“The onetruegod.”
His nailbeds bled.
“Æon’Righ!”
His grip loosened on the cudgel, but he did not… could not move. The druid stood before him, bathed in moonlight. His silver hair ghostly on a sea of night. Skyre could neither press forwards, nor retreat, as Medhin’s words haunted him.
“The lake will take him. The cold will carry him down. And you’ll be free. The lone flame in all your fury. By full moon’s rise, it’ll all be over, and he in his dark crypt…”
“No…” he murmured. The druid watched him with a boundless gaze.
The man who will live forever.
Skyre staggered. “… he mustn’t…”
You sent him to that grave.
Their voices rose behind him.
“Kill the druid.”
Louder.
“Kill the heathen.”
And louder.
“No, he cannot die!” He spun to face them, his cudgel lashing out.
But the weapon met only air.
Skyre shook, breaths ragged between his lips. The pitch was empty, but one familiar figure stood watching from the gate.
“R… Rask?” His mentor stared back in quiet judgement. “Declare yourself,” demanded the king, but the words were toothless. “Or are you a figment come to haunt me, too?”
“I assure ye, I am flesh and blood.”
Skyre dropped his cudgel, stumbling back. “I’m losing my mind.”
“I begin to question if ever you had it.”
Skyre laughed sharply.
Weak.
“Tell me,” he said, watching the clouds drag across the sky. “How many who enter Loch Luin ever leave it?”
“The number is few. It is said, but six a tenyear.”
“Then it’s true,” lamented Skyre. “I sent him to his burial. I sent the Moon’s Chosen to die.”
Rask came forwards. His weathered face betrayed nothing, yet the king knew the question before he spoke it. “And do you regret it?”
Skyre was still. His mind and heart warred while his body pled. “Should I?”
“Your rule is to be long. You will put many enemies in the ground. What is one small wisp? In a season… in ten, you willnae remember his face.”
“Enemy…” The thought gnawed at him. “He asked me to go.”
