Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
The Cage
Grass swayed beneath the druid’s feet. The wind nipped his skin, bare beneath an endless black sky. There was no moon, but the light of a thousand stars led him higher up the hillside. His mind was plagued with uncertain longing for what awaited him at the top.
Further and further he pressed. His fingers dug into the dirt as the land jut upwards in front of him, till he was crawling over the crest of the sea-beaten cliff.
And as he reached the pinnacle, he stood and gazed out at the tide.
There, beneath the churning storm, faint shapes rose across the horizon.
He could only just make out white sails.
Pale ships, like ghosts at the edge of the world.
The wind beat harder. The cold cut deeper. And with a gasp, the druid awoke, eyes snapping open to the morning.
Sweat beaded his chilled skin. What had he seen? He could only make out fragments; broken pieces of a strange mosaic. For years, his dreams had teased him. Now they were the teeth at his throat. Never had they felt more pressing… more real.
The druid held up quivering fingers.
What did it all mean?
The door was thrust open, and the chambermaid swept in. “Up ye!” she said, tossing clean linens on the table. Then she was at his bedside, pulling back the blankets. “Up! Ye come up now!”
“Halla!” He grasped her hands, forcing her to still.
She did not meet his gaze. “Are you well?” he asked, checking her wrists for bruising.
There was a faint mark where the guard had grabbed her, and he ran his fingers gingerly over it.
He hadn’t seen Halla since the chaos of the prior night, but his woes had not prevented him from worrying.
If only he had his satchel, he could make her something for the pain.
“No one hurt you, did they?”
The old woman shook her head.
Then Hirí had kept her word, and now he would have to endure the discomfort of knowing he owed her something.
“Dinnae fash over me, íridh. Best to forget that troublesome thing. It was a wrong turn for both of us.”
He lowered his gaze. “I never should have agreed. Forgive me.”
“I only thought it would be best for ye,” she said, patting his leg. “A druid belongs on their way. But here may well be right where ye need be. ’N it is good news for ye! Marrying the Vaich, ye’ll be free to go where ye please!”
He knew that was furthest from the truth.
“Ah!” She gasped. “’N that’s why we must hurry! Ye’ve been called before Himself.”
Seeing the Vaich now was the last thing he wanted. His head ached at the thought. His mind still swam with broken images, and concentrating harder only made it hurt worse.
The druid slid his legs over the side of the bed, but that proved too sluggish for the old maid. She pulled him up, unsteadying him. Her forehead creased as she noted the sweat on his brow, and cupped his face with thick hands. “Not the heat again, is it?”
“No—” He bit his tongue. He had nearly spoken it, but the words caught in his throat.
She eyed him suspiciously. “Ye are a wee thing… If yer not eating well, it’ll be the ill for ye!
Come ’n have yer biscuits!” Her hand pressed to the small of his back, propelling him forwards.
He stumbled to the chair aside the breakfast table and had no sooner sunk into it before she was grabbing up his legs and beginning to scrub.
“What did I tell ye? Ye’ve not been minding yer wear! Yer trouble for me, lil’un.”
He said nothing in defense, only watched her with a mouthful of sweet roll. She reached up, snatching it from his hand and tossed it back on its platter.
“Up!”
She tugged his nightgown off, letting it land haphazardly, and wiped at him with a scented rag.
The druid wondered why it should matter what he looked or smelled like.
The Vaich seemed resolute in his decision to marry him.
That was hardly a question of sentiment.
But then, he considered it might reflect badly on Halla if he was presented in a poorly state, and so he allowed the maid to push and pull at him, even as his head spun.
Once or twice his gaze drifted out to the sky beyond the window panes. There, the sea waited, empty, and a crawling dread turned his belly. He forced his mind back inside the room.
This time, he was given a better fitting gown with gathered sleeves of silk and a fine brocade pattern. It cinched uncomfortably at the waist, further agitated by the girdle of gold and beryl she fixed snugly around him.
Halla paused, regarding his figure with a disapproving head shake, before forcing the sweet roll back into his mouth. “Eat! ’N be quick about it!”
He ate in silence as his hair was brushed, braided, and laced with twine. Once finished, she held out the stockings and slippers with a knowing frown. “Now, dinnae make more trouble, íridh.”
He put them on without tussle.
When the old maid was pleased, he stood, but wobbled on his feet. A splitting pain cut through his head and he doubled over onto the ground.
“By the spirits!” Halla cried, attempting to scoop him up. Her voice sounded like screams through water. Those white sails haunted him, like the whispers in the Fáoth. He gasped for air, his shoulders shaking as the pain ebbed through him, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone.
“What is it, íridh?” asked Halla. “Should I call for the healer?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No… please, tell none what you have seen.”
The chambermaid took his chin in hand and leaned close. Her twilight gaze searching his. “Yer a dreamer, aren’t ye?”
It was as if icy claws had gripped him tight and threatened to rip him to pieces.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I see it in ye when ye wake. Now, I see it when ye wander. Like the witches of Moon—yer one of ’em.”
Like the witches of Moon.
“It isn’t—” What had denial served him? Was it simply coincidence that the Nytherí dreamed when others could not? And he… he along with them?
He closed his eyes and nodded. “I have dreamt since I was a child. Though, I hardly remember what I dreamt, then. For years, when I sleep, I see only the storm.” He glanced again towards the window. “I know it is certain to be that one.”
“The Kell?” said Halla with fascination. “What a strange thing to dream. A prophecy, I expect, of yer venture here!”
To Halla, he supposed it was simple. And maybe before, he would have agreed. But now his visions were shifting. He spoke not of the sails or the pale ships, afraid of worrying the old woman. Though of what they should be worried… he wasn’t sure.
“Please,” he repeated, “tell no one. If the An’Atherin and Nytherim know what I can do…”
Halla paled and nodded. “Aye, íridh. It be yers to tell.”
She steadied him on his feet, then urged him to the door. “The Vaich will still be wanting to see ye.”
He nodded. “Then, I shall go.”
The druid was herded down the tower, through the belly of the fortress to the Vaich’s apartments.
These were not the grandiose spaces of the feast halls, but no less unwelcoming.
They were large, made only somewhat more inviting by their decor.
A stag trophy hung sentinel over the mantle, and warm tapestries carpeted the walls.
The druid was not allowed much time there as he was maneuvered towards an adjoining room.
Fire roared in the hearth, warming the air. The sea-facing windows filtered a steady drip of grey light, and beneath them waited a dining table and several chairs. In one of which sat the Vaich. Medhin, to his left, locked upon the druid like a bird of prey.
“As you requested, my Vaich,” said the chamberlain with a dutiful bow, leaving the smaller man at the mercy of the beast.
“Sit,” said the king, gesturing briefly.
The druid preferred to stand, but did not refuse. He looked between the sun priestess and the Vaich, whose concentration seemed elsewhere.
The druid could guess as to why he’d been brought there. This world of politics was a ridiculous affair that insisted upon itself. He could see his captors caught in the same tangled web they had spent their entire lives spinning. And the druid was naught but a turbulent gust of wind.
“We should… must address the matter of our upcoming nuptials,” said the Vaich.
In another life, the druid might have found it amusing to hear him speak as if there was any measure of impending discussion.
They both knew there was nothing to be talked over, but that the druid was brought to be spoken at, and he greatly disliked to be oblique about it.
He especially took issue with the presumption that there was anything “theirs” about said nuptials.
But he waited for some explanation, and when the Vaich could not provide it, seemed, himself, to grow more agitated.
Thus, the Sun Matron spoke for him. “There are customs to be observed by the wives of Vaichs.”
“I am not a wife,” said the druid, causing both king and keeper to tense.
“You are to be Consort,” she continued. “This is no small task. While your nature makes you ill-equipped for the production of children, you will be required to perform all other duties expected of royal spouses.”
Their denial of his malehood in the face of dogmatic peril made their theatrics more grating. But it was their inability to admit to their posturing that made him resent them most. He might have tolerated their miserableness more easily if only they had the dignity of being honest.
“Before the wedding can go forward,” the Sun Matron began, “there is the matter of your… doctrine.”
“Or lack of,” he corrected.
She bristled, but did not break. “The Vaich is benevolent. He has decided to present you with an opportunity. You are to be allowed participation in the Luin Cáronach. Historically reserved for maidens of Nythis, there will be made exception… for you.”
“Indeed? How magnanimous.”
Though silent, the Vaich grew noticeably more still.
“Once you complete the trial,” the Sun Matron continued, “you will be deemed cleansed of body and mind. Then, and only then, shall we proceed with the ceremony.”
She spoke as if anticipating some gracious reply. She received nothing. The druid thought the woman far too clever to think he’d cow easily—and he, far too cynical not to suspect their ploy.
“The people of Cúil Cullach require harmony,” she said more pointedly. “Whether it pleases you or not, the fact of the matter is political engagements are oft unkind to both parties.”
“Your understanding is appreciated,” said the druid. “However, we both know there is only one party here.”
“You think I wanted any of this?” The Vaich leaned heavily over the table, as if he could command the space between them.
“As I recall,” the druid said, “your title is Vaich, not Victim. You are a king of men. Do not we all exist at your pleasure?”
The Vaich’s teeth bared in a furious smirk. “They teach you to walk in the wood. Not speak. Where did you learn all that guile?”
“I speak with the shrew, the serpent, and the sturgeon. You have the tongue of an albatross.”
“Do not insult the king—” the priestess said, but the Vaich held up his hand.
“Leave us.”
“Mirín—”
“I said leave!”
The air grew frigid, and the priestess rose with all the grace of a badgered foal. She passed the druid with a brisk gait, unable to silence her tutting. The door closed after, leaving the dining room in precarious silence.
This time, the druid spoke first. “You need not relieve yourself of an audience.”
A terse laugh pressed between the king’s lips as his chair scraped across the stone. He was before the druid in a moment, and the latter braced against the advance.
“What strength has been gifted to you that is not in your hands? Your gods have prophesied a brute who hasn’t an inkling of restraint.”
“Is that what you deserve?” the Vaich hissed, leaning forward. “My restraint?”
He didn’t touch the druid, but the pulse of his aggression was a force all its own.
“I have done nothing to you, but risk offending your frail ego by the very whisper of my breath.”
Another laugh. This one less threatening. “As it would seem you were born to stand my opposition. That fair breath you speak of is a war in itself.”
“I did not ask for this!”
“Nor I!”
The room grew quiet, save their rasping sighs.
“This is my world,” whispered the Vaich. Fragile though they were, the words burned against the druid’s skin. “And you have been thrust within it. They did not speak my death, but your name. Why should I believe they are not one and the same?”
There it was again. The fear. Twisted in the Vaich’s hatred was his sorrow. His pain. And the druid was the wound from which it poured.
“You could let me go,” the druid said more softly. “That is your power. You could release me from here and I would go deep into the wood and never return. I have no army and can take nothing from you.”
The Vaich shook his head. “You dinnae understand.”
“No.”
The Vaich straightened, his eyes closing as he kneaded his temple. He seemed at war within his mind. A battle that the druid could never be privy to.
“It is not my power. It is His. And I am but his vessel,” said the Vaich.
“There is no truth to this Sun God, and accepting that would set you free. It is a grand delusion. It does not command you—”
“It is heresy!” The Vaich’s hand swept out, knocking the tableware to the floor. Wine spilled over the stone in crimson ribbons. “They warned me of your deceit. Of your heathen harboring of the olden ways.”
Whatever thin thread that had momentarily aligned them frayed at its taut center.
“You will not return to your forests. You will be taken to the Augeri, where you will prepare for the Luin Cáronach. That is your duty as my bride. And beside me you will remain. So long as it pleases the true gods.”
The druid’s heart shuddered, but no amount of pleading would alter his fate. It had been bound up in this unfathomable spool—a cage of fire but no light.
“Then allow me my chambermaid—”
“It is forbidden,” muttered the Vaich. “No one but Nytherí may enter. You are the first… and only exception.”
Again, it was soundless. The quiet after war. Then, the Vaich nodded to the door. The smaller man rose, his chair silent upon the stone. As he turned, the king called out one final time.
“Druid.”
He stopped. Waiting. But the Vaich’s words did not come, leaving both with absence.