Chapter 4
Chapter four
The Lady in the Lake
Your name was spoken in prophecy .
That is what they told him.
The druid had never spent much time with the men of the west, and now, amongst them, had become no more familiar. He thought them strange. They certainly thought the same of him. They spoke little. They answered less.
Across the green moors, they travelled by daylight, and in the evening, they made rest. The druid stayed quiet and vigilant.
Though they shared the earthen blood of Cúil Cullach, the great rifts of time and allegiance had sprung between them like insidious weeds.
From north to south, east to west, they had become a brotherhood divided.
They were grown on the same rugged land, birthed from the same primal root, and yet it was sure the men beside him would give a far different telling of what it meant to be Cullain.
Still, it wasn't lost on the druid, the peculiar nature of his captivity.
He was neither chained nor mishandled. There was, he supposed, a fragile peace.
The prophecy the riders spoke of held great sway over their hearts, their minds, and inevitably, the hands that stayed their blades.
His need to remain had become, to them, a matter of sacred mandate.
But that made his position no less precarious.
In his mind was the image of his kinsman, strung up upon the cross.
The stench of burnt flesh still stuck in his nose.
It wasn’t trust between himself and his captors. The riders glared askance, muttering suspicions beneath their breaths; “Dinnae let him close, or he’ll witch the horses!” No, they trusted in his complicity, or rather, his fear of their consequence.
That, however, remained a gift ungiven.
Instead, he considered the curious theater; whatever guiding force led them to him was still at play, and that, he settled, was the most disquieting detail of all. He did not abide the western gods, and yet, inexplicably, they knew his name.
Every evening, the riders sat around bonfires, sharing food and speaking stories. But before the men took their meals, two things would happen.
First, two plates were gathered, and every man contributed.
Some with jerky, and others mushrooms and bits of bread.
Some had dried berries and offered those.
And it was an offering, as they piled it high in favor, and the rider would bring them—one to the sun priestess, and one to the moon.
Medhin, the former was called; the latter was named Hirí, but the men did not address them as such.
Rather, they called them máraigh and did not look them in the eye.
Second, the rider came to him and offered him tender. This was often meat or cabbage, and the druid was in no position to refuse. Only when he’d taken his portion did the rider go off, and the supping sallied on.
Rarely was he engaged elsewise.
And still, he watched them.
They had the well-fed builds one expected of men of the king.
They stood tall, broad; some as many as fifty or sixty winters, and those that were young already carried marks of battle.
They were clothed in long cloaks lain over with pelts, and feiligh—leather tasset battleskirts—a traditional garment that dated back to the Awakening.
A tradition the men of the west had iterated upon.
They were fitted with golden warbelts bearing the crest of the flaming sun, and were worn over the men’s tight-fitting braks.
All the riders wore helmets crowned with horns and boots and bracers made from dark-tanned hide. Gilded gorgets were worn upon the chest, but the stomach was left uncovered—a testament to the Cullain’s resilience against the cold.
But it was not the men who most interested him.
Far more bewitching was the priestess of the moon, whose pallid appearance at once entranced him.
It wasn’t a fancy he felt—he was certain he could not.
But rather, an undeniable and striking resemblance that gnawed at him like a starved dog.
Her hair and eyes were the color of ash, and, like he, she stood out amongst her kin.
Twelve years ago, he had left the emerald tangle of the Arran Fáoth and begun his wandering along endless roads.
In all his travels, he had never once come upon one whose hue matched his own, and felt an unnerving kinship with this woman.
He shivered and his stomach seized. He could not fathom having anything in common with these people.
At the thought, her silver eyes found his across the camp. And, with a haunting delight, she smiled.
Beyond the moors, villages speckled the land, far grander than any the druid had known.
Stone gave way to wattle-and-daub and the paths were filled with busy folk.
Wherever they went, onlookers gathered and eyes beheld him, not with wonder, but bewilderment.
Women came to their garden gates, hands clasped, speaking prayers to the máraigh, but only silence followed him.
The highways between villages were wide and winding and travelers and merchants came and went. At a crossing outside a bustling city idled an old man in a tattered cloak.
The man rushed out onto the road before the company. The horses whinnied as their masters pulled back on their reins, halting before the beggar, who hit his knees in supplication.
“My lairds!” he croaked, lifting trembling arms. “Alms for the poor, sirs. Coin for bread.”
“Out of the way,” barked the old rider.
The beggar bent his head deeper. “’Twas a rough winter, sirs, have mercy—”
“If you’re hungry, get to the villaigh and work for your keep. Cullach has no need of feeble breeds.”
The beggar looked up, eyes watery, but the rider ordered his men on.
The druid had bit a hole in his cheek, and stepped off the back as his carrach lurched forwards.
“Are ye possessed?” hissed the rider, but the druid had already bent down in the dirt. “Get back into your cart ’fore I have ’em drag ye by the neck!”
“This man is hungry,” the druid said tersely. “Will you let him starve?”
“If the weak cannae help themselves, then death is preferable.”
The druid scoffed, reaching into his satchel and pulling out some salted pork. “It isn’t much,” he told the man. “But it will help regain your strength. Take this”—he offered him herbs in a small woven bag—“and boil them.”
“Thank ye! Thank ye!” The man grasped eagerly for the pork, but his gaze slid to the druid’s staff. He froze, glancing at the old rider and drew back and bowed till his head touched the earth. “This one is a humble servant of the Sun! We’ll take no heathen’s offerings!”
The druid’s chest tightened, as if it would fold in upon itself.
“You need not fear me,” he whispered, but the beggar did not move. Knowing he would not be heard, the druid laid the pork and herbs on the ground and rose, looking over the company. They watched him with a mixture of resent and rage, until one man came down and dragged him back to his carrach.
As the horses started off, the druid’s calm twisted. For he knew he had crossed into the heart of the Sun, where all truth went to die.
It had been years since the druid spent nights like that one—surrounded by a sprawl of sleeping bodies. He lay amongst the dirt and grass, gazing into the thick canopy. The trees were shadowy sentries bent over in watch. But unlike the ones he had grown up between, these trees were quiet.
The same could not be said for his company.
If he closed his eyes, he might have imagined their grotesque snoring as some busy animal on a nightly scavenge.
That had its advantages; the noise kept him from drifting off—a task which grew more necessary by the night.
His eyes stung with the effort of staying open, and his mind strained to find morsels of thought with which to occupy itself.
They had been traveling for many days now. And for many days he had not slept.
He would not.
So, when the fog crept in that night, he was certain he had conjured it in his mind.
It spilled across the underbrush like an overflowing kettle.
The watch assigned to his guard was fast asleep, as was the old rider and the sun priestess.
The druid sat up. There was an oddness about the way its white tendrils stretched.
A sentience in its manner. No one woke, their snores carrying on.
But something stirred in the wood. Something too soft to be man.
Soundless steps carried him deeper into the forest, drawing aside protruding branches as he went. He could see no more than one palm’s width before him, but a druid never need see in a forest to find their way.
The path led him down a short sloping hillside where the fog thinned but the wood thickened, and between the boughs, he glimpsed a lake.
There came a hum, low and haunting, and upon the glassy surface was a faint gathering of pale blue mist. A shadow waded in the shallows.
He could parse only the paleness of her skin and the white of her hair, and though he could see none of her features, he was certain… she was watching him.
Memories pooled in his mind. He had seen this before. The fog, that woman… it was all familiar.
Was she the one he had dreamt of? The priestess of the moon? The one the men called Hirí.
She bathed undisturbed, as if knowing of his presence made her bolder.
Her hands ghosted over her body, drenched in ivory moonlight.
An amused laugh echoed in his ears. She began to dance—slow as the necks of pond lilies swayed by the current.
She was captivating and utterly wrong. Like ravens over the birth bed.
Mist clotted in his throat.
Fear was not familiar to druids. Yet he had felt it once, long ago, and fled, and had since committed his life to repentance. Now, no matter how much he bade them, his feet refused the command to flee again.
But a hand gripped his wrist, jerking him backwards.
“Unruly wee wretch!”
The druid dug his heels in, keeping himself upright, and looked defiantly up into the old rider’s burning eyes.
“Trying to run?” the rider growled.
“I was doing no such thing.”
“Hogshit!”
“I was only—” But the druid’s eyes led the rider to nothing. The woman in the lake was gone. His gaze darted across the water, but neither in the darkness nor the mist did he find her.
“Wily as the rest of your folk,” said the rider, ignorant of the scene that had just unraveled. At least, the druid thought it had. Now he was made to look a fool.
He grit his teeth. “What good is running from my esteemed laird and his holy prophecy? You would chase me into the sea before failing your gods.”
“I willnae have to go that far now, will I?” The rider yanked the druid after him.
Back at camp, he was shoved in front of the company, now rousing in the twilight. Some rubbed their eyes, blinking at him irritably. They seemed unbothered by the dissipating mist and more annoyed at his disturbance of their sleep.
“I ought to ken better than to trust a druid,” the rider spat. “Next time you try it, I’ll put you in irons!”
“Rask,” warned the sun priestess. There was nothing comforting about her tone; rather, the druid suspected it a matter of self-preservation.
He looked about the camp. When he did not find the moon priestess amongst them, he settled, until one icy drop of sweat slipped down his back.
“Best keep a better eye on the wee pet.” Hirí’s voice was like thunder in snowfall. She came from behind, dressed in white shawls. Her hair and skin were dry.
Impossible.
The druid met her silver gaze.
She smiled—a cat toying with its meal. “We wouldnae wish to incur our Moon Mistress’ wrath.”