“Do the gods truly know more than we?” Skyre muttered. “They give us their musings and we make messes of it. What is itsmeaning?”
“Maybe you ought to ask him.”
At first, Skyre didn’t understand the implication, nor why the room had gone still. The band ceased to play, the laughter died down. There was no clink of silver nor clamor of dancing feet. Only murmurs and the crackle of fire. Skyre followed the threads of their gazes to the source, and at once his stomach knotted.
There, beneath the arches, stood the druid, bathed in moonlight. A silver diadem upon his head. Skyre’s fists tightened, and his throat followed. He had no commands, no argument, as his guests assessed the newcomer in awe. Some wrinkled their faces in puzzlement, others in fear, and others, still, made signs of the Sun.
And some, against all judgement, against all consequence, gazed upon that fragile thing… and bowed.
Fury lit Skyre’s bones. He wanted to bellow from his soul. He wanted to come before them and punish their unruly spirits. Where was fealty? Where did their loyalties lie?
Someone spoke, and the words dripped through his veins like poison.
“Chosen of the Moon.”
Eyes descended on him… questioning… seeking answer. Skyre was suffocating. There in his own feast hall, in his own castle, he was drowning amongst the flame.
“And what a picture of pallor he is,” said Greyv from beside him. “We should drink to Our Lady Moon and all her wisdom. And we fine men, meant to sort it all out!”
The room erupted in laughter. They took up their drinks, not in toast, but excitement, and became rowdy once more. They turned away from the druid, and for a moment, seemed to forget him, but he remained. And that, Skyre knew, was on purpose.
“You are a good friend, after all,” he muttered.
“I can’t damn well watch you flounder a second time tonight. Something must be done, Skyre,” said Greyv. “You cannae be left to look the fool twice.”
“I ken it,” Skyre hissed. “But what?”
“He’s entered the den on his own. I say, let the wolves feast upon him.”
He considered that, absently pressing the tankard back into Greyv’s hand. “So be it.”
Skyre had not looked away from the druid, tracking him amongst the crowd. Someone offered him wine. The druid clutched the chalice to his bosom. A less clever man would have thought him meek. But there was nothing meek about his presence.
Skyre stopped before him.
Their last meetings had left much to be desired. And Skyredesiredsubmission. But he knew now such a creature could not be cowed. It would have to be broken.
“I thought I told you to stay out of my sight.” He spoke through grit teeth, the words swept beneath his breath—for the druid, alone.
Those pale eyes held him, and for a moment, Skyre was sure this was some sorcerer.
“Will you order me away?”
When the Vaich said nothing, the druid nodded once.
“Of course.” He glanced at the milling crowd. “They are the tether that binds you. My people know not of courts or kings. But I can see it all so clearly…”
Skyre’s hand snapped out, gripping him by the elbow. His fingers dug a warning against his skin, but the druid did not flinch, and Skyre pulled him close. “Iam your king. No matter how far-reaching your forests, your kin are not free from my word, and neither are you. I could keep you here for all time—till your bones are dry beneath the dying sky. And should I command it, all those in the wood would suffer, too.”
The druid was still. Neither his body nor eyes resisting. But his voice…
“Your reign is still young, and you treat to eradicate a people who have walked this earth since the days before your god was born.”
Skyre released him. “I will do what I must.”
“What youcan,” the druid corrected. “You have not yet devised how to kill me, so you make to kill my spirit. It is not power. It is revenge.”
“Someone ought to puncture that pride of yours. Why shouldn’t it be me?”
