Chapter 38
Greys in the Mist
Flora
F
og blankets the sea as dawn approaches, but the tide is at its lowest. I wrap a light scarf low across my forehead under my heavy plaid to keep the Crown of Flame well hidden.
Chyr has cloaked himself in the mask of an old man again, but this time, he’s traded his sword for Ronan’s so it can’t give him away.
We saddle the horses while the Riders lean against the wall nearby, and Chyr gives me that rare grin that makes his eyes shine. Even through the disguise, it makes my heart skip a beat.
“Almost there,” he says. “The end’s in sight, Fierceness. One way or another.”
“Don’t invite more trouble. It dogs our heels close enough already.”
He gives me a look that’s pure Chyr, and it’s so strange to see it on an old man’s face. But it makes me realise that Chyr is Chyr no matter what he looks like. That terrible beauty isn’t what matters. That’s not what makes me want what I can’t have.
My heart kicks in my chest, a rhythm that’s as wild as the crash of the waves against the rocks. We lead the horses towards the ruined gate of Castle Tchirum with the Riders trailing behind us.
Chyr bends close to my good ear. “You don’t mind trouble as much as you pretend,” he says. “Admit it.”
I’m not sure he’s wrong, but time is moving too fast. I want to make the most of what we have left together—even if it’s only a quick ride to find a boat or two and men to guide us.
The Riders follow us to the shore, and as we stop at the gate, Sean can’t resist sending me a filthy look before he turns to Chyr.
“Let someone else play nursemaid,” he says. “Or let her go alone. It’s stupid to risk yourself, Chyr.”
“Flora needs someone along to send back a message after she finds a boatman. I know what to expect from Domhnall clansmen.”
“You’re the fucking king, not a messenger.” Sean’s brown eyes are icy in a way I never thought that colour could be.
“Chyr once told me that’s exactly what you have all become—the High King’s messengers and errand boys,” I say quite calmly.
“I know Lorcan would kill me to protect Chyr, and the others will do whatever’s needed to keep their oaths to the Compact.
But where are your loyalties, Sean? Why do you read things into the Compact that the others don’t? ”
Seizing the opportunity, I turn to Cathal. “What exactly does the Compact say about illicit magic?”
Cathal’s grey-blue eyes narrow, and his cheeks pinch as he inhales. But he touches a finger to one of the dozen runes along the shaved line of scalp above his left ear, and it glows brighter.
“It isn’t much,” he says. “None shall work compulsion, mind-bending, illusion, or other magic to affect the Peace of the Realm or alter the minds of mortals in Alba Scoria, except in the Realm’s defence.
Whosoever takes up illicit magic that imperils the Peace shall be subject to the justice of the Cailleach Queen, or failing that, the justice of the Anvar’thaine. ”
“That’s the only reference?” I ask.
Cathal shoots an apologetic glance at Sean. “No other explicit reference.”
“Prohibiting illicit magic was the intent behind the Compact,” Sean says.
“Was it?” I lift my chin, meeting his glower. “Because from my family’s perspective—and to be clear, that would be the Cailleach Queen mentioned in the Compact—the intent was to keep Siorai from continuing to abuse humans. Are you saying the High King’s intent was something else?”
Sean steps closer, his shoulders thrust forward until he’s looming over me. “I’m saying you are subject to the justice of the Anvar’thaine.”
“And I’m saying—for the feeble-brained among us—that what Cathal just quoted makes defence of the realm an exception.
Also, the queen’s justice takes precedence over the Anvar’thaine.
You, Sean, are not the queen. You are not the whole Anvar’thaine, and you are not its Master.
You don’t get to invent jurisdiction and carry out judgement in a single breath. ”
I mount Eira before he can answer, and I ride towards the causeway at a canter with Shade and Shadow at my heels.
The wind sweeps in, raising the swells in Loch Moadar and flinging seawater in our faces as we gallop across the wet spine of the causeway from the castle ruins.
Back on the mainland track, we keep to the left-hand verge, moving south.
Peat fires mingle with the distant smoke from enemy camps and the smell of kelp and brine.
The nearby fishing village is little more than a smudge in the fog at first, a crescent of turf-thatched cottages, net sheds, and the frames used for drying fish set along the remnants of the river where it flows into the sea.
I notice nothing amiss at first—I’m still too angry, too rattled.
Chyr spots the problem at the same time I do, too much movement at the shore for the early hour.
He holds up his fist, signalling for me to stop.
We rein the horses in, dismount, and walk them towards the cover of a scrub of willow and alder on the north side of the river that separates us from the village. Chyr’s face takes on the stillness and concentration that tells me he’s building an illusion to keep us from being seen.
After leaving the horses tied out of sight, we approach the village, hugging the riverbank that offers the only cover.
The fog and the sea drown out the screams at first. But we hear them as we draw closer, shouts and cries, the sound of mallets pounding, children and women wailing.
The shore is a blur of scarlet coats and the plaid uniforms of the Cymbeul militia, dotted among the smaller figures in white shifts and nightclothes with unbound hair flying in the wind.
The soldiers whip women and children in front of them, forcing them into the surf, bare feet slipping, skirts dragging through the brine, hands bound in front of them.
At first, the double line of wooden posts pounded into the surf almost resembles an odd sort of fish trap. My mind’s eye can almost see nets strung between them.
But that’s only my brain refusing to process the horror.
A scream rises in my throat. Chyr pulls me against him, his hand across my lips.
The queen’s men shove children against the first row of stakes. The smallest of them is a blonde girl, her chest deep in the water with spray lashing against her face. The women kick and thrash. A soldier cuffs one across the face, then lifts his dagger.
Another scream builds, and Chyr tries to turn me into his chest, holding me tighter.
My limbs have gone numb, my heart pounding so hard it feels like my ribs are rattling. But I make myself watch, trying to think of a plan.
Instead of stabbing the woman, the soldier splits the front of her shift to her waist and drags it off her shoulders. Then he lashes her, nearly naked, to a stake in the back row positioned deep enough that she will drown as the tide comes in, but not so deep that it will happen quickly.
It’s only then that I spot the two Greys on the beach. They’re the ones for whom this whole horror is being staged, and they aren’t watching the women and children at all.
The men of the village—husbands and fathers—are staked out along the beach facing their wives and children. Gagged and bound, they will be helpless as the tide comes in, as the women they love are forced to watch their children slowly drown before being drowned themselves.
Already the Greys pace along the line of men, drinking in their anguish, their terror, their rage.
Power gathers in cords that crackle along my skin. I know what’s at stake for us, that we can’t call attention to ourselves. But I can’t watch women and children being slaughtered.
I twist out of Chyr’s grasp, earth and air and water pulsing with my fury, wind whipping, the sky darkening.
Dragging the water back from where the women and children are tied, I raise it into a wall six feet high, stealing its momentum and pinning it still.
In front of the stakes, the tide drops below the children’s knees, and the surface smooths to glass.
Then I swing my arm wide and turn the wall into a weapon, curving it around the women and children and knifing it along the beach toward the two Greys, who are too intent on gorging themselves on the men’s agony to see what’s coming for them.
The soldiers see it. They shout, then scream as they try to run.
I push the water between the Greys and the stakes where the men are tied. But someone is moving between me and the water—Chyr. Sword raised, he’s running towards the stakes, and I try to calculate whether he’s too close.
My concentration breaks. The wall of water starts to collapse, froth churning as it breaks into an enormous wave.
Fear freezes me in place. Water rushes towards the stakes where the men are tied.
Then Chyr sends a blast of air to crash against the churn. Spray and foam shoot skyward, and he holds the water back.
Shaking myself, I reach for the water again—gather it, pull it vertical, rebuild it.
I loop the wall back around the two Greys and as many of the soldiers as I can capture.
Then I close my fist, and the water mirrors the motion.
The water squeezes until the mass and pressure and the weight of my fury rupture and crush—until the Greys are broken.
Then I snap the water back out to sea like a whip cracking.
The ocean boils and froths, crimson uniforms and cloaks tumbling in streaks like blood through the wake.
I feel the mortal lives snuff out. Maybe like Daire suggested, they’re the enemy and I shouldn’t care. But it’s not enough to be better than someone else. We have to be better than ourselves.
Each of those soldiers chose obedience over death. They chose the wrong side, not caring what happened to others. But I’ve taken away the option for them to ever make better choices.
The sky gutters darker. The wind beats against the shore.
Cries rend the air as Chyr sends ropes of air to capture the remaining soldiers and Cymbeul militiamen who have tried to run away.
The Shadehounds have revealed themselves, snarling and snapping at the heels of the escaping men.
Half the soldiers run, but the rest are too terrified and fall to their knees with their hands covering their heads.
I leave Chyr to finish them and run forward instead, drawing my dagger to saw through the ropes that hold the villagers still lashed to the stakes.
I free the children first. Hemp rope bites deep around tiny wrists.
The shocked, still eyes of the little ones have my stomach roiling and my chest aching with pain and fury.
By the fourth set of wrists, my palms are slick with the blood of innocents.
Sound comes back far away, as if I’m underwater.
Time narrows to the scrape of my blade on rope and the taste of salt.
When the last knot gives way, my hands won’t stop shaking.
The beach is calmer. Women have pulled up their soaked, tattered dresses and carry the smallest children towards the shore, older children helping younger ones. I stand a moment, tears pouring down my cheeks, my breath coming in great, dry gasps.
Then I realise no one is moving. I turn, and the women are kneeling in the sand and nudging the children to do the same.
I blink, wiping my eyes, and stare back at them blankly.
Chyr steps up beside me, looking like himself again because he can’t keep up illusions while using his active magic. My mouth opens to ask a question, but he runs his thumb gently across my forehead.
My scarf has blown back, and the Crown of Flame is no longer covered.
It’s too late to hide it—and I’ll never be able to take this moment back.
It’s the first time I’ve come face to face with what the crown still means, not to the Evers, not to me, but to us. To the Domhnall. To mortals, to Alba Scoria. The weight of that burden threatens to drag me to my knees.
“Please get up,” I manage to say, gentler than I feel. “Help your little ones, and untie your men.”
The women stare at me, then my words seem to fall in place for them. They climb to their feet while I stand and try to keep myself from trembling.
Then I turn and follow the women who have moved towards the line of stakes where the men are tied.
Chyr comes with me, and we shift from one stake to another, our daggers sawing through the ropes that bind the men’s hands and feet and the rags that were meant to hold back their screams as their families drowned.