Filed To Story: The Knight and the Moth Book PDF Free by Rachel Gillig
“You’re nervous,” I said, grinning. “Why is that?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“But you’re blushing. Dying to fidget with that stolen coin in your pocket, maybe. Touching a Diviner must make your heretical heart truly uneasy-“
Rory came toward me until our noses were flush, speaking within an inch of my mouth. “You know what I think?” he murmured. “I think you like that I’m a bad knight. It’s why you feel so righteous, flaying me with your tongue-why you enjoy throwing me down and grinding your heel into my pride. It does something to you.” He wet his bottom lip. “I’d bet my oath your whole body is awake right now, aching and eager at the thought of putting me in my place.”
I couldn’t think. He was breathing against my mouth and I against his and the sound wasn’t like any hunger I’d known. Torrid and depraved and desperate-
“You want to throw me down,” Rory said, eyelids dropping as he whispered into my parted lips. “And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.”
He pulled back, his eyes as black as the Harried Scribe’s inkwell.
“I’ll ask Maude to do the rest.”
He rounded the stool. Walked away. The door to the forge closed. I stood alone in a shell of wax, staring at the wall, willing my breathing to slow.
The Knight and the Moth
The Fervent Peaks
Oar.
Torrid and unforgiving, the river carves a path, always. Only the oar, only vigor, can Divine.
The Knight and the Moth
MOUNTAIN SPRITES
I rested my head against the wood lip of a cart, dappled sunlight dancing over my face. We were out of the Seacht, past its cobbled streets and reaching bridges, back on the holloway road. I’d refused to look back. Refused a horse as well. The gargoyle, heartened by the spirit of refusal, had declined to fly, and so accommodations were provided, the two of us riding like cargo, jostled about in a horse-drawn cart.
I was wearing all the clothes Maude had left me, tunic and cloak and leggings. But the boots-the boots sat in a corner of the cart, untouched.
Maude sat next to them, catechizing me on what lay ahead. “The Fervent Peaks are rough-wet and windblown and cold. There’s one road, and it’s steep. The village is scattered upon it, but most of the dwellings sit on a wide plateau where the Tenor River pools. Folk fish there, but rarely go higher into the mountains, which are almost impossible to climb.”
“What a horrible picture you paint,” the gargoyle said, smiling and nodding, like he’d paid her a compliment.
“When I dream of the Ardent Oarsman,” I murmured to the sky, “I fall onto rocks. There’s a basin of water nearby, surrounded by seven jagged mountains. That’s where I see the stone oar.”
Maude ran the edge of her axe over a whetstone. No matter the jostling of the cart, her movements remained controlled. “This basin of water. Are there dwellings around it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What is around it?
“Rocks.”
Her eyes lifted. “Helpful.”
I threw my gaze out over the landscape-rolling moors covered in bromegrass and craggy rocks-and tried not to sulk. “I’m afraid I’m of little use. I have no idea where the Ardent Oarsman is. No idea where anyone is.”
“None of that.” Maude’s tone was firm. “You being here is enough.”
“I’m surprised King Castor’s grandfather didn’t document the precise locations of the Omens in his precious notebook.”
“Trust me, he tried. But the Omens have been doing this for hundreds of years. They obscure themselves beneath hoods or use their stone objects to vanish at whim. They know how to hide in plain sight.”
“I say, Bartholomew.” The gargoyle was leaning over the lip of the cart. “Is a road still a road if no one rode upon it?”
“Road and rode are two different words, gargoyle.”
“Really?” A wayward branch swatted him over the face. “Perplexing.”
Maude stared.
“You’ll get used to him,” I mumbled.
She cleared her throat. “Right.”
“Why not find the Ardent Oarsman the same way you found the Harried Scribe? Leave a bit of pilfered spring water lying about. See who comes for it.”
Maude nodded at her axe. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. But first-the ceremony.”
“What ceremony?”
“The noble families host a ceremony when a new king comes.
And since this is Benji’s first time in the hamlets as king, they’ll be wanting to put on a bit of a show. Faith requires a display. The greater the spectacle, the greater the illusion.”
“So I’ve heard.” I paused. “Maybe we can use that to our advantage.”
A brown horse came up next to the cart. Fig.
Rory wasn’t wearing his helmet-his black hair a mess. He pushed it out of his eyes. “Anything of note?”
I plastered a smile over my mouth. “Benji and Maude will be at the ceremony, which leaves you and I to sneak off with the spring water and watch for the Ardent Oarsman like good little soldiers.”
Maude’s gaze lifted. “It’s not a bad plan.”
Rory’s eyes flickered to my face. We hadn’t spoken since he’d measured me for armor.
You want to throw me down. And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.
“If you wanted to get me alone, Diviner, all you had to do is ask.”
Maude gave him an exasperated look. But Rory just smiled, his stupid words winning two battles. Maude, irritated-me, flustered. And then he was spurring Fig, riding hastily up the line of the caravan to join Benji at the lead.
I shot air out of my nose. “Idiot.”
“He riles you.” Maude grinned at her axe. “And you him.”