Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
The Bride
Many stories belonged to that world, but perhaps none told more than hers. Skyre had heard it a thousand times since boyhood, and each telling seemed to change.
The story began a thousand years before, in the Ere of Fog and Mist. In the dim of the elder world, there lived a humble witch. Some say she was born of moonlight. Others, that she was simply a girl with strange, silver eyes. She spoke of a light no man had seen, and the villagers feared her name.
Nythis.
She said things came to her in the night—radiant visions of a glorious king. But none knew such peculiar words and so, they hid her away.
“He will come, he will come,” she said in her sleep, and in waking she minded the sky.
“A raving lunatic,” said many a man. Quiet others pondered her words. Cursed, they called her, but they gave her power a name—Dream.
No one had ever dreamed before, and none could make sense of her ramblings. That was, until that Sólarch when true summer was made.
The legend said that the witch walked out to the hilltop over the fields.
She raised her hands to the cold grey dawn and stood—a pale ghost before a sea of wheat.
That morning the King of kings strode across the heavens.
His fire made the sky a molten river, like a crucible spilled between the clouds.
The Cullain gazed upon the vibrant sun, burning amber for the first time in their lives.
The grey mist and fog dispersed and warmth brushed at their skin.
A blessing, they said, was the advent of God, and the woman who had dreamt him.
This was the day she had prophesied, and none could refute her power, nor the favor she’d been shown. And thus she was ascended, chosen as his eyes.
They called the seer “Oracle.” They called her Mistress Moon. And she followed in the shadow of his light.
For the only one to see AEon’Righ was forever the sun god’s bride.
***
“Reckless.”
The Sun Matron’s pacing footsteps were a distant echo to the Vaich’s hollow thoughts.
Skyre slumped in his chair, one shoulder pulled heavily to the side.
His eyes dug into the floor, seeing nothing but her shadow passing monotonously through the pool of sunlight that gathered in the dust. She continued to pace.
He continued adrift, absently spinning the golden ring around his knuckle.
Once. Twice. His thumb brushed the amber stone.
We will wed.
“You should have spoken with me!” she burst. “You should have consulted—”
“I did as you wished.”
“Not like this,” Medhin growled. “The announcement should have been primed. There is a process to these things! The Vaich’s engagement is no trivial affair.”
His fingers curled into a fist. “What difference does it make? The people know the druid is to become Consort. Now they are too busy speaking of weddings to question matters of prophecy. Exactly as you wanted.”
Medhin stopped her pacing. “The difference is in this dance, you must always lead the steps. Twenty years, have I taught you nothing?”
His lips pressed.
“No.” She scoffed. “Nothing is settled. Now that the people are expecting a marriage, they will require its truth.”
Othrik, who had been standing silently aside the hearth, stepped forwards, hand tight on his codex. “The question of His Majesty’s virility will need to be addressed.”
Skyre’s chest tightened. “I am plenty virile.”
Othrik lifted his chin. “It is important that the Vaich demonstrate his measure in the siring of children. The matter of the male druid makes your display all the more pertinent.”
Skyre gripped the armrests. “Then go speak with the Moon and renegotiate my bride.”
“Skyre,” Medhin scolded. “Othrik is right. The Moon Consort is not like queens of the past. However, the union must be properly executed. Thus, you will treat it with due respect. After some time, we will consider the pursuit of outside matches—suitable courtesans who can bear the Vaich’s seed forth. ”
“This is a fool’s charade,” Skyre grumbled.
“It is the lot we were given. We will proceed as the gods have ordained.”
“Ordained,” he repeated, bitterly. What they wanted couldn’t be more uncertain, but what he knew was this: if the gods had wished him a wife, they would have sent him a woman.
The An’Atherin’s facade was nothing more than wishful thinking. He could see it in their eyes. Fear. The prospect of all the world shifting beneath their feet.
“Then let us discuss the nature of the marriage,” said Othrik. “It is not to be ignored the bride’s… conviction. The An’Atherin will not recognize the heathen as a worthy spouse until some conditions have been met.”
Skyre said, “You speak of divine mandate, then question the woodwalker’s faith?”
“The druid is a heretic unblessed by the fires of the Sun. If he will not recognize AEon’Righ as king of gods, then he is an affront to these halls!”
“It is because of the gods we are in this mess!” shouted Skyre.
The priest’s face reddened, but before he could argue, a figure stepped out from the shadow.
“Might I offer some solution?” It was Hirí, the Nytherim’s elected Speaker.
With the Oracle returned to the Augeri, the priestess was his only thread to the Moon. Skyre watched her warily, but his interest grew. “Very well,” he said, “speak.”
“The consort should be treated as Nytherí. While his devotion to the old gods proves disruptive, he may be more easily brought within our ranks. If he undergoes the Luin Cáronach, his mettle shall be tested by the Night Mistress herself. And should he emerge, he will be wholly cleansed; his body made pure for the Vaich.”
“And it could just as well kill him,” Medhin rebutted. “Most who undergo the lunar trials do not survive.”
Hirí smiled. “In both cases, victory persists. If he dies during the trial, it will be a consequence of divine retribution. If he emerges, then he will be worthy of the Vaich’s bedside.”
Skyre glanced between the two women, remembering a faraway past. “Do not give idly to the Nytherim,” Medhin had told him.
And he, a boy at her hip, had asked, “But Nythis is a goddess, mustn’t she be trusted?”
“Nythis was once a woman, mortal as I. She was beloved of AEon’Righ and granted the power of prophecy.
But the nature of man is fallible and must always be held to a different measure.
We take care not to let the Night Mistress grow bold.
While the Sun rides in glory across the sky, his bride deals in shadow. ”
“You play a dangerous game,” Medhin warned the Speaker.
“If the gods will it,” said Hirí, “what right have we to refute the Chosen of the Moon?”
Skyre considered the words. If the druid lived, there would no longer be question if he was favored by the gods. Just as AEon’Righ had elevated Nythis, so too would the druid be made sacred. Yet, if he were judged and failed, he would be altogether eradicated without the fell of the blade.
He would be…
Skyre’s words crawled through a sandy throat. “Does this solution appease the An’Atherin?”
Othrik looked reluctant, his pale lips pulled taut. “We shall consider it. If the druid survives.”
If.
“The trials of Nythis are no simple matter,” whispered Skyre. “It is likely we send him to a watery grave.”
A knot twisted in the pit of his stomach. To rid himself of the druid… he wished for nothing more. But as he sat with the prospect, all his bite and bark went quiet.
“Be gone,” he said to the room. One by one, they bowed and left, leaving him alone with the empty hearth.
His thoughts again went hollow. His mouth was dry with the words he could not speak. But in his mind, he knew…
To send a vessel to its death made true their flesh. If one could be commanded and judged as man, then the favor they were afforded was nothing but a fragile illusion.