“I am not one of your puppets,” the druid said into his palm.
The priest laughed. “In the end, you will accept your strings.”
In his mind, he was at the edge of the skiff, feeling the hand at his back. Again and again, he was held under, till his body went slack on the chains. Till he felt he could not fight. Till it would have been easier to die. But the dark… the dark… he trembled as it drew near.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I don’t want to…
For the last time, the priest drew him up. Torn strands of gold clumped between his fingers. “The Moon and Death walk hand in hand. To kill you now would be a mercy. But I admit,” he said, inhaling through his nose, “it arouses me to think of you broken on the altar. I look forwards to the night your submission is made before the court.”
“Then you will be disappointed, for I do not intend to break.”
The priest stepped away, smug despite the challenge. He called his acolyte again, and the youth came bearing scrolls. The druid’s eyes trained upon them, widening at the Oron’Feyr emblazoned on their seals.
“You recognize them, don’t you?” said Othrik. This is what you came to find—the word of your filthy forebearers.”
The scrolls were dumped into piles and the druid tensed as Othrik took up a lantern. “No,” the druid breathed. “You wouldn’t…”
“I should thank you for bringing it to my attention. The Cullain have no need for the ramblings of the faithless.”
Strength bled back into his arms and the druid pulled on his chains. “They are historic record and nothing more! To destroy them is ignorance!”
“Whatever foulness they speak, I would not chance another sorcerer reading their spells.”
“They are no spells! Do not do this!”
The priest tossed the lantern upon the pile, setting the dusty parchment ablaze. The druid turned his face from the flash of heat, yet could not look away as the books burned.
“When the fire has died down, you may release him,” said Othrik, a smile on his face. “I docongratulateyou on your engagement.”
With that, he departed, leaving the druid to linger in the heat.
As the pages curled and their words turned to ash, the druid felt himself shrivel.
The danger without was not enough, nor could it hold a candle to those within. Whatever had guided him, given him visions, had not taught him how to battle men.
Nor to reconcile his decision to save them.
Chapter twenty-seven
The Heir
From the moment he was born, he knew he would be king.
It was a gilded life. One that came with many privileges. That Sólarch, in particular, would be one to remember.
“We ought to go down to the river and swim!”
The sun was bright that day, even in the thick of the grove. The sons of the Féin had come to train in the morning. They had done some exercises in the yard and now it was nearly noon.
“My hand is tired! I think I’ve got the wooden wrist,” moaned Greyv.
“Your hand’s not wooden, but your head is!” Skyre chortled. Greyv shoved him and they started to wrestle. Medhin observed as the children mucked about. Skyre, now eight summers old, was boisterous and very good at wrestling.
“Would you two cut it out,” said another.
“Who’dve thought,” said Skyre, his arms tight around Greyv’s shoulder. “Niall the straw-eater! You’re the most boring person I ken.”
The other boys giggled and Greyv flailed, squirming free of Skyre’s hold. “Niall is about as fun as a bucket of nails!”
