10. The Yoke
Chapter ten
The Yoke
The next morning saw the return of Halla, the bustling chambermaid. “A note for ye, íridh!” She brought a folded parchment to the druid’s bedside, hovering as he unfolded it.
His eyes scanned the brief scrawl of words:
Meet me at the postern. - Hirí
Included was a hastily drawn map and a single black stamp—the priestess’ seal of passage that would allow him beyond the inner walls. A simple piece of paper determined whether he should walk freely beneath the sun. The blood stirred in his veins. This was all wrong.
The druid folded the paper once more, glancing at Halla to find her shuffling with excitement.
“Well?” She burst.
The druid stared.
“What did Himself make of ye?”
At the mention of the Vaich, the druid’s already poor mood soured. “He seems unlikely to make mud from wet soil.”
Halla gasped. “Come now, ye shouldnae speak so boldly or it’ll be my hide, it will!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one is here to punish you.”
Halla’s voice dropped low. “The Vaich is the son of Sun. He can hear our most quiet thoughts!”
The druid scoffed. “What nonsense.”
The Vaich was nothing more than an overgrown child who had too long been told of his vast importance. The way he thrashed about like a fish on a line proved his desperation, not his strength.
The druid disliked him immensely.
He pushed aside his breakfast tray and got to his feet, eyeing the shoes she had brought with disdain. Before he could voice his disagreement, the maid ushered him behind the dressing screen. “There’ll be no goings before we’ve made ye presentable!"
The druid swallowed his frustration. This routine—much like he—had overstayed its welcome. The druid had no desire to be dressed every morning like a plow horse, but the yoke of captivity tightened around his neck all the same. It was not in his nature—or any druid’s—to rise to anger.
But that man would be his greatest test.
The druid made his way through back staircases and dimly lit halls.
He passed servants who looked puzzled at his presence, but was largely disregarded until he reached the southern courtyard.
He presented his stamp to the guards at the doors, who exchanged confused and irritated looks.
But the Speaker’s stamp was an authority they couldn’t argue.
It seemed the Moon’s power had more sway than they dare admit, and the druid could do nothing but thank it as he stepped out into the green.
A gaggle of youths in black cassocks gathered in the sun-dappled garden. The druid ignored their boisterous laughter as he retrieved Hirí’s letter from his sleeve. He quirked an eyebrow at the scribbled map. Enigmatic as she was, artistry was not amongst her talents.
Quiet chittering caught his attention. At his feet were four dormice nosing at fallen hazelnuts. His shoulders relaxed.
Maybe there was breath in that carcass of a castle, after all.
Holding up the parchment, his fingertip followed the lines of ink. On the far side of the yard was a stone archway that would lead him to the postern. He readied to follow, but a shadow came over him.
The youths had wandered over and now leered at him with provocative grins, cornering him against the balustrade.
From the softness of their skin, he could tell they were no older than fifteen winters and as eager as newborn pups.
He had seen their garb before. Their sashes were made of linen instead of silk, but the golden trim was recognizable.
These were acolytes of the An’Atherin.
“If it isn’t our honored guest,” said one.
“I have a stamp,” the druid said, having no interest in engaging them further.
“A stamp?” The youth smirked. “Now, who gave you that?”
“Don’t be hasty,” said another. “He’s the Vaich’s business.”
The druid’s lips pressed. “Suppose you three should get some business of your own. Then go off elsewhere and mind it.”
The first stepped forwards, cocking his head. “I never knew a druid could talk. Thought your sort mucked about in the forests, grunting like beasts.”
“I am not surprised to find you immensely uneducated,” said the druid. “I am, however, disappointed.”
The youth snarled, “Disappointed? In me? What gives you the right?”
“I claim no right. Only, it grieves me to know you have not learned to read.”
“I can read!” Unlike druids, there was no vow of passivity written into the Odes.
The acolyte reared back, fist clenched, ready to strike.
But the druid remained steady, unflinching.
He drank in the youth’s bright red face, watching the anger seep from his cheeks.
As if haunted by the smaller man’s uncanny stillness, the youth lowered his fist and grabbed the druid by the collar instead.
“You ought to have been born a woman, after all. Might have spared you a life of beating. That’s what you’ll earn. When the Vaich comes for your neck—I’ll be there to watch.”
There came no reply, but the soft sound of rustling. Confusion painted the youth’s face. He looked down. The dormice had multiplied from four to eight, and were now nibbling the hem of his cassock.
“Agh!” He jolted away, kicking his legs in desperation. His peers looked on, horrified, as the mice burrowed up his pantleg. “By the Sun! Get them off!”
The other boys scrambled to his aid, pulling at his garments in an attempt to expel the rodents from within. The youth rapidly disrobed, screaming all the while. “You wretched, vile little witch! What did you do!”
But in the commotion, the druid had slipped away, till the last howls of frustration faded behind him.
The stone arch spat him out beneath the shadow of the keep.
It was quiet near the postern. Moss coated the high walls, and the druid’s slippers sank into the ground as he crept out through the damp green.
A passage tunneled through the southern rampart, and at the end stood a locked iron gate woven with ivy. Before it waited the two Nytherí.
The druid slowed beneath their gazes. The women were not imposing in size or appearance, yet unease ripened in his belly. His want for explanation had been usurped by a wish to flee. But fear was not a tolerable sensation.
“You’ve come,” Hirí said, flashing a mischievous grin. “How pleased I am to make introductions.”
Whatever etiquette was appropriate, he did not know. Instead, he spoke—his words aimed at the Oracle. “It was you who gave them my name. How did you come to know it?”
Hirí giggled. “To the point, are we? It is customary to bow. The Oracle is the voice of gods, after all.”
The druid did not spare the priestess a glance, and he certainly did not bow.
“Why have you called me here?” he asked, again.
The Oracle was silent. The druid bored into her gaze but found no answers there. Finally, she said, “When first I saw you—a pale specter within my dream, I could not have fathomed such an unlikely thing.”
“You speak of dreams…” he whispered; the word taboo upon his tongue.
“Your ilk share a similar experience, do they not? Visions of ages past.”
The druid bristled. “They are nothing alike. The Naém is not sorcery but—”
“Communion,” said the Oracle. “A long and discomforting mingling amongst the trees. I know something of it. Far more, it seems, than you know of we.”
“Perhaps the woodfolk are not as enlightened as they claim,” said Hirí. The druid’s eyes cut to hers, feeling the same taunting pull he remembered that night at the lake.
It was true he knew little of the west. Even now, he was only grasping at understanding.
He had heard of strange women who received visions in the night.
They were called dreamers and believed to have foresight.
But the line between mystic and madness was thin.
To speak openly about one’s affliction was to invite condemnation.
And so, the druid had stayed quiet. He buried his dreams in well-guarded silence and suffered the strangeness alone.
Now, he was faced with fellowship.
The Oracle continued, “Much as the trees speak with the druids, the Moon speaks to us.”
“What did you dream?” he asked.
“I dreamed of a dense fog. Our Mistress’ message is not always clear—a seer's power is judged by its clarity. I heard your name, yet your face was uncertain. In truth, I did not expect a man, but I am not disappointed.”
“It is as I said,” Hirí goaded. “The Moon has given us the means to challenge the An’Atherin once and for all.”
The druid gave her another scathing look.
“Perhaps you are the yarn that shall unspool before us,” said the Oracle.
Heat blossomed in his chest. “One should be wary to claim such grand ambitions.”
A wrinkle of amusement gathered over her brow.
“My dear druid, since the Ere of Sun, the Nytherim have been the harbingers of fate. It is we who divine the rise and fall of men and kings. We have foreseen famines and storms, plagues and foul crimes. Our words led a thousand battles to victory. Ambition is our trade.”
“Should one dubious vision lead you to these conclusions?” the druid asked. The heat ebbed into frustration that pooled in his fingers and throat. “A name alone shall not make war.”
“Wars have been fought for less. Though it is true, I saw only your coming. Much is still unknown. It was Nythis herself who foresaw the coming of AEon’Righ. Those strongest of Her followers have since named his sons. But I see what’s true—you belong to us.”
The druid scoffed, turning away. “I will not hear more of this. Of false gods and prophets—”
“Faith is a matter of choosing, but divinity… that is not to be denied. Your people have held to their guiding spirits for thousands of years. But it is not by chance, the emergence of gods.”
The druid said, “AEon’Righ is strong because men made him strong. They needed a sword to wield undue power. So, they gave their delusion a throne.”
“And what if you could have a throne of your own?” said Hirí.
“I desire no such thing.”
“Desire and destiny are two separate forces,” said the Oracle. “That choice may be out of your hands.”
The yoke clasped around his neck tightened.
“Those who would profit from our power are the same men who subjugate you now. We are not so different, druid. Your ropes be at our throats, too. For centuries we have been bedeviled by the An’Atherin; the Moon their chattel, the woodfolk their prey.
Together, we could do great good for both our people. ”
“Then I am sorry your Mistress has steered you poorly,” said the druid, the heat inside him surging. “I will not be badgered into alliance.”
“Would you deny your kinship with us? Look at you. It is written in your blood! My dear boy, you carry Her pale mark—”
“You are mistaken!” The druid tore himself from the moment, leaving both questions and answers to fester in his mind. He returned to the castle, his footsteps beating in time with his racing heart.
He would not—could not accept some far-fetched story of divine intervention. It was nonsense. It was mischief.
When men first awoke, there was only the land, the sea, and sky.
His people were the walking memory of that world. The druids honored the earth—not in prayer, but recognition. They took what was offered. They wasted nothing. And they returned what was taken.
These were the teachings he had been given since birth; the foundations on which he had built his life. To be told now that he was somehow indentured to a fallible deity behind a veil…
Up the back staircases and through the dark halls he went.
The druid had fled a calling once, long ago, and as he ran, he repeated his words from twelve years before.
Do not listen.