Chapter 2 #2
It simply carried on.
After supper, the woman walked him to the barn. She held a lantern forwards and said, “Isnae much, but with the cows in, the breath keeps it warm.”
The barn was piled with hay and hung with drying meats. A bucket of plucked feathers and offal sat in the corner, aside a table full of rusted tools. The cows idled nearby and the druid thought it wasn’t such bad company.
“You have been a great help to me,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Bah! Come away wit’it!” She pulled her shawl loose and offered it to him. “I cannae think ye’ll be freezin’ stiff on my watch. Have a good’n sleep, woodsingr.”
He took what was given and bid her goodnight, then set about making a nest in the hay. He was mindful of the lantern flame as he shifted about, then blew it out with a soft puff of air. It was warm there and he fell quickly asleep.
But it was not peace that came to him.
The night quickened in his veins. Shadows moved behind his eyes. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his breath grew sticky. He saw a forest of fog and a woman, white amongst the mist. He could not see her face, yet felt her gaze upon him.
A flash of lightning.
He saw the sea; the midnight tides of Marn and an endless dark storm. His feet sank into the sand as the waves crept closer, and every time they drew near, fresh dread curled within.
The druid had never feared the land; had never feared the sky. He did not fear the tide. But a great unease dripped into his bones.
The storm raged and water rushed his ankles, and the wind screamed:
“íridh! íridh!”
His eyes snapped open.
The farmer’s boy knelt over him, fingers dug against the druid’s arms. His ruddy face was stricken. “Bless the spirits, ye finally woke!”
The druid’s skin was clammy, yet something dark turned in his heart.
They had come again—the visions in the night.
“Is it some ill?” said the boy, panicked. “Some fit? I’ll fetch Máta!”
“No.” The druid grasped him at the elbow. “I am alright, pay no mind.”
The boy looked unconvinced by this, taking in the druid’s tousled appearance. He said, “Ye were speaking things in yer sleep. To who were ye speaking them?”
The druid pressed his lips. “I am sorry if I frightened you.”
He gathered his staff and rose, eager to be on his way. The druid wished to roam, as if he could put distance between himself and his mind. The lingering images pricked at him.
The boy's eyes widened in wonder, as if he could read the druid’s thoughts. “Was it a dream?”
The druid froze.
“Aye! That’s what they're called!” The boy hummed with excitement. “Máta says that druids can see the past, and the witches of the Moon can see the future. Mayhaps ye can do both—?”
“No!” said the druid at once. “I can do neither. Enough nonsense.”
Startled, the boy calmed. “A-aye, íridh… I’m sorry to speak improper. I only came to fetch ye. They call for ye in the villaigh.”
“Then let us be on our way.” He brushed his robes of straw. An earthy scent chased last night’s rain, and the barn had become balmy, further muddying his mind. He muttered, “Dear boy, for my sake… speak nothing of what you saw.”
The boy nodded.
Speaking witchery would only end poorly. It was far too precarious to be what he was.
A dreamer adrift in a dreamless world.
The druid was led down to the village, where the farmer waited, wet in the eye. “Look’it there, druid! How can I ever repay ye?” The man gave his old cow a proud pat. She stood now, breathing well when her mouth wasn’t full of grass.
The woman was there, too, and she said, “What wonders ye work! Yer hands blessed by túr an’ ’Tagh!”
“They are no more blessings than wind or wild,” said the druid. “Spring comes soon. Mind well your stock and plow.”
“We’ll heed yer good word, íridh.”
“Then I will be on my way.” But the words came to a slow close.
Beneath his feet, the ground stirred. A shifting that began at his toes and stretched up his legs to his crown. In his ears was the rumbling of hooves. He drew still. So still, in fact, the villagers asked him what was wrong. But the druid only turned his head to the hills, and there he saw them.
Ebon and gold bannermen, like a dark flock, rode up the valley in procession. Their standards caught high in the breeze, bearing the emblem of a golden stag. The rumbling quickened; rolling thunder across an empty land. As they grew near, their gilded insignia glistened under the grey sky.
“The Vaich’s riders,” said the woman. The villagers had grown tense around him. Whatever peace that belonged there was now an uncertain stranger.
“What would they have of us?” asked the farmer.
“More levies, most like! The burglars!” cried his wife.
All were silent as the bannerman approached—horses grand and black as midnight, towering over those beneath. They had two carrachs with them, which carried forth people of great standing, but one, the druid noted, was empty.
A wizened rider came forwards and stared down at the peasantry with stony eyes. He looked strong for his age, but gripped his reins in a tight, apprehensive hold.
His attention fell upon the druid. For a moment, the rider hesitated. He dragged his gaze away, considering each villager in turn. Whatever he was looking for, it came not in their rugged faces. He looked back to the druid and spoke.
“Cerys.”
The word felt foreign. Not because the druid did not know it, but because he had not heard it spoken in many long years. Not since the days amongst the nach’durnathan, where he had lived young with his people. It had never sat upon the tongues of stone-dwellers, most especially those.
“That was the name granted to me,” said the druid. “How did you come to know it, fire seeker?”
A woman came down from the carrach. She was dressed in blazing silk and dark veils.
Her golden jewels jingled as she stepped up beside the rider, settling an iron gaze upon the druid.
Then came a second, her veils lined in silver, hair like moonlight.
Two priestesses. One like fire, and the other, ice. Both fixated upon him.
“A man?” said the first, her breath full of bile.
“A druid,” said the second, her lips a soft smile.
“Is he the one?” asked the rider.
“It is no coincidence,” said the moon priestess. “He carries the pale mark.”
“A folly,” said the sun.
“Is he the one?” the rider repeated, less patiently. The villagers trembled beneath his tone. The druid’s fingers tightened around his staff.
The sun priestess pressed her lips. “Bring him to the Vaich.”
The air was divided between a dozen bellies.
The moon priestess undressed him with curious eyes, an amused smirk playing across her face.
Her irises were not the earthy dark typical of Cullain, but a ghostly silver not unfamiliar to him.
She said nothing, no word of explanation, simply turned and followed the first back to their carrach.
And then he was left to the mercy of men who dismounted and came to his flank.
“Ye cannae take him!” cried the villagers.
The bannermen paid them no mind.
“Am I being arrested?” the druid asked the old rider who stood watch. There was reluctance pooled in the muscles of his jaw, which he worked into a grind.
“That is far from your sentence,” he muttered irritably. “You will be brought to Rhyd-hal, and the king will make of you.”
“What is the crime?” bellowed the farmer.
They gave no answer.
The druid was escorted towards the empty carrach, and silently, he stepped up.
The moment his feet left the comfort of soil, he was reminded of that dark vision.
The dread he’d felt, gone quiet in the light, rekindled, if only for the briefest moment.
His eyes fixed upon an unfamiliar horizon, and the burden of a world unknown.
The rider came to his side, and the druid looked up at him from his cart. “If you should tell me I would be killed, I would ask you do it here, out in the untamed lands. Allow me the green grave promised to all my kin.”
“It is not my place to decide your fate. Your name was spoken by gods.”
“You know we do not share gods, Rider. I do not hearken the words of the false.”
The rider shook his head. “The words are sacred, whether you hear them or nae, and I must abide them to whatever end. I am but a man, woodkin. And you are Chosen of the Moon.”