Chapter 3
Chapter three
Rhyd-hal
Rhyd-hal.
Skyre had heard of it in Medhin’s stories. The ones she’d told him since he was small.
“…and you’ll come to it, aside the sea. All your power will make home there.”
“And I’ll have feasts?” he asked, not more than a boy, clutched between her arms.
“Yes, many feasts. You’ll feast into the night, and come morning, feast again.”
“And all my friends will come?”
“All the kingdom will come,” she’d say. “From far and wide to see their king. The king who will never die.”
But when he arrived, there was no feast, nor a hundred smiling friends. The throne was not golden and the castle did not glitter.
It stunk of goat and piss.
Skyre stared. “I thought it would be… bigger.”
Greyv chuckled from the doorway, sinking his teeth into an apple. It came away with a crisp snap. “The rooms had to be small so they might fit so many. Where else would you put all these stinking men?” His dimples sank when he smiled honestly. Skyre appreciated that.
But Skyre wasn’t smiling.
The three men stood in the king’s fresh quarters. Though fresh was not a word that suited Rhyd-hal. Skyre tossed his mantle to the bed and faced his chamberlain. “Surely there’s somewhere better?”
“It’s only temporary, my Vaich. Your permanent quarters will be ready within the week, once the airing has finished.”
“Be lucky old Lach’Dun went quiet in his sleep,” said Greyv. “Spares shoveling shit off the floor.”
“It cannae smell that bad.”
Greyv smirked. “Still a dead man’s bed.”
Skyre released a heavy breath. “Go on, then. You’re excused… or what have you.”
“Ah, what of dinner, sire?” asked the chamberlain.
Skyre hesitated. “What do kings… usually have?”
Greyv laughed. “Salmon is popular in the city. The Vaich ought to savor the local cuisine. Set up a table in the garden.”
The chamberlain nodded and bowed, slipping out between Greyv and the doorframe.
“Thanks,” Skyre muttered. “Máta usually…” He didn't want to admit the rest.
“You’ll get used to it.”
Greyv was comfortable with luxury. There was maybe no one more excited for Skyre’s reign than him. They’d often passed time heatedly discussing all the fun they’d have, the games they’d play, when no one and nothing could stand in their way.
And in theory, a kingly life sounded glamorous, but Skyre was starkly reminded he had spent his whole life in the woods. Governing a household wasn’t a language he understood, and without a wife, he’d have to learn quick.
He glanced around the room, trying to make sense of it. When he had imagined his royal chambers, he’d neglected to consider the previous occupant having been a corpse. “Reckon there’s something to be done about it?”
“It’ll clear out soon enough,” said Greyv. “They’ll burn the body before the week is out. Jor’s already gone to the priests, begging for vigil at the kirk.”
Skyre nodded. “Then he shall have it.”
Greyv scoffed. “Give him a knot and he’ll take the rope. Believe me, Skyre. Jor’s no friend of yours.”
Jor was Lach’Dun’s eldest son. The previous Vaich had two boys, but the Thrys had never told Skyre much about either.
It wasn’t customary for Sun heirs to be concerned with the progeny of their predecessors—princes were little more than trophies.
Jor was older than him by some odd years, but neither prince had been permitted part of Skyre’s training cohort.
They’d been absent at the coronation, having remained here at their father’s bedside.
Skyre didn’t begrudge them that. It was a Vaich’s duty to rule and then die, and Lach’Dun had done his immaculately.
“Lach’Dun will be buried with his due honors,” said Skyre.
Greyv shook his head. “You shouldn’t let things fester. Let the old pass and the new rise.”
“He was a good man.”
“And you are not of his seed. By right, you owe him nothing.”
Skyre shrugged on a clean tunic. “He was not my father, but he was a king.”
“And a king should put his mind to more important things. Gather your Aarden Féin.”
“I can hardly think straight about that.”
No, Skyre’s thoughts had been filled with the Oracle’s voice; the name spoken that broken morning.
Cerys.
Even now, the sound of it in silence made his teeth grind. “This Moon Queen… What am I to make of it?”
“What’s to make of?” Greyv asked, taking another bite. “With any luck, she’ll be bonny.”
“No Vaich has ever been issued a queen.”
“And you’re not just any Vaich.” Greyv slipped into a childlike taunt.
“The man who’ll never die, remember? No prophecy foretold your death.
But it did give you a woman. If I were you, I’d stop asking questions and get on my knees before the gods.
” He held his arms wide. “Give me another, oh Sun Rider! And make her tits big as the moon!”
Skyre laughed, shoving his shoulder. “A king ought to have his choice.”
“You’ll get plenty of choice. Every maiden in Cullach will be begging to be your Moon Queen. Lighten up, you blessed bastard. Now, let’s talk about your warband.”
But the matter was not settled. Not in Skyre’s mind.
Nor anyone’s, as gossip gripped the court.
Much to his annoyance, it spilled out into the city, and soon all of Rhyd-hal was a-talk of the new queen.
Some imagined her a great beauty, with auburn locks and irises green as earth. “As lovely as our king is strong.”
She would be tall, they would speculate, and her hands would be quick. And she’d take fast to the eld, and give him many dark-haired children.
Others were not so certain. They spoke of the Moon’s prophecy with wary words. There grew the feeling that something was wrong. Why then? Why now? A thousand years, oracles had revealed the names of kings.
But never a queen.
The prophecy had told them where to look, but it was what was not spoken that drove Skyre near to madness, keeping him up at night.
“I want answers.”
He sat lazily in the castle garden, rapping his knuckles against the table.
On his finger glistened the amber signet of the Vaich.
He’d been given it upon his arrival at Rhyd-hal one week before, as well as the keys to his war chamber and his official study.
They might have used the latter for such a meeting, but he enjoyed seeing the sprawling ivy and bloody roses.
“My Vaich, it is not wise to keep me here,” said the Oracle. “I should be returned to the Augeri at your earliest convenience.”
The Oracle was a woman of middling age, only some years older, Skyre expected, than Medhin, though was hardly as beautiful. He supposed the Moon’s witchery took a toll on its conduits, but he’d never met enough Nytherí to be sure.
The sisterhoods were mirrored, at least, when one did not look closely.
For unlike the Thrys—who had raised him since birth—the Nytherim were kept separated.
The latter made roost in an abbey to the north and, other than supervised pilgrimages, were not permitted to leave.
For their own safety, the An’Atherin said. And the safety of everyone else.
“What’s convenient to me would be to ken your meaning,” Skyre said.
The Oracle’s eyes were obscured behind her veil, but it was not enough to hide her displeasure. “Suppose we could move this inside? All this sun is so… distracting.”
“I grew up beneath the sun, and I’ll stay there when I like. If you take issue with the glory of our god, then suppose that is a matter worth questioning?”
“Hmph!” Beside him sat Othrik, a greying prune long past his prime…
if he’d ever had one. He was a man of faith; the head of the An’Atherin—the Sun Sect’s official order.
Until that moment, he’d been angrily shuffling papers, and as the Oracle spoke, the vein in his right temple grew more pronounced.
The woman shifted uncomfortably. “Not at all, my Vaich. Though I have told you all that I know. The prophecy was… ambiguous. I can only assume our Lady Nythis wished it so.”
“How magnanimous of her.” Skyre scowled.
The goddess of the Moon had stayed predictable for centuries, but now, it seemed, she grew bold.
Magick was dangerous, wicked and foul. To delve too deeply was to invite a sickness of spirit, and those who carried it were better off leashed.
So long as they could be contained, the witches were useful.
Thus, the Nytherim’s sole purpose was to advise.
But their counsel had become queer and the An’Atherin loved nothing less than a servant that stepped out of line.
“Well, if you dinnae ken, then who does?” asked Skyre.
“All in due time.”
“Riddles and nonsense!” To Skyre’s amusement, Othrik’s protruding vein looked near bursting. The priest bellowed, “The Moon sows discord! You foster ill-intent, wretched woman!”
“Why should you think so? As the Sun’s bride, Nythis is nothing if not loyal.
This prophecy can only work to your advantage,” said the Oracle.
“A queen appointed by gods will reflect favorably upon the Vaich. The people will be awed, and there is no more susceptible mind than one that has given in to allure.”
Othrik huffed. “Or it is all some ploy of yours… a Moon Queen. Ridiculous! If the Seer has nothing to say, she ought to be sent back to her burrow, lest she poison the well with more treachery!”
Skyre considered Othrik’s accusation. The Oracle seemed unperturbed for a woman who had just upended a thousand years of divine tradition, but an approaching herald caught his eye.
Skyre sighed. “Very well. Arrangements will be made to send you back to the Augeri. In the meantime—”
“If I hear any more whisperings, you will be the first to know,” she said.
Skyre grunted, waving her off. “Strange woman…”
The herald bowed, holding out a yellowed scroll. Before he could reach for it, Othrik grabbed it up, and both of their gazes caught upon the ebon plume stuffed into the clasp.
“Hurry off,” muttered the priest, and the herald scurried away. The priest unraveled the scroll, his black eyes narrowing upon the words. “Nonsense…”
“Give me that.” Skyre snatched it, skimming its contents.
The handwriting was eloquent, and the words dripped with the same deceptive opulence.
“A congratulations on my ascension, and a warm invitation… Dunn Kennigh excitedly awaits our venture southward. Their laird advises not to delay the commencement of my Aardm?t. Signed Dravoghan ?vain…” Skyre’s fingers dug into the parchment, crinkling the edges. “King in the South.”
He had been taught of the arrogance of the southern faction, but he wasn’t prepared for this. He fixated on the word, and his teeth ground.
King.
?vain’s audacity would be nothing in the face of Skyre’s reprisal. And it would come, swift and severe. When he and his Féin embarked on their ceremonial procession, he determined Dunn Kennigh would be his first port of call.
“The Dunns have long strayed from the light of the Sun,” said Othrik. “My Vaich would be keen to remind the south of their fealty.”
Skyre desired more than fealty. Even if he had to bow a king. Even if he had to bow a goddess. There would be no challengers to his crown.
“If Laird ?vain is so eager to play host, then I will oblige him.” Skyre smirked. “For when my Aardm?t sets out, I will have with me the strongest warband Cúil Cullach has ever seen.”