11. Faith
Chapter eleven
Faith
In a túrgaine cottage on a sea-beaten cape, lived a fisherman and his wife.
She had come to carry in the winter, and a great burden it was.
The weather was cold and unforgiving, and ice gathered along the shore.
The man could not take his skiff beyond the bay, nor did the ground give up its ware.
But as the days passed, and the woman grew swollen, an uncanny thawing came about.
The frost pulled back from the land, bearing fruit as early as úth Taig.
Then, the ice went out, and the man could fish again.
And there was much to be found.
Each day their baskets were full and their hearth warm. By Túrna, the larder was overflowing, and by Sólarch, the fisherman’s wife had become most ripe.
“Our bountiful blessing.” They called it, and a woodsingr on a passthrough had told them it was a boy.
A son of summer.
On the fourteenth night of Ain Níne came the midwife from the village north, and thus began a fearsome labor.
The woman was near to break and had succumbed to a terrible fever.
She was thick with sweat and red from heat.
Her work was long and excruciating. At the tenth hour, the door to the cottage opened.
“Who comes here at this hour?” cried the fisherman. “By gods, will you not have mercy?”
“It is by the gods we have come.” The woman who stood there was young and beautiful, with ebon hair and deep, dark eyes. She and her cohorts were dressed in black veils and adorned with gold. “I come in service of the king of gods, the Rider of Suns—AEon’Righ.”
The fisher’s wife wept because she knew their purpose.
“You have come for the boy! You cannae take him!” said the man, but the priestess was not deterred.
“See how your wife struggles. She feels the flame of his coming. I can calm her fire.”
The sun priestess went and said prayers over her body.
It was rough work, but within the hour, a healthy baby boy was delivered.
The priestess took him in her arms. His face was ruddy and wrinkled, his hair a mess of earthy black, and with his tiny fist, he held her finger. She smiled at his tight grip.
“Why?” cried the fisherman’s wife. “Why did it have to be my son?”
The sun priestess turned to her and said, “He is not your son; he belongs to the flame. Take your blessings and good fortune. Take this mercy and live long. You may bear other children, yet. But this one was foretold. This one… this one is mine.”
And so the Thrys left the cottage by the sea, carrying the freshly born heir; the new beating heart of Cullach. He was fast asleep in the Sun Matron’s arms, unaware of the world that awaited him.
“We have come all this way to find you, and now you shall return with us home. Let us prepare for your golden throne… Skyre.”
***
There was nothing left of old Lach’Dun but the bones scattered on his pyre.
Skyre waited in the nave of Kaern’Og. The Temple of Eternal Flame sat at the castle’s southern corner.
While its grand tower loomed over Rhyd-hal, its chapel was much more modest. Incense soaked into the wooden rafters, blackened with the scent of pine musk.
A haze of smoke permeated the air, filling the parishioners’ lungs. Or it would have had any yet come.
That morning, Skyre arrived early. He’d missed the vigil for the old king’s honor.
It wasn’t encouraged for a Vaich to attend the burning of his predecessor.
Fire spreads—the adage went—and death’s flame was one they shouldn’t court.
Yet, his exclusion came with remorse. He had known Lach’Dun.
Not well—no Vaich knew another intimately.
But in Skyre’s case, everything had been different.
He stood before the cold altar, gazing down into the ashes.
He could hardly fathom that the bones there now had once made up that indomitable man.
Lach’Dun had walked as tall as a bear, and had the strength of a wild auroch.
When he’d first met him, his wee heart had trembled, but he could remember none of that fear now.
What remained was aching grief.
Jor was right to serve that lashing, both with words and his blade. Skyre should have been there to set the old king’s pyre. He should have said his prayers over him. To speak them to dust… it was far from enough.
Footsteps stirred him to a familiar presence, and the swish of her skirts eased his tender nerves.
“Mirín,” said Medhin, coming forwards, “what troubles my darling boy?”
He said nothing, but needn’t have. The Sun Matron always knew.
“He would not have wished you to mourn. You are Vaich now, it is time to be strong.”
Simply knowing the way things were meant to be never lessened the weight of their hurt. “He showed me kindness, even though he knew I was the harbinger of his demise,” said Skyre, his shoulders sagging beneath the words. “He was the one who should have mourned.”
“Yet, he also knew that soon would come greatness.”
“Is any of that true?” Skyre whispered. “Lach’Dun was a mighty king. His victories against Escgalia willnae soon be forgotten, and the order he kept… it was all undone the moment I took the crown. First Dunn Kennigh, now this singr…”
“Every Vaich has their challenges,” said Medhin. “And we shall settle yours. Things are uncertain now, but trust in your faith. The Sun shines at your back. Remember that.” She shifted, pulling her silk shawl tight. “Morning prayer will soon begin. It may be wise to invite the druid.”
“I cannae see what is wise in that,” said Skyre, crinkling his nose.
“There is a great deal of merit in bringing a wayward soul to enlightenment.”
Skyre wondered if such a thing could be done.
“He’s a heretic, yes, but suppose he can be saved,” Medhin continued. “Regardless, he cannot remain in opposition. You mustn’t let him think he can do what he likes.”
Skyre’s skin wetted over boiling blood. No, he certainly wouldn’t allow that. His predecessors had commanded armies, put down savages, and tethered wild unrest. Skyre couldn’t let one simple-minded druid go unchecked.
He set his jaw and said, “Very well. Send for him at once.”
Morning prayer was reserved for high nobility.
Skyre came when he liked, though found Othrik’s sermons too bleak.
As his court filed into the chapel, they appeared both surprised and eager to see him.
He considered a show of faith might have furthered his image, but there were a hundred better things to do first thing in the morning.
“What a diligent king we have, attending his flock,” Greyv said, sauntering down the aisle. “Speak well of me after I die of boredom.”
Skyre laughed as his friend took the place at his side, but Medhin nodded him down the line.
“Make room,” she said, meriting a look of confusion.
Skyre said, “I've had them fetch the little tree fiend.”
“Really?” Greyv raised his brows. “Whatever for?”
“Why else? To baptize him in fire.”
Greyv flashed him a devious look.
“Here he comes now,” said Medhin.
Skyre glanced up the aisle as the druid was escorted down. His eyes betrayed little emotion and the Vaich wondered if woodwalkers felt anything at all. A twinge of amusement pulled at his lips as the smaller man was brought to stand beside him.
“It gladdens me to see you find culture this morning,” said Skyre. The druid didn’t look at him. “Consider yourself fortunate to be offered a place in my kirk.”
A chorus of chuckles rose from behind him, filling Skyre thick with pride.
“It is strange,” said the druid. “Amongst my folk, offer and command mean two different things.”
Skyre’s smirk twitched. “I cannae well abide a heathen under my roof.”
“It was you who brought me here.”
Finally, the Vaich’s smile fell. Of course he couldn’t go against prophecy—to dare show his people they meant nothing. And they did mean something.
At least… some of them did.
“Out of obligation,” Skyre muttered beneath his breath.
The druid simply sighed. “Hm.”
The Sun Matron shushed them as the high priest took his place at the pulpit. Everyone stood, hands clasped and silent. Othrik’s beady eyes found the druid quickly, but a shake of the Sun Matron’s head urged him not to pursue. Instead, the High Priest cleared his throat and began his sermon.
Skyre’s attention, however, remained otherwise engaged. “Behave yourself and dinnae get any ideas,” he warned quietly.
“I assure you,” said the druid, “I have none.”
“And stand straight!”
“I am plenty straight.”
Still, the druid did not look.
“It’s for your own good, ken,” Skyre said.
“Yes, you would enjoy to think so.”
“Smug little—”
“Shh!” Medhin hissed. “Listen!”
At the front of the nave, there was little privacy. Everything Skyre did would be in full view of his court. So, he trained his ears to Othrik’s lecture, as the priest spun a familiar story.
“On the day of the Crús Crúnach, when AEon’Righ crossed the heavens, he brought with him the golden sun.
And from the flame that split the sky dripped embers which lit a thousand fires.
These became the sacred flames that burn in every village of Cúil Cullach.
For the wise men of the An’Atherin came forth and said—take the blood of the Sun into your home and feed your kiln and forge forever.
Daub your skin with its ash and be clean in the eyes of God!
A great many listened. Indeed, the Eternal Flames still burn today.
Our skins still bear the scent. But others did not heed the words of their ushers. ”
Othrik’s gaze raked the congregation. Skyre felt the burn even when the words, he knew, were not for him.
“From the embers came fell creatures—wights borne of fire punctured by a hundred gaping eyes. The Spréen, they were, and they came in judgement. They stalked the land and to any unbathed in the ash of the Strider’s fire, would spread themselves upon their flesh till naught was left but blackened bones! ”
Skyre had been told of the Spréen since he was a boy. At night, he would hide beneath his blankets, convinced that if he peeked out, he’d see a horde of stinking yellow eyes leering back at him.
“It is just a story,” Medhin would say—a weak attempt to soothe him.
“How do you ken? Have you ever seen the Spréen?”
She smiled. “But of course not. We are true believers.”
Skyre knew better now. After all, if the wights were real, the one beside him would be long dead.
“Bathe!” cried Othrik, and a bowl was brought round, filled with ash from the flame of Kaern’Og. Every man and woman it stopped before dipped their hands within and spread the grey dust upon their skin.
“You see,” said Skyre as the bowl drew near. “If you listened, you’d learn something.”
“Of your cautionary tales of obedience and the justification of slaughter?” the druid replied.
Skyre’s teeth ground. The druid’s defiance scratched at him like sand.
He wished he’d look at him.
The bowl stopped before them, grasped by a ruddy-faced altar boy. The Vaich dipped his hands within and spread the ash over his forearms, then nodded the boy towards the druid.
“Bathe.”
“I will not,” said the druid.
“Bathe.”
The druid did not move. “I have given my answer.”
“How bold can one thing be?” spat Skyre. “And without an ounce of meat to make your point. For something so fragile, one should be more demure.”
For the briefest of moments, the druid seemed interested in what he had to say.
“Am I the fragile one?”
Skyre spun to face him. His fist tightened, but he stilled at the sensation of being watched. Heads turned, throats cleared. The nave filled with awkward shuffling.
Othrik eyed them as he spoke his verses, and the Vaich wrung his fury dry. Once more, he leaned into the druid. “Must I remind you, you are still my subject? You willnae deny my command.”
“No man nor god commands my tongue. Certainly not you.”
“You—”
“An honest king would admit his faults,” said the druid, finally looking up at him. “An honest man would admit his fear.”
The king burned beneath his dusted flesh. All the mirth he’d felt earlier, all the ache in his heart, had been written over by wrath.
He was wrong. The druid didn’t need muscle to be ferocious. And that made him a greater threat.
Skyre brought his lips to the druid’s ear and whispered, “I will bury you before this is done.”
The druid tilted his head and said, “My laird, you do not have a spade.”