Chapter 33 #2
“My womb was barren. Too frigid, they said, to house his seed. And nothing ever came to fruition. I was young, then, and yet, my body was withered; my purpose spent before its time.”
She drew away, looking as ashamed as he felt.
“Many things happened after that. Much of it sad, but sometimes wonderful, for the day would come when the Oracle spoke your name. And I felt in my heart she might have spoken it just for me.”
The Sun Matron had never told him of her life before becoming a priestess, so that Skyre could not imagine she had ever had one.
He hadn’t questioned when or how she had come to the Thrys, and it dawned on him how little he knew.
Why hadn’t he asked? Why had it never occurred before?
How much of herself she had devoted to him, and he hadn’t, for a moment, considered her.
“They asked me to rear a king,” Medhin said quietly. “What I raised was my son. It is not a thing you can fail.”
But he had.
And it hadn’t happened during the ceremony.
His heart wanted to crawl into his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
He shook his head. “I have, and I would do better, but I… don’t know where to begin. Always you have led—my hands… my feet… my heart. I dinnae ken where to stand. I dinnae ken how to walk.”
She wasn’t privy to his thoughts. She couldn’t see inside his pain. And so, she gave him counsel.
“It matters not what happened in that chamber, for what the people see is on full display. And appearances are everything. Let them see your union. Let them see.”
Thus, he gave himself over to charade once more.
A ring was to be made. They said it should be silver, with a pearlstone for the Moon, to match the gold of the Vaich’s own.
But queens did not carry stones.
A compromise, had said the royal artisan. And so came the breaking of amber.
Skyre’s signet was given over and his stone was split in two.
One half was remounted upon his golden ring.
The second was taken by the alchemists, treated with substances to drain its color, then fixed upon a silver band, woven into elegant plaits.
It was small and feminine; the perfect bride to the king’s ring.
It was cool against his palm as he came before that door.
Voices echoed inside; a banter usual for the mornings.
“How absurd you are!” said Lady Cearnathán. Her sound was always sharpest.
The druid was never loud in reply.
Skyre had learned in very short time, the druid was a particular thing. He was oft quiet, even when accosted. He rarely frowned, and would rarer pout. The king had never heard him laugh.
When he opened the door, the scene that greeted him was familiar: the druid stood before the hearth, with his hands full of biscuits, and there was the noblewoman—far less elegant—with her hands full of shoes. “You’ll put them on or you won’t eat for a week!”
Skyre’s brow quirked, and the druid, as if connected by a thread, turned his gaze upon him. He said nothing in defense. Nothing in demand. He simply waited, silent, and the king sighed.
“Lady Cearnathán.”
The woman froze, then chuckled nervously. “A jest, of course! Our sweet Queen is so childlike. It is darling—really darling! He detests his stockings…”
“You may leave them,” said Skyre.
She looked defeated, but sat the shoes and stockings upon the chest and came to curtsy before him. “Your Majesty.” She went out swiftly, leaving Skyre to his bride.
That room was full of unwanted memories and unruly people. The Vaich glanced scathingly at the empty bed and to the table where a tray of fresh pewter dishes sat.
He shivered.
The druid continued to watch him, chewing his biscuits unbothered. The stockings lay like a neglected offering, and Skyre passed them, resigned.
“You prove difficult, even now,” he said.
“I do not enjoy it,” the druid said simply, and returned his rolls to the tray. “I do not like to be made to wear them. You could tell the girl to let it be.”
“That isn’t how things are done here.”
“Things here are done on your word. Or so it should be.”
It was a half-truth. They both knew that.
“If you do not wear your shoes, you will be dirty.”
“What is the matter with dirt?” The druid considered him a moment. “Why do you come, still?”
“You ken why. We must be seen to take our meals together.”
“Though you needn’t come yourself.”
“Is it my escort you dislike?” asked Skyre, roughly.
“I neither like nor dislike it. But I very much dislike the shoes.”
Skyre rubbed his temple. The girl was right; the queen was childlike.
“I will have something… less confining made for you,” said Skyre.
The druid did not look pleased… or so he could only suppose.
Skyre approached him, which did not elicit response. He had not made peace with it. He expected the druid to flinch at his presence, to cower at his word. Every time he reached for him, he waited for him to coil back.
It never came, and there was no peace.
“I have… something for you,” he muttered.
The druid tilted his head. “Yes?”
Skyre held out his hand, and upon his palm sat the ring.
“More things to wear,” said the druid.
The Vaich tensed.
“Take it,” he said sternly, pushing the ring onto his finger, “and put on your shoes.”