“Not business,” said Skyre. He had hoped to ask the holler to train him. But to blurt it out now would have looked too desperate. He smiled. “Why dinnae you wash up and come to the hall? The food is ready and many will be eager to make your acquaintance.”
Nacht’s one good eye narrowed, and Skyre felt more bare with each passing minute. “We leave our post out of respect for tradition, but the work does not wait. I hope His Majesty will not delay.”
“No,” said Skyre, somewhat embarrassed. “I will be married shortly, and the Reaffirmation will follow.”
Nacht gave his horse to the stableman. “Then, I would have your ear. I bring news worth hearing by you and your council.”
Skyre shook his head. “But you’ve only just arrived—”
“Leisure is no concern of mine.”
Skyre was baffled.
“This business about weddings… I’ve never heard of a Vaich being wed before his Aardmût.”
Skyre might have found the words insulting, but Nacht was a worn warrior who had seen real war, and the king could not argue.
“It’s… particular…” he muttered, realizing he had nothing to say. Anything that came to his mind was a dressed-up excuse.
“Yes, you are quiteparticular,” said Nacht.
“I…”
“Ah, dearest Nacht, welcome to Rhyd-hal.”
Skyre swiveled to see Jor crossing the yard, his steps regal, like a cat too used to being fed. He wore a comfortable smile and gave his hand for the larger man to grasp. At once, the holler’s face softened—as much as it could, anyway. His blackened eye had a violent hue, but his good side contorted in a smile.
“Prince Jor, it has been a long time.”
“Too long,” Jor agreed.
“I am saddened to hear of your father’s passing. He was strong as teeth and tír.”
Fury flourished in Skyre’s throat. He glared at Jor, who patted Nacht’s enormous shoulder with ease. “He was immensely fond of you aswell,” said the prince. “I know he’d be honored to be held in such high esteem. How are things in the east?”
“That is what I wished to speak of,” Nacht said, turning again to Skyre.
Jor lifted a brow. “Then, I’ve interrupted.”
“Yes,” said Skyre.
“Course not,” said Nacht, but they had spoken at the same time.
Skyre’s skin itched like a dry scab. “We were on our way to the feast hall…”
“If there is news, shouldn't you hear it?” Jor goaded. “My father always said: the work matters more.”
Nacht nodded. “A good man.”
“Aye.” Skyre’s smile had long faded, and the heat in his heart went cold. Finally, he conceded. “Why don’t you come up?”
The Vaich called his council, and the five men—Skyre, Jor, Nacht, Greyv and Rask—convened in the king’s war room. It had not yet seen use, and it should have excited him, but all Skyre felt was annoyed.
Jor should have stayed put. The king hadn’t invited him, but Nacht was much more relaxed with the prince around, and so the Vaich let him stay.
A map bolted to the center of the table showed the sprawl of his grueling green kingdom. Annath’s stronghold in the east was a crucial chokepoint, and those who manned it were diligent by design. Unrest within Cullach remained a conflict amongst a people, but the east was home to their most wild foes.
Annath was the long neck between Cúil Cullach and Escgalia, and the fortress of Fígha was the hand pressed against the windpipe.
