9. The Son
Chapter nine
The Son
The hearth flames swelled in time with the Vaich’s slow breaths. He chewed his nail, his mind absent.
“That we entertain this deception a moment more is nothing short of blasphemy,” said Othrik. The curtains were drawn. The fire glowed vibrant. Skyre watched it, but did not see. “The Oracle should be put to the sword.”
“It is you who speaks blasphemy,” Medhin growled. “If we question her soundness, it will undermine Skyre’s claim.”
The two had been bickering for what felt like hours. Words like blades pressed against their throats, and yet they stood blindfolded.
“The woman gets on in her years. If her mind has gone, another seer can be put in her place.”
Skyre didn’t turn as he muttered, “Did she seem unsound of mind to you?”
“My Vaich, it is clear she has lost her usefulness.”
The king straightened, glancing at the two of them over his shoulder. “And yet he is here. Just as she described. If it is not the Moon’s magick, then what is it?”
The priest scoffed. “A ploy. A scheme—!”
“You accuse the Moon Court of planting seeds of upheaval? With a blighted druid? Even I can see the absurdity in that. If they wanted to unseat me, they would have been more clever. No,” Skyre grumbled, “this was not their choice.”
“What matters is our answer,” said Medhin. “If we contest this prophecy openly, we will be on unsteady ground. We do not want them to doubt in tradition.”
“That wretch of a woman will have the peasants thinking anyone might be king! She is a nuisance,” said Othrik. “If she cannot be controlled, she must be removed. Who knows what she will make believe next!”
“Be quiet!” Medhin hissed.
The priest glared. “I urge you to recall your place, Matron.”
“And I urge you not to undo us all,” she bit back. “We must be very careful about how we proceed. Unruly subjects at a time like this would do no one much good. Your rule is fresh,” she told Skyre, her voice softening to a mother’s coo. “The people have not yet embraced their love for you.”
The words bored holes inside his skin.
The Sun Matron’s honeyed lips had always been full of promise, but now they spoke bitter. “It is important to solidify the Vaich’s place. His title is uncontestable, but the hearts of men must be coerced. You must prove yourself a capable ruler, and this is our first test.”
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
“Eliminate any thought of competition.”
Skyre’s fists tightened. “There is no competition. I am the last Vaich. A son of AEon’Righ. This Moon King is a weak, simple-minded wanderer. He should be returned to whence he came.”
“So long as the druid lives, he will be a thorn,” said Othrik.
“But he cannot be killed. To do so would be to mock the gods at our backs,” said Medhin.
Skyre trembled in silent rage. No matter where he turned, his answers were few, and his burdens many. Why him? He was meant to be immortal, not to slog through petty struggles of inheritance. This was a matter for lesser lairds. Not a king.
“Then, it leaves little room for question,” said Othrik, begrudgingly. “We must remove his potential for power without removing the heretic himself.”
“And how do you suppose I do that?” asked Skyre, folding his arms across his chest.
“Give the people what they wish,” said Medhin.
His eyes narrowed in confusion. “What they wish?”
“A queen.”
The word settled heavily in the air. Skyre’s arms dropped, his stomach with them. Dizziness gripped his mind, and he staggered, bracing himself against the mantlepiece. His fingers dug into the stone, chipping at his nails.
“You suggest what?” he whispered. “That I—”
Medhin stepped forward, her robes shifting as she cupped his face. “Make the druid your consort. With him at your side, the gods are appeased and our place maintained. The people cannot deny fate as they see it fulfilled. And you will keep all the power granted to you, as intended.”
Skyre shook his head, but could not speak.
“He would need be converted, but a marriage would ease the fire,” said Othrik. “If made consort, the druid will be subdued.”
“And he would be my bride,” Skyre hissed.
“In name,” said Othrik. “A man is not forbid his lovers, nor a king his concubines. It matters only that His Majesty is proven virile. The kingdom will delight in the spread of the Vaich’s gólneld, and you may sire many children, yet.”
Skyre couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Every Vaich before him had taken a wife, or many, if not just to prove his capability. To take a man as his first bride… that would be asking for doubt.
“And if I do not take him as consort?” said Skyre.
They did not answer. They need not.
Why now?
He was promised the people. He was promised the land. He was a son of Sun, of the divine breaker of skies. The Moon had spoken his name. And now she had spoken another.
Not a queen. But a challenger to his crown.
He glanced towards the window. “I inherit nothing from the gods but a riddle. And the people await my answer.” His fist tightened. “They will wait longer, still.”
“Skyre—”
He grabbed up his mantle, sweeping it around his shoulders. “I’m going down to the pitch. Don’t bother me.”
The training field was lively. Messy, just as Skyre liked.
The castle was dim and cheerless during the day, out here he could enjoy the sun.
Today, the sky was grey but bright, and the air brisk.
It pinched his skin, waking him from the somberness of his council.
His muscles unknotted as his boots reacquainted with the packed dirt.
Men were scattered about the yard. There was the smell of work, of sweat, and it sent his heart racing.
“Come out to play?” Greyv called from the fence.
Skyre pushed up a smile. “I’ve got to get some proper breath. That place is full of must.”
“It’s full of something, alright,” said his friend with a laugh. He nodded towards the pitch. Two men stood opposite one another. The younger man Skyre had never met, but he recognized the elder at once.
Rask, Laird of óinmír, son of a celebrated line of war hollers.
He was the eldest of the old Féin that fought still, and was sharp as he’d been nigh fifty years before.
Even as his hair greyed and the flesh beneath his stone eyes sagged, he was strong, tough as tusk, and even more boar-like with a blade.
And the Vaich loved him.
“Dinnae do him in, Rask,” called Skyre. “I still need good boys for my army.”
The older man didn’t turn from his opponent. “Oh, I’ll make sure he lives long enough for that.”
Greyv hummed. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“Why’s that?” asked Skyre.
The clash of blades rang sharp through the courtyard, iron glinting in the grey light. The younger man moved fast; each strike driven and determined. But his opponent—older and broader—weathered each blow with ease. Deflecting, redirecting, waiting.
Skyre knew the old man’s method well. Still remembered the first time he’d fought him. It had been the first time since the teat he’d wept.
Boots scraped soil as the younger man pressed forwards.
His form was practiced, but there was impatience in his footwork, a hunger that left him open.
The older warrior caught his blade in a parry, twisting his wrist to throw him off balance before stepping in.
A shift of weight, a slam of the shoulder, and the younger man hit the ground hard, dust rising around him.
Skyre laughed. He recognized the look—a flicker of frustration and wounded pride. “I’ve been on the receiving end of that turn too many times. Keep fighting him and you’ll get used to getting knocked on your ass.”
The man pushed himself up, dusting off his tunic. “Laird Rask is a tough opponent. Suppose I might try on someone my own size.” He leveled his blade towards the Vaich, who went still at the challenge.
Greyv chuckled. “I told you.”
Skyre settled into a smirk. “And who challenges me?”
“My name is Jor. Son of Lach’Dun, Prince of Cúil Cullach. And I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Skyre’s jaw worked a moment, and he nodded.
“So we haven’t. Then, no better way to introduce ourselves.
” He hung his mantle over the fence and hopped the beam, landing firmly in the sand.
Jor’s golden eyes followed him—without doubt a gift from his father.
Still, they lacked the lustre of the sun’s wild gaze.
The two men positioned opposite each other, daylight bathing their blades.
Jor’s grip was steady, shoulders coiled; a cat waiting to lunge. They circled each other. Slow. Measured. But there was heat in the prince’s eyes.
Jor struck first.
It wasn’t a probing attack—not a test of reflex. It was real and sharp and cutting. Skyre caught the blow, the impact shuddering down his arm as he turned the edge aside. Sparks hissed as iron ground against iron, and before he could recover, Jor was pressing forwards with a vicious thrust.
The air thickened with heat and breath.
Skyre countered a third strike, then a fourth. Jor’s sword darted downwards like a diving hawk. A sharp feint—realized a moment too late. Jor’s blade flicked out and caught his arm, slicing a thin, burning line across his skin. A shallow cut, but enough to bleed.
From the sidelines came Greyv’s sharp inhale, but Rask remained still, watching.
Skyre ran his tongue along his teeth. “How pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”
Jor offered an empty grin.
Their blades met again.
The rhythm shifted. Faster. Harder. This time, Skyre set the pace. He drove him to the courtyard wall. Jor’s eyes were sharp, jaw tight, but Skyre saw it—that edge of impatience. Swords locked, neither yielding. Breaths ragged and muscles working.
Three strikes, then four. On the fifth, Skyre struck low and feinted left, and his blade found the prince’s throat. Jor gazed at him with those amber orbs, burning with a fire all their own.
For a moment, Skyre thought he recognized it.