Filed To Story: The Knight and the Moth Book PDF Free by Rachel Gillig
Benji sounded a little breathless. “Ever but visitors.”
“Ever but visitors,” the crowd echoed.
“Ever but visitors,” the gargoyle cheered.
The five women reached for Benji’s tunic. From its collar, its sleeves, its bottom hem, they each pulled free a thread, then tied that thread to their ring fingers and brought their hands to their hearts.
They began taking small, incremental steps back. And the tunic-all that beautiful stitching-became undone.
It was the first ceremony that had held me rapt. I watched Benji let his arms fall to his sides, the weaver’s stitching-their hard work-unspooling around him, and felt strangely moved. They did not make a spectacle of their king or their faith or their craft. No one was put low so that the Heartsore Weaver, the Omens, might be lifted. No hurt was tended for the sake of holiness.
It felt unexpectedly hallowed.
Rory leaned close. “You’re frowning.”
“I did not expect it to be so lovely and gentle,” I said, the bruise on my shoulder from last night throbbing. “For such an abrasive Omen.”
The threads pulled and pulled. And while Benji’s tunic unspooled around him, baring his chest to us witnesses, he was not made prostrate for it. He seemed almost comfortable, eyes shut, shoulders eased, as if heartened to feel the sun on his skin.
I kept frowning. “Rory.”
His gauntlet scraped against mine. “Hmm?”
“What will happen when the king is finished taking up the mantle? When he has all the stone objects and Aisling loses its power?” The journey through Traum was ending. My fruitless quest to find my friends-my sworn retribution against the Omens-nearly over. Something new was drawing nigh, but I could not tell what it was, only that its shapelessness unnerved me.
Rory searched my face. “Whatever you wish. The world is yours, Sybil.”
I watched Benji, standing in the heart of the hedge like I’d once stood upon Aisling’s chancel. “Trouble is, I wouldn’t know where to go if I wasn’t following the knights.”
“You can go anywhere you like. You have the gargoyle. Your armor, your hammer, chisel.” He looked into my eyes. Said, so very plainly, “And you have me.”
My frown vanished. “I can’t ask you to leave the knighthood.”
“Because you know I’d say yes?”
“Because the king relies on you. I can’t ask you to choose between-“
“You don’t have to.” His eyes were so dark. So soft. “I’ve already chosen.”
The frail tapestry of my soul expanded. “Won’t Benji be upset to lose you?”
“It’s not a death-just a departure. Besides, Benji doesn’t need me the way he thinks he does. He’s stronger than he realizes.” Rory nodded at the hedge and the king at the heart of it. “He knows I care about him. He’ll understand.”
“Will he?”
“He’ll have to. A knighthood is not a yoke. I’m no one’s drudge.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “But I’ll be your errand boy if you ask me nicely.”
“You’re such an idiot,” I said, smiling like one as I looked out over the sea. “Thank you.”
He nodded, a hint of rose in his cheeks. He’d seen me naked. Put his hands and mouth on me. And I marveled that this-standing with me in full armor, talking of the future, our future-should be the thing to make Rodrick Myndacious blush.
The threads of Benji’s tunic were all around, catching the wind, and all of them strong. Something I’d once considered a good portent. I didn’t need it now. I knew exactly how to read the signs-knew exactly what was going to happen to me. It was happening right now.
I was falling in love.
We watched the ceremony until Benji’s tunic was but five long threads. Folk in the crowd took hold of those threads, dancing in crooked lines around the hedge. The gargoyle danced with them, hopping and giggling. Maude and Benji stood aside with the rest of the knights, silently nodding at Rory and me as we disappeared over a bluff, Aisling’s spring water in a flask upon Rory’s belt.
We put it on a rock among thrift flowers. Undid its lid. Hid behind another rock and remained unmoving.
We waited. Waited.
The Heartsore Weaver did not come.
Two hours later, I yawned. “Maybe I dreamed her up last night.”
Rory shook his head. “That bruise is real enough.”
“Spring water worked for the Scribe, the Oarsman.” I peered at the flask upon the rock. “Why won’t the Weaver come?”
He didn’t answer, worrying his thumb over his coin.
Then, when the first star touched the sky-
“What are you two loitering around for?”
Rory swore and I jumped, the two of us turning. The gargoyle was there, trilling his claws happily as he waved at us. Maude and Benji, too.
They carried the Omens’ stone objects with them. Maude used the Ardent Oarsman’s oar as a walking stick, and Benji bore the Harried Scribe’s inkwell, the Faithful Forester’s chime roped tightly on his belt. The king wore leathers and a breastplate. “The ceremony is over,” he called. “I sent the knights back to the inn.” When he approached, his gaze shifted between Rory and me. “Any luck spotting the Heartsore Weaver?”
I shook my head.
“That’s because you are not looking in the right place.” Just as quickly as he’d arrived, the gargoyle sauntered off. “This way, chickens.”
We stared after him. “Do you even know who we’re looking for?” Maude hollered at his back.
“Of course I do. I know everything, and I know it exceedingly well. So come.”
We four shared a bewildered look. But Rory shrugged, Maude snagged the flask of spring water and fastened it to her belt, and then we were stepping on the same trodden flowers the gargoyle had crushed, hurrying after him.
He led us down a hill and up another, past a croft, until we were on the same cliff he’d gone to yesterday morning, where he’d looked out at the dawn.
He stood next to an old gray rock, turned to us, and held out his arms. “I will now accept your applause.”
Rory looked around. Saw nothing. Clapped with painful slowness.
I let out a sigh. “We’re not here to admire the sunset, gargoyle.”
“I did not bring you to see the sunset, Bartholomew.” He nodded at the earth near our feet. “I brought you to see what’s beneath it.”
Silence. Then Benji turned his head. “What’s that sound?”