“I will do it myself,” he said, firmly. But the room tilted and he braced against the bedpost. “W-what did you give me?”
“I told you, it will make it alright. Now, stand properly. You can’t embark your wedding march with soft legs. There,” she said, steadying him, “I will take you down to the door.”
“Will you come inside?” he muttered, trying to hold onto his muddling mind.
“Oh, but I could. Nytherí are forbidden from the Eternal Flame. They say we will shroud its light. You will have to tell me all that you see. Shall we go, my love?”
He looked up at Hirí, his breath ragged and wanting. “I feel…”
He swayed again, but she grasped his shoulders, keeping his body upright. His skin flushed beneath her touch and he pressed his thighs tight.
“It will pass in a moment. Until then, I am here.” Her thumb traced his bottom lip. “We are the same, you and I. And we must rely on one another. It is all we can do to survive this world of reckless fire.” She leaned closer, and her cool breath tickled his mouth. “The sun does not protect, but consumes. Remember what I have said.”
“Hirí…”
“It is time to claim your crown.”
Chapter thirty-one
The Altar
Righnach’Dúir.
The Den of Sacred Flame.
When an heir of Sun was born, he was taken deep into the wood and there he was raised amongst the Thrys. It would be twenty summers before he would see the world outside again.
All his life, the budding Vaich would know only those chosen by his maternal caretakers. His friends, his mentors, all carefully selected at the behest of the Sun God himself—or so it was professed. The Thrys’ word was law, for in their bosom was the kingdom’s sunlit seed, and it was their duty to see him raised with all the vitality of a man.
And for many years, they had done so.
Skyre was now fifteen summers. Most his daytime was spent training, sparring and working in the yard. Afternoons were for lessons on history and strategy. And the evenings were for bathing and tending. A king he was to be, but he was not excused from menial chores.
That evening, he had been late fitting Saorla’s shoes. She was a sturdy destrier now, and he would often take her riding down the path to the lake at the east. It was as far as they were allowed to go, but it gave him some freedom and let the mare stretch her strong legs. They’d spent many years together already, though one grew much faster than the other. Still, he was diligent in maintaining her good condition. One day, she would be his war mount, his carrier and queen; thus, the responsibility of her care fell squarely on his shoulders.
He was exhausted that night and carried his satchel and hammer back in the dark. The encampment was quiet. It was a quaint village of wooden roundhouses, with high, thatched roofs wafting out smoke in the nighttime. During the day, the camp would be filled with busy máraigh.They cared for the goats and the sheep, as well as cooking and laundering, and whatever other tasks needed done. They prayed often and spoke little, aside from the Sun Matron, and those assigned to his tutelage. By night, most had returned home, leaving only the fading flames of small lanterns to light his path.
Skyre dropped his tools and boots by the door, pushing through the hide. He had grown accustomed to a level of privacy. Now that he was getting older, he had his own house, separated from the Sun Matron’s watchful eye. But tonight…
Tonight was different.
He went still with sensation—a tingling at the back of his neck—and his eyes immediately found her. There, across the room, was a woman. Dressed in black, she was Thrys, certainly, but unfamiliar to him. She was young, though, noticeably older than him, and unsurprisingly beautiful, as the máraigh often were. He glanced towards the door, then back at her. She watched him, saying nothing and not moving.
“W-who…?” His brow pressed into a frown. She sat comfortably upon his bed, her nails tracing patterns in the fur.
“Evening, my laird.” Her voice was like birdsong, her lips inviting. His eyes flickered to the stretch of skin at her shoulder, revealed by the sagging of her unfastened gown. He glanced back to the door, drawing the flap closed with a sharp yank. But his fingers remained, dug into its skin.
“No need to be nervous,” she said, leaning upon her palms. The silk snaked further down, revealing the curve of a plump breast. “You’re not in any trouble.”
“Does Máta know you’re here?”
Her words came softly. “Yes.”
He hesitated. “Did she… send you?”
“Yes.”
The young heir swallowed hard.
