“I can carry him down the mountain,” said Maran.
“It’ll spread as quick as you touch it,” said Eirn. “We’ll have to wrap him first.”
Maran pulled his mantle free and set it on the ground. They gathered round and, carefully, lifted the fallen man from the fungi and placed him onto the wool.
“I’m sorry to be a burden,” murmured Aiken.
“Rest your mouth,” said the king. “You’ll get back safe as you came and the healer will be waiting when you do.”
Cían, who had trotted up the dirt mound, looked longingly towards the summit. “Sire, since we’re done now, might we still go up?”
Skyre helped Maran to his feet. Aiken lay across his arms, but Maran’s bull-like physique made it look almost easy.
“We need to get him back as quickly as possible.”
“But not all of us need to go.” Cían jerked his head towards the peak. “We’ve come all this way and cleared the path. Spare me some fun, and we can go home with a story!”
Skyre sighed. “You’re an eager’un little prince, but we did our job. Now, we’ve got to head down.”
“Oh, come on, sire!” Cían goaded. “There’s still plenty of day! How often do you get to say you conquered a mountain?”
“Is there glory in such a thing?” Skyre frowned.
“More than glory! A godly weapon! You could put the legend to rest once and for all.”
Skyre nodded Maran onwards, and assigned two more men to follow him down.
He glanced towards the path ahead, narrow and steep through the thinning green. Skyre didn’t know if he believed in the stories, but the allure of achievement danced before him.
He said, “Anyone who wishes to return, you can head down now. Anyone who wants to go forth…”
Cían beamed, looking triumphant.
“I’ll go just to see you look the fool,” said Eirn, nudging the boy in his tender ribs.
Cían smiled through his wince. “I’ll reach the summit a full week ’fore you, then who will look the fool?”
Skyre rolled his eyes, chuckling. “And who is going to carry you down when wee babby gets tired?”
“It willnae be me, ken’ih well,” said Torin, mussing the younger’s hair.
The king looked between the grinning faces of his victorious men. It felt like it had before. A moment without judgement. A moment without care. Just the wild and the fresh air and the freedom to choose power.
A reckless game unfurled before him, and he reached for it again.
“Alright,” he said. “To the top.”
Chapter fifty-nine
The Hunter
It was midday before Cerys came down to the hall. He hadn’t realized how poorly he had slept in the days since the Naém, or how different it was to sleep in a bed of fur than a pelt on the ground. A part of him felt ashamed for thinking so; he had never disparaged the earth before, but his tender ribs knew better.
The men were out in the village making the most of their time. Summer was in full bloom—he could see it on their faces. Some boys played ball in the square, and the men joined in, laughing and making a show of it. Even the oldest amongst them seemed young again. Gone were their mantles, their golden sigils and iron blades. They were children, stirring up dust, stumbling towards make-believe goalposts.
He was reminded, again, of his youth in the Fáoth, but the edges of those memories frayed. He belonged there no longer, and neither did he belong here.
He thought of Hirí, away at the Augeri. At the best of times, she was hardly worth trusting, and yet she was the only one who understood him. If he could tell her what he had seen… what would she think? The woman in his dream, in his memory—who had she been and what gave her such power?
