Chapter 32
Refuse and Die
Flora
I
want to melt into the cavern wall and disappear. That’s an idea I haven’t considered yet: whether my magic would let me transform myself to interact with the landscape. The concept is distracting enough that I let my overwhelmed mind dart after it like a dog after a hare.
Still, the tears keep falling. I wipe them with my fists. Beside me, the horses chew their feed, their bodies radiating heat while Shade and Shadow guard my front from Daire and the other Riders.
All too soon, I’m back to thinking about Ronan’s warning.
My nails dig into my palms. I don’t want Chyr—or anyone—as a consort, but that doesn’t change the way my stomach seizes at knowing I can’t choose him.
The idea of having to accept any of the others makes me lock my knees to keep them from giving out.
I watch Chyr through the haze of wet-wood smoke, the angry set of his jaw, the unhurried efficiency with which he unpacks plaids and rations, the way the Riders angle their bodies towards him, keeping him in sight. When he speaks to them, they lower their eyes a degree, even when they argue.
They respect him. He’s the Master, and they don’t doubt he’ll do his duty.
I can’t doubt it either. Even if that duty means my death.
Bramble swings her muzzle to me, and I unclench my fists to scratch her on the nose. “At least I have you back. That’s one good thing—and having Shade and Shadow with me is another. We will be all right.”
The mare nudges my shoulder, her big brown eyes half lowered as if she doesn’t believe me. Which is fair enough. I don’t believe me either.
I’ve dredged my brain for every scrap of knowledge, every snippet of story I’ve ever heard about the Maidens and the crowning of the Cailleach Queens. If there’s a way to stop this nightmare, I haven’t remembered it yet.
I know the Maiden can refuse the Hunt. She can fail the test, and the land will release her and choose another Maiden.
That’s all in the ancient stories. But I didn’t realise I’d been chosen, that I was being Hunted.
I didn’t know anything until I already wore the Crown of Vines—and by then, I had no options.
Cold rain blows into the cavern. A gust of wind shears along the walls. That’s not why I shiver.
Finding a solution isn’t optional. I will find one.
I wear two crowns, and unless I choose a Rider and make my sacrifice at the Altar of the Moon, I’ll be dead by Beltane morning.
Even that might not save me.
Chyr’s father was the last Rider chosen to be the consort—and he killed the queen who chose him.
I won’t let myself be dragged to Muilean like a lamb to slaughter. If I have to go at all, then somehow I will turn the time to my advantage.
It would help to find an ally among the Riders. Someone who’ll defend me when Chyr cannot. Of the three Riders, Ronan seems most likely for that.
As if he feels my eyes on him, he turns and smiles. “I thought we could take a moment to say goodbye to Tuirse and Oran,” he says. “Flora, do you want to join us?”
He stoops to pick up the sprigs he dropped beside the fire earlier. They’re entering the sweet phase of rowan, when they smell of marzipan.
The mood in the cavern changes. Daire stops trying to look intimidating and drops his arms to accept the two sprigs Ronan holds out to him, then Lorcan takes his. I expect Chyr to step up, but he stares hard at Ronan first.
Ronan holds out the next two twigs to me.
“You didn’t know Tuirse or Oran, but you buried them,” he says. “That matters.”
I open my mouth to protest that I didn’t, but when I think it through, Chyr didn’t lie. Not by Ever standards.
Those who did the burying are my people, loyal to me, employed by me. I approved the burial, and in that sense, I did bury them. I also dragged their bodies up the hill myself, my face inches from theirs. Then I helped Chyr say goodbye. In those ways, they will always be a part of me.
The realisation pushes my feet towards the fire. And maybe this is also a chance to show the Riders that I’m more than a prisoner. Something other than the Maiden.
Wiping my cheeks again, I peel my shoulders from the wall and walk to the fire. I keep my head high, as if I’ve earned the crowns I wear.
Shade and Shadow trot behind me, sticking close to my heels.
“Thank you.” I accept the rowan, and I gift Ronan with a smile. The one I rarely use.
He blinks, but he’s as wary as the others. I think my tears have scared them more than swords or magic.
Lorcan shifts closer to Daire, and Chyr is coiled so tight that emotion quivers in the air around him.
We circle around the fire, and the Riders turn to Chyr expectantly. Firelight plays over his cheekbones and the sharp angles of his jaw. His eyes swallow the flames.
“Oran was the quiet mountain of the Anvar’thaine,” he says, his voice quiet and solemn like the Chyr I had started to believe I knew.
“We all leaned on him, and he died the way he lived, gently laughing at a bad joke one of us used to disguise their pain. Without Oran, we wouldn’t have become a team. ”
Chyr throws a sprig of the rowan into the fire, and the rest of us do the same.
“May Oran be long remembered,” the Riders say in unison.
The fire crackles, and the sugared-almond scent of burning rowan fades too fast, leaving only bitterness.
Chyr shifts his feet, his eyes heavy-lidded. My feet want to go to him, my fingers want to slide between his and squeeze them in reassurance. I clasp my hands in front of me.
“Tuirse made us laugh without ever making any of us the butt of the joke,” Chyr says.
“His kindness had no limit. Tuirse was the heart of us, the buffer between strong personalities. I can’t count the nights that he sat beside me, reassuring me that however bad things seemed, he always had my back. ”
“May Tuirse be long remembered,” Daire, Lorcan, and Ronan say, as we all cast our offerings into the flames.
Their Ever traditions are not mine, so I say nothing. But Chyr’s eyes bore into mine.
“They died as warriors.” It’s the same tribute I said at their grave, but after hearing Chyr’s story, I believe it.
They fought death and Vheara’s poison. They fought for each other and for Chyr.
Hot tears slide down my cheeks and clog my throat. I watch the rowan burn, thinking of my mother, my father and brothers, and all the goodbyes I’ve had to say—the goodbyes too many of us have had to choke out as we laid our loved ones in the ground.
Vheara is far from finished. There will be more.
The only way I can honour the people who are gone is by fighting with everything I have to get back to those who remain.
Back to Dunhaelic.
Ronan clears his throat. “I saw a group of Vheara’s soldiers pass on the drover’s track along the lake, riding fast. Several Greys were with them. Showed no interest in looking for tracks, but that’ll change when they find the bodies at the camp.”
“You covered our steps,” Lorcan says, “and even if they have a Grey with magic-sense, Flora’s the only one who’s used any since we left the camp. That would only lead them as far as the bog. We’ll be long gone by the time they search this far.”
“Unless they can sense her crown,” Daire says glumly.
Chyr catches his eye and shakes his head. “We’ll be all right here today, and the rest we’ll worry about tonight.”
I swallow a sick feeling that he’s tempting fate with those words. In the aftermath of the Hunt, I’ve almost forgotten that the hunters are being hunted.
“We’ll have to go by the camp again,” I say.
Lorcan scoffs at me. “We’d be idiots to try.”
“Then we’ll have to be idiots, unless you have magic that lets you fly. There’s no safer route for us to take.” I smile at him, enjoying the flare of his nostrils and the flush of red rage that spills into his cheeks.
Lorcan is the hardest to read of all the Riders. He’s silk and charm and gleaming teeth on the surface, but I suspect the temper he showed with Chyr earlier is only the second of many skins he wears, each more cruel than the last.
“Can you explain it to them slowly, Flora?” Chyr pulls a knife from his belt and picks up the brace of hares Ronan brought back for dinner. “Use small words as if they’re children. I’m going to take these outside to clean so we can eat.”
He leaves me alone with the others, and I know it’s deliberate, although I’m not sure what he thinks it will accomplish. To be honest, I’m too tired to care.
“The Butcher is staying at Gleannadail House,” I explain to them, “and Alasdair Domhnall has been taken to Dun Uilleum in chains. Vheara’s troops and Cymbeul militia are demanding quarters in homes across Ehrugael, but we’ve also seen dozens of watchfires burning, which suggests there are camps between settlements. ”
Frowning, Ronan pushes his russet hair off his forehead. “Why would the Butcher come here? There are still patrols searching all through the north and the Highlands. And with the losses they took at Culodur, the clans in Ehrugael would be easy enough to break without him.”
I try to ignore the fact that those clans are mostly my people, and remind myself that the Riders do not know. Logically, they could assume I’m a Domhnall, but then again, I’m human. Evers don’t concern themselves with who we are or what we need.
“Is it possible he knows you’re here?” I ask. “The queen could have been sent to make sure you don’t reach Muilean.”
Daire and Lorcan exchange a look that I can’t read.
“True,” Lorcan says, “and you could be leading us straight into a trap, taking us past that camp. Have you thought of that? If the Butcher knows we’re here, he could be deliberately pushing us to take this route so that he can try to pick us off.”
I release a sigh. “He could, but whether that camp was part of a trap or simply the work of a prudent commander doesn’t change our situation.
There’s no track along the western shore of Loch Seil, and the hills come down right to the water there.
We’d lose too much time and miss Beltane Eve by at least a couple of days.
Beyond the hills, the terrain is even worse: either too open or too hard to pass through quickly.
It’s unfortunate that we’ve given ourselves away by murdering the sentries, but we’ll have to go around any new patrols. ”
“It’s not murder when they’re enemies,” Ronan says, tilting his head to study me.
“It felt like it.” I refuse to look away.
“Ah, a soft heart to go with that pretty face,” Daire says. “How deliciously unsurprising.”
“Because I don’t enjoy killing people in their sleep?”
“Because you’re a shiny new toy.”
“A toy and a prisoner. Better and better,” I say as thunder cracks outside.
Daire’s grin is too sharp for humour. Or charm. “Is it really so terrible here with us, little flower? You don’t seem the type to sit at home gossiping over your embroidery.”
Unintentional or not, it’s a gut punch, and tears sting my eyes as his words conjure an image of my mother in her solar. The way she used to be.
Furious, I make a show of letting my eyes travel over Daire, from the glowing gold runes along his jaw and throat and down the wide chest and the defined muscles that disappear into his breeches. Then I lift my attention back to his face and shake my head.
“I would have better options for entertainment at home,” I say, “and the scenery is prettier. Also, death-by-crowning isn’t exactly a dream come true.”
Lorcan bursts into laughter, and Ronan chuckles. Daire waits a beat, then lets his grin widen wolfishly. He bends too close, his breath warm on my ear. “Something you should know about me, love: I can never resist a challenge.”
“Learn,” I suggest, stepping back. “Self-control is all part of growing up.”
“Oh, I’m all grown up.” Daire shifts closer again, forcing me to take another step. Then he glances around at the others. “See what happens when you give a woman a crown or two? Suddenly, she gives orders like a queen.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “That’s Maiden to you, love.”
Daire’s eyes drop instantly to my lips. “But are you?” he whispers. “Still?”
A hot flush crawls up my cheeks, and I step past him, circling around the fire.
In the rare event that I’d ever need a reminder of how much I loathe the Evers, a minute in Daire’s company will take care of that.
Light flashes and thunder cracks outside again, and at the mouth of the cavern, something moves. A fox slinks in and stops a few feet inside the opening, red fur dripping with rain and golden eyes dull with fatigue. Her tongue hangs from the side of her mouth.
“Rua, you’re back!” Grinning, Ronan strides past me, his arms opening as he approaches the vixen. She jumps into his arms and joyfully licks his face.
I’m not even surprised that the fox I saw back at the camp is Ronan’s pet. My capacity for astonishment is spent.
All I want is to go to sleep. Tempting as it would be to run back to Dunhaelic while the Riders rest, I am wearing proof that the gods are real. The crowns are burned into my skin, and I don’t know how to hide from that. Not yet.