Page 38 of The Crown of Moonlight
“Four minutes or four centuries, it doesn’t matter how long it’s been.You can pray all you like, but no one in Alba Scoria will forget a stolen throne or the fact that Fionn used the last Hunt to kill the queen and crown himself.”
Of all our ancient stories, those about the ritual of choosing a new Cailleach Queen are the most revered.The Hunting of the Maiden was a chance for the Riders of the Anvar’thaine to prove they were worthy of the Maiden and for the Maiden to prove she was worthy to become the queen.
Neither the Sun King nor the Raven Queen were chosen.They simply took the crown as if it were theirs by right.The rebel king is trying to do the same.
Chyr watches me for another moment, then shakes his head.I know he’s going to say, “I’m sorry,” again, but his apologies mean nothing.
I take advantage of his confusion to press the cup of henbane to his lips.“Drink.”
This time, he doesn’t argue.He drains it all, and I guide his shoulders back to the bench, settle myself, and begin to clean the wound that he’s torn open.
The heat of his body releases the earthy scent of the layer of bog moss I placed over the wound earlier to bring down the inflammation.There’s also a hint of the spent lightning smell that comes from the celestial iron.
I peel the moss and bandages aside and cut away the remnants of the stitching where the wound has opened.There’s more blackening than before, but it’s a slow spread, not an infestation.
Lower down, whole sections of the flesh I stitched together have begun to knit themselves closed, and the pink seam at the bottom of the cut has healed well enough to fade to silver.
Chyr’s better, but not well enough to reach Muilean.
As if he’s heard my thought, his eyes find mine and hold them.“There’s only a week left if I leave tonight.I need to give myself as much time as I can.”
I pull my eyes away and concentrate on picking out the broken threads where my stitching broke.“And where is the king?The other Riders?”
Chyr pauses so long that I look up to study him.He’s struggling with the pain again, and the faint scar near his mouth stands out stark silver against the rest of his skin.
I run my fingertip across it, and my breath catches traitorously when he shudders in response.
“Was this made by celestial steel?”I ask.
“It was.The wounds leave scars even though they start to heal as soon as the metal is removed.”
I pluck out another broken thread from his wound, but he catches my hand suddenly and brings it to his lips.Then he holds it while I stare at him in shock.
The thought of him leaving makes me want to memorise his features, every curve and hard angle of them, and the layered depths of his eyes that hold as much danger of drowning as a selkie’s invitation.
“I know that you don’t want to hear it,” he says, “but I am sorry, Flora.For all of this.Your family.Your home.I know how it feels to lose the things that matter most.The choices I made in not telling you…We couldn’t risk anyone knowing where we are going, not even General Mora, so we split up to lay false trails until we can all meet again at the doorway.If the army isn’t there, I swear we’ll make the—”
He cuts off with a muffled curse, and his chest arches up, the muscles in his back clenching so hard that it bows his spine.Several of the black runes on his arm light up in gold, and the bands slowly spin along the thick-veined muscles.
“What is it, Chyr?Tell me what I can do to help?”
He collapses back to the bench, sweat beading on his temples and his breath coming too fast.When he finally relaxes, he looks at me, and there’s no expression on his face at all.
“Would you be willing to use your magic to heal me again?”he asks.“To pull out more of the celestial iron.”
“You were dying then.You had nothing to lose—”
“I’m still dying, and it will have been for nothing unless I can reach Muilean in time.Vheara will win, and you won’t be safe—no one in Alba Scoria will be.Stopping her is worth any risk.”
“All I did yesterday was draw your fever.If you’re asking me to draw the celestial iron, you might as well ask me to give you the moon.”
“Are you certain that’s all you did?”
His eyes find mine, and my heart gives a thud at the expression welling in them.I’m not sure if it’s pain or fear, but whatever it is, I hate to see it.
“I wouldn’t know how to begin to draw poison out of your body,” I say.“Where would it even have gone?”
“Your skin was smoking.”
