Chapter 45
Chapter forty-five
The Lamb to Slaughter
Thunder shook the sleepy hall.
Skyre had not gone to bed.
His Féin sprawled about the furs and benches, their snores a cacophony to his thoughts.
The road behind them lay in tatters, and the unspooled thread ahead frayed thin. It had not yet been a full month on the M?t. Days of stone had become days of wood, and he was the flame caught between. The druid’s story haunted him, as much to do with the druid did.
There was no relief.
His skin was raw, and every word the woodsingr spoke was the salt within.
Skyre sighed, massaging his temple with his thumb. A song tiptoed into his mind.
“Little wolf all on his own… little wolf, Moon calls you home…”
A wisp of smoke stirred on his periphery. A cool breath grazed his neck. He stiffened, eyes darting as the moon priestess appeared at his shoulder. “My Vaich, you seem tense. What ails your troubled heart?”
“Shouldnae you be in bed?” he asked, curtly.
“My mind wanders too far in the night. It seems the same is true for you.” Her fingers ghosted against him, dipping into the fur of his mantle. He’d been with many women, and he knew their touches well. Yet, the Speaker was uncanny.
“You are not like your sisters,” he muttered.
Her laugh pressed into his ear. “Not all daughters of Nythis are equal. Some of us were born of silver blood.”
“What do you mean?” He felt as if weighed by anchors as Hirí’s hands slipped lower, drawing his mantle apart.
“So much chaos in your dark… You could lay it all upon me.”
He rolled his shoulders, but found the movement hindered. Growing unease tensed his muscles. “It’s no business of yours.”
“Yet I see it well. You who are so unwilling to admit… So unwilling to submit. He fascinates you, doesn’t he?”
His brows dragged together. “Who...”
“Our little queen… There is something so delicious about him. A power,” she murmured. “You feel it, too. He is different.”
“He is a druid and nothing more.”
She giggled. “Oh, that you might think so. What would your mind tell me in silence?” Her finger traced his jaw as he struggled there. He felt tethered, and she did not release him.
“What are you—”
“Ah, it is fear. Tell me, is it his silence that makes you quiver? His resent that drives you wild? Or…” He could feel her grin against his skin. “Is it the way you can still remember yourself inside him?”
Dread doused him cold, and he was on his feet in an instant. “Get away from me.” His eyes landed on the place she’d been, now empty and harrowing. He spun around, seeing nothing but the slumbering mead hall.
“Impossible…”
Arms entangled him. Her whispers swallowed his mind. “You see yourself his monster. You lust for his hate… You crave his taste. Just like before.”
He gasped. “It isn’t true!”
“How desperate you are. Won’t you admit it? The pleasure you take in his pain.”
“I never wanted to—”
“He won’t forgive you.”
“Leave me be!”
“My liege?”
His head shot up.
Before him stood Nacht—a jarring break in his reverie.
Skyre shivered. “A-Aard…?”
“Is everything… alright?” Nacht eyed him warily.
Skyre searched the hall, but there was no evidence of Hirí. Still, her phantom words clung to his thoughts and his skin beaded with sweat.
He won’t forgive you.
“I’m fine,” Skyre muttered.
“Mm. You should rest.”
The king choked on a breath. “If only I could.”
Sleep wouldn’t come. His mind wouldn’t accept it. He felt wrong—like he’d been shoved into this body and his skin didn’t fit. He wanted to rip it off.
“The first rule in wielding cárthun is that a man cannae fear his own fire,” Nacht said quietly.
“Of course I don’t. I am Vaich. I am Chosen of the Sun.”
“Aye. And it’s a great fury that lives within you. But a burning blade grows hotter when swung. Rely on ferocity, and you’ll die aside your foes.”
“What does any of that mean?” Skyre burst.
Nacht cocked his head, the black sclera of his marred eye glinting in the lanternlight. “You’re young and untamed. You might live forever, but you’ll be dead on the inside. Suppose you might think about that the next time you cling to those words.”
He wanted to hate him. He wanted to scream—to fight. And maybe he hoped, in the end, he’d lose.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Was he hoping Nacht would tell him? Teach him how to heal? He was burning alive while everyone watched him, perpetually stuck between cinder and kindling.
“I feel as if that beast in the dark. The doors are all closed to me. I cannae…” His fingers fisted his hair. “Am I a god or a villain? Or just a fucking liar?”
He wanted to laugh, but it hurt.
“Suppose I’ll go mad and tear it all apart. Is that who you bowed to?” Skyre looked up at him—this man he had forced to kneel and pledge blood. “Is that the laird you serve?”
“I am waiting to see what laird I serve. When you ken, come and tell me.”
It was as if the storm had pierced the thatch to strike him. The words were the cold chasing his flame.
The holler bowed and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Skyre called. Nacht’s massive form paused, hanging on his order. “Summon the council."
“The council, my liege? It is nearly three in the morn."
“Aye. It mustn’t wait.”
The holler lingered, but didn’t refuse. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Just one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Your mantle, sire.” Nacht gestured towards his collar. “You shouldnae leave it loose.”
Skyre bristled, reaching for the clasps.
They were open.
“Right,” he whispered. “How foolish of me.”
The Speaker’s words buried deep in his mind, and Skyre was determined to dig them out.
The council was summoned. And not happily. Skyre made no illusions about the state of his Féin. There was not a man inside that room who did not hold him in ill esteem, and there was still night left.
Nacht and Rask stood dutifully aside, their faces stoic. Greyv, by contrast, did not meet his eyes, but it was Jor who stood his opposite, arms folded across his chest.
“For what do we owe the pleasure of His Majesty’s call?”
“Certainly nothing that could be done over the fire and a pint,” grumbled Greyv, but it was not the brisk jest Skyre had come to rely on. He looked entirely annoyed to be there, and it made Skyre sorry for what he hadn’t yet said.
“I’ll be brief,” he muttered. Rask was silent, but his voice barked inside his head. Speak up, boy. A king doesn’t swallow words—he commands them. But he couldn’t. He had wished to be a great king, to be adored and given respect. Never once had he considered how difficult it was to earn.
Expectation was the only word he knew.
“I’ve a matter… a matter I must attend. At daybreak, I will shear off from this road and head east for the Arran Fáoth. The procession will continue south to Tuhr Mor,” he said, “and we shall reconvene before the fortnight.”
The air heated like the coiled calm before a storm, when all the sky and earth went still. Skyre looked from face to face, finding a gallery of sentiment that distilled down into one primal notion.
Rage.
“Shear off?” spat Jor. “For what matter?”
“We all know what matter,” murmured Greyv.
“And you decided this?” said Jor. “Without consultation?”
“I am Vaich,” Skyre said quietly, “I do not require consultation.”
“You named me Advisor, and every bone in my body would advise you away from your foolish—”
“A king may have his reasons,” countered Nacht, “and I would have him name them. What business does he attend in the Fáoth?”
“I will meet with the druids,” Skyre said lamely. It wasn’t necessarily a lie, but he couldn’t tell the truth. “Those who dwell within should be brought under the Sun’s light. A Vaich has never been more primed to do so.”
A ripple of disbelief flashed over Jor’s face. “Is this your presumption of politicking… By the flame…”
“The woodkin will not be easily cowed,” said Nacht.
“My consort will stir them to my cause.”
“Nonsense.” Rask scowled.
“It has been decided,” Skyre said again. “I leave at dawn.”
“You intend to go unguarded?” said Nacht.
“Aye.”
“What of bandits?” said Greyv.
“No beast in Cullach can match Saorla’s sprint. I’ll ride straight for the forest’s edge, and there we’ll be safe. Not even madmen would take their chances in the green.”
He waded in their disdain, feeling the weight of judgement.
Nacht came forth. “A bold vision you possess. One I am not opposed to. But I will let the woodwalkers speak for themselves. I caution you not to underestimate the dangers of the deep green. Allow me to ride with you.”
Surprise curled in his chest. There was nothing idle about the warrior’s words, and Skyre was humbled before such conviction. “It is well-met, but I cannae allow it. The druid and I shall go alone.”
“And what of the M?t?” snapped Jor. “What of His Majesty’s sacred person? Shall I send heralds to the lowlands? Prepare not to welcome your king, but on a pyre of gold and clove.”
Skyre ground his teeth. “You forget, Aard, your king shall never die. I do not fear the green. I do not fear anything.”
“Perhaps you should.”
His fists tightened and he longed to close the space between them, but held fast to his frail, crumbling ground. “I leave at dawn.”
Jor scoffed, but said nothing further and did not wait to be dismissed. He swept out of the room, followed by Nacht and then Greyv, who stopped at his shoulder. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but by the Strider’s light, I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing.”
Greyv went off, leaving Skyre alone with the man most accustomed to cleaning his messes. Whose silence, he knew, was no friend of his.
The king pressed his papery tongue to the roof of his mouth.
He hadn’t forgotten the last time he’d been accosted.
When he’d beaten Korv near half to death, Rask had come looking as if he might have done the same to him.
If it had been ten years prior, there would have been no question.
But Skyre was Vaich now and even his mentor could not put hands on him.
Though his words had spared him none of the violence.
Now he stood unmoving.
“Athair…” Skyre whispered.
“Seems you’ve grown a tender heart. God help us all.”
“It isnae heart, but duty,” said Skyre.
Rask’s face reddened. “Duty? Is that what you call this?”
“You always told me a man should keep his promises. And I have to keep my word.”
“Your word? To a woodsingr? And what of your promises to your men? This route was worked out and agreed upon by them. Now you tell me you’ve been making arrangements behind their backs?”
“That’s not how it is.”
“That’s exactly the way it is!” Rask stormed forwards, teeth clenched. “You’re drinking from a poison, boy. And it’s leading you afoul.”
“You’ve been talking to Máta.”
“You dinnae worry who I’ve been talking to. If there’s a rot in my crop, I’ll cut it out at the source—you can be sure of that.”
The anger Skyre had so carefully battened down was now boiling beneath the surface. He was an animal, boxed in by iron jaws. There was no place he could step that wouldn’t leave him bleeding.
“Then I’ll remind you I am not your son.
But I am your king, whether you agree with my choices or not.
Ever since I took the throne, I’ve been tethered at the wrists—at my godsdamned throat!
” Skyre hissed. “It’s as if we’ve all forgotten who holds the power here.
I willnae be their prop, and neither yours.
I’ve made up my mind and I’ll be at fire’s feet before I’m cowed away. ”
Rask’s eyes narrowed and his jaw worked. “You’re stubborn, that's what you are.”
“Aye. You’ve always told me so.”
“You’d walk into traps with your head held high. Well, so be it. You’re a man now and I cannae stop your mind from makin’. But you’ll be sawin’ your own bone off at the knee. I willnae be there to do it for you.”
With that, Rask went off, leaving the Vaich with nothing but his word and his want.