a problem, obviously. Forget it getting wet like it is now—you get blood on it, it’s a blindfold, not a shroud. Then again, there’s an advantage to hiding your eyes in combat. Makes it harder for your opponent to anticipate your—”

I launched the glove. It struck Rory’s chin. He caught it as it fell, a flash of something wicked in his eyes. “At least your aim is sufficient.”

“I’m keeping it on,” I said. “End of discussion.”

“Fine—forget the shroud. Time for a happy encore.” He rolled his shoulders. Squared off with me. “Hit me, Diviner. Hit me as hard as you can.”

I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth.

And rushed him.

There was a flicker of stone—the echo of a ping. Rory disappeared, and I crashed through air, legs pinwheeling.

He appeared three feet away. Caught his coin. Smiled.

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re about to go toe to toe with a creature far less courteous than me. You saw how the Harried Scribe attacked us even after he’d been defeated. No honor among thieves, and even less among gods. The Oarsman’s not going to fight cleanly. He’ll stand in that hall, near his pool, and spin you in circles. Even if you pull away from the water and deny him his advantage, that oar grants him substantial reach. He’ll use it to beat you down. Your job is to anticipate him.” The coin soared through the air. “Wrestle it away from him.” Rory was several feet away once more. “Once you’re in close—use that strength of yours and throw him down.”

I tried again and again to hit him. Every time I imagined I could anticipate his next move, Rory flickered away, slapping his glove against my arm or shoulder or back. “Think of it like dancing. Read your partner’s body—predict it.” The rain and the coin made a specter of him. “You liked dancing, as I recall. At Coulson.”

“I liked putting you in the dirt more.” I was gasping, knees aching, heavy on my feet, striking out wildly, wasting my strength on blows that met nothing but air.

It took no effort for Rory to throw the coin over my head, appear behind me—