Page 107 of The Crown of Moonlight
“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.”
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.
