“Skyre!” gasped Medhin.
The Vaich didn’t care.
“You can bathe his body. Alter his clothes. Pluck the golden hairs from his head. But you cannot split open a mind to twist its guts.” Skyre fixed the priest with a steady stare. “Even if you force him to speak the words, you will not lay claim to his conviction.”
The priest was red as hot coals. “We shall see how much his mind can handle, as his body is cleansed of sin!”
“You mean to torture my consort?” Skyre’s lips drew back into a snarl. “No.”
The priest quivered in fury.
“You will release him,” Skyre said, wiping his hands on a towel. “But before he goes, do impress upon him the nature of our expectations.”
“The Great Strider makes his demands by fire! Words will not suffice to temper this rogue flame!”
Skyre tossed the towel aside, gesturing the chamberlain forwards with a wave of his hand. The man presented him the contract and quill, and the Vaich signed, pricking his thumb with the pointed tip and smearing his blood across the parchment.
“I have given you my decision,” he said, heading for the door.
“You undermine us all!” Othrik seethed. “He should be—”
“Soon will come the wedding, and if you lay hands on him, everyone at the ceremony shall know.” Skyre stopped at Othrik’s shoulder. “I will marry the druid—consecrated or otherwise. And should you conspire to make me look a monster, I will feed you to the fire myself.”
Chapter twenty-six
The Heretic
The druid’s body jolted as the cold water hit, sharp as a blade against his skin. He tugged once against his chains, then stilled, unwilling to give his captor even a shiver.
His eyes stung. His skin tightened in places where the salt had dried.
The makeshift prison was small; no more than a storeroom at the bottom of the tower, where things of little value went to rot. They had hung him there all night and all morning, dousing him repeatedly with buckets of seawater. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed until the sun rose and Othrik went off to speak with the Vaich, leaving his acolyte to do his bidding.
The druid recognized the boy from the eagerness in his grin: the youth from the courtyard. He leered at the druid, eyes brimming with contempt.
“Not so clever now, are you?” He smirked. “Nothing to say for yourself,Your Majesty?”
Another torrent of water hit the druid’s face. His teeth dared to chatter, but he clenched them hard enough that his jaw ached.
“I’ve done a good sweep. Made sure your little friends willnae find you. I could tell the old man all about it—your wicked trick with the mice.” The youth set his bucket on the ground, looking the druid over with an appraising eye. “The people should know the king’s marrying a witch.”
“I’m not…” But the druid’s throat was too tight to get the words out.
The youth grabbed his chin, forcing his face up. “No? What will you give me not to talk?”
The druid muttered something too quiet for him to hear.
“Hm? What was that?” the youth asked, leaning near.
“Nothing,” rasped the druid. “I said… I’ll give younothing.”
“You little…” The youth snatched up the bucket, pouring its contents down the druid’s throat, causing him to gag and choke.
And all the while, the boy laughed. A cruel, sadistic trill.
The An’Atherin…
They were a plague, festering in the hearts of men. Like the Spréen—those damnable fiends from their sordid sermons—their fire spread. And one day, it would creep beyond the Everstretches, down into the east, across the boughs of the Fáoth, devouring every good green thing he had ever loved. It would be merciless, ripping open gashes that would scab for years to come.
