The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(77)

He was a thief, stealing my breath, my reason. “May I ask something of you?”

He looked up.

“If tomorrow does not go well… will you find a home for the gargoyle? Will you keep looking for the Diviners?”

His grip on my hand tightened. “If you have imagined portents, let me dispel them. The only thing that matters in this world is the effort you exact, Diviner. And you have been working harder than anyone I’ve known. So, please—don’t look to dreams, and don’t look for signs. Just look forward. Tomorrow will go well.”

“Two things can be true at once, Myndacious. I can look forward. Work hard.” I labored over the word. “And still die. So I’m asking you. Will you find a home for the gargoyle? Will you keep looking for the Diviners?”

“Yes.” He drew closer, water sloshing around us, and I was aware of his body, mine—and the bareness of them beneath the spring’s surface. “The thing is—I think I’d do anything you asked of me.”

And then he was pulling away, moving farther into the pool, leaving me tangled in the beat of my own heart. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I remained unmoving ten seconds. Twenty. When Rory turned to give me privacy, I lifted myself out of the pool. Found my nightshirt. Threw it haphazardly over myself and glanced back at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I need a minute.”

I wandered back to the village. The mountainous earth was chill beneath my feet, and the Tenor sang its distant watery song. I stopped to listen. Noted how the moon had journeyed in the sky. How the wind through brome and heather was a delicate whisper.

And it startled me, that the loneliness I’d felt earlier was no longer so oppressive, as if put to sleep. The night was half-gone, and though I needed rest, I could not bring myself to mind that I was awake and out of bed. Everything was just so…

Beautiful.

I looked down at my hand. The marks from Rory’s teeth were still there. I’d been right—the bottom row looked like a crooked, crowded line of soldiers, unique as a fingerprint, as a line of stars.

I lifted my palm. Put it to my mouth. Ran my lips over the indents.

Maude and the gargoyle were still snoring when I returned to the inn. When I slept, I didn’t dream of Aisling Cathedral’s looming edifice or Diviners swathed in gossamer. I didn’t even dream of the Ardent Oarsman.

I dreamed of a knight with gold in his ears and charcoal around his eyes, who did all the ignoble things I asked of him.





Maude was up with the dawn, abrupt as the thundering sky. “It’s time.”

The gargoyle waltzed around our small chamber, humming a tune. I sat up in bed. Rubbed my shrouded eyes. “What has you so pleased?”

“Bartholomew suggested I act as your squire, since you have none.”

“My—”

Maude stepped back, revealing a pile of armor at the foot of my bed. Her armor. “It won’t be an exact fit,” she said. “Not as effective as the one being made. But more protective than your leathers or chainmail alone. You’re strong enough to bear it.”

Maude’s armor was intricate—swirls that resembled billowing boughs engraved in the breastplate. “It was my mother’s,” she said. “And hers before.”

A lump formed in my throat. “You realize if I die you’ll likely lose it.”

“Thought about that. Figured out a solution.” Maude hauled me off the bed. Surprised me with a fearsome hug. “Live.”

The gargoyle’s stone fingers were blunt and clumsy, mostly because he was trilling with excitement. “Me, a squire.” He held up chainmail, fastened armor to my legs, my arms, snapped Maude’s breastplate over my chest. “Would you wear the helmet, Bartholomew?”

“Yes,” Maude answered for me.

The gargoyle handed it over, like he’d once handed me my Divining robe, and I tucked it under my arm. “I’m ready.”

The inn was dark. None of the other knights had risen, oblivious of their king’s absence. But there were fishermen, nets on their backs—moving in droves down the mountain to cast in lower parts of the Tenor. I spotted Hamelin’s mother and a few of the other nobles among them. They watched us as we passed, nodded, their gazes keen and curious and reverent as we disappeared into the mountains.

Rory and Benji were waiting on the other side of the plateau, armor clad. When they saw me, fitted in the same attire as them, they both went still.

Benji whistled. “You’re a proper knight, Six.”

Rory’s eyes were fast, measuring the scope of me. When he saw Maude’s helmet tucked under my arm, he gave me a pointed look.

“I’ll wear it,” I muttered.

He approached. “And this?” He tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear, brushing my shroud.

“I’ll wear it, too.”

He gave me his fist—unfurled his fingers. Handed me the Artful Brigand’s coin. “Let’s go kill an Omen.”





We made it up the mountain the same way we had before—carried up and over the waterfall in turns by the gargoyle. He did not complain this time. He was still too heartened to be considered my squire, which, I was beginning to suspect, he considered a more essential role than knight. First with Rory and me, then with Maude and Benji, he spread his stone wings and flew us skyward into a gale.