Chapter 40
Choose Your Rider
Chyr
T
he sun drains white behind the clouds as we put out to sea, but the wind blows hard, shredding the concealing mist as fast as Daire and Lorcan create it with their water magic.
Aboard the two cattleboats that carry the horses and the Shadehounds, Sean and Niall do their best to still the air and keep the fog thick around us.
We keep the three boats close to shore. Even without her sails, the twelve-oared birlinn that carries the rest of us outpaces the cattleboats that drag lower in the water. The oarsmen raise their oars every fifth stroke to slow us down.
The horses are restless in the pitch and throw of the swelling sea, and Flora stands to the side of the helmsman at the back, her knuckles white on the rail.
Whether that’s fear or anticipation, I can’t tell.
Her hair streams like fire and moonlight in the wind—she’s never bothered to refasten it—and her shawl has long since been forgotten.
Even with the Crown of Flame shining on her brow, she’s never looked more lost, and the need to gather her in my arms is almost more than I can bear.
It’s impossible to ignore what I feel for her.
She sees her fear as weakness when that’s what gives her strength.
From the moment she found me in the woods, she has shown kindness and compassion to everyone around her except herself.
Our journey deprived her of sleep, food, and comfort, and she accepted it all, enduring pain that could make a Rider weep.
Her mind is endlessly fascinating, her power makes me hungry, and I could sink myself into her body for an eternity, but it’s her heart—that fierce, courageous, impossibly kind heart of hers—that I love the most.
Leaving the remaining Riders to watch for patrols and manage the weather, I thread my way past the rowing benches to join her at the stern.
“What’s the matter, Fierceness? You’re quiet in a way that’s never good.”
She flicks a glance at me, her eyes glowing like moonlight in the mist. “I’m trying to work out what you want and how long you’ve planned it.”
I push away a twinge of fear. “We’re still trying to reach Muilean. That hasn’t changed.”
The skin tightens at the corners of her eyes.
“Not now. Overall. I know you’re limited in what you can say—what you can think.
Part of me is afraid to articulate my suspicions, even to myself, for fear of causing you pain and triggering some damnable consequence from your oaths.
But I can’t help feeling you want more than the throne of Alba Scoria.
I want to believe your sense of honour is pushing you towards a different solution. ”
I step up to the railing, my shoulder brushing hers. “A man sailing through fog doesn’t always have a plan. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a destination.”
“Is that you agreeing?” Flora tips her head, giving me the solemn, considering look she has when she’s thinking deeply. “All right. Tell me this. What will happen to Alba Scoria if you and I both die? What would the High King do?”
The birlinn heaves as a wave hits, sending a plume of spray across the deck. I grasp Flora’s shoulders and turn her to face me. “Your death is the last thing I want.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t what needs to happen.”
It’s not the time, but if I don’t do it now, there may never be a chance. I bend and claim her mouth with every defiant bit of hope that still clings inside me. Without words, I tell her all the things I hope and want. What her world and mine both need.
Her mouth tastes sweet as she kisses me back. Groaning, I pull her hips tight against me, holding her there even once I lift my head and look into those quicksilver, moonlit eyes. They still hold a few remnants of the deep calm grey that belonged to the Flora she used to be.
“Don’t ever give up,” I say.
She blinks and shakes her head. “But there’s no way out.”
“You found an answer to Sean’s claim of illicit magic.”
“Did I?” She arches an eyebrow at me. “The way I lost control of the water this morning, I’m not sure he was wrong.”
A cold lump forms in my chest at the idea that she can doubt herself to that extent. “You lost focus for an instant. Your magic is a gift from forces more powerful than any of us, and it isn’t given lightly. The gods know who you are better than you do.”
She dips her head, evading the hold I have on her eyes as she tries to escape the truth. “I’d like to believe you’re right.”
“Then think. What did you do when you needed an argument against Sean?”
She looks back up at me, her focus sharpening. “I asked Cathal for the text of the Compact.”
Turning without waiting for me to answer, she staggers forward to where Cathal and Fergal stand watching the sails of a distant cutter. Cathal frowns as she stops beside him.
“Tell me exactly what the Compact says about the final crown,” she says.
Cathal’s eyes narrow above his high-bridged nose. A vein throbs under the brown skin at his temple.
“Tell her, Cathal.” Fergal offers Flora one of his shy smiles of encouragement. He’s ready to trust her. He’s always been able to see the truth in people more easily than the others can.
Cathal cuts him a glare, but he activates the power rune above his ear that enhances his memory. “There are several.”
“Just answer the damn question, you pompous ass,” Fergal snaps.
“The first one is this,” Cathal says, looking grim.
“The Maiden must wear three crowns to become the Cailleach Queen: the Land shall crown her in vines if she proves herself worthy; the Father of Light shall crown her in flame if she is true; and if she takes a Rider to hunt beside her and they sacrifice their blood upon the Altar of the Moon, the Great Mother shall crown her in the light of rebirth.”
“What if she refuses?” Flora asks.
Cathal sighs. “Once marked with the Crescent Moon, the Maiden may refuse the Hunt or fail the test, whereupon the land will release her and choose another. Once she bears the Crown of Vines, she must wear the Crown of Moonlight before the moon sets on the Night of Rebirth. If she fails, her life will expire with the rising of the Sun.”
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” Fergal asks.
Flora’s lips twitch into a mirthless smile. “I suspect that’s the way your High King wanted it. But one of my less-than-brilliant ancestors fell for it.”
“Careful,” Cathal says. “That’s perilously close to treason.”
In the distance, the cutter changes course, coming towards us as it tacks against the wind.
“Cathal, stop stalling,” I snap at him. “What else does the document say?”
Flora nods. “What happens if the Rider I choose refuses or fails to make the sacrifice?”
Cathal’s eyes simmer with resentment. “Neither of you understands how legal documents work—”
My hand is wrapped around Cathal’s throat before he has time to flinch. The pressure is light, barely there, but it’s a warning that’s long past due.
“Cathal, I have no patience left for games.”
“All right, yes,” Cathal says, then he rubs his throat and glares at me when I release him.
“Whosoever among the Riders forsakes the Compact, forswears their Oaths, breaks a Law of Tirnaeve, or refuses a Lawful Order given by the High King, the Assembly, or the Master of the Anvar’thaine, shall be banished to the Gloaming for the duration of their lifetime. ”
Flora’s teeth dig into her lower lip. “What if,” she asks, “upholding their oaths would mean forsaking the Compact or refusing a Lawful Order?”
The ship heaves and groans as a wave hits us broadside, and an instant later the lookout shouts, “Queen’s cutter approaching starboard and sailing fast!”
Cathal spins away, eager to escape.
I stay only long enough to grit out the answer Flora needs. “That’s why you have to choose your Rider carefully,” I say. “There may be no way for him to save himself, but he could choose to let you live.”
My magic is still low after the air I wielded back at the village this morning, and I need to conserve it if I can. I join Niall and Sean at the bow, where they’ve been trying to contain the fog despite the ripping wind.
“Has the concealment failed enough for the cutter to have spotted us?” I ask.
Niall peers ahead through the fog, but the white sail of the cutter ghosts through the mist, here one moment and gone so thoroughly the next moment that she seems like a hallucination.
“I can’t be sure, Chyr.”
No sooner has he said that than the boom of a cannon answers the question for us.
We’re approaching the mouth of Loch Moadar where it joins the Sea of Islands.
A faint line of waves marks a sandbar or rocky reef, and the channel snakes perilously thin.
Even if the cattleboats weren’t behind us, there’d be no room for us to swing about, and we’ve no hope of running past the cutter.
She is built for speed and armed for war.
The helmsman fights to hold the tiller against the wind. Old scars stand out white on his knuckles from previous battles where the tiller has fought him back.
“What do you want to do?” Sean asks.
The birlinn is a trader, not a ship of war, but the Domhnall men have grown accustomed to evading Vheara’s ships.
“Prepare for battle,” I order.
“Aye, Your Highness.”
To conserve weight, there’s no coxswain aboard, so the helmsman shouts the order himself.
The drum pounds, and the oarsmen stow the oars. Two of them run to brace the mast. Others throw up shields along the gunwales and ready javelins that will have little effect against a ship armed with cannons.
“Sean, Cathal, with me.” I run to the back, and Cathal presses a power rune on the dark skin above his ear to let me reach out to Daire. Cathal’s runes are not as strong as Daire’s, so his range for mind-speak is more limited. I let out a breath when I can hear Daire’s voice in my mind.
“You need me up there?” Daire asks.
“There’s a cutter closing fast. We’ll need both wind and water to push it back.”
“And Lorcan?”
“Lorcan, can you hear us?”
There’s no answer. Then I feel Daire’s rune flare, and Lorcan’s voice sounds in my mind. He and Daire have a rapid-fire conversation in our heads to coordinate Lorcan covering both his own position and Daire’s on the cattleboats.
Sean creates a bridge of air for Daire to cross over to the birlinn.
Sweat beads on Sean’s brow, and the precision rune at his temple glows brighter as he strains to hold the air still long enough.
The rune makes it easier for him, but I bloody well hope he won’t be close to spent by the time he’s finished.
Precise magic, like a bridge, costs far more to create and hold.
His hands tremble. Air eddies within the bridge’s span, starting to bleed off along the edges. He grunts as he tightens it up and anchors it in place.
I set my jaw and watch Daire’s every step until he’s close enough for me to grasp his arm and heave him up. Wasting no time, he runs forward the moment his feet hit the deck, with the rest of us close behind.
Flora is there already, working. She’s forcing waves of water and wind against the cutter, driving it away from us. Then the cutter’s cannons fire again.
The blast steals my hearing. A black hail of grapeshot flies towards us, threatening to shred through sails, mast, and flesh. I rush to Flora, my hands up to deflect the bits of iron, but the birlinn lurches and slides backwards through the water, knocking me off balance.