Page 12 of The Crown of Moonlight
This small, fierce woman on the back of the stallion bears the blood of the ancient warriors of the Great Mother goddess.
The Cailleach Queens of Alba Scoria wielded the power of earth and rain and wind and water, sovereign magic gifted to them by the land itself.To the shame of all my people, Fionn came through the Veil from Tirnaeve and murdered the last queen.Then he slaughtered her daughters, her nieces, and every other Domhnall woman the land and the Great Mother might have chosen to reclaim the throne so he could call himself the Sun King.Then as if that wasn’t damage enough, he outlawed magic, forbade women from the chiefships, replaced their religion, and drove the High Chiefs from their sacred isles into these distant Highlands.
Apparently, he didn’t snuff their magic out entirely, though.
That revelation sparks the first glimmer of satisfaction I’ve felt in longer than I care to think.It explains why this woman’s power feels like Siorai magic but also something else.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and more words scratch at my tongue, eager to be spoken.
If my oaths would let me, I would tell her that death was too easy a punishment for Fionn and that Vheara deserves far worse.I would admit that no son of Fionn’s deserves any sort of throne, much less one bought in betrayal and blood.
The oathbands etched around my biceps snarl at me for even daring to think such things.Cold sears through the runes and into my blood, freezing me from within.Then comes the flash of heat and the pain that hits like a thousand knives slashing through my veins, reminding me of my reality.
Right or wrong doesn’t matter in my world.My loyalty is bound to my king by promises I can’t break.
I can’t say any of that, though the woman deserves to know it.The Tirnaeve I believed in—the Tirnaeve of honour and justice—is a myth.
My vision narrows again, darkness pressing in.I’m not sure if it’s the oathbands or the wound in my chest, but I grip the nearest tree, fighting to keep my legs from buckling.
The woman scowls at me.“You’re bleeding again.”
Her Shadehounds whine softly, and one inches closer.
I glance down at my chest.Blood blooms red on the white linen, spreading slowly.
“It’s fine.”I shake my head.
“What I did was no more than a stopgap measure.Your wound needs deeper cleaning and many layers of stitching.There’s also some sort of infection or poison—” The sentence hangs as though she isn’t sure how to end it.
Her scent comes to me as I draw in a deeper breath, and when she tilts her face to look up at me, I think how it would feel to hold her.
I have no right to think such things, but the sting of loneliness is sharper as death approaches.The Riders are the closest thing to a true family I have ever had.Watching Tuirse and Oran die, being left behind in these woods, it feels too much like my childhood spent in beautiful rooms empty of warmth or kindness.
Maybe that’s what draws me to this woman.A need for connection after all the blood and sorrow of the past twelve months.But maybe that’s only part of it.
The woman is studying the spreading stain of blood on the bandage around my chest.A small dimple forms at the corner of her mouth as she frowns in thought.
“Will you be able to ride if I help you into the saddle behind me?”she asks.
I nod, though I’m not certain how well that will work.The stallion is a magnificent beast, but hardly steady in temper.
“You can lean on me.We won’t go far.”She steps beside me and slips her arm around my waist.
I suck in a ragged breath.
“Did I hurt you?”she asks.
“Not at all.But we should probably introduce ourselves if we’re going to share a saddle.”
“It’s not that sort of ride,” she snaps, then she blushes as she realises what she’s said and how it sounds.
I bite back a laugh.“My name is Cóirneach.My true name, but to my friends, I’m Chyr.”
I can never be what she would call a friend, but she is helping me.If I can’t be as honest with her as I would wish—as honest as she deserves—then I can at least be honest with the name I give her.My true name is the one thing I have that’s mine alone.A small measure of recompense for all the things I am oath-bound not to say.
Her lips part, and she swallows, a flicker of caution passing through her.She suspects a trap.
“It doesn’t have to be your true name,” I add more gently.“All I need is something to call you.I swear on my sword, on my honour, and the Father of Light, I won’t use it to betray you.Compelling humans violates the Compact between Tirnaeve and Alba Scoria.”
