Page 60 of The Crown of Moonlight
Chyr doesn’t look at me, and his expression is carefully blank.“No one but Chulainn and the Anvar’thaine knew what the crown was meant to do.”
His voice sounds strangled on the last words, and tendons stand out in his neck as if someone has pushed a hot poker into the middle of his back.That alone tells me as much as all he’s ever said to me so far.
My heart pounds furiously in my chest.“The Compact was created to make the Cailleach Queens and their descendants powerful enough to protect Alba ScoriaagainstSiorai.Against those like Vheara who came from Tirnaeve to exploit us.But if the consort’s magic was limited to what came through the Hollow Crown, then all of it was a lie.”
The wind gusts, and the fire blows sparks into the air with a hiss and crackle.
“I can’t answer that,” Chyr says.
His movements are painfully slow as he busies himself tearing off a rabbit leg.He offers it to me without looking at me, which is confirmation in itself.
My blood chills as I think it through.A Veilstone ring swirls on each of his hands, the gold threads of magic dancing like sunbeams through a cloud.
“The Compact was a trick, wasn’t it?”My words are cold, and my hands are numb.“It let the High King seal off the doorways so no more celestial iron could be brought back to Tirnaeve, but the Siorai blood of the consorts was never meant to strengthen us.It gave the High King more control over us than he’d ever had.He never gave us a single thing he couldn’t take away.”
My eyes burn, and my breath comes too fast.I reach for Chyr’s arm and squeeze hard enough that he’s forced to look at me.
“Tell me I’m wrong, Chyr,” I insist.“Say it.”
His eyes have darkened to a brown gold, and his hands are fisted at his sides as if he’s fighting with himself.Slowly, he shakes his head.
His body convulses in wave after wave, muscles straining beneath his skin.Sweat breaks out on his forehead, and his face is as pale as it was when I was carving out his flesh.
Instinct has me reaching to pull his coat open and check his wound.But he catches my hand and pulls it aside.
“The pain is from my oathbands.It has nothing to do with the wound,” he says.
His voice is hoarse, and instead of dropping my hand, he wraps his fingers around mine.We sit in silence while he struggles.
I can see the tremor in his fingers even after the convulsions stop and the muscles in his neck and arms relax.Then he tips his head back against the damp rock, sweat still beading across his brow.
I’ve seen how much pain Chyr can handle without complaining or even letting it show.If the oathbands don’t want him discussing the true reason behind the Compact, that only confirms what I was saying.
The Compact was never equal.Never real.
I need to re-examine every story I’ve ever heard about it—and everything Chyr has told me.It’s time to think more carefully about what he might have been leaving out.What he might have been unable to tell me and why.
Wind sweeps up from the valley, colliding with the rock behind us.It leaves a cold chill that makes me shiver.In the distance, dozens of watchfires bleed red against the darkness.
Chapter 24
Time to Choose
Flora
W
e descend towards Glen Fhionain, and shortly before dawn, we find a deep cleft between two outcroppings of granite on the hillside.Fallen rock overgrown with vegetation overhead creates a deep cavern and protection from the rain.Better yet, a thicket of birches below hides the entrance, and a nearby stream falls from a natural pool, giving us a sheltered place to bathe.
A pre-dawn silence blankets the glen, and a low-hanging mist dims the glow of the watchfires on the far side of Glen Seil.The danger is still there, but the moment is peaceful enough that I can almost push it from my mind as I water the horses and let them graze.Then I steal the first turn to take a bath.
The water is cold but as clear and soothing as moonlight.It makes me think of the difference between my own magic and Chyr’s, his bright, steady heat against the pale warmth I’m starting to recognise at my core.The magic I draw from the earth is entirely different—wilder, cooler, grittier, dark and rich with life.
I run my hands through the water, testing it against my skin, searching for a connection to help me understand it.
The magic in the waterwantsto be understood.I cup my hands, trying to contain it, then pouring it from one hand to the other.It wants to spill over and fall back into the pool, but I give it a mental tug to pull it back into my palm.It almost answers.The potential is there, then pain claws at my veins, reminding me that my magic is still too empty.
Shivering, I wash my hair and wring it out, then rinse my clothes and lay them on a rock out of sight to dry.The sky is softening to gold and rose across the moors.The first notes of birdsong sound from the brush.With the plaid tucked tight around me, hair still dripping down my back, I leave the horses grazing and return to the cavern where Chyr has already built a fire.Smoke veils the damp air, and the granite floor is cold and rough beneath my feet.
