The Stonewater Kingdom

Dearest FairyLoot reader,

Tell me — what is a dream?

The strange machinacions of a wakeless mind - the foating confetti of our thoughts? When we sleep, are our dreams a reflection of ourselves? Of our values, our opinions — our complex moral design?

Perhaps a dream is a portent. A profound sign that, upon waking, demands reflection. Does the divine reach her mercurial finger into our slumbering thoughts, affording us perspective, the past, the future, laid out before us?

Or is a dream merely as impotent, or inconsequential, as we allow it to be?

Is a dream simply... a story we tell ourselves?

That very question is the earth from which The Knight and the Moth rose. I tend to ask myself a lot of questions in life (and when writing). And, to my utter horror, I don't often find answers. But what I have found, on the fraught journey of discovery, is an odd sort of tranquility. An acceptance of that which is, that which I am, and that which I do not understand.

Which really is an acute summation of Sybil Delling, my darling Diviner, and her journey through this book.

I think, if I'm honest, I put a lot of myself into The Knight and the Moth. This book — with its earnest Diviner, its wayward knight, its peculiar gargoyle, with its moonlit hills and whispering winds — was my dream. The exact story I needed to tell myself. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your continued support.

All my love,

Rachel

_________________________________________________________

THE FOULEST KNIGHTIN ALL OF TRAUM

The king of Traum, that loveable little idiot, was actually tiptoeing.

I watched him, leaned up against the wall opposite Maude in the yawning shadows of the narthex. "Something wicked, Your Majesty."

Benji startled, nearly dropping the empty flagon he was carrying. When he peered at me over his shoulder, his blue eyes were so wide they caught the reflection of the night sky, spilling in through Aisling Cathedral’s great door. "What? No — why?"

"Your manner of walking is..." — I scratched my nose. Grinned. "Less than regal."

Benji looked at his boots as if they were to blame and not his own theatrics. "We’re thieving. Thieves walk on lighter feet."

Maude put a hand to her mouth. She was better at hiding her mirth than I was.

When it dawned on Benedict that we were laughing at him, he flushed. "Well, excuse me if late night pilfering wasn't a pillar of my education."

"I understand." I stepped forward. Snagged the flagon from his hand and smacked him fondly on the back. "We can't all be good at everything."

We entered the nave, the darkened cathedral opening up around us.

It was late, hours after the king's Divination ceremony. Now, the knighthood was abed in the dormitory, the abbess and the gargoyles and Diviners gone — retreated back to wherever they kept themselves in when they weren't looming from the chancel. Good fucking riddance. The only thing fouler than the scent of rotten flowers wafting off the cathedral's spring was the stench of overbearing piety.

And yet even bereft of its holy ilk, Aisling Cathedral's impact was just the same. Its design was a threat. Its pillars, its cloisters, its stained-glass windows bore the same effect as a spear, as a storm — as a god. I felt small beside them, a speck against greatness. It unnerved me, that kind of power. Roused me. Sickened and pleased me.

Everything was quiet. Dark.

I led the others down the left aisle, past pews and a dark sacristy drawn by a velvet curtain. My gaze was forward, aimed like the jagged tip of an arrow at the chancel. But soft as my steps were, Aisling's wide, cavernous mouth swallowed them, then spat them back out in an echo.

Benji had been right. The task at hand required tender feet.

We kept going, drawing closer to our target. The smell of sweet rot grew stronger and my pulse quickened, my palm sweaty against the iron handle of the flagon.

A noise echoed through the cathedral. A low, discordant hum.

I put up a hand. Behind me, Maude and Benji went still.

It sounded again. Hmmm. A faint, out-of-tune melody.

"The wind?" Maude murmured at my shoulder.

I waited. Listened. The humming went on a moment longer, then succumbed to the cathedral's voracious silence.

We kept going.

Then we were there. Upon the chancel, standing in the heart of Aisling Cathedral, a great limestone rock — and the spring leaching from it — sat directly in front of us. The water was black, hesitant to reflect the errant fingers of moonlight reaching in through the cathedral's stained-glass windows. It was thicker than regular water. Viscous. Like oil. Like blood.

I hadn't seen it this close in a very long time.

Maude remained at my shoulder. "You all right?"

The water. The Artful Brigand's voice was a rasp, ugly and sharp, like a nail dragged over granite. Years later, it still rang with brassy clarity through my mind. Take my coin. Go to the cathedral. Come back with the water. If you run, I will hunt you. Cut out your heart. Eat it. Then I'll rig a new foundling off the street to replace you.

Next to me, Benji's youthful face had lost its flush, his brows drawn tightly, his blue eyes concerned as they measured me.

I shivered the Artful Brigand's voice like a dark cloak. Put on a smile — handed Benji the empty flagon. "Start raking in the water. Our magnanimous king, about to commit heresy."

Benji's concern vanished, a grin unfurling across his face. He bent to one knee, dragging the flagon in the spring's viscous water—

A shadow moved. Just behind him.

A growl filled my ears, bouncing through the cathedral. The gargoyle none of us had seen, its stone brow furled — its fangs on full display — spread its wings, lunging toward us.

Benji yelped and fell on his ass, clutching the flagon with both hands. The iron was a shield. Maude lunged for him, grasping his arm, yanking him to his feet, and I came to stand between them and the great stone beast.

The gargoyle swung a fist at me. I dodged. Instinct put my hand on my belt, grasping for my sword, but the gargoyle was gone, and — pish, Aisling's insufferable creed was right. Saints and armor is nothing to stone.

I put my hands up instead. "We were just leaving. No need to — "

I was looking at its fists. Its ugly, twisted face. I hadn't considered that the gargoyle's wings made formidable weapons. Hadn't estimated their reach. Hadn't thought to watch my fucking flank.

The gargoyle's left wing collided with the right side of my body, crashing brutally upon armor.

I bit down so hard my jaw locked.

Then Maude was there, yanking Benji and me away, putting the spring between us and the gargoyle, then sprinting down the nave, into the narthex, then out of Aisling and into the night.

The gargoyle did not give chase, save for a satisfied huff that followed us out of the cathedral.

Benji was gasping, Maude silent, and the flagon was making a glugging sound, its belly full of pilfered water. The thieving had been a success.

Meanwhile, I was fighting to breathe.

Maude let go of me, and I put a hand to my armor. I'd have to hammer out that dent. "Not the dormitory," I rasped, nodding at the dark cluster of buildings ahead. "I'm about to make a racket."

We chose the commons. Maude lit a fire, and Benji a few candles, and I set to tearing off my armor, then the mail and padded shirt beneath. My blood was up, my fingers shaking from adrenaline — from pain. Freed from my clothes but for my trousers, I looked down. "Fuck me."

My right ribs, radiating heat, were swollen. Inflamed and already deeply bruised from where the gargoyle's wing had ironed me.

"Damn," Benji said, almost appreciatively, leaning close.

"Damn," Maude agreed. She reached out a finger.

I drew back. "Don't prod."

She withdrew. Nodded. "Idleweed."

Three minutes later, I was fidgeting and huffing madly, determined to banish all discomfort on a tide of smoke. Maude went guard the door just in case the gargoyle returned or anyone came to investigate the clamor we'd made in the cathedral. Benji remained in the commons, his gaze drifting from me to the flagon in his hands.

"I still don't understand what's so special about this water," he said, sniffing it, nose wrinkling. "Smells like a dank flower pot."

"It's not," I kept smoking. "Special, I mean. Nothing is special. Even water on the tor."

Benji chuckled. "Cheer up, old thing. We got what we wanted, and you're still in one piece. Just a small knock to the ribs. A smarter man might have dodged it, but, you know..." He smiled, his blue eyes darting to my injured side. "We can't all be good at everything."

I glowered through a veil of smoke, raring to bite his head off. 

The door banged open. 

And my body went utterly still.

A Diviner stood in the commons' doorway, arrested over the threshold. No — not just any Diviner. This one had Divined, dreamed, drowned for Benji. The same one who'd looked down her nose at me from Aisling's wall as I rode along. Pious and pompous — and mortifyingly pretty.

Light spilled from the commons' fire, but its orange hue could not dissuade the silver that seemed to radiate from her. Her hair was like moonlight, her shroud, pale, her wet, translucentrobe 

Pish, she was naked underneath it. 

My gaze jutted up. I kept it on her shroud, a low, thrumming annoyance building somewhere in my gut. I wondered where she was looking, and if it was at me. "What's this, Maude?"

Maude shifted, stuffed along the threshold behind the Diviner. She proffered me a pointed glance. "I found her stumbling in the dark." She said the next words slowly. "She came to get a drink of water."

Her meaning was plain enough. She doesn't know we were in the cathedral.

"Hey." Benji was looking at the Diviner. Smiling. 

"That's my Diviner." The king slipped the flagon of pilfered spring water behind his back. His spine was straight, his eyes keen and bright — so different from how he'd been during the Divination ceremony. Then, he had been pale, his features gray with fear. Now, he was the picture of confidence and ease. A little thieving had proved good for the boy.

"Quite an experience, Divination," Benji said. "Thanks for that."

The Diviner's brow furrowed, her voice dripping condescension."You're... welcome." She turned her attention to Maude. "I wasn't stumbling in the dark. I was walking the grounds. Because I live here. You are the guests."

I slid off the table, keeping my eyes on her face, watching her cheeks go pink as she struggled to do the same to me. Good. I hoped my state of undress rankled her virtue. 

I drew idleweed into my mouth. "Must be something special," I blew smoke into her face. "Being a Diviner."

She watched me, lips drawn tightly. "It's a privilege to be here. To be Divined for, too. You might know that had you bothered to attend the ceremony."

"You noticed me go, did you?"

"Difficult not to, what with the show you made."

Maude cleared her throat, her green eyes imploring. Be nice, you little brat.

The Diviner gasped. There was no seeing her eyes. But I knew by the tilt of her chin she'd spotted my side. "What happened?"

I glanced down at my ribs. Gods, they were unsightly. I took another pull of idleweed and aimed my gaze at the Diviner, shutting her down without an ounce of warmth. "None of your business."

Next to me, Benji forced out a laugh. "Is there anything I can get for you, Diviner? That water, perhaps?" He bustled like a nervous hen through the commons, placing the flagon of spring water onto the table too quickly, stirring its contents.

The Diviner's body stiffened. She sniffed the air once, twice, brow furrowing. Slowly, then all at once, the pink in her cheeks vanished.

"Diviner?"

She put a hand to her stomach. Heaved forward.

And puked on my boots! 

"What the fuck?" Maude cried. 

The Diviner reeled back. Crashed into Maude — then disappeared out into the night. And I — I was already ripping off my boot. 

Benji, wide-eyed, watched me. "What are you doing?"

"Going after her."

"Rory," Maude warned. "She smelled the spring water. Maybe even saw it." I grimaced, then threw my desecrated footwear in a heap. "I'm just going to talk to her."

I was out the door before they could stop me, following the Diviner's pale, ghostly visage through darkness. She stopped at a rickety gate which stood before an old stone cottage. 

I pinned her against it with a hand.

She turned, shoulders tensed, teeth gritted. "Step back."

I did. Three steps I retreated, searching her shroud for a hint of her eyes. But the gossamer gave nothing away.

"You couldn't have put on a shirt?" she snapped.

I took in the scope of my bareness, then measured hers. Through her wet robe, I could see the contours of her breasts. The curve of her waist. The part between her legs, and the dark mound at which they joined. 

I took a deep inhale of idleweed. Threw my head back — shot smoke at the sky. "I could say the same to you."

She scoffed. "Why does the king have spring water in that flagon?"

"Don't know what you mean."

"I could smell it."

"You sure you weren't just smelling yourself? You reek of Aisling." I pushed my weight onto my heels and leaned forward. "Have you been in the cathedral this entire time?"

"Why?"

"Benji would like to know."

"Who?"

"Benedict Castor. The king."

Her stomach made a horrible squelching sound. "Of course I've been in the cathedral." 

I looked at her stomach, then back at her face — then at the air above her head. Anything to avoid that shroud and the discomfortable truth that she could see me while I could not glimpse her. "Was it the blood or the spring water that makes you vomit?" I taunted.

"None of your business."

I took another drag of the idleweed, then held it out between us. "Here." 

Her lips curled. "What is it?"

"Petrified idleweed. It'll help with the nausea. With the discomfort."

Her chin lowered, a subtle nod at my injury. "I'm not the one enduring discomfort." She smiled, and her smile was like Aisling Cathedral itself: a threat. "Beyond this conversation, at least."

I reeled back, shooting smoke out my nostrils. "With the sea then." Again, I offered the idleweed. "Or do they forbid portent-smoking under a silver moon?"

"Not everything is a sign."

I recited what I'd said to Benji, a story I'd told myself so many times it rang in my ears, familiar as my own name. Nothing is special. Even here, on the tor. "Could have fooled me," I told the Diviner. "I cannot go anywhere without hearing about how a leaf fell or how ink spilled or water moved or the wind shifted or a thread snapped."

I shook my head. Laughed without warmth. "Irreverent, Aisling's system. The stone objects the Omens are known for are common their portents vague. The margin for error and misinterpretation is so wide my horse would die of starvation trying to get from one side to the other. And yet this cathedral, this hallowed ground, is the only place in Traum where people can justify that wasting one's life looking for signs is a life well spent. They pay hard-earned coin to do so."

The Diviner's mouth fell, her fingers wrapping into fists at her sides. My words had hit their mark. "It's not a waste," she said through her teeth. "Divination takes away the pain of the unknown. Knowing if you are headed for something good or ill-fated is like peering into the future. It's magic what the Omens do. What I do." She leaned against the gate and ripped the idleweed from my hand. "Have some fucking deference."

Her expression was hard as stone, her hair as silver as moonlight, her voice sharp and unyielding. There was no fear in her, no give. I was looking down at her, and she up at me, the impact as distinct as the crash of the gargoyle's wing. I didn't know what it meant, only that all the smoke from my lungs — all the pain in my side — seemed to vanish when I looked at her.

Nothing is special, I told myself. Even here, on the tor. Nothing is special, nothing — and no one.

But like a prayer to false gods, like an empty promise, like a faded portent, the story I'd told myself fluttered away on the midnight breeze, leaving just me, the Diviner—

And the horrible feeling that some things, or someone, actually might be special.

Even here, upon the tor.