Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Favor
Rhyd-hal was alive with fresh excitement. The bells rang and the corridors filled with eager nobles.
The day of the Reaffirmation had come.
Lady Cearnathán was subdued that morning, dressed in her finest gown and jewels.
She led the druid to a grand hall bustling with throngs of guests.
The ceiling was so high and the room so wide that even five hundred people might have seemed like mice there.
It was cavernous, crowned by high arching windows, and yet somehow just as suffocating as the rest of the fortress.
The druid watched blackbirds fluttering about the rafters, and envy grew in him.
The feeling deepened as a familiar unease crept into his bones.
His eyes found them quickly—those sallow men in ebon robes.
The Dunns’ attention followed him like an incantation.
Even displaced from the south, the acrid scent of wickedness wafted on their breath.
“Come along!” snapped Ruicá, pressing him through the crowd.
The guests observed curiously. Some afforded him a humble nod, others a deep bow.
“May Your Majesty’s favor smile upon us.”
A man kissed his hand. “To the Moon’s wisdom.”
Ruicá seemed perturbed by this and quickly made it known. “They only court you for the Vaich’s favor.”
He didn’t need her to tell him that.
The noblewoman was jostled, surely, but he thought there was fear, also, beneath her prideful veneer. “Perhaps you are uncertain if your family shall keep its claim.”
“Of course I’m not!” she burst.
Without a doubt, a lie.
The hall echoed with a hundred mutters, and a voice called to him.
“My dear, won’t you come here? I’m inspired to make introductions.” It was Hirí, her sparkling gaze beckoning him across the room.
“Best of luck to you,” he said to Ruicá in spite of her scowl, and went to the priestess’ side.
She stood with an unfamiliar man, bearing a dark scar across one half of his face. From his hulking stature, he was certainly a warrior, and well-weathered at that.
“Here he is, our Moon Chosen. Quite the spectacle, isn’t he?” Hirí beamed.
“I heard the Vaich’s consort was a woodwalker, but I hadnae believed it till now.” His voice was like the echo of thunder over an open plain.
“This is Nacht, a war holler from Annath,” said the priestess.
“Annath,” said the druid. “I have heard much of your ilk. The Vaich speaks highly of your skills.”
“If my reputation precedes me, I’d rather it be kenneled,” said the holler. “I’ve no interest in being made into myth.”
The druid considered that. “Suppose I might whisper to my husband of your poor quality.”
Nacht looked momentarily bemused, then chuckled. “That would be no small kindness.”
A kindling of familiarity brewed inside his heart.
“The Vaich is eager. Though… I believe there is a willingness to do good.” The druid’s eyes found the Vaich, delighted as he often was, amongst the crowd. “I have hope that his choices are for the betterment of us all. Thus, I’ll not mind his stumbling, so long as he faces the wind.”
“You are wise as your Mistress,” said the holler, and the druid blinked up at him.
“Indeed,” said Hirí, happily. “Our Lady of Moon is shrewdest of all.” Nacht nodded a bow and went off to join his men. Hirí, still smiling, linked her arm with the druid’s. “So pleasant you are at court! The true calling of a queen.”
“Honesty is an effective charade.”
She giggled. “The more people know of you, the more they will come to love you. The more power you will hold.”
He dug his tongue between his teeth. There was truth to her words, which he could not deny—he needed people who would listen. After all, his purpose lay beyond the court.
“Then, Her Grace might acquaint me with potential friends.”
Hirí’s smile slipped into a smirk. “Spoken like a true Nytherí.”
“I am not Nytherí.”
She didn’t argue, but he was bothered all the same.
“Ah! Here comes the Vaich now! Maetr thí, Your Majesty.” She curtsied as the king approached.
“Making yourself known amongst the kiern, are you? A bold strategy,” said the Vaich.
“One would think you’d appreciate my effort,” said the druid. “Or would you prefer my silence?”
“The Queen makes a profound impression,” said Hirí. “Suppose the River Beast has warmed to your cause.”
“Is it so?” wondered the Vaich. “It was my understanding the Béig úil had no interest in being Aard.”
“Since when does a warrior tell his king what is best for him? Many a man would kill for the honor. Unless he hesitates beneath his master…”
“What do you imply, Speaker?” said the Vaich darkly.
“Nothing at all! You are a king beyond all compare! And he is a warrior just as mighty. You only need prove your command.”
The druid gave her a sharp look, his stomach knotting at the priestess’ honeyed words. “To do so would risk his loyalty entirely,” he said, curtly.
“You cannot deny what a powerful pairing it would make,” she continued.
“If he does not wish it, you will sow more loyalty by respecting his choice,” argued the druid.
"It is your decision, my liege. But it is a defining one,” Hirí said.
The druid glared, but her smirk was immovable.
“The hour grows long, I shall take my place, and you your own. I wish my Majesties a happy day!” With that, she went off, the druid’s venomous gaze following in her wake.
He turned back to the Vaich, seeing his golden eyes steeped in thought.
“You should not consider such things. This is a ceremony of diplomacy, not strength.”
The Vaich gave him a look. “As if you understand either.”
“I understand enough. If you wish to be a mightier king—”
“Then this will make me mighty.”
“It is short-sighted!”
“We’ll see whose sight is short.”
The druid scoffed as they ascended the dais. He could argue no more. The Sun Matron watched in judgement, and Othrik was at her side.
The Vaich settled comfortably in his throne, far too at ease for the decisions before him.
All the druid could do now was wait.
The hall trembled with the boom of drums. They beat like a pulse, as if something teemed beneath, deep in the bowels of the castle. Everyone stood still. Waiting. The druid’s eyes traced the crowd, finding faces feverish with excitement.
With a roar, the doors swung wide and through the smoky arch came dancers.
Beasts of passion they were, their bodies canvases of crimson and gold, sinewy torsos glistening with blood and oil.
Their masks, fierce and horned, cast long shadows over the stone, and they moved as if possessed by the creatures they invoked.
Stag.
Bear.
Bull. They moved not as men but as fire itself.
Bodies twisted, limbs arced as though driven by a single, ravenous will.
Through their dance, they told the story of the Crús Crúnach—the day AEon’Righ brought the sun.
They spun, holding their torches high, praising the Eternal Flame as it poured over the land; a gift of heaven that would burn forever.
It warmed their hearths, made strong their blood, forged their weapons of fire.
Their naked feet pounded the floor, as if they could shake the very bones of Rhyd-hal.
The crowd was enraptured, lost within the spell.
None more enrapt than the king himself. The Vaich’s molten gaze followed the dance with childlike wonder, and he smiled as if he thought to rush down and join them.
But to the druid, it all rang hollow.
Heat filled his chest—not passion, but disquiet. This was worship turned wild, raw in its hunger; a prayer hurled towards an empty sky.
As the drums reached their fever pitch, the dancers surged forwards, hands extending towards the braziers. With a collective cry, their voices called out:
“King of Sky, rider of Suns! Thí nárn, du bráthail!”
“Du bráthail!” roared the men of the hall.
The room constricted, the frenzy threatening to consume him. The druid’s fingers instinctively sought the comfort of his staff—long shorn from him—as he found himself stranded upon shores of fire.
These were the men of Sun. Desperate and misguided. And in the flame, they sought a power they would never find.
After the dance, the chamber grew silent.
The herald read off names, and one by one, men came before them.
They knelt and swore fealty on their blades.
Those who owned land—or tír—committed a record of holding to the chamberlain, detailing their finances, policies, and military contributions.
These were spoken aloud to the court and were subject to judgement.
“Clan Finnaigh of Dubmírn,” said the chamberlain, “submits to the Vaich’s hold—a sounder of fat sows and three fine hens; two hundred gilds and a cow.”
“We’re quite pleased with the cow,” said the Vaich and the room clucked with laughter. “And what of your muster?”
“A fyrd of fifty men,” said Finnaigh. “And more come to His Majesty’s kiern.”
“They’re good measure?”
“Braw boys, sire.”
The Vaich nodded. “I see no contest. I leave Dubmírn in your capable hands.”
The man grinned widely. “I do thank ye, sire.”
The chamberlain called the next.
“Clan Gairfenn of Baile Tór.”
A man stepped forwards, bowing low before sinking to one knee. He was broad-shouldered, but thick around the middle, dressed in a fine woolen mantle with a golden pin. His thick beard was braided respectably, but his eyes darted about the room as if looking to flee scrutiny.
“Clan Gairfenn,” the chamberlain continued, “submits to the Vaich’s hold—an offering of three sheaves of winter wheat, one gelded stallion, and three hundred gilds.”
“A noble tribute,” said the Vaich. “And your muster?”
“A fyrd of sixty men, sire,” said Gairfenn, his voice carrying a practiced ease. “As always, we answer the call of our king.”
The Vaich’s lips curled. “I have heard troubling things out of Baile Tór. Banditry on the southern road, tariffs raised against my patrol. They say you allow scoundrels to run rampant—so long as you get a cut.”