Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
The Stallion
So began that long voyage.
They followed the road up the northern coast, the Quell dark against the horizon. And there it would stay, like a haunting reminder; a whisper over their shoulders.
They rode for many hours a day, though not swiftly. With so many in the entourage, it took them a great deal of time to get anywhere at all. But it became clear to the druid that it was not as much about the destination as it was the ride itself.
It was nothing like he expected.
They stopped in the villages and were met with fanfare in each.
The townsfolk offered gifts and supper and sometimes there would be feasts.
If the village was large, they would stay at the inn and people would flood into its mead hall from all over the tír to see the king.
There would be a roaring fire and a bard and a piper.
They would dance and the Féin would court.
The Vaich was in good spirits.
“Go on and find yourself a warm bed,” he told Greyv. “There’s a ginger roost for you there, already on the wine.”
Greyv grinned. “Either she’s a fine ginger… or it’s really good wine.”
“Ye ought to keep yer cocks in the pen,” said Rask, “Lest ye seed bairns in e’ery villaigh here to Cairnfea.”
“Come off it, old man!” shouted Greyv. “You won’t say you weren’t hungry on ol’ Lach’Dun’s run!”
“Aye, he was younger then, but only a little more good-looking,” said the Vaich to uproarious laughter.
The druid watched them all from his place aside the fire.
“It’s as I told you,” said Hirí, lowering down into the chair beside him. She had a goblet of wine and a sparkle in her eye. “Men are unsurprising.”
He glanced askance at her and she laughed.
“Oh, but you are particular, darling. You’re much too delicate.
But that is a tool, you ken.” She nodded towards the corner where Jor whispered to Nacht.
He could not hear their words, but the grave looks upon their faces stirred his belly.
“You see,” Hirí said, her voice quieting to a whisper. “It is not all joy and revelry.”
He did not need foresight to speculate about their discussion. It would be a fool’s hope to think Jor would be content with an advisory position.
Hirí churned her wine, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the goblet. “I would worry less about making peace, and more about making allies. Then, whichever side the penny drops will still be good tender.”
“I do not court the idea of rebellion,” said the druid.
“Rebellion?” she mused. “Why, who said anything about that?”
The druid sighed, Lady Merah’s words echoing again in his mind.
“We each have our roles to play.”
Aard Greyv had found his ginger, and they were so forwards about their courtship that the Vaich ordered them upstairs. Amongst the fuss, the druid made his way across the room. Nacht had since gone off and Jor idled with another man the druid recognized from the ceremony as Lach’Dun’s second son.
“Good eve, my lairds,” said the druid. Jor gave him a bow.
“Our Queen graces us.” It seemed less like an insult and more matter-of-fact. “Ah, I’ve not yet had the chance to introduce you—this is my brother, Cían.”
Cían was certainly the more vibrant of the two, with a surprising swath of copper hair cropped short about the front. He was smaller than his brother by a fair measure, and from the soft of his skin, the druid put him at perhaps eighteen.
“Well met,” said the druid.
“I’ve never seen a druid before. I thought you would be wilder,” said Cían and his brother sent him a reproachful look.
“Then, I have not lived up to my laird’s expectation.”
Cían laughed nervously, scratching at his neck. “I didnae mean it like that.”
“You’ll have to forgive my brother,” said Jor, “Better with a sword than he is his head.”
“The womb gives each its own,” said the druid. He glanced again at Cían’s radiant locks, then to Jor’s earthy tones and recalled the Banrigh Ghaoire’s peppery strands. “With such contrast between the seed, it is sure one takes after the mother and one the father. Which, I wonder, is which?”
Jor smiled. “Our mother was so kind as to bless him with her better looks.”
“Not her shoulders, though,” said Cían. “Mine are braw.”
The druid smiled, if only somewhat. “I have met good Lady Merah, yet I am afraid I still know little of the queen who came before me.”
“It oft is,” said Jor, wisely, yet the bitterness crept in.
“A queen’s duty is to her husband. Even if she should outlive him, the power once held is passed and the kingdom forgets.
” The druid was quiet and let him continue.
“The day that one was born…” Jor nodded to the Vaich.
“My mother wept. Not for time—it’d be twenty years till my father would die—but it was the idea of its certainty, I suppose. ”
“We all shall die,” said the druid. “It is known from the first breath.”
“Then it is different,” said Jor, “not to ken its coming.”
The druid had confronted death perhaps too many times. And each time he had expected to welcome it, only to recoil from its grasp. Even now, he was fighting against the thought of a war that might claim them all.
It was not the way he was taught.
Life was a simple, fleeting thing. Neither to be coveted, nor lamented. But if he should learn that he would die tomorrow… what might he make of today? Would he dance? Would he weep?
He glanced out to the floor where the men romped about. The Vaich danced with a pretty alewife. Round and round he spun her till her dark hair was a storm and his smile faded beneath its cloud. He kissed her.
Would he love?
“I said, what is the matter, druid?”
He stirred, drawing his eyes up to Jor, who looked, perhaps, concerned. Cían had gone off to find a girl of his own and the two remained there alone.
“I am sorry, I must have gone adrift.”
“Aye,” said Jor, “but that is nothing to be sorry for. You think, deeply. I like it. I know it was you who forced the Vaich’s hand. He’d never do such a thing without telling. You have power over him, and that’s no small feat.”
“Is that of interest?”
“I think I have made my position clear to you, Your Majesty. But if it’s an appeal you wish, then I must do. The king’s no good for his country. And you have his ear.”
The druid was sure there were limits to how much he could sway the Vaich. Guilt, he thought, had a short loan. Perhaps shorter with a man like that.
But he did not tell that to Jor.
“You see merit in my cause—in my worth,” the prince continued. “I will be watching the king carefully. But should things become… troublesome, I should like to think the Queen will choose rationally.”
“I should not wish to choose at all,” said the druid.
“Yet, if you truly believed that, you wouldn’t have given him my name. You did give it, and here I stand. Because you are clever—and we both know it.”
“You misunderstand,” said the druid, feeling the press of those words.
Jor cocked his head. “Did I?”
“I wish to sew bonds, not break them,” said the druid.
Jor nodded, and drained his horn. Then, simply, he said, “As do I.” His eyes were like cooling embers, flickering with renewed fire.
“My father taught me a great deal in his time. He’d had tutors of his own, of course, during his days at Righnach’Dúir.
Sanctioned puppets of the An’Atherin. They taught him how to sit and eat.
They taught him how to fight and kill. They taught him the right way to be a king.
But there was nothing, he said, that would prepare him for the world, but to have his skull bashed in by life. ”
“Túr agh béha n?n,” whispered the druid.
Jor glanced at him.
“It is a saying amongst my people—the land is life’s smith. The earth itself will shape us. Some come to be like the river, untamed and meandering. Others are great mountains, unshifting and strong. But we shall see not who we have become until the wind and the rain have had their way with us.”
“Hm.” Jor grunted. “It is half right. A man may not know who he is till he’s lived, but I have lived far more than him.”
“Your father shared his path,” said the druid. “And you had respect for him.”
Jor laughed. “We will be dead in the ground by the time the Vaich learns the lessons my father taught me long ago. Kings should be trained by kings, not molded like wet clay.”
“And that is why you shall teach him.” Hirí’s serpent words slithered in their ears. She sauntered near, glittering in the firelight.
Jor eyed her with a mixture of disdain and interest—a look which set the druid’s hair on end.
“What do you say of it, Speaker?” Jor asked. “Have you had visions of my great success?”
It was scorn in his voice, but Hirí pressed through it, her lithe form stopping at his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I’ve never put much stock in prophecies. They seem to grant more problems than proof.”
“A skeptic, how novel.” She grinned. “Would it aggrieve you to hear I’ve no interest in convincing you? Rather, I find merit in your noble task. To steer a boy like that…” She glanced sidelong at the Vaich. “Who else could do it?”
Jor smirked. “None, it is sure. All his mentors have failed him.”
“Then, suppose we are all he has.” Hirí reached out, fingers stroking the prince’s mantle. “I’m sure you have many lessons to impart. But bitterness shan’t be one of them. You would not wish our Queen to think you ungrateful.”
Once more, Jor’s ember gaze fell upon him.
“My apologies, Your Majesty.”
The druid had no time to find his words as the priestess worked her hand southward.
“More wine!” she said, delighted.
The prince laughed and shook his head. “Aye. Allow me to fetch it.”
Jor went off and the druid’s attention snapped back to Hirí.
“What are you doing?” He needled.
“What do you mean? You wished to diffuse the situation, and so I have.” Her grin darkened. “I told you. All men are the same. To get what you want, you must learn to act.”
“Feeding his ego will only empower him.”
“Then be sure it is you who holds the leash.”
The druid swallowed the sick rising in his throat and turned away. “I am going to bed.”
“And miss the wine?” She giggled. “Who could sleep with such regret?”
He was afforded board of his own, which is more than most could say. There were not nearly enough rooms and some men slept on benches with music and laughter spilling around them.
The celebration raged on as the druid settled in his bed. The room was comfortable enough, with thick fur upon the hay mattress and the walls licked in firelight. Warm under his covers, he could hear the ruckus of the kiern—a monotonous hum that lulled him to sleep.
It was nearly three into the witching hours when the door burst open, waking him sharply.
The fires had burned down and there was only enough light cast in from the hall for him to make out the shapes of two figures in the darkness.
The druid pushed himself up on a palm as the Vaich and his alewife came stumbling through, their lips crashing together in desperate pursuit.
Her mouth was kiss-swollen and her dress disheveled, leading the druid to believe this was far from the beginning of their tryst. Rather, the Vaich seemed to be—inefficiently—trying to end it.
They fumbled, nearly tripping over one another in attempt to untangle themselves.
Though, the want won out more than not, their hands finding new places to grope.
Finally, the Vaich managed to pull away, planting one final kiss on her breast before sending her off.
The woman went out giggling, leaving the king to stagger about the room. His clouded gold orbs found the druid.
“What are you doing here?” he slurred.
“This is my room.” The druid pressed his lips into a line.
The Vaich scoffed. He glanced about, but didn’t seem to see much of anything. “You ought to go out.”
“I’m staying.”
“You’re a bother.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I am king. I can drink as I like.” He lumbered over to the bed. “Move over.”
The druid stayed put.
Grunting, the Vaich laid on the edge of the bed. It was difficult, given his size and the druid’s unwillingness to cede ground. The latter scowled, smelling mead. “You’re so unpleasant.”
The Vaich laughed. “Me? You’ve never said a nice word in your life.”
“Unkind things come to those who deserve them.”
“What bullshit.” The Vaich rolled onto his side and reached for the blanket, yanking it over himself. The druid gasped as his legs were laid bare. He tugged back on the blanket, but even in this state, the druid was no match for the king’s strength.
“Must you make problems for me at every turn?” the druid said. “Everything was quiet until you came along.”
The only answer was the Vaich’s soft snores.
The druid bit his tongue and, with a laborious shove, sent the king over the side. His body hit the floor with a resounding thud as the druid held fast to the blanket. When no noise rose from below, he leaned over the wooden frame. The Vaich lay still upon the stone, fast asleep.
The druid stared at him.
He could say nothing of this blunder of a man. The Thrys had done a great disservice by shielding their boys, and now everyone would suffer.
“Useless,” he muttered, settling back in. He pulled the thick fur over his shoulders.
What an easy time he might have had if his husband had been someone with manners. This whole thing was deeply absurd.
Druids did not marry, and rarely did they couple. Copulation was for producing children and little else. He did not understand these bodily antics. Only that they were violent and often ludicrous. He failed to see why anyone would enjoy them, much less pursue them with such avidity.
He lay, listening to the Vaich’s deep breathing and the waning croon of the rowdy band beneath.
What simple, happy lives they all lived. How blissful their ignorance.
Their pleasure looked nothing like his.
Even now, upon the road, beneath the wide open sky, he was followed by dreams of death. He could hardly remember now, the life he had loved.
He had been happy once.
Hadn’t he?