But never a queen.
The prophecy had told them where to look, but it was what wasnotspoken that drove Skyre near to madness, keeping him up at night.
“I want answers.”
He sat lazily in the castle garden, rapping his knuckles against the table. On his finger glistened the amber signet of the Vaich. He’d been given it upon his arrival at Rhyd-hal one week before, as well as the keys to his war chamber and his official study. They might have used the latter for such a meeting, but he enjoyed seeing the sprawling ivy and bloody roses.
“My Vaich, it is not wise to keep me here,” said the Oracle. “I should be returned to the Augeri at your earliest convenience.”
The Oracle was a woman of middling age, only some years older, Skyre expected, than Medhin, though was hardly as beautiful. He supposed the Moon’s witchery took a toll on its conduits, but he’d never met enough Nytherí to be sure.
The sisterhoods were mirrored, at least, when one did not look closely. For unlike the Thrys—who had raised him since birth—the Nytherim were kept separated. The latter made roost in an abbey to the north and, other than supervised pilgrimages, were not permitted to leave. For their own safety, the An’Atherin said. And the safety of everyone else.
“What’sconvenientto me would be to ken your meaning,” Skyre said.
The Oracle’s eyes were obscured behind her veil, but it was not enough to hide her displeasure. “Suppose we could move this inside? All this sun is so…distracting.”
“I grew up beneath the sun, and I’ll stay there when I like. If you take issue with the glory of our god, then suppose that is a matter worth questioning?”
“Hmph!” Beside him sat Othrik, a greying prune long past his prime… if he’d ever had one. He was a man of faith; the head of the An’Atherin—the Sun Sect’s official order. Until that moment, he’d been angrily shuffling papers, and as the Oracle spoke, the vein in his right temple grew more pronounced.
The woman shifted uncomfortably. “Not at all, my Vaich. Though I have told you all that I know. The prophecy was… ambiguous. I can only assume our Lady Nythis wished it so.”
“How magnanimous of her.” Skyre scowled.
The goddess of the Moon had stayed predictable for centuries, but now, it seemed, she grew bold. Magick was dangerous, wicked and foul. To delve too deeply was to invite a sickness of spirit, and those who carried it were better off leashed. So long as they could be contained, the witches were useful. Thus, the Nytherim’s sole purpose was to advise. But their counsel had become queer and the An’Atherin loved nothing less than a servant that stepped out of line.
“Well, if you dinnae ken, then who does?” asked Skyre.
“All in due time.”
“Riddles and nonsense!” To Skyre’s amusement, Othrik’s protruding vein looked near bursting. The priest bellowed, “The Moon sows discord! You foster ill-intent, wretched woman!”
“Why should you think so? As the Sun’s bride, Nythis is nothing if not loyal. This prophecy can only work to your advantage,” said the Oracle. “A queen appointed by gods will reflect favorably upon the Vaich. The people will be awed, and there is no more susceptible mind than one that has given in to allure.”
Othrik huffed. “Or it is all some ploy of yours… aMoon Queen. Ridiculous! If the Seer has nothing to say, she ought to be sent back to her burrow, lest she poison the well with more treachery!”
Skyre considered Othrik’s accusation. The Oracle seemed unperturbed for a woman who had just upended a thousand years of divine tradition, but an approaching herald caught his eye.
Skyre sighed. “Very well. Arrangements will be made to send you back to the Augeri. In the meantime—”
“If I hear any morewhisperings, you will be the first to know,” she said.
Skyre grunted, waving her off. “Strange woman…”
The herald bowed, holding out a yellowed scroll. Before he could reach for it, Othrik grabbed it up, and both of their gazes caught upon the ebon plume stuffed into the clasp.
“Hurry off,” muttered the priest, and the herald scurried away. The priest unraveled the scroll, his black eyes narrowing upon the words. “Nonsense…”
“Give me that.” Skyre snatched it, skimming its contents. The handwriting was eloquent, and the words dripped with the same deceptive opulence. “A congratulations on my ascension, and a warm invitation… Dunn Kennigh excitedly awaits our venture southward. Their laird advises not to delay the commencement of my Aardmût. Signed Dravoghan Ûvain…” Skyre’s fingers dug into the parchment, crinkling the edges. “King in the South.”
He had been taught of the arrogance of the southern faction, but he wasn’t prepared forthis.He fixated on the word, and his teeth ground.
King.
Ûvain’s audacity would be nothing in the face of Skyre’s reprisal. And it would come, swift and severe. When he and his Féin embarked on their ceremonial procession, he determined Dunn Kennigh would be his first port of call.
“The Dunns have long strayed from the light of the Sun,” said Othrik. “My Vaich would be keen to remind the south of their fealty.”
