“I recognize they have power because men granted it to them. And men keep me here.”
“Then we are kindred, you and I. I, too, would see the bonds of false faith broken.”
“It seems far more dangerous for you to say so.”
“That may be, but I believe there is a wind coming; a new season, swift approaching. Suppose that is why your name was spoken.”
It became more clear to the druid with each passing day that there were few at Rhyd-hal that did not have some grand ambition.
“If you are being held here against your will, that is a matter the people should know.”
“Is it?” said the druid, curiously. “More likely it would only sow chaos. Unless that is your intention.”
“Intention matters not—it is the truth. Already, you have come to see how twisted this world of fire can be. I would use truth to enact change. Neither of us need lay ourselves before a man who would choose our torment.”
“You ask me to exchange a throne for a pitchfork. I’m not interested in causing upheaval.”
“You are upheaval made flesh. But a king worthy of his crown would not fear the uncertain.”
“And I suppose you believe yourself that king.”
“My father ruled this country for fifty-one years, and for twenty of them, I stood at his side. Tell me, druid, would you rather answer to a petulant child, or a man who knows the reality of rule? Who would not keep his fears tethered on short chains?”
A riotous commotion broke out as an enormous cake in the shape of a boar was brought in on a large platter. It was sat upon a trestle at the center of the table to much applause and shouting. The Vaich made his show of it; a spectacle meant to curry favor. And it worked. His audience adored him, if but for a fleeting moment in which he could do no wrong. The druid saw their devotion; all of them sworn to a man who had never done anything to earn their respect but to be born under a certain star.
“I suppose,” the druid whispered, “it is all unfair, isn’t it?”
The crowd clamored, prodding at the cake and speaking its praises, till the man stepped forwards and cried, “What a feat! Our Vaich’s prowess in the kitchen—unmatched!”
The room laughed, but the Vaich looked displeased. His gaze slid to the druid. “Jor, what delightful company you keep.”
“I was just getting to know our dear moon,” said Jor. “And how clever he is.”
“Never met a clever tree-hoor,” said the brute from before. “What good is he if not for the fur? Not a bit of meat on ’im!” He staggered over, a foul smell on his breath.
Jor reached out with a careful hand, urging the druid closer. “Away with you, Ennis. You’ve had far too much drink.”
“The thing’s nae more than a sprite. Wee’un virgin… I can make him bleed for His Majesty.”
Iron screeched as Jor withdrew his blade, holding it at Ennis’ throat. “I said,away with you.”
The room tensed. The druid felt the weight on every side. The laughter and music died down again, and what remained was a crippling quiet.
“Raising blades in my feast hall?” growled the king.
“Does the Vaich allow rabble to threaten a Chosen?” inquired Jor. “Tell me,my laird, do the gods speak truth? Or is it only true when it suits you?”
Murmurs rolled through the crowd like low thunder, and the Vaich’s irises burned.
“You do not question that they named you Vaich. But here you hesitate?” Jor nodded towards the druid.
It was suffocating.
The king slammed his chalice upon the table. “Away. Ennis.”
“But m’laird—”
“Go!” His roar left the hall trembling. “It is no way to speak toa queen.” The Vaich’s words were bitter, even to the ears, and soon the crowd was again a-mutter—question on their lips, denial in their eyes. “The Oracle’s prophecy is sound. That is no matter for debate. I have brought the druid here in reply. He is Chosen of the Moon. My…”
