Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
The Bells
His life had changed in a night of fire; now, he awoke to a world of ice.
Skyre made his way down the corridor. Every smiling face spoke words he could not hear. Hands found his shoulders, lips moved in silent praise. But he moved beneath a churning sea, his ears full of water.
The bells of Kaern’Og rang at sunrise.
“The king has been married. Hooray! Hooray for the Vaich!”
All the city was merry. The shops were closed and their keeps drunk before midday. The elder Aards rode parade in the bailey.
But the king could not revel. He did not dance. Nor drink. Nor spend his day in bed. He smiled not. He laughed not. And when he held their congratulations, it dripped out from the holes inside his skin.
Memory lashed at him... Salacious visions of that altar room… The druid’s panting body and unbreakable tongue.
Skyre stopped before a familiar door.
Prayers would be held till sunfall and the temple was not to be disturbed.
He pushed it open.
Inside, hooded heads perked up. The sallow faces of old men gazed back at him.
Skyre’s attention fell on one.
“You.”
Othrik hauled himself to his feet, balking at the Vaich with wild eyes. “My liege, entering now is unacceptable, even for you!”
“I ought to have you whipped,” Skyre hissed.
Caught between fury and embarrassment, the old priest rushed between the pews.
In his youth, he might have been more intimidating.
But with age had earned a hunched back and stiff legs.
The top of his head only cleared the Vaich’s shoulder, and so when Skyre stepped forwards, the priest took one step back.
“I told you not to touch him. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? What do you take me for?”
“My king—”
“Don’t speak!” Skyre fisted the front of his cloak. “What is my word to you? If you were any other man, I would have them hang you from the cliffs!”
“My loyalties remain to the Sun. And I shall not stray from my path.” Othrik’s voice was even. He wore the look of a martyr—the defiance cut at Skyre’s skin.
“And you think I am disloyal?” he spat.
“You could not even complete the ceremony!" Othrik roared. Skyre released him, stunned. “There should be no simpler task for a man, and yet your showing ended in mockery! No, my liege, you are not disloyal, just a boy playing king.”
His skin crawled with rage, but the white-hot memory of that altar stone left him speechless and cold.
“You are not the first Vaich to fumble,” Othrik continued. “Alas, we must rectify your shameful mistakes. But do not forget who holds sway here—you bear his power in your very name!”
Skyre’s fingers dug into his palm.
“I am still Vaich.”
“I answer to He before you.”
The air thickened.
Othrik turned, waving a young priestess over. “Escort the Vaich upstairs and ensure that he does his duty. When he has finished, take his spend out for the crops.”
“I’m not—” Skyre burst, but Othrik held up a gnarled hand.
“You would not wish all of Cullach to think you impotent?”
Skyre glared.
“Of course not. Now, go upstairs and finish the task. A Vaich’s seed must drench the land, for by its grace our fields are made fertile.”
The Vaich’s throat was dry. He wanted Othrik hauled off. He wanted him beaten bare on a stage. Then maybe… maybe he would know what it felt like to be a king.
The thought drove Skyre from the room, not in defeat, but shame. It wasn’t Othrik he hated. It wasn’t that he’d been defied. It was the fact that strips of his skin were being sheared away, and he felt raw and bloody with every breath.
“My Vaich?”
He turned, seeing the priestess shadowing him, expectant eyes hidden behind her veil. That’s how they all saw him—through bars of silk. A caged animal on parade.
“Shall I aid you?”
“No,” he growled. “I’m perfectly capable—”
He stopped before his apartment door. The druid was within, still resting. He could not face him again. Instead, he glanced down the corridor. He wanted someplace private. Not so simple in a fortress full of drunks.
But if the druid was in his room, then…
“You stay here,” he muttered to the priestess. “I’ll bring it to the Thrys myself.”
He made his way to the southwest wing.
Skyre had never been in the druid’s chambers—never seen the place in which he’d forced the wildling to reside. To its credit, the room was comfortable and rivaled the Vaich’s in size.
It was empty. The hearth was cold. And the curtains had been pulled closed. Narrow ribbons of golden sunlight streaked between them. It was a beautiful day outside Rhyd-hal’s undented armor. But within was a screaming silence.
Skyre stepped softly, afraid of being noticed by the quiet. He took in the rumpled blankets, the discarded clothes. A bowl of half-dried silver paint sat on the table. The same paint he had scrubbed from the druid’s skin.
On the nightstand was a melted chamberstick and an empty pewter cup that smelled faintly of flowers. The druid always smelled of flowers. Skyre couldn’t name a single one, but thought his scent was always sweet, as if the druid spent mornings wading in fields of fresh blooms.
It wasn’t true, of course.
Every morning, he woke up there. In that very bed.
Skyre’s fingers grazed the linen sheets. He brought them to his nose. It smelled of him; that same floral note. Unknowable. Undeniable.
He could see the druid’s face. Every inch of his ghostlike complexion like the suds upon the sea. Those spectral eyes spoke all the words the druid refused to say. He wished, just once, he could see them smile.
The wine had long thinned in the Vaich’s blood, but the thought of the druid was enough to make him ache.
Skyre had slept with maybe a hundred women, and his knuckles whitened as he forced their memory to his mind.
But no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t remember any of them.
Their faces were blurs, the nights he’d spent with them like overheard stories—unremarkable things that had happened to someone else.
But the memory of the druid was relentless.
He could still see him upon the altar, pinned and offered like a sacrament, and nausea curled in his belly alongside something else.
Something far more cruel.
He forced himself to relinquish the sheets he’d bunched in a death grip. He fumbled with his belt, feeling the stiffness in his pants. The copper button slipped loose and once freed, he gripped himself firmly at the hilt, as if he could force the blood back into his body.
Skyre cursed under his breath, bracing against the bedside table. What was he thinking coming here? That damned druid was all he could picture. He wanted him out of his thoughts, out of his mind forever. He wanted to forget their wedding night like he had forgotten every other.
It shouldn’t have mattered. He should have fucked him and been done with it. So why did he feel this way now?
Skyre bit back a groan, sanding over himself in rough strokes.
It was all just ceremony. Pointless pageantry that meant nothing. And the druid… the druid…
His cock thickened beneath his palm.
It should have been a night of passion. He should have spent hours on that altar till the An’Atherin had gathered enough eld to satisfy their rite. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wished he couldn’t taste the druid on his lips.
With a gasp, his body tightened, and he scrambled for the first receptacle he could find.
The druid’s pewter cup.
Skyre hissed between his teeth as he released inside it. The seconds passed, miserable and slow, till he’d emptied himself fully. But was no less full of shame.
He shoved the cup back onto the table and collapsed against the bed, covering his face with his hands.
When had he become so pathetic?
To think of a man in the midst of…
He groaned again, this time in agony, his fingers gripping at his raven strands.
This damned druid.
As he lay there, the bells of Kaern’Og rang again in celebration. A glorious cacophony that drowned out his panting breaths.
Skyre had imagined glory. He had imagined his spotless rule. But his hand trembled when he passed the pewter cup to the priestess. She bowed deeply and went off without a word, leaving the Vaich to his reverie.
He knew not how long he stood outside that door, reluctant to return to his bedroom. He might have stood there till nightfall, but a familiar voice pierced his thoughts.
“Mirín?”
The Sun Matron looked sickly; the tan hue of her skin drained away. He hadn’t seen her since the ceremony, and hated to see her now.
Skyre turned away, hiding his eyes, afraid of what she might see.
“Why have you come?” he asked. “To announce your disappointment?”
“You know that I could not,” she whispered.
“No?” He laughed, but it came out as a strangled cry. “I was your only task. And now I’ve shamed you. A life’s work dashed against the rocks. It’s embarrassing…”
She didn’t come closer. She didn’t speak. He felt the silence on his skin.
“Will they speak poorly of you?” he whispered. “If they do, I’ll—I swear, I’ll hang them—”
“Even if they did, I should not care,” she said, turning his face to hers. “You, Skyre, could never disappoint me.”
He held her hand to his cheek, feeling her warmth on his face. “I wanted to make you proud.”
Her expression softened, her eyes as deep as the sea. “I never told you, but… I was married once myself.”
His thoughts stumbled at her words. “Married? I thought that—”
“That it is forbidden? Aye, priestesses of the An’Atherin must wed themselves to the Sun. Alas, my union was born and broken before I was committed to the abbey.”
“Broken? Then, your husband… he…?”
She smiled, but it was small and heavy. “It was an unhappy thing. And he unfulfilled. I could not give what he wished for most.” Her long fingers carded through his ink-stained strands. “What we both wished.”
Longing ebbed in her eyes, her voice wistful for a time that never was.