“I am not a wife,” said the druid, causing both king and keeper to tense.
“You are to be Consort,” she continued. “This is no small task. While yournaturemakes you ill-equipped for the production of children, you will be required to perform all other duties expected of royal spouses.”
Their denial of his malehood in the face of dogmatic peril made their theatrics more grating. But it was their inability to admit to their posturing that made him resent them most. He might have tolerated their miserableness more easily if only they had the dignity of being honest.
“Before the wedding can go forward,” the Sun Matron began, “there is the matter of your… doctrine.”
“Or lack of,” he corrected.
She bristled, but did not break. “The Vaich is benevolent. He has decided to present you with an opportunity. You are to be allowed participation in the Luin Cáronach. Historically reserved for maidens of Nythis, there will be made exception… for you.”
“Indeed? How magnanimous.”
Though silent, the Vaich grew noticeably more still.
“Once you complete the trial,” the Sun Matron continued, “you will be deemed cleansed of body and mind. Then, and only then, shall we proceed with the ceremony.”
She spoke as if anticipating some gracious reply. She received nothing. The druid thought the woman far too clever to think he’d cow easily—and he, far too cynical not to suspect their ploy.
“The people of Cúil Cullach require harmony,” she said more pointedly. “Whether it pleases you or not, the fact of the matter is political engagements are oft unkind to both parties.”
“Your understanding is appreciated,” said the druid. “However, we both know there is only one party here.”
“You thinkIwanted any of this?” The Vaich leaned heavily over the table, as if he could command the space between them.
“As I recall,” the druid said, “your title is Vaich, not Victim. You are a king of men. Do not we all exist at yourpleasure?”
The Vaich’s teeth bared in a furious smirk. “They teach you to walk in the wood. Not speak. Where did you learn all that guile?”
“I speak with the shrew, the serpent, and the sturgeon. You have the tongue of an albatross.”
“Do not insult the king—” the priestess said, but the Vaich held up his hand.
“Leave us.”
“Mirín—”
“I said leave!”
The air grew frigid, and the priestess rose with all the grace of a badgered foal. She passed the druid with a brisk gait, unable to silence her tutting. The door closed after, leaving the dining room in precarious silence.
This time, the druid spoke first. “You need not relieve yourself of an audience.”
A terse laugh pressed between the king’s lips as his chair scraped across the stone. He was before the druid in a moment, and the latter braced against the advance.
“What strength has been gifted to you that is not in your hands? Your gods have prophesied a brute who hasn’t an inkling of restraint.”
“Is that what you deserve?” the Vaich hissed, leaning forward. “Myrestraint?”
He didn’t touch the druid, but the pulse of his aggression was a force all its own.
“I have done nothing to you, but risk offending your frail ego by the very whisper of my breath.”
Another laugh. This one less threatening. “As it would seem you were born to stand my opposition. That fair breath you speak of is a war in itself.”
“I did not ask for this!”
“Nor I!”
