“Quiet,” Skyre hissed, eyes unblinking upon the water.
He watched the little boat come out from the dock. Breath stumbled from his throat.
There was no turning back now… for either of them.
Why? Why did he feel the need to shout? To call out to them to turn around? He could still stop this. Couldn’t he? He was Vaich. He could alter any fate. Yet, he stood. Still as stone and just as cold.
The Oracle and her maids came round to meet them. She was bright behind her veils, her lips arched in delight. “My king,” she said with mock softness. To mask the eagerness, he thought.
“Does it please you to send another soul down to die?” he asked.
“If they die, it isn’t for naught. They become a feast for the Moon and her tide.”
One could barely make out the shapes in the dark. Even in the light of the moon, all was a silhouette. But one needn’t see, for the sound was haunting.
There came no scream. No shout. No cry of terror nor torment. Only the undressed crash of a body hitting the water. The splashing was short, followed by a swift drop into silence. The druid was small. He would sink fast. And in minutes… or moments… he would be…
Soundless.
Not even the nightbirds crooned in the treetops. The wind was utterly still. Only the wheeze of flickering torchlight and the sound of Skyre’s breath echoed in the shells of his ears.
Medhin stepped up beside him. Her presence, once a comforting rudder within his life, now aimless. “Then it was all intended,” she whispered. “The Moon spoke its tribute. And we have provided.”
Skyre turned to the Oracle, who observed the lake with a glowing gaze. “He is dead, then?” The words were rocks in his mouth.
“Not yet,” said she. “Though he doesn’t struggle. How profound…”
Skyre’s fists clenched.
“The life leaks out of him. But oh…” Her lips parted. A look of awe came over her face. “Oh! By the goddess…”
“What is it?” pressed Skyre. “What do you see?”
“Fog on a frozen sea… a mist… a mist… a—” She stopped, her brows tightening and raising. A look of terror. Ofpain.
“Tell me,” demanded the king, “what is happening?”
But the woman had gone still, and then, violently, she reached for her face, her fingers clawing at the veil.
“My lady—!” cried Hirí.
The máraigh rushed to her side, but no one could help her as she thrashed and fought, pulling the silk down about her shoulders. Her white flesh flushed red. Her silver eyes pooled with blood.
“By all the Sun’s fire, what is this curse?” croaked Medhin.
Fear curled through the crowd, Skyre’s fists tightened enough to strain his bones.
The Oracle screams split the night as her eyes curdled, seeping from their fleshy caverns. With a final shriek, she collapsed upon the dirt.
“Take her to the temple!” ordered Rask. At once the men flanked her, breaking all protocol.
Skyre stood in stunned silence.
It was all coming undone.
“Skyre…”
He turned at the sound of his name—not to his friend who had spoken it, but to the mere. Across the water, he saw what Greyv was looking at: a pale body bobbing upon the surface.
