The council was summoned. And not happily. Skyre made no illusions about the state of his Féin. There was not a man inside that room who did not hold him in ill esteem, and there was still night left.
Nacht and Rask stood dutifully aside, their faces stoic. Greyv, by contrast, did not meet his eyes, but it was Jor who stood his opposite, arms folded across his chest.
“For what do we owe thepleasureof His Majesty’s call?”
“Certainly nothing that could be done over the fire and a pint,” grumbled Greyv, but it was not the brisk jest Skyre had come to rely on. He looked entirely annoyed to be there, and it made Skyre sorry for what he hadn’t yet said.
“I’ll be brief,” he muttered. Rask was silent, but his voice barked inside his head.Speak up, boy. A king doesn’t swallow words—he commands them.But he couldn’t. He had wished to be a great king, to be adored and given respect. Never once had he considered how difficult it was to earn.
Expectation was the only word he knew.
“I’ve a matter… a matter I must attend. At daybreak, I will shear off from this road and head east for the Arran Fáoth. The procession will continue south to Tuhr Mor,” he said, “and we shall reconvene before the fortnight.”
The air heated like the coiled calm before a storm, when all the sky and earth went still. Skyre looked from face to face, finding a gallery of sentiment that distilled down into one primal notion.
Rage.
“Shear off?” spat Jor. “For what matter?”
“We all know what matter,” murmured Greyv.
“And you decided this?” said Jor. “Without consultation?”
“I am Vaich,” Skyre said quietly, “I do not require consultation.”
“You named me Advisor, and every bone in my body would advise you away from your foolish—”
“A king may have his reasons,” countered Nacht, “and I would have him name them. What business does he attend in the Fáoth?”
“I will meet with the druids,” Skyre said lamely. It wasn’t necessarily a lie, but he couldn’t tell the truth. “Those who dwell within should be brought under the Sun’s light. A Vaich has never been more primed to do so.”
A ripple of disbelief flashed over Jor’s face. “Is this your presumption of politicking… By the flame…”
“The woodkin will not be easily cowed,” said Nacht.
“My consort will stir them to my cause.”
“Nonsense.” Rask scowled.
“It has been decided,” Skyre said again. “I leave at dawn.”
“You intend to go unguarded?” said Nacht.
“Aye.”
“What of bandits?” said Greyv.
“No beast in Cullach can match Saorla’s sprint. I’ll ride straight for the forest’s edge, and there we’ll be safe. Not even madmen would take their chances in the green.”
He waded in their disdain, feeling the weight of judgement.
Nacht came forth. “A bold vision you possess. One I am not opposed to. But I will let the woodwalkers speak for themselves. I caution you not to underestimate the dangers of the deep green. Allow me to ride with you.”
Surprise curled in his chest. There was nothing idle about the warrior’s words, and Skyre was humbled before such conviction. “It is well-met, but I cannae allow it. The druid and I shall go alone.”
“And what of the Mût?” snapped Jor. “What of His Majesty’s sacred person? Shall I send heralds to the lowlands? Prepare not to welcome your king, but on a pyre of gold and clove.”
Skyre ground his teeth. “You forget,Aard, your king shall never die. I do not fear the green. I do not fear anything.”
