9. The Son #2
“It’s a nice trick.” He backed away and lowered his sword. Jor hesitated before doing the same. “I admit,” Skyre said, glancing down at his arm, “I expected better gifts.”
“Apologies… my Vaich.”
“You’re a good fighter. You’ll make a strong addition to my Féin.”
The prince had no time to answer, as Greyv came up and slung an arm around Skyre’s shoulder. “Giving out invitations already? What a busy man you are.”
“Indeed,” said Jor. “In truth, I’d hoped to make introductions at my father’s vigil. Unfortunately, His Majesty’s schedule proved unwieldy.”
Skyre cut his eyes to him. “It has been… a trying week.”
“The ceremony was just there.” Jor nodded towards the tower that peeked over the bailey wall. “Things are certainly dire if our king hasn’t time enough for a short walk.”
“I met your father once,” said Skyre, sending a jolt through the other man’s features. “Long ago, he came to visit me at Righnach’Dúir. I would spare you what he said to me.”
Jor’s lips stayed taut. “Surely, he spoke honorably. He was an honorable man. A true king.”
Skyre stepped forwards, but immediately, Rask was between them.
“Enough! Air’s full of elch. Get a drink or a tug—I dinnae care which, just get a move on.” The elder waved off the younger men, guiding Skyre away by the shoulder. The Vaich tried to resist, but the man’s fingertips dug in. “Squirm all you like, there’s nae getting off this leash.”
Skyre scowled. “I had it under control.”
“Horseshit,” Rask grumbled. “If you did, we wouldn’t be here a-nis. You forgot, didn’t you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Skyre glared, but said nothing, and that was answer enough.
Rask shook his head. “All those years I spent teaching you, and you’re still an idiot.”
Skyre opened his mouth to protest, but the older man silenced him with a look. Suddenly, he was small again, standing amongst the grove. Rask—fifteen years younger—watched over him with a stern look.
That never changed.
Skyre sighed. “I wasn’t lying. It’s been a rough week.”
“You think this rough? I rode with Lach’Dun against the Swarm of Escgalia.
Three years we fought the bastards, till our skin rubbed bare and our bones shone.
You have no idea how rough the shit can be, and the more you speak, the bigger fool you look.
Men dinnae want a king that’ll lose a spar to them.
They dinnae want a king who cannae tell his head from his ass.
You’re not in the woods anymore, boy. The days of spoiled heir are over.
You are Vaich. And right now? You’re distracted. ”
Skyre wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, feeling like a scolded child. He knew better than to think Rask the man who’d coddle his bruises, and yet he felt small, still, beneath his eyes.
“We raised you better than useless apologies.”
“I’ll work harder.”
Rask nodded. “You ken, when I first saw you, I thought… this little bastard’ll kill me.”
Skyre smiled as the old man continued, a memory playing across his weathered face.
Even when speaking of distant things, Rask was rarely sentimental. To him, everything was a duty, and the past was nothing more than a lesson. He’d been a man of the kingsguard since he was old enough to serve, thus he had never had children of his own; No sons of seed to grow or teach.
Maybe for that reason, when he spoke of those bygone days, his stony eyes almost twinkled.
“Two kings I’d grown aside. But I wasn’t so young the second time. I remember the eagerness on your face. Holding a sword for the first time—the blade damned near bigger than you.” The old man chuckled. “You were ready, but more, you were willing.”
He reached out, resting a heavy hand on Skyre’s shoulder. “Dinnae forget what it felt like to want to prove yourself. Witches and gods be damned, in the end, it’s our blood spilling out there on the fields. I willnae swear my allegiance to a ghost or some vision. But flesh and bones that break.”
Skyre nodded, the words settling in his ears. He’d let his mind get clouded, but now more than ever, he needed to see clearly.
His kingdom demanded it.
Skyre returned to the castle. His eyes were slow to adjust to the shadow, used to life beneath the sun and sky.
Nigh three weeks it had been since his crowning, since his coming to Rhyd-hal, and still, it was no home of his.
And there were others that knew it better.
Foolish. He’d gotten so tangled in matters of prophecy, he hadn’t stopped to think of the dangers of his own earthen world.
Rask was right—he couldn’t afford to get distracted.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Even before he’d seen him, Skyre's heart was rattling in its cage. He was a hunter, hearing a twig snap in the darkness.
He fixed his eyes upon the figure as it came to a stop before him.
The druid.
They seemed to come to the same conclusion, and immediately those pale orbs darkened.
Skyre felt every inch of his flesh ignite, squaring his shoulders towards him.
He was dressed in a white gown, an apple held loose in his hand.
His hair, a tangled mess of flax, fell over his shoulder in a long, unkempt braid.
Everything about him, from the slightness of his frame to the prideful gait of his gaze, was a burning insult.
The druid was small; not one inch of muscle on him, his ears too big for his face. His face…
Aside them, the afternoon poured in through the colonnade, wreathing the druid in sunlight. Yet, to Skyre, he was nothing short of abomination.
“Who gave you sanction to walk here alone?” he barked.
The druid remained still, the words breaking against his stone like storms. “I was under the impression I was not prisoner, though… I may not come nor go as I please.”
Skyre grit his teeth. “One might think it more respectable for you to simply stay in your room.”
The druid’s gaze drifted towards the hall from which he’d come. “Then, you do mean to hold me captive. At least, if it was your decision. But it isn’t… is it?”
Skyre growled, grabbing the front of his gown. He swung the druid against the stone, his bony shoulders colliding with the wall. A quiet fell, blanketing them in stillness but for the sound of the apple rolling across the floor.
“Do not give me reason to defy the gods,” Skyre whispered darkly. “You will not enjoy what comes of it.”
“It will be you who burns in the flames of my pyre—not I. Whether I live or die, my suffering is not within your power to give.”
Skyre released him with a snarl. “You woodwalkers and your arrogance. These are my walls, and you are within them. Suffering or not, you remain at my pleasure. I could make this so much worse for you.”
But the threats made their home not within the druid’s eyes, and that only served to ignite Skyre further. Those careless words. That reckless tongue. All of it unbound by any command. Skyre hated him. Hated the defiance in those fragile bones.
He forced himself away with a frustrated scowl. “Stay out of my sight.”
“Is it an order, my laird?”
The challenge hung in the heated air between them. The Vaich did not rise to it.
He turned, making his way down the hall.