Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
The Altar
Righnach’Dúir.
The Den of Sacred Flame.
When an heir of Sun was born, he was taken deep into the wood and there he was raised amongst the Thrys. It would be twenty summers before he would see the world outside again.
All his life, the budding Vaich would know only those chosen by his maternal caretakers.
His friends, his mentors, all carefully selected at the behest of the Sun God himself—or so it was professed.
The Thrys’ word was law, for in their bosom was the kingdom’s sunlit seed, and it was their duty to see him raised with all the vitality of a man.
And for many years, they had done so.
Skyre was now fifteen summers. Most his daytime was spent training, sparring and working in the yard. Afternoons were for lessons on history and strategy. And the evenings were for bathing and tending. A king he was to be, but he was not excused from menial chores.
That evening, he had been late fitting Saorla’s shoes.
She was a sturdy destrier now, and he would often take her riding down the path to the lake at the east. It was as far as they were allowed to go, but it gave him some freedom and let the mare stretch her strong legs.
They’d spent many years together already, though one grew much faster than the other.
Still, he was diligent in maintaining her good condition.
One day, she would be his war mount, his carrier and queen; thus, the responsibility of her care fell squarely on his shoulders.
He was exhausted that night and carried his satchel and hammer back in the dark.
The encampment was quiet. It was a quaint village of wooden roundhouses, with high, thatched roofs wafting out smoke in the nighttime.
During the day, the camp would be filled with busy máraigh.
They cared for the goats and the sheep, as well as cooking and laundering, and whatever other tasks needed done.
They prayed often and spoke little, aside from the Sun Matron, and those assigned to his tutelage.
By night, most had returned home, leaving only the fading flames of small lanterns to light his path.
Skyre dropped his tools and boots by the door, pushing through the hide. He had grown accustomed to a level of privacy. Now that he was getting older, he had his own house, separated from the Sun Matron’s watchful eye. But tonight…
Tonight was different.
He went still with sensation—a tingling at the back of his neck—and his eyes immediately found her.
There, across the room, was a woman. Dressed in black, she was Thrys, certainly, but unfamiliar to him.
She was young, though, noticeably older than him, and unsurprisingly beautiful, as the máraigh often were.
He glanced towards the door, then back at her.
She watched him, saying nothing and not moving.
“W-who…?” His brow pressed into a frown. She sat comfortably upon his bed, her nails tracing patterns in the fur.
“Evening, my laird.” Her voice was like birdsong, her lips inviting. His eyes flickered to the stretch of skin at her shoulder, revealed by the sagging of her unfastened gown. He glanced back to the door, drawing the flap closed with a sharp yank. But his fingers remained, dug into its skin.
“No need to be nervous,” she said, leaning upon her palms. The silk snaked further down, revealing the curve of a plump breast. “You’re not in any trouble.”
“Does Máta know you’re here?”
Her words came softly. “Yes.”
He hesitated. “Did she… send you?”
“Yes.”
The young heir swallowed hard.
It was like a vision. She moved with the grace of a fox, shifting from the sheets. In a moment, she was before him, her hands curling over his shoulders. “You are tense, my laird. Coiled tight from your training. But here you can relax.”
His throat was dry, but his lips were wet. She was taller than he, but still small, her whippet waist drawing his fingers near.
“It’s alright,” she whispered. “You can touch me.”
Sweat gathered on his skin. His cheeks heated with an unfamiliar fury. He felt a stiffness—the blood gathering in his loins—and his breath grew ragged as she leaned into his ear. “You can do whatever you’d like.”
“R-really?”
With a reassuring smile, she took his hand, leading him to the bed. They lay together, and his mind spun faster. His eyes locked hungrily on hers.
“Anything you want, my king. Whenever you want.”
She guided his hands to her skirts. She helped him slide them up.
He’d never seen a woman bare before. All his life, he’d been surrounded by their grace and guile, but never had he been led to touch them.
His fingers ached. His body filled with fire.
She kissed him. It tasted sweet. He enjoyed it, and he wanted to enjoy her, but his mind worked against him.
She kissed him again. Her lips were teases that became instructions and he was eager to follow.
It was clumsy, and messy, and impatient, but she was true to her word.
He was allowed anything. And everything.
It went on that way for years. Thoughtless and yet purposeful.
As he grew older, so too did his palate, and he was offered more women.
They seemed to come like clockwork, whenever he desired, as if all of it was intended.
No children ever came of the unions, leading Skyre to believe their arrangements had been predetermined.
Under the illusion of choice, he had been offered only what he was allowed to imbibe.
But that was the function of the Thrys: to grow a boy into a man, and from a man into their king.
***
It would begin at last light.
The sun leaked beyond the horizon; the final vestiges of gold swallowed by blue.
Rhyd-hal was quiet.
Gone were the hoots and hollers of partygoers. Gone were the bards and the songs. Gone was the scent of mead and mutton. Gone was the fire in his heart. Skyre felt emptied out. All his fervor and frivolity had left him, and only slow, worrisome wonder remained.
They fed him wine laced with herbs; filled him till he was red with it, then fed him more still. He thought of the druid in his chamber across the castle. They went about their days, different…. and the same. Never meeting, yet connected by a thread. And as night came, they entangled.
They were stripped and painted. The Vaich in golden sigils of the Sun; the druid in silver seals of the Moon. Their eyes, their lips, their fingers were covered, and then they were dressed again in mantles of fur and silk—stag and wolf.
The wine burned through him, but it did not warm. It did not ease the pressure mounting against the back of his skull. Skyre flexed his fingers; the gold had already dried upon his skin. It clung to his lips, to the hollow of his throat, to the ridges of his knuckles like a brand.
The prayers were said. For their coming; for their going.
The procession led him downward to the temple of Kaern’Og, to the altar room of the Eternal Flame, where beneath the blazing image of the Sun waited the vicar of the An’Atherin.
The air stunk of incense, dripped through swaying censers.
And at the center was a stone slab, smoothed from centuries of use.
Skyre could not linger on it and turned away.
This was meant to be another link within his shining chain.
But all his hopes had been twisted and turned into display.
His eyes followed along the rounded walls where had gathered the Thrys and beside them, Othrik and the priests observed with stern posture.
There were veterans of the old Féin—Rask and his ilk, and some elders from court.
It was both familiar… and foreign. All of these people…
those who had been with him since the moment he’d first taken breath…
now come as executioners to his slow death.
Where was the power that was promised? Where was the might of the Sun? Where was his pleasure, his measure, his worth?
It all came down to this.
Stone scraped the floor as the doors opened, throwing torchlight over the altar.
Every head turned—Skyre’s was no exception.
And there he saw him. Small and lithe, his flaxen hair in pale droves beneath his veil.
He looked as if glass, entirely unbroken, and Skyre’s throat constricted at the idea of him shattering.
The wine clotted in his veins. His skin burned.
He wanted to press himself to that icy flesh.
The druid was silver as the moon and he was…
beautiful. Not in the way soft things were beautiful.
But as the night and the frost and the whisper of mercy.
This wasn’t a wedding—Skyre understood far too late.
It was a reckoning.
The druid came silently, his white hands tucked within his wedding gown. On his crown rested a glittering circlet, and a mask of iron framed his eyes, its hanging pearls veiling his small, pursed mouth. He had no guide, no escort. He brought himself beside the Vaich, and then there they were.
Together.
For the smallest moment, his pale eyes rose, watching the king not in fear, nor sorrow, but something far less forgiving. That look flayed pieces deep inside him, but he could do nothing as the vicar came before them.
It was soundless.
The priest took their hands and bled them with a branch of thorns. And as their blood dripped down, he spoke, "In sight of the fire that burns eternal, beneath the eyes of the king who raised the sun. We join these two together in soul…”
Their skin was slick as it was bound. The twine wound tight, the knot sealed firm. Skyre felt the slow thrum of the druid’s pulse against his torn palm.
“Flesh to flesh, blood to blood. What was separate now made whole.”
He could not look at him.
“By branch and vow, by seed and sacrifice, by the will of gods and men…”
His golden eyes flicked out to the watchers. Their gazes pressed down upon his neck.
“Now wedded in name.”
Weak.
“Wedded in fate.”
Bound in gold and silver, tied in fire and night, locked in a battle neither of them could fight.
“I name thee, Cerys Cillchéinn.” The twine pulled loose. “Consort of the Sun.”
All of Cullach held its breath. Waiting… waiting for…
Skyre’s fingers dared to tremble, and so he set them against the druid’s face—pristine but a faint mark upon his flushed cheek.
Those crystalline orbs beheld him once and for all, and every unuttered fear reflected back at him. And they were his own. The druid, unshaken, did not blink once, as if to hold his truth against him. And Skyre hated him for it. Hated the blood rushing through his loins.
He tilted the druid’s face to the torchlight, parting the pearl veil with the slip of his thumb. His teeth ground with fury. Silence screamed in his ears. But he forced himself forwards, pressing their lips together.
The druid tensed within his grasp, his lips parting in a smothered gasp. Skyre pulled back and whispered the words, “Why didn’t you run?”
He tugged him towards the center of the room, his vision blurring with each step. His senses frayed, splitting between past and present—every word he’d ever heard whispered in his ear.
The man who will live forever.
The boy who will be king.
The druid braced before the altar, his face filling with recognition.
The thread that bound them pulled taut as the truth of their fate sat cold.
Skyre moved as if through honey, his fingers finding the small of his back and guiding him to his knees.
All eyes in that room were upon him and the weight of them… the weight of it all…
Chosen of the Sun.
He hiked the druid’s gown above his hips.
The smaller man’s fingers scratched against the stone, a gesture Skyre could not ignore.
He covered the druid’s hand with his own, pressing it flat against the surface.
They spoke nothing and the quiet ached. Once more, his gaze flickered to the watching crowd, then back to the druid’s gentle form, open and tempting and…
He pushed himself inside, finding it smooth and tight.
The druid gasped sharply, his fingers arching beneath Skyre’s palm.
That moment… that sound etched itself upon his heart.
His eyes closed in a wince, and bile filled his throat.
His fingers trembled still, and so he fastened them against the druid’s waist, holding him steady as he set a deep pace.
The druid’s shoulders, too proud, refused to drop, but his head fell forwards, the pearls of his mask clicked together with every thrust.
Disgust churned in Skyre’s belly, but he didn’t stop.
He couldn’t. His body craved like a man starved.
His hips drove forwards, his lips wetting with lust. The taste of wine was on his tongue.
He didn’t stop. Even as the druid weakened.
Even as he went slack beneath his hold. Not till it was complete, and he hilted himself deep, and with a pained groan, released.
The druid tensed once more, and the moment he was free, collapsed upon the altar, lips parted around slow breaths. Skyre’s exhales left ragged, his eyes shifting from the druid’s shrouded face to the thin trail of blood between his legs.
Skyre could hear himself snapping. All his bones splintering, all his muscles torn.
All at once… he broke.
“Get out,” he muttered to the room. When no one moved, he spoke again, this time, a growling roar. “Get out!”
“Sire,” said the vicar. “The ritual is not yet—”
Skyre turned his burning gaze upon him. “Go.”
A murmur rose and died, and one by one they filtered out. The last to leave were Rask, whose eyes were like heavy stones, and Medhin, who watched him in sorrow.
“Go!” he shouted again, until the chamber was empty but for the smoke and the smell and the two of them. The druid lay still upon the altar, his silver gown in disarray; his body shivering despite the heat.
Skyre knelt, lifting the druid’s head.
“Speak, druid,” he whispered. “Speak! For god’s sake!” There was a long, dragging moment, and still the druid was silent. Skyre grit his teeth. “You chose this! I told you to go! I would have let you run!”
His voice echoed off the walls, burning and cutting at his skin. His shoulders shuddered; his chest tightened. And then, he heard it.
“Will you listen now?”
Skyre stared in disbelief, and the druid gazed up at him.
“You…?”
“I have dreamt pale ships upon our shores. Something is coming. Something I believe we were chosen to stop.”