“And how easily you disregard it. If you only wish to do away with me, then say so.” When the Vaich gave no reply, the druid pressed. “It is meandering. I would appreciate a direct answer.”
“A druid who doesn’t want to meander.” The Vaich hoisted the pack over his shoulder. “Bit ironic, isn’t it?”
Frustration rose within him, in his fingers and his toes. He followed, his words quieter as they passed between the other riders. “I am asking for your intention—”
“My intention is the same as it was. You survived. Congratulations to my bonny bride.”
The druid shook his head. “You make it sound simple.”
For a moment, the Vaich looked exhausted, and then deeply annoyed. “It really is simple, druid. You are Chosen of the Moon. Now, no one and nothing can deny it. Not even you.”
The words pinched at him.
“My laird,” called one of the men, eyes flickering over the druid for one brazen moment. “What of the…?”
“He’ll stay with me,” the Vaich replied, ignoring the druid’s quiet protest. “Now, enough rambling. The matter is settled.”
“I see,” said the druid. “Do you intend to marry all those who threaten you?”
The king said nothing, and there it ended.
The evening wore on. The Vaich and the druid were fed first. Though, the druid did not eat. He felt ill from his purging at the Augeri, and though his bones were weak, the thought of meat made his stomach coil.
No one spoke to him. No one seemed to want to address him at all. He had become a contagion they wished not to contract. He inquired after Hirí, but was told only that she had chosen to remain at the Oracle’s side.
The Oracle.
Mention of the afflicted woman made the camp grow somber, as if her health was a curse upon them all. He found it hard to be anything but glad to be rid her worming eye inside his mind. He knew he shouldn’t feel satisfaction at seeing her punished, yet could not deny the quiet pleasure.
After dinner, the camp settled down to sleep. The Vaich’s tent was sumptuous, and the druid was made to take rest there. Unsurprisingly, the Vaich did not come. The druid found that acceptable. It was warm against the chill, at least, and in the dark he had time to think.
He should have died. Yet, there he was unharmed.
It was all wrong.
The world was made of immovable truths, or so he had been told. And he had believed it. He believed in what he saw. What heknew. And now, he could trust neither.
Something had dipped its hand into the cold, and he had felt its fingers in his heart.
The gods were real; they were the wind and the wave and the wolf. They had, for thousands of years, existed silently beside them. And now, for the first time, they had interfered.
For him.
Skyre gazed into the pit. Around him, the camp slept as the fire danced in ribbons of red, hushed and seductive.
I saw you… in chaos… and blood.
He could hear the druid’s voice within the flame. He remembered the way he had looked upon the water, pale and fragile as first snow.
Chosen of the Moon.
Twenty long years, Skyre had known certainty. But the moment that promised crown touched his head, everything had become confusing. And he had forgotten, between the words and the whispers, all the promises he had made to himself. His reign was meant to be an era of strength. He thought his peculiarity would give him power.
A king who could never die…
“Mirín,” Medhin called out. He did not meet her gaze. Her hand was upon his skin. The touch was tender, he supposed. But he felt no comfort.
“I sent him down into that lake to die,” he muttered. “He wasn’t supposed to come back.”
