Chapter 29
Vine and Flame
Chyr
F
lora looks broken—I have broken her. I’ve pushed her from one shock to another, one betrayal to another, and I still can’t stop.
All my oaths are compulsions, giving me no choice but to obey.
Where they conflict, those to the High King deliver their punishment in the moment, their magic poised to still my heart.
I don’t know how Flora can take any more. Even her magic must be near-depleted, and I recognise the despair trapped behind her eyes.
The green circlet of thorny vines and leaves etched on her brow is a gift from the land, glowing like the runes of my oathbands. But like those, the Crown of Vines is a lifelong sentence.
Flora’s lower lip is trembling. Her hand flies to the mark, feeling for it.
“It can’t be the Crown,” she says. “That isn’t mine. There’s no queen, and I’m not the Maiden. I’ve never been the Maiden.”
Silence hangs thick over the bog, as if the gods are waiting.
There’s a splash of mud on Flora’s cheek and a small twig tangled in her hair—not to mention a crown etched in green light across her brow. She’s never been more beautiful or fierce. Yet she’s a cornered cat spitting at a pack of wolves.
I pick the debris from her hair and brush the mud away with my thumb. She draws a thin, unsteady breath as I touch her, and I wait for her to exhale, to push me away.
When she doesn’t, I can’t resist.
“Come here,” I growl, opening my arms, tucking the top of her head beneath my chin when she takes a step, drawing a deep breath to take in the scent of her that underlies the smell of the bog—Flora’s own salt and heat and fire and magic. I wish…I wish so many things.
She trembles against me, still holding back. She makes me want to have been born to another life so that I could be better for her. I’d give anything to give her different choices. But eventually, I have to let go.
I hold her at arm’s length and look down into those grey eyes that are no longer calm. I’m not sure whether it’s the moonlight shining into them or something wrought by magic, but they’ve turned from grey to a molten silvery-gold—the colour of the moon.
“Will you let me see the mark?” I ask because she won’t believe it until she’s forced to acknowledge it.
I ease the cowl of the heavy plaid back from her shoulders and loosen the laces of her bodice.
Her eyes are puzzled, not furious, and she makes no move to push my fingers aside. That alone unmans me, but I don’t let my fingers linger. I hold the bodice closed for her as I slip the sleeves down her arms, making sure the dress doesn’t fall.
She bites her lip while I turn her around. I’m not surprised to find a small crescent moon etched in glowing silver on the back of her right shoulder. Like the crown, the mark is smooth as I drag the pad of my finger across it, but she draws a sharp breath at the touch.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
““It can’t be there.” She flinches away from the contact. “I don’t want it. I refuse.”
“But you knew it was there at some point? When?”
She blinks as tears spill over. “At the camp, when I put out the beacon fire. My shoulder burned, but I didn’t think it meant anything. This isn’t Muilean, and there are four more nights until Beltane. It can’t be the Hunt.”
“For your sake, I wish that was true.” I pull the sleeves back up and cup her shoulders with my palms, holding them in place while she reties the bodice laces. “Our oaths felt it when you ran. We had to chase you. You’re the Maiden, and we are the Anvar’thaine. You ran, and I caught you—”
“You were drowning. I saved you.”
“I caught you because I knew you’d save me. That’s who you are. You’ll sacrifice yourself for others every time—that’s why the land chose you.”
I spin her back around, and her eyes are enormous in the moonlight. Drowning in them, I cradle her face in my palms and give her one last kiss, a barely-there kiss. I’ve no doubt it will be the last, because she’ll fight us tooth and claw through what comes next.
The Crown of Vines is only the first of the three she must win to become the Cailleach Queen. The second is the Crown of Flame, and for that she’ll need the Father’s blessing. Then there’s the third crown.
It must all happen by Beltane morning.
Then there’s the doorway—and with luck, an army waiting.
I rest my forehead against hers, my lips still tingling from her kiss. Her heart beats like a caged bird, frantic to escape.
“Forgive me,” I whisper again, my heart imprisoned along with hers.
The silence echoes when she doesn’t answer.
The Sword of the Anvar’thaine scrapes free of its scabbard. Moonlight catches on the yellow crystal, and Flora goes rigid. I hold her in place and press celestial steel against her throat.
“Don’t,” she begs, eyes brimming. “Please, Chyr. I don’t want it.” Her pulse hammers visibly beneath the blade.
My lips still taste of Flora’s kiss while the words spill from me in a voice that isn’t mine. The whole ritual is an oath etched into my arm.
“Father of Light, the Master of the Anvar’thaine commends this soul to your eternal judgement, her fate to your wisdom. Bless her with flame—or condemn her to the sword.”
Flora’s eyes bore into me, sharp enough to cut through skin and bone. I can’t reassure her. I can only watch my sword and believe, to my core, that the crystal pommel will catch fire. Flora is the best of us. Still, the gods are fickle, so I hope. I pray.
Father help me, I don’t know how to kill this woman. Yet if it has to be done, I would rather the last face she sees, the one she blames, is mine. The other Riders are oathbound to do it if I refuse, but they don’t know her.
No moment is more vulnerable, more intimate, than the cusp of death. If I can’t save her, I can at least ensure she dies with the dignity she is owed.
.