Chapter 44
Chapter forty-four
The Beast of Bréchart
The convoy stopped at the village of Afór. It was not a large settlement, but had a respectably sized mead hall for them to take rest. It was only midday, but a great dark cloud rolled overhead.
Hirí exclaimed excitedly, “What a tempest! I wonder, whose soul is it after?”
It was a jest, or so Skyre supposed, but no less vexing.
“There’s some time, still, before the rain,” said Rask. “Let’s make acquaintance.”
It was typical for a village to gather for the Vaich’s greeting, and this one was no exception. The village reeve welcomed them. “My gracious liege, forgive our ignorance—we knew not of your coming and havenae prepared a feast. Please take what we can give.”
It was kindly said, and Skyre felt all the more miserable. It wasn’t their fault for not knowing, and now they could do nothing but accommodate.
“Your Vaich does not begrudge any measure of unprepare. We’ve sprung upon you, and for that I am sorry. Any hospitality will be warmly held,” said Skyre.
“Certainly!” said the villagers. “It is our honor! The Vaich blesses us with his flame!”
He wondered if they truly believed that. Perhaps all he was, instead, was a nuisance.
To their credit, the people of Afór were quick to overcome their unreadiness and brought food and gifts.
A woman appeared with a basket of wildflowers. They seemed at a glance to be lilies, but on closer inspection, Skyre realized he didn’t recognize them.
She smiled knowingly. “Do they catch your eye, m’laird? They’re quite rare!”
“Rare? Where do they come from?”
“They can be found only in craig country.”
“Nearly nothing grows there,” he said, skeptically. “Especially nothing so beautiful.”
“Ah, but she is resilient! Glacillia is her name, but here she is called Whitesigh.” She plucked one from her basket and gave it to him.
At once, he was taken by its perfume. It carried the subtle sweetness of fresh wind and pine. The scent was there, then gone, and he wished that he could keep it.
“She smells of love,” the woman said. “But don’t burn her—it’s poison, ken.”
He drew back. “You offered me poison?”
She chuckled. “No worries, m’laird. Treat fair lady well, and she’ll do nae harm to thee. Behold her beauty for a time and do be kind to she.”
His gaze drifted to the druid who was currently being mobbed by old maids. The totems hung at their necks did not evade him, yet… it wasn’t anger he felt, but relief.
“Good lady,” Skyre said, “would it put you out to request another of your harvest?”
“Take of me all that you wish, my Vaich.”
He took three.
The village was bustling. Their horses had been taken out to stable and the farrier offered to gift the king’s mare and her son new shoes. Most the men had already taken up stay at the mead hall, but others walked in the square to stretch their legs.
On the edge of town was an old stone kirk, whose bricks had crumbled long ago. The elements had battered the structure till it looked like gnawed bones poking out from the dirt. Ivy devoured everything in its path, the vivid green mocking the angry grey sky.
The druid was led about by the hands and skirts by children pointing happily at different sights. Skyre followed at a slowed pace so as not to be noticed. At least by the younguns who were taken by the idea of a pretty queen.
One said, “I thought ye would be taller!” Skyre chuckled, and another yelled, “Oi! Ye cannae offend! They’ll throw ye in the dungeon!”
“Where did you get such ideas?” asked the druid. It was the first Skyre had heard his voice in days. Whether the druid intended it or not, it was punishing. The Vaich had felt his quiet like a lance. Hearing him now made him strangely delighted, even if the words were not for him.
“My father says, if ye be naughty, then the Vaich will come’n toss ye in the ground. A wee well’ll be ye’s prison!”
“How bleak,” said the druid.
Skyre silently agreed.
“Ken there?” The boy gestured to a high ledge, where a crooked staircase leaned precariously. The sturdiness of the structure was questionable at best, but would have been good play for a wee lad. “Tis where Callum fell and went dumb. He dinnae talk no more.”
“It’s cursed!” said another. “By an evil ghoul! He comes and pushes ye off the top!”
“Won’t ye cast it away, íridh? ’Fore another falls!”
Cursed? Skyre supposed it was, but not with black magick.
After a long moment, the druid said, “I’m afraid the foul is too thick. There is no hymn I could speak to disperse it. No… it is terrible, indeed. And should any boy go near, it is sure to swallow him whole.”
The boys cried, “You must do, íridh! I dinnae want to be eaten!”
“Then all there is to do is stay clear and not be taken by the spirits.”
Skyre smiled as the boys rushed off, screaming in terror, and the Sun Matron descended like a hawk. “You dreadful thing! What’ve you done to the bairns?”
“Nothing at all,” said the druid calmly, “though I considered to cook them into stew.”
“By the flame! You vile witch—”
“Enough!” said Skyre, placing himself between them. “Go off and chide the trees!”
Medhin was stricken, her dark eyes widening. “But—”
Skyre scoffed. “Away! Find something to do.”
She nodded a bow and shuffled off, leaving the king and his consort. Now alone, Skyre felt less sure than he had a moment before.
“It’s good what you did for those boys. It’ll steer ’em, well.”
“Fear is the only teacher a boy will heed,” replied the druid.
Skyre’s heart tightened in his chest, but he did not hang himself upon the words. Instead, he cleared his throat and held forth the flowers.
“A gift,” he said. “For your coffers. Though I ken it’s poisonous. It’s called—”
“Glacillia,” said the druid. “Its uses are few.”
Skyre frowned. “Cannae ye enjoy a thing for its beauty?”
The druid reached out, taking the flowers. The gesture was cutting.
“I’m sorry,” Skyre blurted out.
The druid traced the stems with his fingertips. “I question for what does my laird apologize?”
He had no answer, yet knew every truth. Which would he say? Was he sorry for taking that thing from its home? Was he sorry for locking him in fire and stone? Was he sorry for sentencing him to death? Was he sorry he’d survived?
Or was it the rest? Those nameless things. Those moments he could not pry from his mind and could never—given a thousand years—put out into words. A foulness so deep that no hymn could bid it disperse.
No, he could say nothing of that.
Instead, he said, “They are beautiful, and I wished you to have them. That is all.”
Then he turned away and went back to enduring silence.
The mead hall was warm and smelled of savory things. A pig spun on the spit and plates of roasted vegetables dressed the tables. Benches were clung with furs, and a heady smoke curled under the thatch.
The druid listened to the rain pattering the roof, the sway of oil lanterns overhead. Fat droplets trickled through the underhangs and gathered in copper kettles.
The men were rowdy, though not nearly as drunk.
Still, some measure of revelry had returned as they spoke about their victories over the bandits and victories in their pasts.
Someone from the village had brought their hound and it went about, licking up fallen morsels.
The men called him to their laps to feed him scraps, only inciting him to beg more.
The druid sat with the Vaich near the hearth. He wasn’t hungry and only had a rasher or two. This did not go unnoticed by the Vaich, who said, “Should you eat so little? They’ve brought sweet rolls. I’ll fetch you one.”
“No,” said the druid. “I’ve had my fill.”
“Some wine, then?”
“I’d rather like to go to bed.”
But someone said, “Tell us a story, Grandfather!” and there was applause and then a hush.
No one dare stir when Old Borrach spoke.
He was an older Aard, who had ridden with Rask.
Though he was not so fit as Rask, and the druid thought it likely he’d be dead soon.
Old Borrach thought the same and so imparted wisdoms. These were little more than blatherings about how one ought to turn thrice before a doorway, or hide his thumbs during eulogy, lest the death come and take him, too.
Superstitions they were. Endured—the druid supposed—out of politeness.
“A tale ye wish?” Grandfather mused, his deep eyes twinkling with nostalgia. “Then I’ll tell ye the tale of Cathal, or as he was kent best—Cárthsíarna.”
The walking flame.
“Long before our fathers’ fathers drew breath, lived a man they called the golden warrior.
Not for any wreath or crown, but for the weapon he carried: an axe borne of fire.
They say the ore that smelt it was mined from the heart of a devil—it burned with a flame that would not die, and only one was strong enough to claim it.
When Cathal took it up, the skies shook and he became a living storm of golden fury.
With a swing of that axe, he could level a field of war or any beast, and thus none dared cross him.
“But from the east came whispers of a fell creature that took roost in the ridge. It was no bear, nor ogre, but older. Some say it was born when the world was cooling and had no form—only hunger.
“The village near sent word to the kiern, and the great warrior answered. Not with armies. Not with banners. Alone, with only his axe and his wrath, he climbed into the teeth of the mountain. The people waited. Days passed, but the summit stayed silent. No sign of man nor monster.
“They say the mountain took him. They say the axe still burns there, wedged in bone or stone, waiting for a hand bold—or foolish enough to hold it. Many have tried. Heroes. Thieves. Drunkards yearning for glory. They climb… they vanish, and the mountain keeps its silence. But sometimes, when the wind is right, they say you can see a light flicker—a flame, small and stubborn, in the belly of the peak.”