Chapter 48
Chapter forty-eight
The Green
“We delve deeper, and yet I see no comings… no goings,” Skyre complained. They sat upon the mare’s back, but the thick brush made her going slow, falling into an unpleasant rhythm that jostled him terribly. “I begin to think this all some ploy. Perhaps you’ve plotted to rid yourself of me.”
For days now, they’d been riding, and each one proved more uncomfortable than the last. And not for the chafe of the saddle, but the agitating grind of the druid’s backside against him.
The druid hummed. “You gave your word. Do you regret it?”
Maybe he did.
“It’s all very… suspect,” Skyre muttered instead.
“My kin are peaceful by nature. What have you to fear?”
“Aye. And if they’re half as much like you, I’ll be in my grave before the first night’s through.”
“Suppose it is true. Suppose the moon was meant to kill the sun.”
Skyre grunted. “That is not what the Odes say of it.”
“No? And what do they say?”
He glanced down at the druid beneath his chin. The smaller man remained still and steady, but there was nothing calm about the feel of his body.
Skyre grit his teeth. “They say that Nythis was born of the shroud of night, but so enamored was she of the Sun, she wed herself to him, and in her mind’s eye, he would appear.”
“And what did she see?”
“None can know. Only to his bride does he come. And she holds him in silence, forever.”
“Is it romantic?”
Skyre gripped the reins tighter. “I dinnae ken.”
“One would think if she were beloved of a god, they would honor his care. Yet, they fear her. It is jealousy.”
“That’s a bold assumption, druid. Not one you ought to make. You’re neither An’Atherin, nor Nytherí.”
The druid glanced up at him over his shoulder. “Then I am most uniquely suited to see both for what they are.”
Skyre scoffed.
“I must warn you,” the druid continued, “it is not death that awaits you in the green. But, perhaps, something far more dangerous.”
“And what would that be?”
“Truth.”
The druid’s flippant tone needled him. He wished he wouldn’t speak. Then again, nothing good ever came in quiet.
Skyre’s mind narrowed to Saorla’s monotonous plod.
He could feel the exact shape of the druid through their clothes, and when his mind traced the image, he wrapped the reins around his wrist until the leather dug into his skin.
The pain was only mildly distracting, and so he barked, “Talk about something.”
“I?” Questioned the druid.
“Do you see anyone else here?”
Once more, the druid shifted to look at him. Skyre’s free hand snapped out, gripping him at the hip. “Dinnae move,” he said strenuously.
When the druid noted his discomfort, he seemed curious, if not amused. “You look pale. Perhaps we should stop and rest?”
That was hardly the problem. Or rather, the problem was hard.
“What is the matter?” asked the druid.
“Be quiet.”
“You told me to talk.”
Skyre bit his lip till it bled.
The mare’s muscles worked beneath them, and the druid’s warmth resonated between his legs, stirring his unfortunate arousal. Skyre hated himself more with every irritable breath. It was humiliating, even if inevitable.
“Suppose I have greatly upset you,” said the druid.
He was certain he’d never been more upset, and the thought made him writhe. “Stop prodding, or I’ll throw you off this horse.”
Saorla lurched forwards, vaulting over a fallen log. Skyre’s weight pressed against him, and his knuckles went white, fisting the fabric of the druid’s gown.
“Cré ma nighm…”
“Seems I am not the only one prodding,” said the druid.
He really did want to throw him over.
By evening, the forest had grown so thick there was no use in riding. Mercifully, they dismounted. Skyre guided the mare and the druid went ahead to make sure her path.
A deep mist gathered.
“Good girl, Saorla. It’s nae harm to you…” The words were gentle, but Skyre was not sure of their honesty. Visibility became sparse, even for his trained eyes. Yet, the druid kept his pace, as if unbothered. “How much further along?”
“Not long now.” The druid’s voice was a ghost between the trees. Owls hooted above in the looming leaves. From every corner, from every height, Skyre felt watched.
“Is it always so… unsettling here?”
A soft, distant chuckle. “How so?”
“You ken… feels… off-like.”
“The forest breathes. You walk upon its tongue.”
Skyre’s lips drew back in a grimace. “When you say it like that…”
Again, that haunting laughter floated over. “You’ve nothing to fear, Your Majesty.”
“Aye…”
Skyre had not begun to think about the measure of his name… or the worth it might have in a place like this. There was nothing in the forest that bid him welcome. The ground seemed spiteful beneath his feet, as if he stood on trial; held accountable for generations of wrong.
When was the last time a Sun King had come to the embrace of the woodkin?
In all the annals he had read, there were never such accounts.
In fact, little at all was spoken of druids, to the point where he’d begun to think them altogether other.
It was easier to believe they were not Cullain, to convince himself he needn’t bother.
And yet, in word, at least, he had exercised his possession of them.
Saorla snorted beside him, and he gave her neck a comforting pat. “S’alright, old girl.”
“Here.”
The druid appeared before him. When had he come there?
Skyre’s memory felt… strained. The druid held out a handful of plump berries.
Skyre didn’t recognize them, and his muscles tensed.
But the mare gave them a sniff, her nostrils flaring about the druid’s palm and, happily, ate them up.
The druid stroked the beast’s snout, nearly hypnotic in his tender care of her.
A thought that made Skyre’s heart tighten.
The druid let the mare lick him clean, then turned and was again down the way, faster than the king could recount.
Strange.
As light faded from the sky, they came upon a path. It wasn’t much but a worn tread within the brush, but movement became easier.
The path wound upwards into a thick grove, where the grass grew higher aside old stones, marking the way to an enormous tree.
It was hung with wooden charms and tokens and weathered knots of braided reeds.
The tree was fatter than all its kin, and—Skyre was sure—markedly older.
A hum seemed to emanate from it, and, though he considered it was only his imagination, the branches appeared to grow longer as his gaze lingered.
He looked away.
It was then he noticed the druid was no longer in front of him, beside him, or anywhere he could see, and he came to a slow stop.
“Druid?” His breath trembled, a fog of white followed.
“Just there…” The sound fell against his ear. The druid stood where moments before had been only air. His pale eyes were fixed upon the tree. “Durnath Fiaragh; the guardian of the grove.”
The hum grew louder. Angrier.
Skyre felt bare.
“It’s as if its eyes were upon me…” he muttered.
Wind rustled the branches, changed direction, and blew cold. It washed his skin like a thousand whispers. His heart drummed harder within its cage.
Saorla whinnied. Skyre was forced back a step as the gust swept the grove, catching up flaxen strands and the fur of his mantle. He was staring down the mouth of a storm whose violent exhale dared uproot him.
“This place… by the gods, this place!” Skyre couldn’t move, but all the world shrieked past him.
And then stopped.
“By fire and flame,” he gasped, “what power makes home here?”
The totems swayed on the branches, and what followed was a haunting song.
It was the unmistakable sound of laughter.
Now, Skyre was certain he was imagining things.
He saw the path they’d arrived on, but the scene was nothing like it had been.
Saddled along its flanks were makeshift dwellings, canonical in shape, risen about a framework of wooden cabers.
They were matted with grass and moss and smelled strongly of earth.
And between them darted wee young things. Their giggling chimed in the air.
How had he not heard them before?
And not only them—there were others. Women in muslin gowns hanging wool, and old maids poring over iron cauldrons. People walked about, quiet and busy.
“Am I seeing visions?” he whispered. “Are these ghosts?”
That soft laugh echoed at his side again. “You aren’t mad.”
He wasn’t so sure.
The druid nodded towards the mare. “You may let her wander; she will not roam far.” Skyre hesitated to release her, but the druid said, “She is safe here.”
“You promise nothing will happen to her?”
“Do not fear the Fáoth—it has judged you well. Here is a haven for all earth’s kind creatures.” The druid guided the mare out to the grove, and, reluctantly, Skyre watched her go. “Now, you’ll need be brought before the Fíor.”
He recalled the druid telling him such elders were their leaders.
“Brought before? It would seem pertinent to remind your kin I am still their king. They should be brought before me.”
The druid smiled. “There are no kings here.”
His mouth fell open, but before he could speak, the druid gestured him forwards.
The Vaich was led on... a matter with which he was deeply unfamiliar.
He had been guided, mentored, but in that place, he felt as if a horse brought to water.
As he went, the druids watched him, and he felt the weight of their earthen gazes.
They were willowy, thin and tall as the reeds wherein they made their homes.
They had earthy hair and eyes—lighter in shade but still familiar to him.
Even here, the druid’s hue was an exception.
They said nothing and did not approach him.
Merely carried on with their lives as if he were a passing thought.