7. The Court of Sun
Chapter seven
The Court of Sun
The druid awoke with a gasp.
His skin was mired in sweat, his nightgown damp with it. Even as his eyes pooled with sunlight, the storm stained his mind. He had once again envisioned himself upon the shore with the sea teasing his toes. And now he could hear it, beating against the bow of the cliff.
His fingers tightened in the sheets.
Men do not dream.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. And there, between those walls, it wasn’t safe.
He gazed out at that odd and empty chamber.
He had been given to it the day prior. It was not a prison inasmuch as it was, by all measures, lavish.
The cottages of the Everstretches would not have known such opulence if their occupants worked a hundred years.
The crockery was inlaid with beryl, and the windows were dressed in green velvet.
There were pelts upon the ground, and furs made up the bed.
He had never slept on something so sumptuous, and would have been happy never to do it again.
But he knew better than to think his time at Rhyd-hal was over.
The door opening jolted him, and a plump woman bustled through. She paid him no mind, whistling all the while, her arms stacked with fresh, folded linens.
“Good,” she said in a thick voice, “yer awake.”
His brows knit. She was not a máraigh; her dress was too plain.
Her veil sat heavy on broad shoulders, and tucked back greying curls.
She went to the window and swept open the drapes.
The druid squinted in the sunlight. His head ached with the remnants of last night’s phantasms, and the sun stirred his pain.
“Look at that,” the woman said delightfully.
“A good’n day it tis. Aye, but with ye still in bed…
” She bustled back over. Now that he could see her properly, he noted the antler bone hung about her neck.
A small talisman, but recognizable as a totem of Carn’Thalach, the Huntfather.
A name that had been attributed—incorrectly, the druid judged—to Murtagh, spirit of the harvest.
Those in the Everstretches had begun, long ago, to turn forces of nature into men. One could say, they were the small stones upon which the An’Atherin built their imperious temples. The druids had taught the people to be wary of making gods in their minds, for reasons that had proved inevitable.
When a man can see himself in the mask of the divine, he will try to don it.
“It is a great danger to wear that here.” The druid nodded towards the talisman.
The woman’s twinkling woad orbs slid to it, and she chuckled. “Dinnae fash. The big’n be much too busy with their work ’n way to mind me.”
“You are not from here.”
“Aye, but off in the eastland. But isnae work that keep me there. I do my chore ’n keep me head.”
She went about, tidying the room.
The druid relaxed somewhat, but the throbbing in his head quickened, and he kneaded his temple with a palm.
“What’s the matter with ye?” the woman asked.
“Nothing.” He knew better than to speak his truth. Seeing visions in the night was a strange story, and he was strange enough.
“Bone ache, is it? A bit of the willow bark will do it in! But ye dinnae need me to tell ye that, druid.”
His fingers reached instinctively beside him, only to remember his staff and satchel were gone.
“I’ve not been allowed any of my effects,” he said bitterly.
The woman gave him a sympathetic smile that seeped into all the wrinkles on her face.
“Aye, I dinnae suppose so.” She carried over a tray of breakfast and placed it across his lap.
“Some fermented mare’s milk ’n a nice oatcake.
We’ve got to thicken up that belly—ye look like ye haven’t eaten in half a season!
” She jabbed a finger into his ribs, meriting a soft grimace.
“Go on ’n eat. No one will come ’n claim ye, yet.
” She pointed towards his head. “I’ll go ’n get that fixin’ for ye. Fresh clothes on the table.”
He stayed silent as she scurried out of the chamber. The druid had not expected to find warmth there. And even still, was unwilling to let it disarm him.
But he took what was offered.
After finishing his breakfast, he climbed out of bed and went soundlessly to the window. In the grey light of morning, he could see the storm clearly. The distant sky over the sea appeared as if night, even when the sun shone. A chill crept over him, as if someone had walked past his shoulder.
It couldn’t be coincidence that a life dreaming of seas and storms had led him to that corpse of a castle. And amongst such unsettling company…
The moon priestess haunted him. Her inexplicable appearance in the wood, whether illusion or otherwise, had not left his thoughts. Neither had the obvious question burning cold beneath his skin.
He carries the pale mark.
Why was he…?
He turned from the window, inspecting the clothes on the table instead.
There sat a plain white gown and some woolen stockings.
Garments fit for a sacrifice. Gone were the dusty robes and the worn cowl that had been his longer than he had fit them.
In their place, a simple silver girdle and some slippers.
He found them distasteful. Still, he could not go about the castle in nightclothes.
If he were to go about at all. So, he slipped into the gown.
The fabric was loose and uncomfortable against his body, still raw and aching from its scouring.
By then, the woman had come back into the room and brought a cup along with her. She set it on the table and looked at the neglected socks and slippers with distress. “Come now, íridh. Ye’ve got to dress proper.”
“If the king has issued law on footwear, then I should like to see its doctrine. Otherwise, I am pleased to come as I am.”
“Now, dinnae fight. They willnae look kind on me who let ye wander bout like a goat!”
The druid scoffed, but no sooner had the breath left his throat than the woman herded him into a nearby chair. “Be good, will ye?”
He struggled against her grip—a surprisingly strong thing earned from years of hard labor. She caught his ankle in a sturdy grasp, even as he tried to pull free.
“Yer a wild kin, but yer nae out in those wilds, a-nis. Things are different at the Hal—though you mightn’t like ’em.”
He glowered in defeat as she unfolded the stockings over his knees. But it was far from the worst of her torment. She reached for the slippers, prompting his writhing once more.
“Aye now, íridh, aye now.” She secured the slipper over his foot. It was as if he’d been tethered down by ball and chain. “Yer a lil’un,” she said with a smile. “I never saw one pretty as ye. I see now, why the Moon would choose ye.”
“I have not been chosen of anything.”
The old woman chuckled. “Even ye might see, there’s nae fighting the hand o’ fate. ’N she come for ye, wee one. She come.”
He pressed his lips tight. There would be no fight should the Vaich settle on his execution.
“That will be all, Halla.”
The duo stilled as Medhin appeared in the doorway. Her face was stern as ever, and the druid bit back a scowl.
“You,” she said curtly, “come with me.”
The druid was brought for examination. Or so he supposed, as he stood beneath their calculating watch. His judges included Medhin and a man in robes of black and gold.
“Othrik,” said the former. “High Priest of the An’Atherin, Keeper of the Eternal Flame. Though, it is sure you know little about the way of the Sun.”
“I know what is certain,” answered the druid. “The creature of flame passed over this land long ago, and your predecessors called it God. You have no authority to keep me here. Your kind have failed to subjugate my kin for generations, and you shall fail, again.”
“Speak less,” the priest growled, the creases aside his eyes wrinkling further. “Cárth thí nighm, cré thí haim. That I might be made to stand in the presence of such heresy! You druids are but rabid rabble… ought to have been thrown to the sea centuries ago!”
“Then I would have you throw me.”
“You little—”
“That is not for either of us to decide,” Medhin interrupted, leveling a cautionary gaze at the priest. She circled the druid like a coiled serpent, and though his eyes did not follow, he prepared for the strike.
“You are a son of Cullach, and you will answer to your king. The Moon called you here, wanderer. The prophecy cannot be denied. And if it should be determined that you should serve it, then serve it you shall.”
“You still have not told me what this prophecy requires,” said the druid. This time, he looked the snake upon the mouth.
The answer did not come.
He understood that whatever part he would be made to play, it was neither prisoner nor sacrifice.
Neither would have unsettled the sun followers so much, and indeed, his presence there had brought their seemingly unshakable pillars tumbling down.
No, this puppet master was greater than them.
Greater, even, than their king. But whether fate or prophecy steered the way, the druid was to be brought before him.
He was led into the belly of that earthen beast, a maze of stone that poured into a central chamber.
The room was as grand as the ceiling was tall, and torches blazed upon every wall.
Above, chandeliers wheezed and sputtered, wafting smoke through the hall.
It was filled to the brim with men and women of the court—warriors and advisors, but also ladies and lower cleirigh.
A narrow path of dust and dun awaited the druid, and he was made to walk between: a feast on display to a ravenous party. At the end was the dais, lit in firelight. And there the Vaich sat in a throne of rowan, carved in the likeness of a stag.
The máraigh stood sentry on either flank; Medhin at his right, and Hirí his left, and beside her an older woman all in white.
The druid might have thought her a ghost, the way she stood there, a pale wisp in the dark.
She, like the younger priestess, carried the same uncanny pallor, though her stature and position suggested that her station mirrored that of Medhin’s.
This was information the druid would have rather lived without. Entering that hall like cattle on parade made him all too aware of his tethers. He belonged to the forest, not a royal court, but there he was, come before it.
Murmurs preceded his every step. Whispers followed his wake. Words, words, and empty words, until…
“This is the queen that was promised?”
The druid stilled. It was only a moment, but enough to draw ire.
“Come forth,” barked a voice. “Let us see Her Majesty properly.”
All eyes were upon him, but none so heavy as those molten golds. The king was wordless, aside his jeering court. But he need not have spoken; all his truths were written on his face.
The druid stood, a virgin upon a battlefield, while the Vaich sat atop his throne, striking in size and grandeur despite the lazy slump of his posture. There was no age within his eyes, no weathered hue upon his skin. Yet there was something distinct about him. The druid recognized it at once.
The pungent stench of unearned pride.
The druid waited. He did not know for what. A judgement… a sentence…
“Speak your name.”
It was not the violent growl he had heard in the wash chamber. These words were laced tight behind fragile restraints.
“We of the wildlands do not bear our names forth.”
“Speak your name,” the Vaich demanded again.
The druid remained still. “It is Cerys.”
A mutter rose from the court. Hirí watched him in quiet amusement, her smile obscured by the dim of her veil.
“And I suppose it is some cruel trick that you would carry that name as a man,” said the Vaich.
“Neither my name nor my state of being has ever mattered much to anyone. Does it disturb you, King in the West?”
The Vaich’s fingers curled around the rests of his throne. “You are bold,” said he. “That is a matter to be feared. Or pitied.”
The druid could not aspire to the first, and thus he must have been perceived, regrettably, the latter.
“It is all a cruel trick,” the Vaich repeated, his dark voice an absent mumble. “They say you are Chosen of the Moon.”
“I do not say so.”
“I heard your name spoken with my own two ears! Would you call me a liar?”
“I would not.” The druid fixed his gaze upon the older woman. The woman he understood to be the source of his abduction. “I would simply say your prophetess has misinterpreted.”
“The Oracle has never been wrong,” the Vaich said tersely.
“Suppose that is for me to decide,” he said.
Rage festered within the crowd, boiling over into sneers and irritable scoffs. The Vaich appeared even more incensed—a turn the druid noted with some enjoyment.
“You will decide nothing.” The king shrunk back in his seat like a threatened animal.
It seemed to the druid his very dominion was in question—the way his muscles tightened, even as his throne wrapped around them.
“I wished to have a look at you, and now I have done so. You will remain at Rhyd-hal until my decision is made.”
“And what, pray tell, does such a decision entail?” asked the druid.
The fury of those golden orbs raged untethered. The druid thought, if not for decorum, that beast of a man would have come down from his throne and answered him once and for all.
With a scowl, the Vaich leaned forwards, the words pushed between his teeth.
“Your purpose.”