“Uh huh,” mumbled Skyre, eyes locked on the prince.
Those dull amber orbs darkened. Jor said nothing more. He went out, leaving the chamber aflame.
“Ye ought nae be fancy with your men,” said Rask. “They’ve got jobs to do.”
Skyre glanced at him. “Their jobs are to me, and I dictate them.”
Rask looked like an angry bull, but Skyre was done listening.
“I willnae be a king who waits. My glory is out in the vale, not here in these walls.”
“Ye dinnae ken whatgloryis,” said Rask. “War is the playground of idle men. Find yourself something to do!”
“I’m doingexactlywhat you said!” Skyre snapped. “I’ll show the bastardstruepower.”
“Power and arrogance are two different things!” Rask growled and stormed out.
Skyre stood for a long while, breathing heavily.
“He’s well meaning,” Greyv muttered. “Or maybe he’s just old.”
“It’s easy for him to say,” Skyre grumbled. “He has years to his name. People recognize him the world over. I am Vaich and no one recognizes me.”
“Sure they do.” Greyv slammed his fist into Skyre’s brand. The younger groaned, rubbing at his chest. “And you’ve got to carve your own way. Rask kens it, too.”
Skyre grew quiet, rubbing the raised skin.
Carve his own way…
Thirteen years ago, he’d said the words and he’d meant them:I want to be a good king.
Did he mean them, still?
Chapter twenty-eight
The Queen
Cool morning crept into the druid’s chamber, dripping over the tousled blankets where he lay. The candle had burned low aside the bed. Embers simmered in the hearth. He had dreamt again. And yet, the marks on his wrists were more haunting.
He ached.
His body, his mind still full of water.
Memories of the days prior loomed on his periphery. It would have been reasonable to be angry. It might have hurt less.
But his troubles were not so simple.
Men like Othrik were single-minded, but this doom would come for them all. Men of the wood… men of fire. The pain of his flesh mingled with his fear. The apparitions in his dreams grew fiercer by the day. Something was out there. Something haunting him from beyond the mist. And if those ancient creatures could return, Cúil Cullach would need to be ready.
But who was he to guide them?
The chains had left deep grooves in his skin. He traced them with the tips of his fingers.
Hadn’t he always been selfish?
He longed for the quiet, and he longed for peace. If only so he could linger longer within them. He was no hero. He was barely noble. He had never truly let the world take of him. And he owed it. For its comforts. For its beauty. For the sweet croon of the songbird, and the soft kiss of wind.
Yet when he closed his eyes he saw fire… and ice. He saw the woods and the wilds burning.
