Filed To Story: The Knight and the Moth Book PDF Free by Rachel Gillig
Castor strode into the room in a fine white tunic, a smattering of scabs across his face where the Harried Scribe’s ink had burned him. Midday light fell upon his head, and though he was not wearing a crown, his golden hair was resplendent.
He carried two things. That ratty leather-bound notebook I’d seen his first night at Aisling Cathedral, and the Harried Scribe’s stone inkwell.
I stood from my chair. “Majesty.”
“Six.”
Bow, I mouthed to the gargoyle.
He made a crude sound of flatulence and didn’t get up.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Apologies, King Castor. He was woken prematurely from a nap.”
“Say no more.” The king put the notebook and inkwell upon the table and took his seat in the last remaining chair, and I fell into mine.
Silence took hold of the room. “Oh,” the king said. “You’re waiting for me to speak.”
The gargoyle and I exchanged a look.
“Forgive me. It’s just-” Benedict Castor’s cheeks grew red. “This was Maude’s idea, talking to you alone. She thinks I need practice, saying things without her or Rory there to fill in my nervous pauses.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?”
That made him laugh. “Almost everything. But enough about me. You must have a thousand questions. Before we begin, however, an egregious oversight must be addressed.” He grinned. “You should really call me Benji.”
“You don’t find that disrespectful?”
“Rory does it. Rory for Rodrick, Benji for Benedict.” He shrugged. “It’s just a nickname.”
“An atrocious one,” the gargoyle muttered.
King Castor-Benji-to his credit, was not provoked. “Likely. But it fits me well.” He reached for the flagon, poured himself, then me, a healthy helping of ale. “Do you drink?” he asked the gargoyle.
“He doesn’t,” I cut in, swiping the gargoyle’s cup.
He pushed out his lips. Pulled the blanket to his chin. Five seconds later, he was snoring.
I looked across the table at the king. “This all feels very strange.”
“Traum is a strange place.”
“Not so strange that five women should vanish into thin air.”
“Fair enough.” Benji gestured at his notebook, then at the Harried Scribe’s inkwell. “Which would you like me to start with? The history of the Omens, or their magical objects?”
It was unbearable that I, a Diviner of Aisling Cathedral, should need to be lectured on either. “Magical objects.”
“My favorite.” The king brought his cup to his mouth, exhaling pleasure as the swallowed the ale. It was hardly midday-early for a drink. But the ale seemed to ease him. He took the Harried Scribe’s inkwell and dipped his finger into its ink. “As you know, the Omens each possess a stone object-the mechanics of which are rather simple. This one, like the Scribe said, never runs dry of ink. Stir it clockwise”-he began to swirl the ink-“then toss it, and that ink will transport you.”
King Castor flourished his hand like a performer upon a stage-flung black ink-and vanished.
He appeared ten paces away and bowed.
If he wanted me to clap, he could die waiting. “Like Myndacious’s coin.”
“Quite. All the stone objects have two properties. Transportive.” He returned to the table, finger back in the ink. This time, he stirred it counterclockwise. “And destructive.”
He poured the ink near the edge of the table, and smoke began to rise. The ink went red-scalding its way through the table-leaving a charred hole and the smell of burnt wood in its wake.
The gargoyle sniffed, sneezed, but remained asleep.
“The Artful Brigand’s coin makes more of an impact-I’m partial to explosions.” Benji rubbed some of the charred wood away from his ale and took his seat once more. “I’m not entirely sure how the other objects work, the oar and chime and loom stone, but I hope to soon enough.” He smiled at me. “They are the only pieces of magic in all of Traum. It is my desire to wield them all.”
What an arrogant little prat. “The stone objects aren’t the only magic in Traum. You’ve forgotten Aisling’s spring.”
“Ah-yes. To be transported into dreams is surely magic.” Benji was quiet a moment. “That spring is where it all began.” He reached for his notebook. “Which puts us squarely in the realm of history, I suppose.”
It was an ancient thing, the notebook. When Benji opened it, thumbing through the pages, I was assaulted by the smells of aged leather and parchment.
Every page was full. I glimpsed faded ink, lists and logs and maps and art-portraits and landscapes. There was very little art at Aisling, but I could tell whoever scribbled these was gifted at their craft. “Is this yours?”
“It belonged to my grandfather. Benedict Castor the First. He was the king of Traum before King Augur.” Benji drank deeply from his cup. “Have you heard of him?”
I hadn’t. “The abbess says kings come and go.”
“How right she is.” I could tell it troubled Benji to speak of his grandfather. His mouth had fallen, but he kept his tone light. “My grandfather’s hamlet was Coulson Faire, but he was an erudite, multifaceted craftsman-a man before his time. He was elected by the noble elders of the hamlets because of his familiarity with the economics of-” He grinned. “But perhaps this is boring to you.”
I was mid-yawn. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry, I was getting to the good part. My grandfather was a beloved king-until he wasn’t. I was five years old when he was stoned to death for heresy.”
I went still. “Oh.”
“You see, Six, there are two stories of Traum’s great beginning. The one your abbess touts before a Divination, and the one that got my grandfather killed. He wrote it here, in his notebook.” Benji ran his thumb over the pages. “I’m likely not as eloquent as he was, but I’ll tell it as best as I can.”
I watched his wide eyes, wondering if, behind my shroud, that was how I looked at the abbess: so eager to please. I suddenly felt a surge of pity. Benedict Castor was, after all, only a boy of seventeen, with everything in the world to prove. “Take your time.”
He hauled in a breath. “Approximately two hundred and thirty years ago, before Aisling was built, five craftsmen came to a tor. A thieving merchant-dubbed a brigand-a scribe, an oarsman, a forester, and a weaver. Traum was in discord.
That part of my grandfather’s tale aligns with the abbess’s. The hamlets had no gods, no ruler, and were overcome by sprites. The craftsmen came to the tor in an attempt to unify. To decide who among them should lead.”
I had the gutting feeling whatever remained of my devotion to the Omens was about to crumble.
“They fought, of course. Choosing a ruler is never an easy task. The brigand was cunning, the scribe clever, the oarsman strong, the forester intuitive, and the weaver compassionate. Each thought themselves more fit to lead. But just when hope of accord seemed lost-“
He paused for effect. “Someone else came to the tor. A sixth figure, along with a foundling child. They led the craftsmen to the top of the tor, where a great limestone rested. From a fissure in that limestone, water leached, thick and slow and smelling of sweet rot. One by one, the craftsmen drank from it. One by one, they were caught up in a strange, liminal dream.”
I waited for more.
“After, the sixth figure gifted them with these-made from the same limestone as the spring.” He flipped through the pages of his grandfather’s notebook, then turned it, showing me an illustration of five distinct objects.