Chapter 29 #2
The hall was alive with firelight. The band played—the croon of a pipe and the thrum of a lute danced in the air together. It was hot; the open firepits filled with flame, the spits turning above them.
The druid was impatient in his seat as they were served once and again and then thrice.
The scent of roasted meat mingled about the room.
And all the while the Vaich was beside him, drinking himself into a rowdy stupor.
He was currently deep in some boisterous conversation with a second man whom the druid had only circumstantially come to know as Laird Greyv Rhosyn.
On more than one occasion, he felt their attention upon him and his patience frayed.
“You might see it as some admirable table ornament, the way it speaks not,” said Greyv.
The Vaich chortled at his jests like a child. “All for the better. When he does, he has nothing good to say.”
The druid’s hands clenched beneath the table. “He has plenty good to say if only you’d let him.”
“Look how he begs for my attention.”
“It is an allure, sire.”
“If you find each other so enticing, perhaps we could announce, instead, your engagement,” said the druid.
Greyv laughed, but the Vaich seemed less amused.
“That’s a woman’s mouth if ever I heard one,” said Greyv. “Suppose tomorrow, you’ll find better use for it.”
The druid glowered and returned to picking at his plate. He had no appetite. A point of swift contention.
“Do not waste food, druid,” the king grumbled. “It is a feast, so feast.”
But the indulgence was unsightly. The druid could not stomach it. And when dessert came and there was a great to-do, he stood and made himself scarce. That was not to be ignored, of course, and he was followed by the two hounds and the mutt.
The Vaich dragged him behind the velvet drapery, whispering his fury through the candlelight. “I warn you now, do not fight me for all to see.”
The druid struggled against him. “I would not need to fight you if you knew not to be a brute.”
“A Queen—a wife—should be kind and quiet.”
“I am not your wife! Not now and not ever!”
The Vaich held fast, but there came a growling at his feet as the pups set their black gazes upon him. He sneered. “So much for loyalty.”
“I was not given into your collection, and you well know it. Something brought me here—greater than I or you. Whether gods or prophecy, I do not know, but I have had visions. Something dwells beyond the storm.”
“Not this rambling again—”
“It isn’t rambling! And you must listen! I have seen their pale ships. They come—”
“Of course.” The Vaich laughed. “Of course.” He released the druid as if his skin had scalded him and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Othrik was right. You’re faithless and mad.”
“You think me deranged?”
“You think yourself a prophet! It’s hysteria.”
“I have dreamt—”
“Men do not dream,” hissed the Vaich. “I am not a fool.”
“You are a fool! Your gods spoke my name! But you will bury your head in the dirt—”
“Enough! I was warned of you. This game you’d play.”
“It is not a game! I give myself willingly to your hand—why should I do so? To have you listen! To help—”
“I ken what you want.” The Vaich’s eyes flicked to the silver diadem. “And you will not have it.” He tore himself away, even as the druid tried to pull him back. But the moment was shattered.
He stood, trembling in its wake, the pups geckering at his feet.
“Why?” he whispered. “What would you have me do against such a man?”
He received no answer.
They feasted for hours into the night. No one seemed any the wiser to the druid’s change in mood.
The Vaich returned to the crowd. It was clear that he enjoyed it.
There was no trace of rage nor worry upon his face, as if the druid had been nothing but a passing ghost; momentarily unsettling and otherwise forgotten.
What had revealed itself to him in the lake had brought the Oracle—the voice of gods—to her knees.
And without her word, without her influence, he was powerless.
Even if he should stand and tell them all of his truths…
No one would listen. Even if he should scream it with all his lungs, no one would hear.
But if he could not make them see… then what would he do?
The party was in full swing. A servant came and took the pups to kennel, and the druid found himself approached again. This time by an old acquaintance—Jor.
The two hadn’t spoken since the king’s feast, and now, again, were caught amongst revelry.
Jor said, “It seems we are similar, druid. Two sides to the same smoothed stone.”
“I’m afraid I am not profound enough to understand your metaphor.”
“Oh, I think you are quite profound. Long washed by the beating sea.”
“Until two months ago,” said the druid, “I had never seen the sea. Yet, somehow, it haunts me.”
Jor eyed him. “I should congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. Seems the matter is settled after all.”
“I would say it is far from settled. It is decided, and that is all.” He wondered, then, what the man might say if he told him of his visions.
He supposed he, too, might think it madness, but would there also be care?
He thought of Lady Merah. Jor’s mother was a woman of compassion and wisdom.
If her son were at all similar, maybe he would understand.
“You once told me you knew the reality of rule.”
“I have something the Vaich does not,” said Jor. “Experience.”
“And what would matter most to you? Praise and power? Strength or servitude? Would your halls be full of feasts and festivity, or would you plot behind thick walls? If I told you there was a great blight to come upon this country, what would you say in reply?”
“Do you know of such a blight?”
The druid hesitated. His eyes drifted back to the Vaich, still at the center of the room.
He laughed and drank and flirted; his mind absent and absolved.
If the druid was to believe he was placed there for a purpose, then perhaps this, too, was intended.
He had seen the king on the battlefield of his dreams. Yet, his heart was torn between want and worry, between knowing and wild uncertainty.
“Forgive me," said the druid. “I know little of you.”
Jor nodded towards the Vaich. “And you know more of him? If there is something you wish to tell me, druid…”
“It is nothing, only a passing fret.”
The man’s face filled with recognition, and his voice grew quiet. “I know what plagues you, and you are far from alone here. It is a belief that stirs your thoughts, and belief that chains us all. Kings should be built, not granted.”
“And what should a good king do?” whispered the druid. “Listen? Act?”
“He should understand both. And know when to do either.”
“A rouse!” cried the men.
“A dance!” cried their ladies.
“It appears you are required elsewhere,” said Jor. “We shall speak again, soon?”
“Yes,” said the druid, but was not certain he wanted to. Regardless, he came out to meet the applause. There were so many smiling faces, red with drink, and they looked at him in elation. It was disquieting, but he could not turn from it.
This day is not for you.
“The lady of the house leads the step,” said the Vaich, facing opposite him. “Though I will lead if you are unfamiliar.”
The druid raised his arms into position and tapped his toes upon the stone. “You shall lead me?” he questioned.
“Of course. You are a druid. What do you know of feast hall etiquette?”
The lute trilled and the drum started.
“You speak of the steps,” said the druid. “Where do you think your kin learned them?”
The music began and they circled each other like wolves on prowl.
“I thought your people cared not for pleasure?” asked the Vaich.
They swept aside, brushing at the shoulders.
“What you see as pleasure…” said the druid, allowing the king to spin him round. “We call respect.”
“And what do you respect?”
“Not you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The Vaich laughed. It was drowned out by the music. The lairds and their ladies came out to join them and they all fell in line, like golden legions in preparation of battle. The music swelled and out they went, gliding across the stone. The room spun around them, with them, and they bowed.
“You are a surprisingly good dancer,” said the Vaich as they met once again in the center.
“All that is surprising is you keeping your own two feet.” The druid was spun again and clapped his hands. “Is this madness?”
“You are dangerous.”
“Tomorrow I will be your wedded.” They faced each other in full, their hands entwining in the middle. “Does it mean something?”
The Vaich lifted him with ease, setting him down at the far side. “Marriage does not assume trust.”
“How odd your customs.”
“I would see your desire to leverage this as some tool.”
Again, he was lifted.
“I leverage nothing,” said the druid. “All I want is your consideration.”
He was lowered again and neither he nor the king severed their gaze.
“Do you not see that I might question why?” said the Vaich. “I have no reason to believe your sincerity. You are… eccentric.”
“I will be queen,” the druid reminded him.
The Vaich leaned close. “And not king.”
The music ended and they drifted apart as the crowd roared with praise.
“To their Majesties!”
“To the Vaich!”
“Hooray! Hooray for the wedding!”
They watched each other, sun and moon, their panted breaths mingling between them. All around them was a masquerade, but in that moment, he saw the truth. Whatever waited beyond their shores required a united front.
If it was sincerity the Vaich wished, then the druid would pay his price.
The night dwindled, and the druid’s time along with it. Whatever he had been before that day was dying, and now all that was left was to forget.
Halla came in her nightcoat and bonnet and settled a chamberstick on his bedside table. “Ye need to sleep now, íridh. It’ll be a long day ’n night for ye again.”
He was tired. His eyes had grown heavy after a night of festivities, but he could not bring himself to sleep.
“I want to watch the sunrise.”
Halla nodded sadly. “Aye.”
She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch.
“Brought this for ye, from the Líaig. In case they… well, in case they dinnae mind ye.” She settled it beside the chamberstick.
He eyed it warily, glancing back at her with furrowed brows.
“Tallow,” she said gently, stroking back his hair.
“For the seedin’. Keep it by the fire ‘n let it warm ‘fore ye go.”
He shivered at the thought, wringing his nightgown in a weak fist. She sat aside him, bringing him under her arm. “Ye’ll be well, íridh. The old sires watch over ye. Ye ken that.”
He wasn’t sure he did. The old gods had never felt further from him. Or rather, he had been severed from them. Tomorrow, he would be married. There was nothing more unnatural for a druid, but that had never mattered here. They had come to make him one of them, and after tomorrow night, he would be.
“I can never go back,” he said quietly.
“Aye now, íridh… aye now…” And she began to sing of the maiden of the far green country.
She maiden fair, so bonnie bright,
Where do ye go at break o’ light?
Beyond the hill, beyond the sea,
To lands where none shall sing for me.
Oh, far I go, yet leave behind
The greenest land that once was mine.
Fare thee well, my long green home
Far from rest, we farther roam
The earth I knew, my heart to thee,
Soft lay the fields where I was free
Oh, far I go, yet leave behind
The greenest land that once was mine.