Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
The Wolves Den I
The feast hall was rowdy.
Invitations had been sent to every laird in the kingdom, even to those bothersome few away south in Dunn Kennigh. In reply, riders poured into Rhyd-hal from the far corners of the country, bringing gifts to appease the king and make his acquaintance. Every night had become a celebration.
And Skyre enjoyed it.
He was doted upon with tribute and praise, heralded as a vibrant youth returning the sun to its height.
There was music and dancing and the roar of laughter.
Food was piled on golden trays, and there was drink—so much drink.
Wine and ale pooled in jeweled chalices alongside all the mead and meat they could eat.
The noise and tumult allowed Skyre reprieve. In the commotion, he could lose himself amongst his thoughts.
The Reaffirmation was swiftly approaching—what would be the most important ceremony of his reign.
At the ceremony, he would select from his lairds his Aarden Féin, or golden retinue, thus settling his kingsguard.
Less excitingly, he would also be made to hear the lairds’ Testimony of Rule, detailing their leadership under the previous Vaich, and determine who should continue to do so under his new command.
“Men with power become accustomed to power,” Medhin often told him when he was young. “But their complacency does not entitle them to keep it.”
Many lairds were children of longstanding dynasties. They would be expecting their titles upheld. But others courted favor with blood and toil. They would be expecting to be awarded for their efforts. In the end, there was only so much land to go around.
That, however, was some weeks off. For now, there was still time to play.
“They said you would be strong, but no one mentioned handsome.”
Skyre smirked, polishing off another tankard. “Happy to impress.”
The hall was ripe with beautiful women in beautiful gowns, and they all seemed to gravitate towards him.
“Might His Majesty provide a… demonstration?” The woman—a commendable ginger—pinched her lips into a radiant red smile. “A show of force, that is. Perhaps a trial?”
“If it’s a game you want, you need only come by the pitch tomorrow. But if I ken better, I’d say m’lady is eager to judge me tonight.”
She flushed pink. “My king is so candid…”
“Suppose I am. Even if I have all the time in the world, why squander it with small talk?”
“If that’s the case, we ought not mince words at all.”
“Exactly my position. But I’d be happy to see yours.” He teased the lacing above her bosom with the tip of his finger.
“Though…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Is it true His Majesty has taken a queen?”
Skyre felt doused in ice, but fire burned his throat. “He has not. And why should it matter? I am the son of Sun. Is it nae my right to take what I want? Is it you who dictates my appetite?”
“Y-Your Majesty, forgive me!” She looked distraught, and he was desperate to be rid of her. He waved her off before dragging a hand down his face.
“I did not expect to see the blazing Sun himself going cold with fair maidens,” said Greyv, moseying up with a low chuckle. “And just last night they could not throw themselves upon you fast enough.”
Skyre’s eyes flicked towards the tankard in Greyv’s grasp and snatched it up, drinking it down with a heavy gulp.
“Now, now, you can’t drink away that embarrassment.” His friend smiled. “But you could stand to mention the whole ‘Chosen of the Sun, ordained by God’ matter a bit less. Especially as defense for your blighted rutting.”
Skyre groaned. “A true friend would have lain me out.”
“I cannae bite your tongue for you.”
“Fire have me. It’ll be a sore sight if I don’t shore up this business. It isn’t their fault for asking.”
“And more will come,” said Greyv. “But the problem still stands. How will you shore it up?”
Even if Skyre had an answer, he didn’t know that he could give it.
The more people arrived from afar, the further gossip spread.
Before long, all of Cullach would hear the tale of the second prophecy, and, unconfined to his court, he could not command the shape of its impact.
Stories of the Moon Queen were already alive and well.
Try as he might to ignore it, the trouble refused to make itself scarce.
“Do the gods truly know more than we?” Skyre muttered. “They give us their musings and we make messes of it. What is its meaning?”
“Maybe you ought to ask him.”
At first, Skyre didn’t understand the implication, nor why the room had gone still.
The band ceased to play, the laughter died down.
There was no clink of silver nor clamor of dancing feet.
Only murmurs and the crackle of fire. Skyre followed the threads of their gazes to the source, and at once his stomach knotted.
There, beneath the arches, stood the druid, bathed in moonlight.
A silver diadem upon his head. Skyre’s fists tightened, and his throat followed.
He had no commands, no argument, as his guests assessed the newcomer in awe.
Some wrinkled their faces in puzzlement, others in fear, and others, still, made signs of the Sun.
And some, against all judgement, against all consequence, gazed upon that fragile thing… and bowed.
Fury lit Skyre’s bones. He wanted to bellow from his soul. He wanted to come before them and punish their unruly spirits. Where was fealty? Where did their loyalties lie?
Someone spoke, and the words dripped through his veins like poison.
“Chosen of the Moon.”
Eyes descended on him… questioning… seeking answer. Skyre was suffocating. There in his own feast hall, in his own castle, he was drowning amongst the flame.
“And what a picture of pallor he is,” said Greyv from beside him. “We should drink to Our Lady Moon and all her wisdom. And we fine men, meant to sort it all out!”
The room erupted in laughter. They took up their drinks, not in toast, but excitement, and became rowdy once more. They turned away from the druid, and for a moment, seemed to forget him, but he remained. And that, Skyre knew, was on purpose.
“You are a good friend, after all,” he muttered.
“I can’t damn well watch you flounder a second time tonight. Something must be done, Skyre,” said Greyv. “You cannae be left to look the fool twice.”
“I ken it,” Skyre hissed. “But what?”
“He’s entered the den on his own. I say, let the wolves feast upon him.”
He considered that, absently pressing the tankard back into Greyv’s hand. “So be it.”
Skyre had not looked away from the druid, tracking him amongst the crowd. Someone offered him wine. The druid clutched the chalice to his bosom. A less clever man would have thought him meek. But there was nothing meek about his presence.
Skyre stopped before him.
Their last meetings had left much to be desired. And Skyre desired submission. But he knew now such a creature could not be cowed. It would have to be broken.
“I thought I told you to stay out of my sight.” He spoke through grit teeth, the words swept beneath his breath—for the druid, alone.
Those pale eyes held him, and for a moment, Skyre was sure this was some sorcerer.
“Will you order me away?”
When the Vaich said nothing, the druid nodded once.
“Of course.” He glanced at the milling crowd. “They are the tether that binds you. My people know not of courts or kings. But I can see it all so clearly…”
Skyre’s hand snapped out, gripping him by the elbow.
His fingers dug a warning against his skin, but the druid did not flinch, and Skyre pulled him close.
“I am your king. No matter how far-reaching your forests, your kin are not free from my word, and neither are you. I could keep you here for all time—till your bones are dry beneath the dying sky. And should I command it, all those in the wood would suffer, too.”
The druid was still. Neither his body nor eyes resisting. But his voice…
“Your reign is still young, and you treat to eradicate a people who have walked this earth since the days before your god was born.”
Skyre released him. “I will do what I must.”
“What you can,” the druid corrected. “You have not yet devised how to kill me, so you make to kill my spirit. It is not power. It is revenge.”
“Someone ought to puncture that pride of yours. Why shouldn’t it be me?”
“I am not your enemy.”
Skyre nearly laughed. “Your tongue is as poison as your keeper. The Moon works in devious ways; thus, she has borne herself a snake.”
“This was no game of mine.”
Skyre’s attention slid to the silver diadem atop the druid’s head. “And yet, how well you know how to play.” He waved to the buffet. “Eat.” And to the chalice. “Drink.” He threw his arm wide in welcome. “The stage is yours.”