Filed To Story: The Knight and the Moth Book PDF Free by Rachel Gillig
That’s when I heard the voices. Just outside the door.
“What, Maude?” It was Rory, snapping. “Just spit it out.”
I tiptoed to the door. On the other side, someone let out a low sigh.
“I already told you. Three days is not enough time to prepare.” Maude’s voice was hard. Steadfast. “It should be you or I facing the Oarsman.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Rory’s voice became perilously soft. “You think I want a single scratch upon her?”
“If the Oarsman challenged her, then we should honor that,” another voice said, softer than the others. Benji. “We should do things the proper way.”
“The Artful Brigand was cruel, but idle,” Maude bit back. “And the Harried Scribe was too enamored with his own wit to put up much of a fight. The Ardent Oarsman is the Omen of strength. He will be ruthless. Six has been stuck behind a wall for years. If we do things the proper way, this Omen could kill her.”
My throat tightened.
“Surely she knows that,” Benji said. “Dying, after all, is the risk of killing.”
“You say that, Benji, and you said it easily, because you know Rory and I will do your killing for you. We swore to it, but Six did not. She’s never killed anything or anyone. And I fear-” Maude’s voice became uncharacteristically rough. “I fear she will die without ever having lived.”
I flinched, as if struck.
“Maude,” Benji said gently.
Another sigh sounded. Then-
Rory spoke, hard and sure. “She can beat the Oarsman. I don’t have a single doubt.”
Footsteps echoed, closer to my door. I withdrew, and the latch turned. When Maude stepped into the room, head low, her eyes widened over me, sitting upright on my bed. “You’re awake?”
I nodded.
I could see in her eyes that she knew I’d overheard them. She opened her mouth to say something, but words never came. Maude undressed, got in bed, and I pulled my blankets over my ears and faced the wall, thinking on dying and killing and living, and how I was unsuited for all three.
For two more days, dawn to dusk, the steps repeated. I woke. Moved my feet up the lookout staircase. Then back down to our makeshift training ground. Rory used the coin, appearing and disappearing-and Benji did the same with the Harried Scribe’s inkwell. I tried to anticipate them. To kick or hit or say something sharp to get them to hold still long enough for me to knock them over. Then it was my turn with the coin. I practiced smooth side up-disappearing and reappearing around the makeshift square while Rory, Benji, and the gargoyle tried to catch me, then rough side up, breaking things while visualizing the Ardent Oarsman’s legs, his arms, shoulders, or knees. Anything I might break to get him to yield. And I did. For the Diviners, I hit every. Single. Mark.
It was only when I thought of what Maude had said, though she kept silent now, that I erred. When my foot slipped on the stairs, when I dropped the coin or missed its target. Maude, and the words she’d dealt.
She will die without ever having lived.
And then it was nightfall of the third day, and there was no more time to train, no more time to prepare-
And hardly any to live.
I couldn’t sleep.
The gargoyle was snoring, and so was Maude. She’d come into the room an hour ago, undressed, turned to me, opened her mouth, shut it, and turned to the wall to sleep.
I sat upon the windowsill and looked out. Gentle, the night. Gone was the storm, the torrid rain and hail that had ripped through the Peaks the last two days. The clouds were vanquished, and the sky was that romantic shade between violet and black and sapphire, the wind a susurrant noise. I could hear owls, and farther, the lull of the Tenor.
I wondered if the Ardent Oarsman had something to do with it. The magic stone objects were all transportive and destructive. Maybe he had caused the storm somehow, and had now taken it away, lulling me into a false sense of ease.
“Mouse in my ear,” the gargoyle murmured, twitching in his sleep. “Bartholomew, water the tulips before they bite.”
I caught myself smiling at him.
Oh, to be a gargoyle.
A shy knock sounded on the door.
I opened it a crack. “Lost, Myndacious?”
“You’re awake.” Rory stood in the dim light of the corridor wearing a loose tunic and leathers, dark hair strewn over his brow. He seemed surprised to see me. “I thought Diviners were good at sleeping.”
“If you’re looking for Maude, she’s long abed.”
“I’m looking for you.”
He was getting better at finding my gaze through my shroud. “I didn’t-if you were sleeping, I didn’t-” He rolled his eyes. For once, the gesture seemed directed at himself. “I wasn’t trying to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” I stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind me. “Can’t, actually.”
His gaze dipped. I wasn’t wearing anything but a pale nightshirt. Rory was antsier than usual. Bright in the cheeks, shoulders tight, hand moving invisible puppets in this pocket. “There’s a place,” he murmured. “Not far. It’ll help with the restlessness.”
“Will I need my shoes?”
Finally a smile. He tried to hide it, biting down on his bottom lip, but he was a poor actor-the entirety of his body eased. “Not this time.”
The Knight and the Moth
I CAN’T SWIM
We left the inn, saying nothing as we wound our way through the darkened village and down the road. The crescent moon was high in the sky, holding water, dropping a shaving of silver light over everything it touched. I looked out over the vantage, the cloudlessness affording me a view through the mountains. Beyond, I could see the waters of the Tenor-the rolling fields of Traum.
But no matter how hard I squinted, I could not see Aisling.
“There’s a spot at the base of that.” Rory pointed a finger up at the nearest looming peak. “Hot springs. Hot enough to ease some of the ache your muscles are undoubtedly feeling after three days of hauling ass.”
I stopped mid-step. “My muscles are fine.”
“Mine aren’t.” Rory chuckled. “It’s grueling work, getting you into fighting shape.” He turned. Noted my stillness. “That’s a bad joke, Diviner. You’re ready for tomorrow.”
“That’s not why-” My cheeks burned. “Don’t laugh.”
The echoes of his chuckle still lingered in the air. “I’ve never laughed in my life.”
The breeze picked up, reaching its fingers into my clothes, goading a confession. “I can’t swim.”
He surprised me with the gift of silence. And it was a gift, because I didn’t want to say out loud that it would have been as arbitrary as everything else that happened at Aisling Cathedral, teaching a girl intended to drown how to swim.
Perhaps he already understood that, and the silence was for both of us to put that ugly truth somewhere private.