“I didn’t… I never meant for—”
“It dinnae matter what you meant. I ought to make you set his pyre, but I’ve got to give him to his father and you cannae follow.”
The boy wept harder. “It was an accident.”
“And life’s full of them. But in the end, intention or not, it all comes back to you.” He pressed his finger to the boy’s chest. “You gave the order. Your blessing. And away he went. Now, he’s nae getting up again.”
Skyre rubbed his aching eyes.
“This is the day you learn. All you say and do has consequence. The gods might’ve chose you, but those boys did not. And one day, they’ll be men. You’ve got to be worth your word. You can order a life to end, Skyre. The sooner you understand what that means, the better off we’ll be.”
“I didn’t want him to get hurt,” he whispered. His face pulled taut, wet and sticky with tears.
“But he did,” said Rask. “Are you going to be a king who shirks blame? That’s a man I willnae follow.”
Skyre shook his head.
“Then what’re you gonna be?”
“I want to be… be a good king.” He sniffled. “I want them to choose me.”
“Then be it,” said Rask, pushing him towards the door. “Go and tell the boys goodbye, then you can say your prayers over him.”
Skyre nodded and went out. Medhin was waiting and embraced him close, but he shimmied out of her grasp. “I’ve got to go on,” he said quietly. “Go on and say goodbye.”
“Mirín…”
Skyre stopped some paces ahead, clenching his hands into fists. “I don’t want to be a king who says goodbye!” His words roused the camp. “I don’t want anyone else to die!”
“It will be a long life,” said Medhin. “You will have a great many challenges…”
“Then I will face them all and lose none! I’ll be a good king. A good king!” he cried. “And no one else will fall.”
***
The sun grew longer. Every day, new guests arrived at Rhyd-hal—lairds, envoys and wealthy men, all in anticipation of the Reaffirmation.
That morning came the men from Annath. They minded the river Fír on the eastern border, and were powerful and large in stature. Skyre rushed down to the bailey, eager to lay his eyes upon them.
Through the barbican they came, like great horned beasts on horses built like oxen. Their woolen mantles were the color of moss and whipped up high behind them. They wore armor of fur and feathers, and reeked of boiled leather. Skyre breathed it in, delighting at the wear on their polished bronze helmets and the fierceness of their arms.
The greatest Cullain warriors were gifted withcárthun, the fire-wields—great weapons of flame. And nowhere were they more prevalent than the men from Annath. For years, the Thrys had refused Skyre’s training, despite many past Vaichs having been masters. Cárthun were for wartime, and never before. Too dangerous, they said, to let a boy play with fire. But that decision was now inhishands.
Skyre called out, “My fine riders, how glad a sight to see you come!”
The warband’s leader was a bear of a man named Nacht, who was older than Skyre by twenty summers. He was thick and strong with muscle and had a scar on his right which had blacked his eye. He was known far and wide by every boy in Cullach asBéig Úil.
The River Beast.
That was more than a fireside story; the warrior was legend made flesh, and Skyre marveled. The Vaich was not a small man, but Nacht towered over him like some fantastic behemoth.
“Finally, I meet you in person. And what an honor it is,” Skyre said. “I’ve prepared a grand welcome for you—a warm meal and some drink, and a hunt when you have rested! Nothing like the hunts of the east, to be sure, but hopefully a suitable game.”
The warrior looked neither impressed nor displeased. “A hunt?” he asked in a gravelly voice. “Is there time for all that?”
Skyre’s brows worked and he chuckled. “Of course. There is always time to play. And, after all, I have a request to make. Showing you a good time is the least I can do.”
“If His Majesty has business to address—”
