Chapter 35 #2
The laird stiffened, but his bow remained low. “Mere rumor, Majesty. Tales spun by those who envy. Tór has seen great prosperity.”
“Prosperity?” the Vaich flashed a stiff smile. “You mean the wealth you wring from my purse?”
Gairfenn’s jaw clenched.
“You fill your coffers while your folk starve,” the Vaich pressed on, voice sharpening. The druid watched him keenly. “You’d sell your son to raiders before you pay out full wages. You are their laird, not their leech.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Gairfenn’s face had gone red, but still, he bowed. “I am loyal to my king. I have always—”
“You weren’t before and you are no longer.” The Vaich’s words rang like steel on stone.
Gairfenn’s head snapped up. “Majesty?”
“I strip you of your title. Baile Tór will be placed under review, its land granted to one who does not mistake duty for profit.”
Surprise painted the druid's mind. A king against corruption? Such were stories he had never heard. But it interested him.
The chamber erupted, voices rising in shock and speculation. Gairfenn sputtered, his face dark with anger. “Sire, you cannot—”
“I can. And I shall.”
The laird looked as if he might protest further, but the weight of the room stole the words from his mouth. His fists clenched, but he retreated as the chamberlain called the next.
An awful silence blanketed the hall.
The man who came forth was the envoy from Dunn Kennigh, who had spoken for the southlands at the engagement feast. At once, both Vaich and druid went tense. In fact, the air in the chamber seemed to shift.
The envoy and the king shared a long, unblinking gaze, and the druid wondered who would break first. Finally, the envoy lowered to a knee. But he did not swear fealty upon his sword. This sent a shiver through the crowd. Rask, who stood to their right, curled his hand around the hilt of his blade.
“In my laird’s stead, I give myself unto the Vaich. I shall bring forth whatever decision is made to Dravoghan ?vain—master in the south.”
Mutters spread like a plague and the Vaich gripped the rests of his throne in a bone-breaking hold.
“If your master were a sensible man, he would come and receive his appointment,” said the Vaich.
“Simply ill-timing, sire.”
“So you’ve said. I will speak with Dravoghan when I arrive in the south, and I will remind him that many good men could make use of his lands.”
The envoy lifted his head enough to fix the Vaich with an amused look. It made the druid’s skin crawl.
“We Dunns are a loyal few,” said the envoy, “and there are less who know our land. A northerner would be unwelcome by both town and tír.”
“Then it would be wise for your Master to bow,” said the Vaich through gritted teeth, “or should I take his messenger’s counsel as threat?”
“Certainly not, sire,” said the envoy, his voice too calm for a man beneath a king’s eye. But the druid knew better than to think a Dunn would fear death.
“Send word to all that the new Vaich has no interest in sharing power. Neither will he allow sickness to spread.”
It was a sickness, indeed, which plagued Dunn Kennigh. But it was a sickness of spirit and mind. The rot had crawled so deep that weeding it out might prove futile. But if his dreams manifested into apocalyptic truth, then they may have no choice but to try.
The envoy got to his feet, feigning a shallow bow, but his eyes fixed upon the druid and a devious grin stretched his face. The druid’s heart thudded and stopped. Beside him, the Vaich trembled with rage. Neither breathed again until the envoy was absorbed back into the crowd.
The ceremony went long into the midday, till came the designation of the Vaich’s Aarden Féin. The king stood proudly over the hall, brimming with excitement. The first to accept the title was the old rider, Rask.
The Vaich said, “There is no man here I respect more, nor shall again. A man of iron and fire.”
“A man who saw ye pissin’ in yer wee bed,” said Rask.
The room laughed, and the Vaich allowed it.
“Aye.” He smiled. “Du m’athair.”
The druid knew the word not well, yet recognized it, if only from a distance.
Father.
After came Greyv.
“Heir of Clan Rhosyn, and a mighty whoreson!”
Then came others unknown to the druid. Many of whom had trained with the Vaich in his boyhood, and others who had trained him. Some were once loyal to Lach’Dun and were honored again. Finally came Cían and Jor, the sons of the old king. A hush settled as the Vaich called them up.
He said, “Lach’Dun gave us two good boys. Now, I take them for my own.”
The druid stirred under Jor’s unflinching stare. That seemed to be all the king had to say on the matter, and so, the druid leaned in and whispered, “Lach’Dun’s ain is well-taught. He would make a good advisor.”
The Vaich went rigid. “Advisor?” he hissed below his breath. “Dinnae be absurd!”
“You must recognize their particular standing. I only tell you what you already know—you should not leave a wound to rot.”
The Vaich glared, but turned back to the two before him. Then he said, more composed, “It is my honor to recognize the old king’s pride. Princes in their own right. Jor, I look forwards to leading beneath your… guidance.”
There was some muttering and the nodding of heads. Lady Merah, who stood with the seniors of the court, grinned proudly.
Jor remained expressionless, but bent in a bow, as regal as an oak in the breeze. “It is greatly appreciated, Your Majesty.”
More applause followed, but the Vaich did not look happy.
“Yes, I’m sure.” He nodded them off and as they went, the druid felt a prickling on his neck. He turned, finding Medhin’s eyes upon him; a heavy, seething warning. He looked away, but could do nothing to shake loose its hold.
Next came the men from Annath. The druid braced against his throne.
Nacht stepped forwards first and lowered his hulking body to a knee, withdrawing an iron dagger with a thick bone hilt.
He drove its tip into the floor. And he spoke, his words like the dirge of the carnyx; His oath a blood-soaked promise sung by the salt of the earth.
“I come before he who is Chosen of the Sun, and bound by our flame, I swear my service. Henceforth, I will be faithful in my submission before the land, and its peoples, and in secret. And to my liege-laird I vow to take into my heart and love all that he loves, and hate all that he hates, so long as he keeps me. For his honor and command, I give my life, till I am slaked with the bloods of his foes. And if death take me, then my body be claimed by the blessed grave that he would grant to me in payment for this day on which I bowed to him and sought his favor.”
The room waited, and worry crept in.
The Vaich said, “Rise now, good men of the east. The Béig úil stands before us. He who minds our river, minds our border. Long have you been an asset—the pride of kings. Now too, shall you be mine.”
A smug smile returned to the king’s face and the druid’s stomach rebelled at the sight of it.
“I shall restore the riders to their roost. But to you—the fearsome Beast of the Bridge, I name you Aard; a proud soldier of my retinue.”
The druid sighed, but it was lost amongst rowdy cheers. Nacht said nothing in response. He nodded stiffly, and the druid felt an ache blossoming inside his chest.
Mercifully, the ceremony came to an end.
Some were happy, others jilted, but most were somewhere in between.
There was little change, from what it seemed.
The Cearnatháns retained their standing, as did most of the noble houses.
The druid supposed there was sense in it—to change too much was to create unsteady ground, and no one could build anew upon tremors.
After, there was a feast, and the guests allowed to mingle. It was then the druid was beset by vultures.
“You learn quickly of your Mistress.” Came Medhin’s acidic voice. The Sun Matron bore down on him like a storm; her dark eyes unflinching and heavy. The taunting of old was gone, replaced by sheer loathing. “How well you levy your words.”
She cornered him in the shadows of the colonnade, but they were hardly free from prying eyes. People looked over, speculating behind their palms.
The druid dropped his voice low. “I was only trying to help—”
“Help? Don’t be coy. I will not allow you his mind to poison; your milk-words upon his ears. You’re just like them.”
It wasn’t the druids that she spoke of, but another sort entirely. A sort he could not keep himself from being woven to.
Nytherí.
Uncomfortable, the druid made to leave but her words snared him in place.
“Poison seems rather befitting your kind. I hear whispering from the Augeri of this divine intervention. It is a wonder—the Oracle’s delirium. Just as strange and inexplicable as you.”
“I know not of what you speak. I have heard no word, nor orchestrated anything, much less murder.”
She scoffed. “Othrik was right—you are a foul witch. Your fingers full of enchantments!”
“If you feared the king’s take to persuasion, then perhaps one ought not to have warmed him till pliant.”
The priestess’ gaze grew lethal. “Who do you think you are to speak to me like this?”
“I am what you have made me.” The druid raked his teeth along his tongue. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Queen should keep appearances.”
He maneuvered himself away and was swept up within the current of unfamiliar faces.
But her words hung in his head.
The Oracle poisoned?
How like the An’Atherin to explain away whatever truths proved inconvenient.
The druid stopped, his body frozen in place.
Such a thought… he had heard it before. And now the words were his.
You’re just like them.
His mind crawled back into that crypt beneath the Augeri. He remembered Nythis’ marble facade and shuddered.
“Your Majesty?”
He looked up, seeing a gaggle of noblewomen before him. They seemed something between puzzled and suspicious, but quickly corrected their faces as he glanced between them.
“Yes?” he muttered.
Their lips pulled into beaming smiles. “We thought it only proper to make introductions!”
They prattled off their names, each of them more enthusiastic than the last, but he heard none of it. He knew those who greeted him came in transaction—with words, with gifts, with promises—all wishing favor from the Vaich.
And he, without any desire of his own, had come to hold it.