“Who has come and filled your head with these uncertainties? Was it I? Then speak my name and I shall rake myself across your coals. Or speak another, and I shall flay their skin from their bones. That is your power. And for a season now it is all that I have known.”
The words burrowed angrily into his mind. He panted, breathless. He was there upon the shore again, gazing down into the water. And a mirror looked back at him.
Who… am I?
“You are Queen of Cúil Cullach.”
He froze, his body rigid with the realization he had spoken the question aloud, and thus, the Vaich had given him an answer.
“You are Chosen of the Moon.”
“Titles mean nothing,” whispered the druid.
“Then tell me what does.”
He trembled. “I think I have been here before.”
The king came and knelt before him in the dirt. His hands reached, but did not touch, halting over his skin.
“I dinnae care if you’ve lived a hundred lives. All that matters to me isthisone.”
All those little fractured pieces spilled across the ground. He ached, and his eyes stung. He turned his face. “Please…” begged the druid. “Go away. Don’t look at me—”
He staggered to his feet, his legs like stone beneath him. In a moment, he was falling back down into the womb, into an endless bleeding sky. And just as before, he hung suspended, only this time, it was not the air that caught him.
The druid’s eyes trailed up to the man who held him. Muscles thick, scent musky… his face obscured by a woven mask.
His heart seized.
“Don’t hurt him,” the Vaich said.
It was a warning… and a plea.
“What a catch.” More figures emerged from the dark—tall, built, concealed. The druid trembled, glancing desperately towards the king knelt now at blade point. Those golds held him tightly, and he felt himself fraying, wishing anything he could spool time in reverse and place himself back within his grasp.
“Whathavewe interrupted?” One of their captors stepped forwards, his blade beneath the Vaich’s chin, pushing his face up. “A rutting man, enjoying his wife? Now, that is one for the books.”
The Vaich’s eyes narrowed, and he cut them sharply upwards. “You fucking whoreson.”
The man cackled, sheathing his sword. With a dramatic flourish and a bow, he pulled off his mask to reveal his handsome face.
Laird Rhosyn.
A chorus of laughter echoed over the hills. The man holding him removed his mask too, and the druid stifled his gasp. “Aard Cían?”
The younger man beamed. “Sorry, Majesty. Ken, it wisnae my idea.”
The rest removed their masks, and the druid recognized Alak and some of the others from the Féin. His heart slowed, but his lips pressed tight. His fear of what could have been was quickly swallowed by what they might have heard.
“You ought to have seen your faces!” Greyv laughed, helping the Vaich up. “The first time I’ve ever gottenyouon your knees—”
A rough thud split the air and the Aard’s head snapped to one side. He stumbled backwards and at once the party froze. Cían tensed behind him, but no one dared to move.
“I should break your neck,” the Vaich hissed, fist still clenched from the strike.
Greyv was utterly still, his dark eyes laughless. All hint of a smile had gone from him, and in its place was something haunting.
The look of a man betrayed.
