Page 104 of The Crown of Moonlight
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 theintentbehind 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—theintentwas 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.
