Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
The Archive
When the convoy arrived at Rhyd-hal, the grounds about the castle were bustling with merchants delivering provisions for the upcoming ceremonies.
They scurried away as the Vaich steered his horse aside.
Halla waited in the yard, and as the Vaich pulled him down from the mount, she rushed forwards, swallowing the druid in a hug.
“I thought ye had gone… that ye weren’t to return!”
So had he.
Her antler totem pricked his chest.
“I’ve come back,” he muttered.
“See to it the Queen-to-be is brought to the healer,” the Vaich said irritably. “He’s had a trying ordeal.”
He had been irritable since their affair in the woods—a fact the druid’s calm only seemed to exacerbate.
“Yes, sire,” Halla bowed. Her firm hands herded the druid off till he was back within the cramped, earthen labyrinth of dimly lit corridors, squinting through the torchlight.
They came to an iron door and Halla tentatively knocked. From inside, a burly man in a dark cowl poked out his head. He looked frustrated to have been disturbed, and barked an extraordinary, “What!”
The chambermaid blushed, pushing the druid forwards. “Tis the Queen-to-be, maister. The Vaich’s sent him for checkin’.”
The man’s face wrinkled further as he seemed to war with his fury and the command he had been given. “Very well,” he grumbled, pulling the druid within.
Inside, the chamber was warm with an amber glow. Tonics and jars housing misshapen things gathered on the wooden desk. Tinctures and potions lined rickety shelves, and little iron cages held all manner of rats and toads. The druid grimaced at the sight and was taken to a slab at the center.
“Lie down,” ordered the man. Reluctantly, he did. Above, cobwebs glimmered across the wooden rafters.
The stone walls were plastered in diagrams; sketchings of… the druid wasn’t sure.
“You may call me Líaig. I am a man of medicine.”
The druid scratched nervously at the slab.
The Líaig came forward, looking over the druid with a curious, if not hungry eye. “The Vaich’s betrothed, she says?”
“Aye,” said Halla from the side, twiddling her plump fingers. “Be tender with him now.”
“Yes,” said the Líaig, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I’ll be tender.”
The druid drew his shoulders together, but the man grabbed his arm, pulling down the sleeve. He pressed his thumb against his wrist, then, seemingly satisfied, moved on to inspect his nails. He retrieved some mechanism from his pocket, shaving off a clipping and stuffing it into a linen satchel.
“Your water… is it clear?”
“Yes…” said the druid, wincing as the man pressed on his stomach. He leaned his ear to his belly, listening.
“Mm,” said the Líaig, “And your sleep?”
“I sleep well,” he lied.
“Good.” The Líaig gripped his chin. “Open.” The druid did as instructed, and the man peered inside, sniffing once and nodding his head.
He moved on, prodding at the druid’s sides and then, with a rough hand, pushed up his robes.
The druid gasped at the man’s cold hands between his thighs.
“It is certain you are not to give the Vaich any children… though, the loins are still soft to the touch,” the Líaig considered that a moment more. “Your eld, it is clean?”
“Yes,” the druid muttered, much less happily.
Again, the Líaig nodded. “I will take the blood now.”
He went and fetched a bottle, which looked to have seen great use already.
Then, he brought a wooden chair and sat near the slab, withdrawing a knife from his sleeve.
He took the druid’s hand in a tight hold, despite the smaller man’s resistance, and after a sharp prick of his finger, drew the blood against the glass.
It was a stinging pain, made all the more fierce as the Líaig wrung his finger over the bottleneck.
“Smooth and clean,” he said, though the words wafted, and for a moment, the druid felt dizzy.
The chamber spun, torchlight streaking across his vision. All became black and shadow, and he was there again at the bottom of the mere.
He saw his fellow druid burning on the cross; he saw the farmer’s sickly cow.
He saw the men of Cullach slaughtered on the fields, and the face of every woman and child he had ever known.
He saw… he saw the trees. Their open bellies filled with blood.
And a pair of familiar, verdant eyes before all went dark.
“íridh!”
He gasped, pushing himself up and nearly tumbling from the slab. He might have retched if his stomach had an ounce to give. Instead, he panted heavily, only calming when the old maid rubbed his back.
“By the gods, is he unwell?” she questioned.
“I’m alright. I… get queasy at the sight of blood,” the druid lied.
The healer and the maid exchanged puzzled looks, but Halla conceded first. “Yer all through, íridh. We can go.”
The Líaig gave the blood bottle a shake before tucking it onto his shelf. “I will tell the Vaich you are in good and virgin condition. Come and see me again.”
The druid glowered.
Halla hurried him off the slab and back out into the corridor. The druid still felt dizzy, his head light and heavy all at once.
“Are ye really alright?” asked the chambermaid. “Is it the dreams again?”
“I…” He could not lie a second time. “I do not wish you to worry.”
“Oh, I’ll worry with or without yer command!”
“It was a difficult venture, the trial. In the lake I…” he swallowed it down. “Do you… do you think all dreams foretell the future?”
The old woman’s brow worked as she considered. “In every story I’ve heard it is so. What is the matter, íridh? What have ye seen?”
“I saw…”
But could not bring himself to say. He did not know what his visions meant; if they were prophecy or omen or madness. Yet he knew whatever answer would terrify her. So, he bore it away.
Halla grasped his hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Ye ought to rest. Let’s get ye to bed.”
He quietly agreed, but as they ascended the tower, his attention caught on the storm in the distance. His stomach stirred, both with familiarity and fear, and his steps slowed.
It was as if watching a predator lying in wait for its prey. Those on the shore lived unwittingly, with a hundred dripping fangs at their back. The Quell was a mystery, and the less he knew, the more nervous he became.
Those creatures in his vision had come from the mist and left his world in tatters. And he did not even know their names.
“Halla,” he said, and the old woman stopped. “What does the An’Atherin tell of the storm?”
She frowned. “If they wrote of it, I wouldnae ken.”
“You have never read the annals?”
“Aye no, íridh, I cannae read… The old cleirigh speaks the Word, and the faithful give their ear.”
He had nearly forgotten. It wasn’t oft the country folk were learned. He had taught many villagers to read or to write their own names. Even so, they followed the An’Atherin’s holy word. As doctrine… as record. As once they had done with druids.
“The Kell is ages old,” said Halla. “I remember my máta told me when I was a bairn, and her máta before her, that it was Marn who first brought it, ‘n it watches on ‘n minds the shore.”
It was not the first he had heard of the Quell being thought a protector.
Even before he had come to the west, the druids spoke tales of Marn.
To them, the sea was fierce and generous, until men twisted it to suit their nature.
Marn became a woman of great beauty and torn rags; her hair like water weeds.
She embraced Cúil Cullach with open arms, and her temper determined their bounty.
If Marn was pleased, the tides would be giving, and there would be an abundance of fish and frey.
If her tribute went ungiven, she would punish sailors and swallow their ships down to the depths.
His ilk did not speak of Marn in such a way; rather, it was a force of wind and tide. It came in high and went out low, and it could not be tamed. They did not tell of the Quell’s coming as punishment or gift.
It simply was.
“If it is kennin’ ye be wantin’,” said Halla, “there’s the bookhold just there at the kirk.” She pointed through the arches to the temple, separated from the main fortress by two paths. The first, the cloister, would be guarded during the day and likely still at night. But the second…
His eyes trained on the bridge that led from the castle’s southwest wing to the temple’s upper loggia. The same wing that housed the druid’s bedchamber. It was certain he would not be permitted in the archive alone, if at all. The priests were no allies of his.
“But why should ye be so worried of a thing?” said Halla. “It’s ne’er changed, the old Kell.”
She wasn’t wrong. Yet, his dreams told another story. Perhaps before, he had been prepared to accept the Quell as some trick of nature, some phenomenon of sea and sky. But now… now he wasn’t so sure.
For days, the druid observed the temple.
The bookhold waited; a chamber of stone and ink where the written wisdom of ages rested beneath ever-watchful eyes. The druid could not walk freely within its halls, nor turn its pages by right. And yet, the texts within were his to claim, if only he could reach them.
So, he watched. The priests of the An’Atherin came and went, clad in dark woolen robes, their schedules shaped by habit—prayer at dawn, study at noon, supper, then contemplation in the evening.
He learned the cadence of their movements, the rhythm of their work.
At night, the temple fell to silence, disturbed only by the solemn footfalls of those who lingered past curfew.
The lamps burned late, but always, in the deep hours, they waned.
On the fifth night, he crept from his chamber a shadow, bare feet soundless upon stone. The castle’s halls were hushed in slumber, wheezing torches casting long limbs of light across the walls. His path was careful, his steps soft.
At the bridge, the wind grasped at him, carding its fingers through his hair. Below, the courtyard was drowned in darkness.
No movement.