She lifted her cup to her lips, drinking down the wine, then leveled an amused gaze at him. A whitish film curtained her silver orbs and with a toothy smile, she said, “Whatever awaits you in the dark water…”
His stomach clenched and, try as he might, he could not press it down. He doubled over, his fingers clenching in the fabric of his robe as nausea roiled within him.
“… I will see as you see.”
He cut his eyes to her, gritting his teeth. “What did you…?”
“Witch’s Draught,” she offered in reply, glancing to the cup. “It won’t kill you, don’t worry.”
His hand splayed against the cold stone as his body heated. Her presence was within his mind; an ancient eye opening to the dark depths of his reverie.
“Your preparation begins now,” she said. “Three moons you have.”
His teeth ground as the claws dug deeper. The ache spread through his limbs as her laughter danced around them.
“I advise you embrace this pain, druid. It may be the last you ever feel.”
Chapter twenty-one
The Lesson
Patience.
Skyre slowed his exhale.
Perception.
His gaze narrowed. Lowering his arms into a steady stance, he leveled the end of the cudgel at his enemy.
Power.
He thrust forward, the cudgel striking the target’s center. The collision vibrated through his hands as the grain sack rattled on its hang.
“Weak.”
“Quiet,priest,” he snarled, but Othrik’s voice wormed into his ear.
“It should have been settled. A more clever king would have known better.”
Skyre’s fists tightened on the wood. “What more could I have done?”
“Your reign has barely begun, and a waif unsettles you.”
“I said be quiet!”
“Skyre,” Medhin whispered. He squeezed shut his stinging eyes. Sweat beaded on his barren skin, yet the cold chewed his flesh like a rooting boar. “Look at me.”
He refused.
“You needn’t worry, my child.” A hand grazed his face. His lips. His throat. “Soon, it will be done.”
“Yes.” Othrik jeered. “Let the water do your work,boy.A man would have buried him with his own hand.”
Skyre, once more, locked his gaze upon the target. He gulped breaths, his mind painted with images of a pale form, bound in burning flame. He shook them away.
“We should have burned the druids long ago. Cleansed the heathens in the eternal fire, in the name of your father—”
Skyre’s fingers cracked against the wood.
