Skyre grit his teeth. “They say that Nythis was born of the shroud of night, but so enamored was she of the Sun, she wed herself to him, and in her mind’s eye, he would appear.”
“And what did she see?”
“None can know. Only to his bride does he come. And she holds him in silence, forever.”
“Is it romantic?”
Skyre gripped the reins tighter. “I dinnae ken.”
“One would think if she were beloved of a god, they would honor his care. Yet, they fear her. It is jealousy.”
“That’s a bold assumption, druid. Not one you ought to make. You’re neither An’Atherin, nor Nytherí.”
The druid glanced up at him over his shoulder. “Then I am most uniquely suited to see both for what they are.”
Skyre scoffed.
“I must warn you,” the druid continued, “it is not death that awaits you in the green. But, perhaps, something far more dangerous.”
“And what would that be?”
“Truth.”
The druid’s flippant tone needled him. He wished he wouldn’t speak. Then again, nothing good ever came in quiet.
Skyre’s mind narrowed to Saorla’s monotonous plod. He could feel the exact shape of the druid through their clothes, and when his mind traced the image, he wrapped the reins around his wrist until the leather dug into his skin. The pain was only mildly distracting, and so he barked, “Talk about something.”
“I?” Questioned the druid.
“Do you see anyone else here?”
Once more, the druid shifted to look at him. Skyre’s free hand snapped out, gripping him at the hip. “Dinnae move,” he said strenuously.
When the druid noted his discomfort, he seemed curious, if not amused. “You look pale. Perhaps we should stop and rest?”
That was hardly the problem. Or rather, the problem was hard.
“What is the matter?” asked the druid.
“Be quiet.”
“You told me to talk.”
Skyre bit his lip till it bled.
The mare’s muscles worked beneath them, and the druid’s warmth resonated between his legs, stirring his unfortunate arousal. Skyre hated himself more with every irritable breath. It was humiliating, even if inevitable.
“Suppose I have greatly upset you,” said the druid.
He was certain he’d never beenmoreupset, and the thought made him writhe. “Stop prodding, or I’ll throw you off this horse.”
Saorla lurched forwards, vaulting over a fallen log. Skyre’s weight pressed against him, and his knuckles went white, fisting the fabric of the druid’s gown.
“Cré ma nighm…”
“Seems I am not the only one prodding,” said the druid.
He really did want to throw him over.
