39. Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Goibniu’s voice rumbled low through the vast room. “So this is the precious Seer?” he scoffed, King Domhnall snickered. “She looks like a child in a goddess’s playthings.”
I was so over the whole arrogant god thing. I was about to say as much, but before I could speak, Tairngire’s gaze cut through me in warning before landing on Goibniu. “This is not the time for your arrogance, Smith. The King of Ash is plotting. He hunts for the stones.”
The shift was instant. The kings leaned forward in weighted silence.
“The Hearts of the realms,” Scáthae said, voice heavy. “And when wielded—”
“They could rend the Weave itself,” Tairngire finished, his expression emotionless. He leaned back, turning his attention toward me. “We’ve already seen what it costs to take one. Haven’t we, Little Seer?”
Heat rushed my skin. I remembered, how could I forget? The werewolves in Morhaven, their howls splitting the night, their bodies falling beneath his blades. I had stood helpless, watching the god I hated, feared, and—gods save me—was starting to admire, blood-soaked and blazing with divinity.
The unwelcome memory of the stone in my satchel surfaced, untouched since we'd entered Cindraloch, whispered low in the back of my mind.
“Morhaven’s heart lies with us now,” Scáthae said. “But there are six more—each guarded by magic that for some reason, only the Seer can speak to.”
The kings murmured under their breath. Goibniu leaned forward, his biceps threatening to break loose from his armor.
“Tell me, Seer, what would you do with such power if it sang in your hands? Gods may fight and kings may bleed, but the Weave responds to you, a simple mortal.” He spat the last word like it was poison on his tongue.
Silence fell with a particular heaviness. Tairngire fixed his glare on the Forge God, slamming his fist down on the table.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. No.
I’d had enough.
“Wait just one godsdamned moment.” Every head turned my way, eyes laced with shock.
“You’re telling me we’re meant to travel every realm,” my voice cracked, but I forced it steady.
“Even Dorchadas, the Shadow Realm gods don’t dare name?
To collect these…stones? And you don’t even know where they are? ”
Gasps broke out throughout the room. Dorchadas was not spoken of lightly, but frankly, I didn't care. I had nothing to lose.
Tairngire only smirked, intimately familiar with my inability to hold my tongue. “Yes. Which is exactly why you’ve been made to train. Your Sight is the key, and only you can find them. There will be unforeseen threats, and you need to be prepared."
The first stone flickered in my mind—the Obsidian Heart, the tree splitting with Tairngire’s ancient words, the disjointed voices overlapping each other when I touched it.
It was not forged for my hands…he had said. What did that mean, though? That only he couldn't touch it? Could other divines? Mortals?
“With that being said, we’re forming a band of warriors to travel with you. Caedmon’s best, Domhnall's best. The divines themselves. You will not go alone.” Tairngire said.
A band of warriors, war on the horizon, and I’d be traveling amongst them. Somehow using my Sight to lead us to the Hearts of the Realms, ideally before the King of Ash and his goonies show up.
Brilliant.
“Pah.” Goibniu’s grunt pulled me from my thoughts.
“She is a child the temple covets, gifted with the Sight, she has no place here. Soft hands, untrained bones. Even Scáthae’s daughters would break her in two, and you’d take her into the Shadow?
You mean to gamble realms for a mortal girl’s fire, Forest God?
Surely, we can locate the Hearts without carrying around dead weight. "
Heat surged in my chest. Tairngire leaned forward, menace in his emerald depths. His voice dropped low and lethal, a near growl. “She is not dead weight.” His eyes never left Goibniu’s. “She is the Weave made manifest. You will treat her as such.”
Tairngire leaned back once more, relaxed but his face still hard. “That is the second time you’ve spoken of her with disrespect. It will be your last.”
The table stilled. My mouth went completely dry. Duty was no longer temples and visions. It was stones and war. And every Chéadcumtha here looked at me like I was either the weapon they meant to wield, or the dirt underneath their boot.
And the way that Tairngire had just shut down the god who thought the latter in defense of me…gods, I wanted to rage at him, tell him I didn’t need him to fight my battles. But the words caught in my throat, the truth was—his defensive words had me feeling things I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
Scáthae’s voice cut through, low as the winter tides. Her attention hard-focused on the Forge God. “Even my daughters, Goibniu?”
Goibniu’s eyes snapped to the fierce War Goddess, too late to catch the storm brewing…which was now in full effect.
“You may speak of your brood as hammers forged without finesse,” she went on, her voice ringing with command, “but do not drag mine into your disdain. My daughters do not break. They are steel, tempered by my hand.”
Goibniu grinned, a lethal expression was painted on his face. “Even steel shatters, when wielded poorly.”
You could have heard a pin drop with the silence that followed. Even Caedmon’s easy nature was slipping. But the most alarming thing about it all was that Branwyn, with all her jaunts and giggles, was struck wordless.
“You may choose to disrespect your own,” Scáthae seethed, slamming her hand down on the table. “But do not put your weakness on mine.”
“You forget yourself, Goibniu. You speak before your brethren, the Seer, and your allies.” Caedmon's booming voice shattered the hall.
“Do I?” Goibniu’s tone thundered before he let out yet another arrogant scoff.
“While you lot drown in revelry and dine in your gilded halls, my chosen endure. Discipline is carved into their bones. My daughters bleed while hers,” he gestured lazily toward Scáthae without giving her the curtesy of his eyes.
“Sit pampered by the moon goddess within your walls, half-born. Do not forget yourself.”
That hit. The remainder of Caedmon’s mirth vanished, and with it, his discretion. “Pampered? Scáthae’s chosen defend these borders against shadows your iron would never withstand.”
Domhnall rose, his chair shrieking against stone. “Oh please, Caedmon. Without House Goibniu, Cindraloch would have crumbled centuries ago."
“You dare lecture me in my own hall?” Caedmon’s roar rattled the walls.
Scáthae stood, smiling like a feral cat. “Lecturing? No, my son. He's simply showing his unchecked pride, as always with the forge lord. And it will be his downfall.”
“Unchecked pride?” Goibniu’s eyes were glowing red. “Or truth from one who hasn’t grown fat on Aíne’s favor?”
The chamber erupted. Scáthae, Goibniu, Caedmon, and Domhnall clashed like sparks off a forge.
Tairngire pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth. I could feel his frustration, he was a few moments away from detonating. And quite frankly, I was both impressed and surprised that he hadn't already.
Across the table, Ciaran and Mairenn smirked over some private jest, like they had seen this atrocity play out countless times.
“This is normal for you?” I muttered.
“Of course,” Mairenn said, unbothered. “They’ve been at it for centuries.”
“You get used to it. Eventually.” Ciaran added dryly.
Get used to it? Get used to it?! Like this was some sort of common occurrence—a bunch of gods, the supposed rulers of the universe, bickering like children?
Completely asinine.
The realms were all doomed if they kept this up.
Branwyn giggled into her hand, but my chest burned hot with fury. Why was she here? What weren’t they all telling me? What were these stones truly meant to do? Destroy the Weave yes, but how?
For the first time in my guarded life, I reached.
Not outward, but inward—toward the shimmering Weave always humming at the edges of my Sight.
My heart hammered as I extended my will toward it.
I had no idea if it would work, but listening to this arguing was pushing me to my limit.
So, I attempted to pull at the colorful threads that always surrounded me.
The Weave answered instantly, sending a deafening vibration throughout the hall. A shock ran through me, along with an eerie sort of feeling…as if maybe the Weave had been waiting for me to touch it.
A breeze from nowhere picked up, and candles guttered. The chamber shook as the ripple of the Weave rattled the bones of the room. Even the divines stilled, eyes snapping toward me.
Finally.
“Silence.” I didn’t need to shout. The Weave carried my voice, my will pressing my words into every ear.
My gaze cut across divines and kings alike.
I didn’t have time to dwell on what I’d just done, forbidden as it was.
“You speak of war, stones, the Fate of realms. And while the King of Ash moves his pieces, you bicker like toddlers fighting over a toy. Yet you call me the child?”
I rose, fire spilling in words that had never come so easily. “I may not wield a blade as practiced as your warriors, but I have read every history. And do you know what starts almost every war?”
No one answered.
I waved my hand in the air.
“Pride. Petty grudges. Pointless fights between allies. You call me a weapon? Then hear this: no weapon is deadlier than division. Stand together now or fall apart later. Then every realm will pay for your arrogance.”
When I finished, there was a charge in the air.
Tairngire's mossy eyes gleamed with something I’d never seen before.
Pride, yes, but beneath it was something feral and untamed.
It was far too intimate for the audience before us.
It reminded me of the look on his face before he leaned down and took my bottom lip between his teeth, my legs wrapped around his thick hips…
Gods above and below, Aurenya. Focus.