Chapter 43
Chapter forty-three
The Road
“We ought to mind the ridge,” said Jor. “If there are bandits, we’ll not lay ourselves open to ambush.”
The Vaich’s council gathered in the wake of the raid to determine a route through the east. Vagabonds had wandered the borders for generations—men who swore their allegiance to no one and nothing and robbed on both sides of the mountains.
It was said they camped in the hives of the stone peaks, thus Skyre never expected to meet any of them so far down the highlands.
Nacht was right.
They had relied on the border clans for years to thin the herd, but if they were slipping through the nets of the Dúnan Toor, it was almost certainly on purpose.
And the men of Annath couldn’t be sent so far north without doubling their post. That wasn’t such a bad idea, Skyre thought, but that would help them little in the moment.
“It’ll be no good to leave em lay, neither,” said Rask.
“This is a ceremonial procession.” Jor continued. “We’re not equipped for extended confrontations. The time commitment alone could set the procession back for weeks, not to speak of the resources that would involve.”
Skyre ground his teeth. “Equipped or nae, we’ve still got the best fighters in all of Cullach. I willnae allow traitors to idle on my borders, nor leave the north country open to more incursions.”
The prince pointed to the map where the northern head of the mountains dipped down into perilous cliffs. That was rugged country, but it was the only passage inland that didn’t involve traversing miles of tangled forest.
“Cairnfea is not a simple detour. And we’ll be disadvantaged if we just wander in. Sixty good men and a king will mean nothing in a funnel,” Jor said.
“Aye,” Rask agreed with a heavy sigh. “And there’s not much here but cows. Likely they’ll be trying to get south. Enough crop there to feed an army.”
“No other reports of attacks have come out of the north. We ought to continue and establish a post once we return to Rhyd-hal,” Jor suggested.
“If we change route now over one negligible attack, the people will think us fools,” said Skyre.
“Jor is right,” said Rask. “This is no campaign, and we’ve bigger trouble coming.”
“We travel with women and the weak,” said Nacht. “Even if we ride out, we leave them exposed.”
“Surely we could leave them in a villaigh,” Greyv said lazily.
Skyre almost agreed, but hesitated at the idea of the druid being left alone.
He glanced back at the map. The road forked—the south route curving down through the Everstretches.
It avoided the craigs of Cairnfea and whatever watchful eyes lay in wait for them there.
But it also meant a deviation from their intended procession through the coastal city of Gáirmon, where the Vaich had appointed a new laird—Ronan of Clan Conall, whose brother had been Niall.
And that wasn’t the only matter.
The route trended away from the Fáoth. What would have been a short diversion would become a challenging feat, made no less complicated by his omission.
Skyre hadn’t spoken of the detour to anyone in his Féin and could not consider to do so now. It was becoming a burden he’d rather do without. When weighing the druid’s fancies against the well-being of his entourage, what choice did he have?
“Your decision, my laird?”
Skyre met Jor’s expectant gaze. The prince looked like a cat waiting for the vole to sally close.
“We’ll take the south road.”
“Good.” Jor made to roll up the map, but Skyre held it down with his fingertips.
“And send a herald along to Gáirmon to proclaim my deepest regrets for the change of plans.”
“Certainly. I’ll write your dispatch tonight.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
“How noble.”
Skyre sneered and left the tent.
The camp had been broken down, the men having packed the movables onto the wagons. After Skyre announced their change of route, he searched for the druid amongst the crowd.
He found him stood alone in the wind; still and silent against the sunwashed sky.
His waifish form was small, yet commanding. His linen gown gathered in the breeze, creasing above his hips and tangling between his knees. Those silver eyes stared out, wistful towards the distance.
A piercing cold gripped Skyre’s heart.
The druid had only asked of him one thing, and, without a word, had accepted his failure. Skyre couldn’t bring himself to go to him. To beg and grovel a second time.
This was the way it had to be. How could he justify the druid’s nonsense? Bandits and turncoats… these were real problems. He was putting his men first. He was being a good king.
A good…
“He watches the east.” Skyre stirred as Nacht stepped up beside him. “His land calls him home. A thing like that… Suppose even a king has no right to claim it.”
The words were not a challenge, but a lash, like the snap of a whip against his back.
For a moment, he’d let himself believe he had power to follow a path purely of his own accord.
The druid’s hair loosed from its braid, catching in the light of the amber sun. Skyre had never known freedom—had never known choice. But he imagined, in that moment, he knew what it meant to dream.
For two weeks, they travelled south and each day felt like a strap pulled taut.
Each day, Skyre thought it would snap.
He could no longer hold the druid at knifepoint.
Rather, the hostility he’d once harbored for him had mutated into something else.
Something far more queer. He found himself coming before him like an altar, hands holding offering.
Every gift became a prayer desperate for blessing. But the druid’s quiet endured.
They stopped at the edge of a forest. The sun was high and a warm wind kicked up, sweeping the grass till the blades bowed.
“I’d be wary those trees,” said Greyv. The two had come down between the hills for a piss. Normally, they wouldn’t go so far out, but in the presence of the máraigh, one need be respectful.
Skyre shook himself dry and said, “If the bastards are that rampant, my kingdom is beyond saving.”
“Aye, maybe I’m just itching to cut a cutthroat.”
Skyre laced his braks, looking out into the distance. Yellow blooms blanketed the hills and the air smelled like honey. “You ken what they are?”
“You mean, do I ken what the bloody flame are those weeds?” Greyv lifted his brows. “Do I seem like a botanist to you?”
The Vaich went up and gathered some. They were small, but plenty.
He had seen the druid foraging as they went; He seemed to know what was good and what wasn’t.
It was nearing the end of spring. His satchels would be bursting soon.
Skyre thought to give him a place to practice once they returned to Rhyd-hal.
“What is the matter with you?”
Skyre glanced up. “What?”
“You’ve been acting strange,” Greyv muttered. “It’s that druid. You’re tending to him.”
He scoffed. “Dinnae speak nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Greyv smiled, but his dimples didn’t dip. “You come to his hand like you’re waiting for your belly rubbed. When did you learn to kneel?”
Skyre’s grip tightened on the stems. “When did you become so bold?”
“I’ve been bold since they brought me to Righnach’Dúir. And you have always suffered it. But now you take insult? I asked what’s the matter. Is it his cunt you’re after?”
The yellow blooms spilled from Skyre’s hand. In an instant, he was before him, fist full of collar. “Leash your tongue! You speak of my consort.”
Greyv’s stormy eyes clawed back at him. “I’ve never been the one on a leash, and I shan’t start now.”
Skyre’s fingers itched for his blade, but a bolt of shock shot through him. He forced himself away.
“Greyv, I’m—”
“Forget it. You’re the king, after all. Why explain yourself to me?”
He turned and went back up the hill, leaving Skyre to steady his trembling hands. He had nearly drawn a blade to his throat—a boy who had grown with him into a man and now… now looked at him with eyes that judged.
Just like all the rest.