Filed To Story: The Knight and the Moth Book PDF Free by Rachel Gillig
I took a tentative step. The air-the stones beneath my feet-were the same temperature as my skin, as if I were exploring a vast, pallid womb.
I moved on tender feet. Toward what, I did not know. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I should be concerned that I was not falling. Not seeing the stone objects the Omens showed themselves through. But a strange sort of calmness had taken over me, and I kept walking, undisturbed, though hazy white light.
Voices sounded from somewhere high above. The gargoyle, Rory-but they were too garbled to make out. “I cannot hear you,” I said, my echo coming back at me, discordant.
I cannot hear you, it taunted.
I cannot hear you.
A shadow fluttered in the corner of my vision. I turned-
There was nothing there.
I walked on, and the floor beneath my feet grew cooler. Grayer. Ahead, the light did not shine so brightly. The farther I trod, the darker the space around me became, light leaching away until I no longer stood in a bright space, but a blackened one.
The air was cold now. Cold enough that when I exhaled, breath steamed out of me. I was about to call out once more when something flickered in the corner of my vision. I turned.
And froze.
It came from the darkness, fluttering on delicate wings. It made no sound-not even the faintest whisper of a sound-parceling the dark in swooping circles, drawing closer to me.
A moth, pale and delicate.
It flew closer, hovering over me. Then, without sound, it landed on the bridge of my nose, climbing until it stood over my shroud.
I shut my eyes. Trembled.
The moth’s legs stuck to fabric as it roved over my shroud. It was so small, so without muscle, but it was patient. The moth worked back and forth over my eyes, picking, tugging, until-
I felt my shroud fall away. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer looking through gossamer, but the thin, veined wings of the moth.
The darkness around me shifted. The world behind the moth’s wings was so full of color it stole my breath. I saw parts of Traum I had never seen before, like I was a bird soaring above its five distinct hamlets. There were the mountainous Fervent Peaks, the bustling streets of the Seacht, the yellow birch trees of the Chiming Wood, the floral pink Cliffs of Bellidine. How bright Traum seemed, without blemish, like its beauty was infinite. Like it could never die. Then-
Aisling.
Lone and gray, looming behind its wall on the tor, the cathedral watched me with eyes of stained glass. Only now, the five statues in the courtyard were not made of stone.
They were human, each holding a distinct stone object.
A coin.
An inkwell.
An oar.
A chime.
A loom stone.
A sixth figure stood at the mouth of the cathedral, hooded like the others. It bore no stone object-its hands were empty, arms held wide, as if it were beckoning me into the cathedral. As if the cathedral itself was the figure’s personal stone object.
The vision behind the moth’s wings rippled. Disappeared. I was confronted now with Aisling’s innards. Its nave and pews and windows.
Its dark, fetid spring.
The moth beat its wings, and I began to see faces in the water.
I saw the shrouded abbess and her gargoyles. Men in armor and crowns that must be kings of old. Hordes of Traum’s folk, lined up outside the tor for a Divination.
I saw Diviners. Young girls, draped in gossamer. Then the moth beat its wings once more, and the Diviners’ faces, their arms and legs and torsos, grew distorted. Fractured, bent in terrible grotesque shapes. They cried out in agony, but their voices were like the wind-long and mournful and without reprieve.
I put a hand to my mouth. “Please, stop.”
Then they were gone, and so was the visage of the spring. I was alone in darkness once more. The moth flapped its wings over my eyes, fanning my face.
And then a pain like I had never felt ripped into me. It was like drowning, but so much worse. An inescapable kind of pain. Omnipresent. Complete.
“Swords and armor,” came a voice, “are nothing to stone.”
I lurched up, gasping.
I was laid out on a pew, the light in the rose window high above me still young. Rory was gone. Only the gargoyle was there, watching me. “Very curious, Bartholomew,” he mused. “Very curious indeed.”
“What happened? Did-” I put a hand to my shroud, wet but secured over my eyes. “What did you hear?”
“Nary a thing.”
“I didn’t say anything in the dream?”
He blinked. “Perhaps the Omens no longer favor you.”
“Where’s Myndacious?”
“The king and his knights came to collect him. And I must say, I am relieved.” He shuddered. “There is something about knights, their unbreachable zest for virtue, that I find truly sickening-“
I didn’t hear the rest. I was stumbling out of the cathedral, sick on the way. My feet churned over carpet, over gravel, then grass. I reached the apple orchard, then the wall.
The Diviners were there, perched high, white beacons against a blue sky. They turned, sensing my approach, and One and Four handed me up.
I didn’t ask why they weren’t abed. I knew they’d come to watch.
The king’s knights were halfway down the hill. I searched the glinting armor, looking, looking.
There. Near the front, riding between King Castor and Maude. Dark hair. Broad lines of his back.
Rory.
He turned, frown deeply set, and looked back at Aisling Cathedral. His gaze found the wall, and the Diviners upon it. When it landed on me, it froze, frown deepening. I might have called him back. Asked him what he could possibly know of the sixth Omen-the moth-and why it had visited my dream. But he was turning away, spurring his horse, riding until the road turned and the greenery of the holloway swallowed him whole.
“What a charming pair of days they’ve lent us,” Four said, black hair in the wind.