Chapter one
The Man Who Would Live Forever
The midnight smelled of fire and ash. It was the star-stained hour man and country had awaited since the moment his name was spoken on prophecy’s lips.
That night, one king would die and another would rise.
Skyre’s breath was hot in his throat. Blood dripped down his skin like honey. The Thrys moved about him, unspeaking; dipping their fingers in scarlet ichor and tracing sigils across his chest. The thump of drums filled his ears as the priestesses danced in devotion. As he gazed upon the mossy grove for the last time. Willowy branches bent over dark and silent longhouses. But in the light of the flame, he felt the thrill of promise.
Destiny had come to bow before him and he craved its submission.
A priestess approached. She was dark of hair and fair of skin with a stern face made more lovely by age. A woman above all others—Medhin, Matron of Sun.
“I am soproudof you.” She cupped his angled jaw. “By morning, all of Cullach will know what I have seen these long years—our promises realized.”
She summoned the other priestesses, who draped a fur mantle about his shoulders, fastening it with bead and bone. The pelt smelled of the heady musk of the forest in which he had grown. Gilded spaulders were fixed over the top, and a mask carved from the dried skull of a great stag was lowered over his head.
“Remember all I have taught you,” Medhin told him. “My dearest. My divine. And go with all our blessings.Nacht na dun. Críog na háil.”
The man who would be king mounted his horse, and away through the wood he went. His procession followed, lit by torchlight, trumpeted by the haunting thunder of hooves. They rode, winding through thepitch-black like a river of embers, making their way through tangled webs of trees.
Far and away upon the grassy knoll of Bráth Aghmuir was the Temple of Night and the Oracle of Nythis. The Oracle's prophecies had guided the green land of Cúil Cullach for a thousand years. She spoke words gifted to her by the Moon—divine watcher and Lady of Wisdom. Amongst those words came the names of kings, and those named would ascend their throne at the onset of the year in which he turned twenty-one. It was a cycle that had churned for generations.
But this night would be different.
For every king that came before was born, and perished, in the Oracle’s eyes. But Skyre’s death had not been foreseen. Thus, he had been namedimmortal—a being that would never die.
This would be the last ride from the sacred grove of Righnach’Dúir to the white altar that stood atop Aghmuir. It would be the last time a boy was taken fresh from the womb and raised amongst the wild. The last time the sunlit crown would fall upon a head. And it would be his.
The boundless sprawl of the night-swept highlands unfurled before them. Skyre rode upon his horse like an ancient goliath, his mantle whipped high in the wind. The winter air was bitter on his skin; he felt the rush of freedom and the ferocious beauty of a world he had known only through stories. Stories that promised him, one day, he would see it; that one day, he would hold it in the palm of his hand. And so, he pressed his heels against the horse’s girth, tightened his grip upon the reins, and made his way to claim it.
By witching hour, the procession had arrived at the Gates of Rath; a trilith etched in cuneiform tales. The stones of Rath and the pillars that formed the temple at the top of the knoll were as old as the land itself, chiseled by those who had witnessed the coming of the Sun. Skyre felt the weight of their watch as he passed beneath, an eerie hum in his ears.
He climbed through mist and mirth, up the weathered path, cresting over the peak to find the field filled with hungry audience. People had come from all over the kingdom to witness his coronation.
Pyres blazed and horns sounded. Goats and shorn sheep were led by rope to stone altars awash with blood. Skyre breathed in the scent of smoke and slaughter. The music swelled as he dismounted. Hands reached out, gripping his cloak and hair, their skin desperate to graze against him. One hand found his shoulder and he met a familiar smiling face.
His lips bowed. “Greyv.”
“The almighty whoreson makes his debut! Look at you, all done up.” The man was tall and thin, but built strongly. His lean muscles had been a testing ground for the heir all his life. The two had been socialized: a matter of ceremonial circumstance that came to be something far more.
Friendship.
Skyre laughed. “Stay that wild tongue of yours. Speaking ill of my mother will get you cursed.”
“You aren’t wrong.” Greyv snorted in amusement. “Well, what do you make of it? Your first look at the big, wide world.”
“It is more mighty and more beautiful than I could have imagined.”
Nearby, the procession halted. Medhin and the other priestesses unloaded from their carrachs, and the horses were gathered aside.
“This is it,” said Greyv, his voice dropping low. “Somehow, I forgot to think about it all. Like we might have kept on the way we were.”
Skyre glanced out at him from behind his mask.
“You’ll be king now,” his friend said. “I’ll have to start calling you Vaich.”
“You’ll call me what you’ve always called me.”
