The druid pressed his fingers to his cheek, tracing the faint scar.
The moon and the night had seen him baptized. Now, in the morning light, he was Queen.
Chapter thirty-three
The Bells
His life had changed in a night of fire; now, he awoke to a world of ice.
Skyre made his way down the corridor. Every smiling face spoke words he could not hear. Hands found his shoulders, lips moved in silent praise. But he moved beneath a churning sea, his ears full of water.
The bells of Kaern’Og rang at sunrise.
“The king has been married. Hooray! Hooray for the Vaich!”
All the city was merry. The shops were closed and their keeps drunk before midday. The elder Aards rode parade in the bailey.
But the king could not revel. He did not dance. Nor drink. Nor spend his day in bed. He smiled not. He laughed not. And when he held their congratulations, it dripped out from the holes inside his skin.
Memory lashed at him... Salacious visions of that altar room… The druid’s panting body and unbreakable tongue.
Skyre stopped before a familiar door.
Prayers would be held till sunfall and the temple was not to be disturbed.
He pushed it open.
Inside, hooded heads perked up. The sallow faces of old men gazed back at him.
Skyre’s attention fell on one.
“You.”
Othrik hauled himself to his feet, balking at the Vaich with wild eyes. “My liege, entering now is unacceptable, even for you!”
“I ought to have you whipped,” Skyre hissed.
Caught between fury and embarrassment, the old priest rushed between the pews. In his youth, he might have been more intimidating. But with age had earned a hunched back and stiff legs. The top of his headonly cleared the Vaich’s shoulder, and so when Skyre stepped forwards, the priest took one step back.
“I told you not to touch him. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? What do you take me for?”
“My king—”
“Don’t speak!” Skyre fisted the front of his cloak. “What is my word to you? If you were any other man, I would have them hang you from the cliffs!”
“My loyalties remain to the Sun. And I shall not stray from my path.” Othrik’s voice was even. He wore the look of a martyr—the defiance cut at Skyre’s skin.
“And you thinkIam disloyal?” he spat.
“You could not even complete the ceremony!" Othrik roared. Skyre released him, stunned. “There should be no simpler task for a man, and yet your showing ended in mockery! No, my liege, you are not disloyal, just a boy playing king.”
His skin crawled with rage, but the white-hot memory of that altar stone left him speechless and cold.
“You are not the first Vaich to fumble,” Othrik continued. “Alas, we must rectify your shameful mistakes. But do not forget who holds sway here—you bear his power in your very name!”
Skyre’s fingers dug into his palm.
“I am still Vaich.”
