Chapter 30
Stolen Choices
Flora
F
lames erupt inside the yellow crystal that forms the pommel of Chyr’s sword, and the entire stone glows orange-red, the colour of a midday sun. At the same time, pain scalds across my forehead in the same place as before.
My head is on fire, and the heat spreads, prickling down my neck, along my arms, through my chest. The moonlit sky closes in around Chyr’s face, everything fading grey, then black—into nothing.
A warm exhale of breath drifts across my cheek. I’m cradled in strong arms, and I feel safe, although something dangerous lurks at the edge of my consciousness like a monster in the dark. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want to know. My eyes stay closed.
“Flora?”
Chyr’s face swims back into focus, those honey-gold eyes intent beneath furrowed brows. Beyond him, Eira and Bramble are waiting, and I need to get them back to solid ground. My pulse stutters as the memories filter back.
“Was I judged?” I touch my forehead, half-expecting my fingers to burn. There should be a ridge, a scar to mark it. There’s no change except that I’m warm instead of cold, and the ember inside me is an inferno. I swallow hard, forcing down a scream.
Chyr adjusts his arm beneath my shoulders, and I realise I’m draped across his thigh as he rests one knee on the peat.
Great Goddess, how long has it been? I’ve no strength left to get us back to the edge of the bog if the path I made earlier has drifted away.
Not magical strength—it’s physical this time.
I struggle to get up, but Chyr only holds me tighter.
“Let’s make sure you’re all right before you rush to stand,” he says. “And yes. The crown is still three vines woven together, studded with little leaves, but it’s changed from a green glow to gold with flames that flicker across your brow.”
I close my eyes as the sky spins, stars blurring. I should be relieved, but my mouth is filled with ash and fury.
“The ritual isn’t finished, though, is it?” I ask. Even as I say the words, I realise it will never finish.
It can’t.
Vheara has no intention of giving up the throne of Alba Scoria, and if Chyr hasn’t been able to defeat her, then I certainly stand no chance. Even if I did, wouldn’t Chyr’s oaths force him to take it from me?
Can he let me become the Cailleach Queen?
Whatever jest the gods are playing will tear both of us to pieces. I’m not na?ve enough to believe it has anything to do with deserving to wear a crown. I’m no more than a pawn in a game between the gods and Tirnaeve.
Well, nothing says I have to play along.
“Cóirneach, Cóirneach, Cóirneach.” My voice is a rasp, my body aching with the plea. “Take it back, Chyr. Reverse the crowns and the Hunt. I’ll get you to Muilean and you can win the war.”
“What are you doing, Flora?”
“If I say your true name three times, you can’t deny me what I want. True or false?”
“Mostly true—”
“Cóirneach, Cóirneach, Cóirneach.” My voice is a rasp, my body aching with the plea. “Take it back, Chyr. Forget the crowns and everything that’s happened. I’ll go home, and you’ll never have to think of me.”
“I can’t,” Chyr says, and the pained tightness in his face pierces straight through me. “You may hate me for this even more than for all the other ways I’ve failed you, but even my true name can’t undo the will of the gods and the oaths that bind me.”
I twist away, trying to wrench free of his grasp. “Let me go.”
“I have to take you to Muilean, Fierceness.”
“You don’t.”
“Neither of us has a choice.”
“Have we ever had one?”
His grip on my arms is gentle. That makes it no less impossible to escape. And the other three Riders are still mounted on their horses, waiting at the edge of the bog.
A bit farther on, staying well clear of the Riders, Shadow and Shade are pacing back and forth along the water’s edge.
Even they must have known.
I shove down the swell of panic that seals my throat, my heart running away as I try to think. But I can’t escape. Not now. I’ve no magic, no strength, no plan.
That doesn’t mean I’m giving up. There will be a time for me to get away. All I have to do is wait for an opportunity.
When I speak, I manage to sound quite calm. “Dawn will be here soon. We need to get the horses out of the bog safely, and we’ll have to find shelter before daybreak. Otherwise, no one will reach Muilean.”
None of that’s a lie.
“Do you promise me that you won’t run?” Chyr asks, his eyes so intent that I feel them like a physical touch.
“I swear I’ll do exactly what I said,” I answer. Which isn’t what he asked, but let him puzzle out what it means.
He releases me, and I retrace my steps to Bramble.
Chyr must have given me some of his magic while he held me, because I don’t feel nearly as empty as I did before.
While it feels like the Hunt and the crowning must have taken years, it can’t have been more than an hour.
The bog and the position of the moon, the horses, and even the Riders all look much the same.
Most of the solid footing that my magic built through the bog is still passable, and I use as little magic as I can to help us all return to the drovers’ track. Not because I feel depleted, but my magic feels strange. Unfamiliar.
The three other Riders say nothing when I reach them. But they stare at the Crown of Flame with expressions somewhere between disbelief and awe until I raise the plaid from around my shoulders and drape it low over my forehead to hide the mark.
The pair of swaggering bastards—the blond with the glowing runes along his jaw and throat, and the dark-haired one with the lazy drawl and the vicious humour—don’t look at me at all after that. The tall one with the russet hair seems kinder, and his smile looks genuine.
“Some of us are well known to have no manners, so I’ll apologise on their behalf—and mine,” he says. “We didn’t know who you were at first. Although—as Chyr has pointed out—that’s no excuse for being offensive. I’m Ronan, and the two idiots are Daire and Lorcan.”
He points them out, and Daire, the blond, glares back at me with fury smouldering in his blue, otherworldly eyes.
I look away, then steel my spine and stare back at him with my brows arched.
His build is stronger than the others, and his wide jaw tapers in a sharp triangle to a stubborn chin.
The fact that he’s glowering down at me from his position in the saddle only makes him more intimidating.
Lorcan, the other one, sits his horse with an easy grace.
He’s pretty—even for an Ever—and his strength is leaner, his features more delicate beneath dark, silky hair.
He doesn’t glare openly, but something cunning swims behind his hard, emerald eyes that warns of a sharp intelligence I shouldn’t underestimate.
I’m in no mood to feign forgiveness or mince my words.
I turn back to Ronan. “I’ll accept your apology, but I don’t see the point of forgiving someone if they can’t be bothered to speak on their own behalf.”
Turning away, I stoop to check Bramble’s hind legs for any sign of injury or heat. She seems all right, so I give her neck a reassuring pat and walk back to Eira.
Chyr tries to help me mount, but I’ll be damned if I’ll show more weakness in front of the Riders.
I tuck the front of my skirt deeper into my belt to keep it out of the way, then I push my foot into the stirrup.
My knee and thigh shake with effort as I swing myself up, but eventually I drop into the saddle with a bit of dignity intact.
“I hate to suggest it since it sets us back even more, but we should go back to the cavern where Chyr and I slept yesterday. If we try to ride on, we’ll be too close to the enemy camp at daybreak, and we’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere big enough to conceal us all.”
“Can we still make it to Muilean in three nights?” Chyr asks sharply.
“I can’t promise anything. It won’t be easy either way, and we don’t know what might be waiting for us between here and the Loch of Rebirth. But if we’re caught in the open when the sun comes up, we won’t get there at all.”
The Riders look to Chyr for his reaction. His face is pale, and tension rolls off him in waves as he gives me a silent nod. Then he swings himself onto Bramble’s back.
“We should ride through the trees wherever we can. We don’t want to lead anyone to us,” Ronan says. “I’ll cover our tracks wherever we have to use the trail.”
“You can do that?” I ask.
“Earth magic. A little loosening of the soil here and there, a bit of dust scattered across the tracks. Simple enough.” Ronan winks at me. “I can be more impressive, if you like.”
Chyr shakes his head. “Your idea of impressive might be different from Flora’s. Her earth magic threw me into the air on her first attempt.”
The Riders stare at me, and I set Eira into a trot. We follow the drovers’ track along Loch Seil back towards Glen Fhionain. The Shadehounds dart in front of me and seem content to run slightly ahead of the rest of us.
The sky lightens, gradually fading to the grey-blue that precedes the dawn. We push the horses faster to beat the sunrise, but the closer we come to the cavern, the more I dread going back there.
The cavern is where I claimed a sliver of freedom. Then I gave myself to a man who took my freedom from me.