Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
The Consort
The Vaich’s room was bathed in shadow. He lay sprawled amongst the fur and velvet until the drag of the curtains spilled daylight across the stone. Skyre winced, raising a hand to shield his face.
“It is late and still you sleep,” came Medhin’s voice. “You are the son of Sun, not evening!”
He groaned, flopping onto his back. “Let me rest, woman. I’m run ragged.”
“You have appointments to keep. The official declaration must be made.”
“Official declaration?”
“The wedding.” She huffed. “Or have you forgotten?”
“I didn’t…” He sighed, rolling to clutch his pillow. “With the Reaffirmation approaching. I have a lot on my mind…”
“It is perfectly reasonable to expect a man to be able to hold more than one thought in his head.”
That was the problem. He didn’t want to think about it.
For days now, the castle had been busy with talk. Word had spread of the druid’s success at Loch Luin and it brought only more frustration.
Skyre had done everything in his power to avoid accepting the truth.
Unfortunately for him, he had a lot of power.
He’d buried the idea of marriage so deep in his mind that he’d all but convinced himself it was a farce.
The druid made him itch, as if he’d grown on him like a festering wound.
He couldn’t get away, yet kept fighting for some desperate distance.
The Sun Matron tugged at his blankets, following with a swift smack to his ankle. “Get up! The Líaig has come.”
Skyre sat up, dragging a hand down his face. “What?”
“My laird.” The form of a haggard-looking man hobbled through the doorway. He bowed deeply, his knobby legs knocking together between the folds of his robes.
Skyre grimaced.
“I have examined the Queen at your behest.”
“Queen to-be,” Skyre grumbled.
“And?” said Medhin. “Is he fit for purpose?”
Ridiculous. Skyre was sure the druid had never been bed. Even if he had, he couldn’t see why it mattered. Yet, his eyes trained on the medicine man, annoyed by his delay.
“Well?” Skyre snapped.
“The Queen is, indeed, unspoiled.”
His shoulders relaxed and immediately his brows knit. It doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. If the druid had lain with a hundred men, it wouldn’t have changed anything. The marriage was arranged by gods.
The king chewed his tongue.
“However,” the Líaig continued, and at once the Vaich was tense again. “There were some… curious findings.”
“What sort of findings?” Medhin asked.
“The Queen’s blood… it is… peculiar. You see, often the blood will gather. Thicken, rather—it is the way of things. The Queen’s blood, however, remains fresh. And its scent is most sweet.”
“What does any of that mean?” Skyre said. “Suppose he carries some disease?”
“His blood is clean, sire. I can assure you of that.” The Líaig licked his lips.
Putrid.
Skyre wanted nothing more than to wring that look of satisfaction off the healer’s face.
“Then the wedding may proceed,” Medhin said woefully. “Thank you.”
The Líaig bowed himself out, but the Vaich refused to spare him another look. He moved as if hollow, his mind busy with noise.
Most sweet…
Skyre stood over the basin. His reflection was faint and distorted. His mouth twisted and he splashed water over his face.
Nothing about the druid was sweet, yet he was endlessly special. Even his blood was precious.
Which of us is favorite?
The Vaich’s chamberlain came next, piping requests into his ear. Skyre heard nothing but the druid’s words.
Something called me here… it needs me…
Did it not need him, too?
“Just sign here, Majesty.”
Skyre squinted in confusion. “Huh?”
The chamberlain blushed with irritation as Medhin observed hawkishly in the corner. “To recognize the druid as your consort. We need your signature to begin.”
A crash sounded beyond the door and Skyre glanced up as the old priest rushed in.
“My liege! I do not wish to disturb you, but the offense is too much!” Othrik burst between shallow breaths.
“And what offense is that?” Skyre asked.
“The druid, sire.”
“Cré ma nighm!” Skyre snarled. “Is everything to do with him?”
“I caught him in the night, sneaking about the archives.”
“The archives?” Medhin looked baffled.
Skyre stilled. “On his own?”
What could he possibly mean to do there? In any case, Skyre had given him no permission to do so. To think he now had to consider where his blushing bride was slinking off to in the night…
“Such behavior mustn’t go unpunished,” Othrik said. “The savage has no respect for our wares, our dominion, nor yours!”
It was a dangerous edge Skyre walked. To do nothing would embolden already too bold a thing, but to act brashly would neither tether him tighter.
This damned druid.
“Is it not enough that I be made to marry a man, but that he also be a raging, barbarous heathen?” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What would you have me do? We could not even succeed at killing him. How shall we punish him now?”
“He must submit before you! Before the gods!”
“What do we know of the gods?” Skyre snapped. “The only one here with any certainty is the so-called savage!”
“Skyre!” gasped Medhin.
The Vaich didn’t care.
“You can bathe his body. Alter his clothes. Pluck the golden hairs from his head. But you cannot split open a mind to twist its guts.” Skyre fixed the priest with a steady stare. “Even if you force him to speak the words, you will not lay claim to his conviction.”
The priest was red as hot coals. “We shall see how much his mind can handle, as his body is cleansed of sin!”
“You mean to torture my consort?” Skyre’s lips drew back into a snarl. “No.”
The priest quivered in fury.
“You will release him,” Skyre said, wiping his hands on a towel. “But before he goes, do impress upon him the nature of our expectations.”
“The Great Strider makes his demands by fire! Words will not suffice to temper this rogue flame!”
Skyre tossed the towel aside, gesturing the chamberlain forwards with a wave of his hand. The man presented him the contract and quill, and the Vaich signed, pricking his thumb with the pointed tip and smearing his blood across the parchment.
“I have given you my decision,” he said, heading for the door.
“You undermine us all!” Othrik seethed. “He should be—”
“Soon will come the wedding, and if you lay hands on him, everyone at the ceremony shall know.” Skyre stopped at Othrik’s shoulder. “I will marry the druid—consecrated or otherwise. And should you conspire to make me look a monster, I will feed you to the fire myself.”