Chapter 39
Four Black Pillars
Flora
T
he sea is calm now, but it won’t stay that way. The Greys aren’t dead. I crushed them, drowned them, but their heads and hearts remain intact. Sooner or later, they will rise from the sea and resume their torture.
I stand alone at the shore watching for them, with Shade and Shadow pressed against my legs.
Once I’m gone, the village will need to keep a lookout along the waterline.
I will give them the sword of celestial steel I took from the Grey by the camp.
I only wish I’d thought to collect the weapons sooner.
I’ve made too many mistakes. Not merely the things I’ve forgotten to do, but what I’ve done—and nearly done.
If it hadn’t been for Chyr’s magic, the wall of water I summoned would have hit the men the Greys had staked along the shore. I could have killed them because I lost control.
Sean keeps calling my magic illicit. What he means is dangerous.
I’m dangerous.
The one saving grace is that the other Riders weren’t here to see it. Chyr has returned to the castle to get them now that several of the village men have agreed to take us to Muilean, but the truth is, maybe it isn’t the Riders I should fear.
I’ve been preparing for the Riders to try to kill me, preparing to die for refusing to accept the final crown.
More than any of that, what frightens me is the knowledge that I’ve no idea what I’m becoming.
And whatever that is, I don’t want it. The magic I feel around me wants me to use it, but it’s wild. It isn’t meant to be controlled.
Siorai magic has rules and limits. The magic of earth and wind and sun and rain is nearly limitless, and I have to be strong enough—and smart enough—to set my own boundaries. In that it’s more like Vheara’s magic—there will always be a temptation to reach for more.
No one should be trusted with that. It’s too easy to find an excuse for giving in to what we want, a reason for claiming more than we deserve.
Behind me, the village is quiet as the women try to comfort the children and the men go to gather the boats and supplies they’ll need to take us to Muilean as they’ve agreed to do.
Salt spray hits my face, and wind billows my skirt.
Out on the Sea of Islands, Vheara’s patrols are already at work, grey-sheeted silhouettes in the shredding fog.
A single-masted cutter, low and fast with sharp triangular sails, dips and rises, vanishing and reappearing behind the waves.
Farther west, a deeper-hulled sloop beats the outer edge of the channel, hunting any boats that dare a run towards Eireen.
More silhouettes haunt the fog, too distant to see clearly.
There’s no sense waiting for night to fall. With the two Greys unaccounted for, the queen’s forces could return to the village at any time.
That’s what troubles me most. What will happen when the redcoats and more Greys come? How can the village defend itself?
An old woman wrapped in a black shawl approaches me cautiously. “Can I speak with you, my lady?”
Something about her tugs at my memory, and I wonder if I’ve met her before when we stayed with the Domhnall of Raghnall. Her face is as wrinkled as a winter apple, her dark eyes hooded with age but still quick and bright. They linger on the crown across my forehead.
“Is it the Bonnie King you’ve chosen to take as consort?” she asks.
Her bluntness startles me. “You recognised him?”
“My husband and a few others did,” the woman says, giving me a one-shouldered shrug.
“Not all of the men who met in Glen Fhionain could go to fight, but they thought he seemed a good man. As far as Everfolk go. And we’ve suffered from the Cymbeul militia worse than ever since they allied with the Raven Queen. Your father…”
My eyes well up, and I blink back the tears. “My father didn’t mean to ignore your people, I’m certain. He didn’t see the Raven Queen for what she was, and he didn’t think it likely that the king would win.”
“Did he know that you had magic when he did that?” the old woman asks. “That you might be the Maiden?”
“How could any of us have suspected that when the old ways were as good as dead? And no, to answer your other question, I can’t choose the king.”
“Good.” The woman’s face lightens, and she makes the sign of the horns, as though pushing evil back. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, it’s only…”
“Only what?”
“I’m afflicted with the Sight. Now and again. I saw your death when the Bonnie King touched your crown. Both of you will die.”
My heart jolts, and my hand presses to my chest. “What did you see exactly?”
“Blood pooling in two shallow bowls carved into a heavy, moon-grey altar on four black pillars.” The old woman ducks her head, looking down at the sand instead of directly at me.
“You and the king lying dead on the ground in front of it, looking no different than you look now, same dress, same plaid. But there’s a wound in your chest, blood soaking into your clothes all around it.
I didn’t see a reason for the king’s death.
No blood. No wound. But he didn’t move, and he didn’t breathe. ”
The oaths. I hug my arms around my waist, burrowing deeper into my plaid. “Are your visions final, or can they still be changed?”
“The Sight is fickle. It shows what it wants me to see and no more. And the visions never come a second time.” She presses her lips together, then glances down at her muddy shoes before looking up again. “The future can be as hard as stone, but find a crack and you can break it.”
The thud of hooves on wet sand makes me turn. Chyr and the Riders approach at a canter.
I’ve ridden with them, but I haven’t seen them like this—the full might of the Anvar’thaine riding.
Everyone else must feel it, too. The importance of it.
Children stream from the cottages in the village, running towards the beach for a glimpse.
The men and women walk more slowly, but they also stream to the shore.
Shivering, I turn back to the old woman. “Thank you for letting me know.”
She catches my hand and holds it between hers in a grip that’s surprisingly tight. “You won’t discount the warning, will you? Seeing the Maiden walk among us, what you did for us—you give us all hope. That’s what we need.”
Hope is a cruel illusion. It lets you put off decisions, deluding yourself that solutions exist even when they don’t.
“I won’t discount your vision,” I say. “I swear it. But we can’t rely on gods and prophecies.
The Greys from this morning will be back.
Others will come. The village won’t be safe, but you could retreat into Castle Tchirum and rebuild the gate.
Ultimately, we’ll need more celestial steel if we want to kill the Greys. ”