Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
The Heretic
The druid’s body jolted as the cold water hit, sharp as a blade against his skin. He tugged once against his chains, then stilled, unwilling to give his captor even a shiver.
His eyes stung. His skin tightened in places where the salt had dried.
The makeshift prison was small; no more than a storeroom at the bottom of the tower, where things of little value went to rot.
They had hung him there all night and all morning, dousing him repeatedly with buckets of seawater.
He hadn’t realized how much time had passed until the sun rose and Othrik went off to speak with the Vaich, leaving his acolyte to do his bidding.
The druid recognized the boy from the eagerness in his grin: the youth from the courtyard. He leered at the druid, eyes brimming with contempt.
“Not so clever now, are you?” He smirked. “Nothing to say for yourself, Your Majesty?”
Another torrent of water hit the druid’s face. His teeth dared to chatter, but he clenched them hard enough that his jaw ached.
“I’ve done a good sweep. Made sure your little friends willnae find you. I could tell the old man all about it—your wicked trick with the mice.” The youth set his bucket on the ground, looking the druid over with an appraising eye. “The people should know the king’s marrying a witch.”
“I’m not…” But the druid’s throat was too tight to get the words out.
The youth grabbed his chin, forcing his face up. “No? What will you give me not to talk?”
The druid muttered something too quiet for him to hear.
“Hm? What was that?” the youth asked, leaning near.
“Nothing,” rasped the druid. “I said… I’ll give you nothing.”
“You little…” The youth snatched up the bucket, pouring its contents down the druid’s throat, causing him to gag and choke.
And all the while, the boy laughed. A cruel, sadistic trill.
The An’Atherin…
They were a plague, festering in the hearts of men.
Like the Spréen—those damnable fiends from their sordid sermons—their fire spread.
And one day, it would creep beyond the Everstretches, down into the east, across the boughs of the Fáoth, devouring every good green thing he had ever loved.
It would be merciless, ripping open gashes that would scab for years to come.
For centuries these holy men had led people to hate.
The druids had never gotten involved. Perhaps they had too easily accepted their slow death.
It was not a war they could fight, and so locked themselves away.
Thus they, too, were at fault for what followed.
The teachings of his kin had been replaced by cruelty; by a violence passed down from one generation to the next.
It was not the way things were supposed to be.
Maybe his dreams were their reckoning; a final culling for all their wrongs.
Was it worth saving a people so misguided?
The image of the Vaich stood over piles of broken bodies guttered like a waning light.
Maybe, somehow, he could stop it.
But should he?
There came the thump of footsteps on the stair.
“He’s mad!”
The acolyte jumped, startled by the outburst. Air rushed into the druid's lungs as water dripped from his lips onto the cold stone floor. Finally, the old priest came into view, eyes red with wrath. “The Vaich has lost his mind!”
“Has the wedding been canceled then?” the druid muttered.
The priest slammed his codex upon the table. “It is the law of this sect that the Vaich shall not take into marriage, nor to bed, any unclean of the faith of flame!”
It was not an answer. Thus, the druid concluded that whatever permission the priest had requested had not been given. Salt burned in his nose and throat, but the satisfaction of seeing the man so enraged dulled his pain significantly.
“It was my understanding that should I succeed your trial, this matter would be settled.”
“You miserable wench!” The priest’s nostrils flared and he fisted the druid’s flaxen strands, jerking back his head.
The druid’s toes swept the stone, trying to find purchase as his wrists ground against iron.
“You ought to have died there! I should have known better than to give you over to those abominable whores. This Vaich is too naive.”
The druid’s mouth twitched weakly in amusement. “How terrible for you. Your little gold pawn is floundering.”
“You may bewitch the king, but do not think I will be as easily swayed. Mark my words heathen, you will declare yourself before the fire and accept the Great Strider as king of gods!”
“I accept nothing but truth. I have seen no rider of suns nor heard his decree.”
Othrik growled, gesturing his acolyte over. “If it were up to me, you would be burned in the holy flame. But perhaps something more familiar would suit you best?”
The druid bit his lip to stop its tremble. His scalp ached where the priest held tight his dripping locks, but he refused to cry out. The bucket raised before him and the dark water within reminded him of the loch.
The priest leaned into his ear, his foul breath turning the druid’s stomach. “The king requests I keep you pretty for your wedding night. But I’ve trained many a little bird like you. The Vaich is young, and violence—it ripens with age.”
His fingers tightened in the druid’s hair, and with a grunt, he shoved his head into the bucket.
This time, the druid kept his mouth shut.
The water flooded his nose and his body jerked, saying what his words would not. Instantly, he was back in the mere, his mind grasping in the darkness. But his body buckled as the priest held him tight against the wooden staves.
This was what power did to men.
Long ago, they had been one; now they were martyrs and monsters.
And which would he be?
If he stayed quiet, then all he despised would come to ruin. Yet, to see them suffer, to see them slaughtered as he had on the blood-slicked battlefield of his dream…
He could have done it. Turned from his calling a second time.
Yes, he was good at it by now, wasn’t he?
Closing his ears. Averting his eyes. He took and took and took what was offered, but when called…
he would not listen. If he fled again, what would be different?
The druid had already watched his world’s slow burning. Now he could watch it bleed.
At the cost of all of Cullach, he could sentence them for their crimes. Apocalypse on the tip of one petty tongue.
It was a power he held for one fleeting moment… and, silently, let go.
Othrik wrenched him free of the bucket. The druid gulped down air, but the priest covered his mouth and nose with a gnarled hand. “The longer you fight, the more painful it will be.”
“I am not one of your puppets,” the druid said into his palm.
The priest laughed. “In the end, you will accept your strings.”
In his mind, he was at the edge of the skiff, feeling the hand at his back. Again and again, he was held under, till his body went slack on the chains. Till he felt he could not fight. Till it would have been easier to die. But the dark… the dark… he trembled as it drew near.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I don’t want to…
For the last time, the priest drew him up.
Torn strands of gold clumped between his fingers.
“The Moon and Death walk hand in hand. To kill you now would be a mercy. But I admit,” he said, inhaling through his nose, “it arouses me to think of you broken on the altar. I look forwards to the night your submission is made before the court.”
“Then you will be disappointed, for I do not intend to break.”
The priest stepped away, smug despite the challenge. He called his acolyte again, and the youth came bearing scrolls. The druid’s eyes trained upon them, widening at the Oron’Feyr emblazoned on their seals.
“You recognize them, don’t you?” said Othrik. This is what you came to find—the word of your filthy forebearers.”
The scrolls were dumped into piles and the druid tensed as Othrik took up a lantern. “No,” the druid breathed. “You wouldn’t…”
“I should thank you for bringing it to my attention. The Cullain have no need for the ramblings of the faithless.”
Strength bled back into his arms and the druid pulled on his chains. “They are historic record and nothing more! To destroy them is ignorance!”
“Whatever foulness they speak, I would not chance another sorcerer reading their spells.”
“They are no spells! Do not do this!”
The priest tossed the lantern upon the pile, setting the dusty parchment ablaze. The druid turned his face from the flash of heat, yet could not look away as the books burned.
“When the fire has died down, you may release him,” said Othrik, a smile on his face. “I do congratulate you on your engagement.”
With that, he departed, leaving the druid to linger in the heat.
As the pages curled and their words turned to ash, the druid felt himself shrivel.
The danger without was not enough, nor could it hold a candle to those within. Whatever had guided him, given him visions, had not taught him how to battle men.
Nor to reconcile his decision to save them.