Greyv chuckled. “Wait and say thataftersunrise. I’ve heard the weight of a crown changes a man.”
Skyre’s fingers curled into a fist and he pushed it against Greyv’s chest. “Not this. This stays.”
The drums deepened.
Skyre was summoned before the temple. The An’Atherin—the court of Sun—gathered at his back. But that night, none were more important than the court of Moon. The Nytherim, they were called, dressed all in pale, their faces covered in beaded veils. They, like their goddess, spoke in silence and dreams. The Oracle, head of their order, was most opulent, bathed in silver and pearl. When she spoke, all became quiet. Not even the fire dared whisper.
She addressed the crowd. “Here stands before you the Chosen of the Sun, come to claim his crown.” Uproarious applause followed, but the Oracle silenced it with a hand and continued.
“Cullach is strong. Its land untamed, its peoplefierce.” Her white irises fixed upon Skyre. “Twenty summers passed, I dreamed your name. Now you will prove yourself worthy.”
All eyes were on him as he ascended the steps. She held forth a silver chalice. “The Witch’s Draught. Made of bilberry and yarrow, and a drop of bellweed. It is sure to kill a lesser man, but you are no such thing.”
Skyre took the chalice, eyeing the dark liquid. He wondered if he should fail. He wondered if he could.
“Drink,” she ordered.
He brought the silver to his lips. The scent was acrid, yet sweet… like warm, rotted earth. His tongue cowered as he tilted the cup and drank its contents in one gulp.The moment the liquid hit his stomach, a wave of nausea crashed over him. A tingling began in his fingertips, creeping up his veins, numbing the skin as it went. Bile brewed in his throat, but, indignantly, he forced it down and held the empty chalice proudly for the crowd. A roar of cheers. The priestesses of the Moon gathered around him, their incense burning with the same bitter aroma.
“Your trial begins,” said the Oracle. “To the proving pit.”
They led him to the coals.
The pit smoldered with an orange glow. The Nytherim stood in silent rows, their silver veils luminous in the firelight. Beyond them, the crowd observed. The priestesses pulled loose his ceremonial robe, displaying his painted body to the sky.
The world held its breath.
His feet pressed against the embers and a seething hiss followed. He clenched his jaw, but did not—would not—cry out. The coals ground beneath his soles, their heat licking his flesh. The draught dizzied him, eager to snatch his victory, but he refused to falter. He stepped forwards, and the embers flared, then settled, as if bowing in recognition. The muscles had gone tight in his fists. He forced them to relax.
The scent of his scorched skin joined the myrrh in the air. With each step, his mind muddled. The world tilted and the stars streaked across the clouds. Closer and closer he drew to the edge, the heat lashing his legs. And with a final breath, he stepped out upon the stone, footprints of crimson in his wake.
Skyre had been brought up as if a fragile seed. Cultivated—a spark into a blaze. Now he could walk through fire. He could lay his bare feet across the coals.
The crowd roared with praise.
And Skyre reveled.
The dancers danced and the spits were turned. The world spun and spun as the night filled with fury. They pranced and feasted and drank till they had no names. Till the sky was broken by twilight.
Greyv wrapped him in a fearsome hug and presented him to the green hills. “Be still alive come morning, and all this will be yours. Now come. Drink! Drink to the rising sun!”
The hilltop was alive with chants, “To Æon’Righ! The king of kings! Bringer of the sun!”
Cárth æn Túr,
Lóchar na Righ,
Vaich éirigh ar dhearg chrigh,
Fuil æn lasair, righ æn maigh.
The first light of day peeked over the sea.
Across the world, in a bed of fur, lay the old king, Lach’Dun, held for the last time within the bosom of Cúil Cullach, at Rhyd-hal, the seat of divine kings. His vigil stood silent: a wife and two sturdy sons of seed.
Lach’Dun lay still, golden gaze glassy and unfocused. His eldest son came forwards, taking his father’s hand as the old king muttered, “Make your place in this world, Jor. That is all a man can do. Even we who are Chosen must make our place before the end.” For the final time, he watched the sky lighten beneath the cloud. “The sun rises. My time is come. Now his shall follow.”
The pyres had burned low. The drums had gone quiet.
