Chosen of the Moon (The Cullachian #1)

1. The Man Who Would Live Forever

Chapter one

The Man Who Would Live Forever

The midnight smelled of fire and ash. It was the star-stained hour man and country had awaited since the moment his name was spoken on prophecy’s lips.

That night, one king would die and another would rise.

Skyre’s breath was hot in his throat. Blood dripped down his skin like honey.

The Thrys moved about him, unspeaking; dipping their fingers in scarlet ichor and tracing sigils across his chest. The thump of drums filled his ears as the priestesses danced in devotion.

As he gazed upon the mossy grove for the last time.

Willowy branches bent over dark and silent longhouses.

But in the light of the flame, he felt the thrill of promise.

Destiny had come to bow before him and he craved its submission.

A priestess approached. She was dark of hair and fair of skin with a stern face made more lovely by age. A woman above all others—Medhin, Matron of Sun.

“I am so proud of you.” She cupped his angled jaw. “By morning, all of Cullach will know what I have seen these long years—our promises realized.”

She summoned the other priestesses, who draped a fur mantle about his shoulders, fastening it with bead and bone.

The pelt smelled of the heady musk of the forest in which he had grown.

Gilded spaulders were fixed over the top, and a mask carved from the dried skull of a great stag was lowered over his head.

“Remember all I have taught you,” Medhin told him. “My dearest. My divine. And go with all our blessings. Nacht na dun. Críog na háil.”

The man who would be king mounted his horse, and away through the wood he went. His procession followed, lit by torchlight, trumpeted by the haunting thunder of hooves. They rode, winding through the pitch-black like a river of embers, making their way through tangled webs of trees.

Far and away upon the grassy knoll of Bráth Aghmuir was the Temple of Night and the Oracle of Nythis.

The Oracle's prophecies had guided the green land of Cúil Cullach for a thousand years.

She spoke words gifted to her by the Moon—divine watcher and Lady of Wisdom.

Amongst those words came the names of kings, and those named would ascend their throne at the onset of the year in which he turned twenty-one.

It was a cycle that had churned for generations.

But this night would be different.

For every king that came before was born, and perished, in the Oracle’s eyes. But Skyre’s death had not been foreseen. Thus, he had been named immortal—a being that would never die.

This would be the last ride from the sacred grove of Righnach’Dúir to the white altar that stood atop Aghmuir. It would be the last time a boy was taken fresh from the womb and raised amongst the wild. The last time the sunlit crown would fall upon a head. And it would be his.

The boundless sprawl of the night-swept highlands unfurled before them.

Skyre rode upon his horse like an ancient goliath, his mantle whipped high in the wind.

The winter air was bitter on his skin; he felt the rush of freedom and the ferocious beauty of a world he had known only through stories.

Stories that promised him, one day, he would see it; that one day, he would hold it in the palm of his hand.

And so, he pressed his heels against the horse’s girth, tightened his grip upon the reins, and made his way to claim it.

By witching hour, the procession had arrived at the Gates of Rath; a trilith etched in cuneiform tales.

The stones of Rath and the pillars that formed the temple at the top of the knoll were as old as the land itself, chiseled by those who had witnessed the coming of the Sun.

Skyre felt the weight of their watch as he passed beneath, an eerie hum in his ears.

He climbed through mist and mirth, up the weathered path, cresting over the peak to find the field filled with hungry audience. People had come from all over the kingdom to witness his coronation.

Pyres blazed and horns sounded. Goats and shorn sheep were led by rope to stone altars awash with blood.

Skyre breathed in the scent of smoke and slaughter.

The music swelled as he dismounted. Hands reached out, gripping his cloak and hair, their skin desperate to graze against him.

One hand found his shoulder and he met a familiar smiling face.

His lips bowed. “Greyv.”

“The almighty whoreson makes his debut! Look at you, all done up.” The man was tall and thin, but built strongly. His lean muscles had been a testing ground for the heir all his life. The two had been socialized: a matter of ceremonial circumstance that came to be something far more.

Friendship.

Skyre laughed. “Stay that wild tongue of yours. Speaking ill of my mother will get you cursed.”

“You aren’t wrong.” Greyv snorted in amusement. “Well, what do you make of it? Your first look at the big, wide world.”

“It is more mighty and more beautiful than I could have imagined.”

Nearby, the procession halted. Medhin and the other priestesses unloaded from their carrachs, and the horses were gathered aside.

“This is it,” said Greyv, his voice dropping low. “Somehow, I forgot to think about it all. Like we might have kept on the way we were.”

Skyre glanced out at him from behind his mask.

“You’ll be king now,” his friend said. “I’ll have to start calling you Vaich.”

“You’ll call me what you’ve always called me.”

Greyv chuckled. “Wait and say that after sunrise. I’ve heard the weight of a crown changes a man.”

Skyre’s fingers curled into a fist and he pushed it against Greyv’s chest. “Not this. This stays.”

The drums deepened.

Skyre was summoned before the temple. The An’Atherin—the court of Sun—gathered at his back.

But that night, none were more important than the court of Moon.

The Nytherim, they were called, dressed all in pale, their faces covered in beaded veils.

They, like their goddess, spoke in silence and dreams. The Oracle, head of their order, was most opulent, bathed in silver and pearl.

When she spoke, all became quiet. Not even the fire dared whisper.

She addressed the crowd. “Here stands before you the Chosen of the Sun, come to claim his crown.” Uproarious applause followed, but the Oracle silenced it with a hand and continued.

“Cullach is strong. Its land untamed, its people fierce.” Her white irises fixed upon Skyre. “Twenty summers passed, I dreamed your name. Now you will prove yourself worthy.”

All eyes were on him as he ascended the steps. She held forth a silver chalice. “The Witch’s Draught. Made of bilberry and yarrow, and a drop of bellweed. It is sure to kill a lesser man, but you are no such thing.”

Skyre took the chalice, eyeing the dark liquid. He wondered if he should fail. He wondered if he could.

“Drink,” she ordered.

He brought the silver to his lips. The scent was acrid, yet sweet…

like warm, rotted earth. His tongue cowered as he tilted the cup and drank its contents in one gulp.

The moment the liquid hit his stomach, a wave of nausea crashed over him.

A tingling began in his fingertips, creeping up his veins, numbing the skin as it went.

Bile brewed in his throat, but, indignantly, he forced it down and held the empty chalice proudly for the crowd.

A roar of cheers. The priestesses of the Moon gathered around him, their incense burning with the same bitter aroma.

“Your trial begins,” said the Oracle. “To the proving pit.”

They led him to the coals.

The pit smoldered with an orange glow. The Nytherim stood in silent rows, their silver veils luminous in the firelight. Beyond them, the crowd observed. The priestesses pulled loose his ceremonial robe, displaying his painted body to the sky.

The world held its breath.

His feet pressed against the embers and a seething hiss followed.

He clenched his jaw, but did not—would not—cry out.

The coals ground beneath his soles, their heat licking his flesh.

The draught dizzied him, eager to snatch his victory, but he refused to falter.

He stepped forwards, and the embers flared, then settled, as if bowing in recognition.

The muscles had gone tight in his fists. He forced them to relax.

The scent of his scorched skin joined the myrrh in the air.

With each step, his mind muddled. The world tilted and the stars streaked across the clouds.

Closer and closer he drew to the edge, the heat lashing his legs.

And with a final breath, he stepped out upon the stone, footprints of crimson in his wake.

Skyre had been brought up as if a fragile seed. Cultivated—a spark into a blaze. Now he could walk through fire. He could lay his bare feet across the coals.

The crowd roared with praise.

And Skyre reveled.

The dancers danced and the spits were turned. The world spun and spun as the night filled with fury. They pranced and feasted and drank till they had no names. Till the sky was broken by twilight.

Greyv wrapped him in a fearsome hug and presented him to the green hills. “Be still alive come morning, and all this will be yours. Now come. Drink! Drink to the rising sun!”

The hilltop was alive with chants, “To AEon’Righ! The king of kings! Bringer of the sun!”

Cárth aen Túr,

Lóchar na Righ,

Vaich éirigh ar dhearg chrigh,

Fuil aen lasair, righ aen maigh.

The first light of day peeked over the sea.

Across the world, in a bed of fur, lay the old king, Lach’Dun, held for the last time within the bosom of Cúil Cullach, at Rhyd-hal, the seat of divine kings. His vigil stood silent: a wife and two sturdy sons of seed.

Lach’Dun lay still, golden gaze glassy and unfocused.

His eldest son came forwards, taking his father’s hand as the old king muttered, “Make your place in this world, Jor. That is all a man can do. Even we who are Chosen must make our place before the end.” For the final time, he watched the sky lighten beneath the cloud.

“The sun rises. My time is come. Now his shall follow.”

The pyres had burned low. The drums had gone quiet.

Day was breaking.

The chanting faded as dawn crept over the horizon, and there before the crowd, Skyre knelt. Across the world, the old king’s body went limp.

“The blood of the Sun, the flesh of fire.” A branding iron was heated, its searing mark stamped against his chest. His teeth clenched back the pain. “The morning will find its sovereign freshly prepared.”

The Oracle lifted the crown.

This moment… the one he had waited for all his life, that he had been promised in songs, finally his for the taking. He had grown of age, he had passed their tests, and now he had lived to see the sky break golden over the land. His land.

“I crown thee Vaich—king of Cúil Cullach. From henceforth, you will bear the name Cillchéinn—successor to the line of divine lairds.”

The rigid twine of the crown scratched against his brow.

It was done.

The knoll was alive with fervor. Skyre stood, now king—Vaich.

His fingers ached as they reached towards his sword.

The man who served it to him, Rask, his lifelong mentor, beamed proudly at him.

Skyre gripped the hilt, holding the blade up to the sky.

The crowd was insatiable, their voices shaking the earth beneath their feet, lighting a fire in his heart. This was his day—his moment.

A moment shattered by one piercing scream.

Skyre swiveled as the Oracle gasped, her fingers clawing at her throat as if the breath was being stolen from within. She collapsed, and the crowd went silent.

His stomach turned to ice.

The Nytherim rushed to her side.

“W-what is wrong with her?” Skyre demanded.

The air trembled. He desperately searched the sea of onlookers to find Medhin. His caretaker’s face was pale with concern.

The Oracle’s body jerked and contorted, and Skyre’s lip quivered. “Someone do something!”

“It is the Dream,” said a priestess. “It takes her.”

“No.” Skyre shook his head. His pulse, once quickened, now a riot in his veins. “There will be no more names. No more visions. I am the last Vaich! I shall never die!”

But the Oracle still writhed upon the grass. And she spoke—a tangle of growled words as she fought the unseen.

“Another,” she hissed. His blood ran cold. “The Moon chooses… another.”

“That’s impossible,” Medhin snarled. “The goddess reveals the Sun King. His reign has just begun. She cannot choose another!”

The Oracle’s mouth gaped open in pain, then snapped closed, and again she growled, “Far in the north and east will you find the Chosen and they shall carry the pale mark of the Moon. A name…”

Skyre tightened his grip upon the sword, jailing his breath behind grinding teeth.

“What name? Speak it, witch!”

The woman froze, her fighting body going still.

“Cerys.”

The whispers swelled.

“A queen?”

“The prophecy has never named a woman,” said Medhin. “What foolery have you brought us?”

The Nytherim were silent, but Skyre’s pulse was a war drum in his ears.

“I speak only what the Moon whispers,” said the Oracle. “To deny her is to deny your king.”

Skyre tensed.

This was his destiny. A destiny promised to him by gods. Now thrown into question by the very voice that had granted him his crown.

His nails bit into his palms.

“Cerys,” he whispered the name, feeling its bitter taste upon his tongue. Skyre gathered his bearings, his gaze daring the sky. “Then let my first order be this: Find this queen. And bring her to me.”