Filed To Story: The Knight and the Moth Book PDF Free by Rachel Gillig
“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.
We landed at the Ardent Oarsman’s castle. The shale sprites were not on the stairs this time, but we tiptoed up the steps just the same. Knocked upon the ancient door. Waited.
There was no answer.
Rory slammed his open palm against groaning wood, but no matter his hails, the Ardent Oarsman did not come.
“Perhaps he went on a sabbatical,” the gargoyle offered. He peered up at the tempestuous sky. “And not a moment too soon.”
“Well then.” Benji stepped back. “Let’s invite ourselves in.” He rolled his shoulders and sprang forward, crashing full force into the castle door.
It burst open in a cloud of dust.
“That’s the spirit, Your Majesty.” Rory hauled Benji to his feet, and Maude led us, axe in hand, into the castle just as the sky opened up.
The clatter of rain upon the roof was like a thousand tapping fingers, muffling the sound of our footsteps. Still, I felt obtrusive in armor, too loud-an unwelcome guest. But the dark corners of the Oarsman’s castle, full of hungry shadows, held no one who might admonish me. Not in corridors, not in the great spartan chambers. Not even sprites stirred to see us.
There was simply no one there.
“What the hell?” We stood in the great hall, near the Ardent Oarsman’s pool and great pile of coins. Benji stared at the money, then rubbed his hands over his eyes and blinked repeatedly, as if willing the Omen to appear. “What sort of game is this?”
Wind and rain flew through the open east wall, spraying us.
“I don’t understand.” Stone crunched beneath my boot. “It’s been three days. Where is he?”
“There.”
Rory stood near one of the columns, wind in his face, looking out. We crowded around him, and I was afforded a view of the silver-blue basin behind the castle-the crystalline water that fed the Tenor River.
Fixed in the center of the basin was a platform. A broad wooden square. And upon it, hood back, jagged hands rested upon his oar-
The Ardent Oarsman. Looking out at us with unblinking stone eyes.
Waiting.
“There?” Benji said, incredulous. “He wants to fight her there
?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Maude face was drawn. “He’s got his oar. He can drop it in the water at any moment-spin circles around her. He’ll shake the platform, break her aim. One misstep, and the Artful Brigand’s coin is going in the drink-and Six along with it.” She turned to me. “I hope you’re a damn strong swimmer.”
Rory went white, last night-the hot spring and me, slipping beneath its water-unveiling over his face.
“It is not like me to be the bearer of bad tidings,” the gargoyle said. “Bartholomew does not know how to swim. But worry not-” He looked up at me. Smiled proudly. “She has always excelled at drowning.”
The Knight and the Moth
WITH HAMMER, WITH CHISEL
Benji and Maude had joined Rory in a suspended state, staring, mouths agape, dread wafting off them like smoke. “What do you mean she can’t swim?”
“As I said,” the gargoyle remarked, “she is excellent at dr-“
“Outside of Aisling, it is not a good thing to know how to drown.” Maude’s shout echoed through the hall. “It is a very bad thing.”
The gargoyle recoiled, eyes wide, bottom lip quivering. He let out a terrible sob, turned to the open wall-vaulted past the columns and took flight.
I called after him, but my voice was swallowed by the oncoming storm. I glowered over my shoulder. “Don’t yell at him.”
“He’ll survive,” Maude said. “You, however…”
“Maude.” Benji so rarely raised his voice-so rarely tendered anything unpleasant. But now, hands locked in knots, I noted a tear in the visage of his good nature. A temper, lingering beneath. “You put your armor on her,” he snapped. “Now it’s time to put on your faith.” He turned to Rory, anger still fixed on his face. “She can’t use the coin. The inkwell, either. If they’re lost in that water, we’ll never get them back.”
Rory stood in the heart of the hollow room and for once did not fidget. His focus was tethered entirely to me. “It’s up to her.”
It was armor, only armor, that held me up. “I can move my feet. Keep my balance, even if that platform quakes.” I looked down at the coin in my hand. “But if I throw this-miss even once-“
There was a voice in the storm. A low, horrible rasp riding the wind. “Where is the Diviner, who thinks me nothing without her? Where is the Diviner, come to defeat me at my craft?” Then louder, as if echoing in the walls of my head. “Where is the Diviner, come to me for answers?”
I felt like a dreaming child, fallen and shattered within the mountain peaks, trembling. If I glanced up, I could almost imagine I saw Aisling Cathedral’s reaching vaults, where I’d spent my entire life believing in the story of the Omens.
But as I looked at the Ardent Oarsman, I felt my armor around me, so much heavier than gossamer, rooting me to the earth. This was not a dream, and he was not a god. The abbess’s story was fissuring.
And I would help break it.
I handed Rory back his coin and stepped through the columns into the rain.