“I am not your enemy.”
Skyre nearly laughed. “Your tongue is as poison as your keeper. The Moon works in devious ways; thus, she has borne herself a snake.”
“This was no game of mine.”
Skyre’s attention slid to the silver diadem atop the druid’s head. “And yet, how well you know how to play.” He waved to the buffet. “Eat.” And to the chalice. “Drink.” He threw his arm wide in welcome. “The stage is yours.”
Chapter sixteen
The Wolves Den II
It was a challenge. The druid knew the Vaich was not a man who could surrender. Not with the hot blood running in his veins. Still, the cards remained stacked in his favor, whether he had earned them or not.
The druid meandered through the crowd like a second thought—jostled by wayward elbows, and nearly trampled by great beasts of men. They cantered about in celebration, bare chests on display. Some exhibited expert showmanship, their bodies either flesh-painted or carved. The former was a ceremonial procedure conceived by his ilk in ancient times. Though the men of the west would hardly recognize the druids’ part now, and his people had long since strayed from the blood inking.
But the druid was far from the comfort of his traditions.
Amongst his people, he would not have been out of place. Druids were lithe creatures who lacked the economy of the western territories, and thus what few belongings they ever came to possess were practical and unimpressive. He could say, confidently, he was still quite unimpressive, but his presence drew attention all the same.
One man stepped out, shoulders heaving beneath his mantle, and he fixed a dark gaze upon the druid. Whatever he saw there caused some insult, and the man reared back and spat at the ground near his feet.
“Stinks of mulch,” said the brute, lumbering off.
Perhaps theyalllived up to each other’s expectations.
“So, this is the Moon’s Queen.”
The druid was approached by another man who was—as most men were—unfamiliar to him. He had a practiced gait, not a warrior’s stride, but something more poised, nearly measured. His hair was auburn, like river soil, and his eyes were a deep, piercing amber.
The druid did not know what to make of him, at first. The man’s voice betrayed neither reverence nor disdain. Instead, he presented himself with a shallow bow and a hand across his heart.
“Terach æn,”he said, which was a greeting of the Fáoth, and not likely to be spoken west of the Everstretches.
“Is it curiosity that brings you forth or caution?” asked the druid.
The man gestured him aside. “I’ve heard the stories. The High Nytherí spoke your name. But what that entails…”
“No one knows, and thus I have become a great threat.”
The man glanced at him. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Very well. Then state your intent.”
“One could say I am skeptical of your purpose. Moreover, the Oracle’s word does not impress me. But before I deem you Usurper, I thought I might simplyaskyour objective.”
“I have none,” said the druid. “I make no claims upon the throne.”
“The gods seem to think differently.”
“They are no gods of mine.”
They came to a stop beneath an alcove where sat a small window. Beyond it was the night and the swell of the sea.
“Your position is unique,” said the stranger. “Usually when men are offered crowns, they take them.”
“My kingdom is not here,” said the druid, nodding towards the window, “but there. This is not my world, and I wish not to belong to it. I was called forth on another’s command, and now I stand, not in power, but prisoner.”
“It’s true then… you druids are not beholden to the witches’ magick?”
