Chapter 48 #2
Everywhere he’d gone, he’d been met with fanfare, smiles and revelry and begging hands. People knelt before him. They cried his name. They recognized him—even when they knew not his face. But in that moment, all his gold, all his gallantry was stripped away.
He was a stranger.
There were no guards, no sentries, no ushers to mind their steps. They walked freely, without threat, all the way to the dwell of the elder. No servant greeted them. No attendant took their name.
“Terach aen,” said the druid, nodding his head. The elder responded in kind.
They came and knelt as if equals.
Skyre’s knees dug into a mat of woven linden bast. Around him was the scent of peat. It was a small and cozy dwell, not grand or boisterous. Its decor was meager, and its occupant more so.
The Fíor was a greying man, wizened and worn with time. He boasted a long, wiry beard, and his eyes were dark and woody. He looked long upon the king, and said, “You smell of the sea, stonewalker.”
Skyre was too awed to speak. He thought to introduce himself. He thought to give commands. He came up with only silence.
Then, the druid spoke again, “Ma thíohair onúrach, a tháim nó chu-dugh thaoghaire.”
And the elder answered, “AEn cé, leabhóir, thu thí gahnn i ár ndúir?”
“Is é an Aarden Vaich, ríthúr na Cúghlain. Tagaih tháim míd du ddfhíor.”
It was an elden speech, long forgotten by the folk of the western holds. Skyre could parse the meaning only in scattered pieces and felt otherwise foreign; an invader in his own country.
The Fíor leaned back, his eyes settling upon the king.
Skyre was desperate to seem capable, and so cleared his throat.
“I am Skyre Cillchéinn, King of Cúil Cullach. I—”
“I know who you are,” said the Fíor. “Never before has a Vaich of the west come willing into our midst. Yet, the Fáoth has allowed your passage; thus, I greet you with grace. Let us see how you differ from your predecessors.”
The king’s fists tightened.
Perhaps it was a challenge. Perhaps it was a gift. Either way, he accepted.
“This truth you speak of.” The Fíor turned to the druid. “What brings you here with such urgency?”
“I wish to partake of the Naém; to hearken its word and drink its wisdom.”
“A Listener?” The elder seemed surprised.
Listener?
“Yes,” said the druid, his voice hushed. “I have long suffered visions of ghosts past… or future. I believe I have seen echoes of creatures from beyond the Quell. I need to know of their first comings.”
“Ah, but I am afraid that is impossible,” said the Fíor. “Before the trees talked, the land was silent. Much of history came and went before the first communions, the Quell amongst it. That time lay outside the ability of even the most careful Listener. It is far too dangerous to attempt.”
Skyre leaned forwards. “I thought you chased some archive. Some magick to see history. Of what danger do you speak?”
The druid said, “The Naém is not a simple thing. Though, should I bear it, it may show me the answers I seek.”
“Bear?” Skyre frowned. “Does it require some sacrifice? A trial of ill make?”
The druid was silent and Skyre’s heart clenched in warning.
“Will it… hurt you?”
“Its nature is unforgiving,” whispered the druid. “If I am not strong, then it shall destroy me.”
“That is a certainty if you insist on foolery,” said the Fíor.
“The Naém requires discipline. Concentration. A resilience that is cultivated with time. And you are still young, child. This ambition is, I fear, beyond your reach. The longer one delves into deep time, the more likely he is to be lost. Such things have long been forbidden. But that shall not be your choice. No one has survived the depths of history.”
“But it has been done,” said the druid.
The elder’s brows pinched low over his eyes as the druid withdrew the tattered piece of parchment he had once shown the Vaich. That strange account which no one could explain, yet written there as testament.
The Fíor’s wrinkled hands were gentle as he unfolded it, and a look of grim concern came over him. “Where did you get this?”
“The archives of Rhyd-hal,” said the younger druid. “I may not be able to speak to its purpose, but surely its authenticity is—”
“A dark reminder of darker days,” whispered the Fíor.
Skyre and the druid exchanged a brief, uncertain glance.
“There were… stories. Whispers of an infernal pact between flame and wood. Our kin kept as captive—or convert—by the perilous kirkmen of the west. Though what use they were was never known. Could it be…”
“What do you imply?” Skyre ventured. His voice sharp.
The Fíor said, “The Naém was a thing of impeccable curiosity for men too quick to damn it. But these records would have me think they had their own answers for how they could reclaim it.”
The younger druid went still. “Forced communions.”
“What?” Skyre hissed.
“When first I read it, I thought it was some sort of inquisition. And perhaps… perhaps I was right. The An’Atherin wished to access the Naém for their own advancement. But to do so they would have had to use those whose bodies were built to commune.”
“They did no such thing!”
“How could you know?” the druid asked quietly.
“These records were hidden for centuries, and your priests are far from honest. If they did take druids captive and force them to commune, it is sure they learned things they wished to hide. A thousand years of predation of my people followed. Do you have some better explanation?”
“You’re all heathens of course they—”
Skyre froze.
The passivity of druids did not save him from their vengeful stares. His eyes flicked back to the tattered parchment.
Would he deny the An’Atherin’s brutality? He knew what they were. And he had always given justification for their actions. But this…
“It’s… it’s ridiculous,” he muttered. But the words sounded weak, even to him. “This is all just speculation. You have no proof.”
“And you have no counter,” said the druid.
Their stalemate sat heavily upon the air.
“If it be true,” said the Fíor, “then it is certain those poor souls only reached such fargone history through duress or some great torment. This is not to be recreated here by you.”
“I must try,” said the druid.
The Fíor stroked his beard. “I cannot deny a child of the land its offering, but you must realize the severity of your quest. It is very likely you do not return.”
Won’t return…?
“I understand.”
“That wasn’t our agreement,” said Skyre.
The druid looked at him. “It will be okay.”
Skyre searched for any chink in the druid’s stony armor. But as usual, he found none.
“Then, we shall arrange tribute for the second morrow to ease your passage. Alas, tis the eve of Belthín. Surely, you will stay for the celebration.”
Skyre said, “We don’t have time to—”
“Of course we will stay,” the druid interrupted, sending him a pointed glance. “It is only fitting as respectable guests.”
The Vaich held his tongue.
“Ah, suppose there is hope for the men of the west. Now we shall rest. Find a place amongst the flock and sleep.” The Fíor turned to the Vaich. “You may moor here, so long as the wood shall have you.”
Startled, Skyre nodded his understanding.
“Then,” said the Fíor, “good night to you.”
They were given a place of their own to camp for their stay. It was as if the land itself had made room for them there, and they had simply taken what was offered.
The dwelling was well-sized, warmed by a small pit at the center.
The heady smoke wafted upwards through the opening at the top where the cabers poked through the hide.
The druids seemed a practical people, and only fittingly, as their survival thrived by the land itself.
There were two wooden beds laid low to the ground, and not nearly big enough for Skyre.
He considered it, perhaps, too long, and turned to find the druid already in a state of undress.
Skyre’s cheeks warmed and he glanced away. “Your people… are far too trusting.”
“Trust has nothing to do with it,” said the druid. “If you were a threat to them, you would not have entered here.”
Skyre’s eyes narrowed. “Then it is true there is some enchantment? Some spell over this place? That tree—”
“It is no spell. It simply is.”
“Will you not speak plainly?”
For once, the druid seemed surprised. “Have I not?”
“No!”
Skyre felt with every moment he shouldn’t be there. He was out of place in a land that was his, and he understood none of its rules. He couldn’t tell up from down or real from imagined, and thought if they stayed too long, he would be consumed.
“I suppose for you it seems strange,” said the druid. “Somehow… otherworldly. But in fact, it is your world. That which you have forever been a part of.”
That couldn’t be further from his truth.
None of this sat right with him.
“The communion…” he muttered.
“What about it?” asked the druid.
“Is this really… what you want?”
“Of course not.”
The druid lowered before the pit, pushing his fingers into the packed earth till the dirt gathered beneath his nails. The silver band at his knuckle reflected the firelight.
“I wish I were anywhere else.”
Skyre’s heart thumped.
“Then why should you… Is there no other way? Maybe someone could go in your place?”
“That won’t be possible. It is a rare gift, the communion.”
“A gift?”
“It is thought true singrs are born with their abilities. We all have an ear to the land, but those few hear more deeply. They are called Listeners. They train their whole life to harmonize, but success is never guaranteed, for the communion must be performed inside an Urna’ha.”
“A womb tree? But those are only myth,” said Skyre.
He had learned of them only accidentally during his years of study at Righnach’Dúir, and even now could hardly recall.
It was said the first men were born of the land and from the womb trees they hatched.
It was more fable than fact, yet the druid looked sure.
“Spoken like a true stonewalker,” he said. “In fact, they are very real. Though few remain. Once, hundreds of them filled this forest. But most have been lost to time, reclaimed by the earth.”
“And you know where to find these trees?”
“Indeed. It is our great duty to protect them. But sometimes… they grow hungry. Not all of it is tragedy. If one be lost within, their blood and soul enrich the womb. There is honor in such a sacrifice.”
Skyre stared at him. “You would find honor in being devoured by a tree?”
“Should it need to feast of my flesh, then that would be a good death.”
Skyre didn’t laugh—he wasn’t sure the druid was joking. Instead, he said, “Surely you’d prefer to return.”
“Surely,” agreed the druid. “Although the risk is just as sure. Parsing through many thousands of years would be a feat even for the most experienced Listener. The longer one communes, the more likely it is that the womb perceives them as offering.”
“At least you must’ve had a fair bit of experience, I expect?”
“Not at all,” the druid said with ease. “I have never communed before.”
“What?” growled Skyre. “Not once?”
“Not ever.”
“But you said it would be okay!”
A new fear settled inside him, and not simply the fact that the druid was mad, but that they were walking into certain disaster.
“It is… true… that when I was young I heard the voice call to me.”
Skyre paused. “The voice?”
“It is said the trees call to their offspring, and those with the gift can hear it. But I never answered its asking.”
“Why?” whispered Skyre.
“I suppose I…” The druid wrung his hands. “Well, that was long ago. No use in dwelling.”
Skyre lowered next to him. “You were frightened.”
“No,” the druid said, furrowing his brow. “Not at all. I…”
Skyre had never seen him so bothered, and slowly realized why. Of all that had befell the druid since his name was spoken at Bráth Aghmuir, none of it was natural to his place in that world.
But to deny a thing that was…
“There is no shame in fearing a calling foisted upon you.”
“You should know better than anyone.” The druid glanced away.
It was alluring to see him squirm, and Skyre liked it. He wanted to watch him fall apart. And at the same time, thought it might break his heart.
“If the Naém frightens you, we’ll find a different path.”
“No,” said the druid, “the longer I stray into this dark, the more I think it must be me. If nothing else, I need to see for myself if there is any sense to my dreams.”
Skyre didn’t agree, but what could he fight him with? He wasn’t armed for that battle. So, he said, “Do you believe you can do this?”
“I must.”
“That isnae what I asked.”
“And if I had asked you, what would you have said?”
“I never had a choice.”
The druid nodded, getting to his feet. “So, we are the same.”
Skyre watched him cross the dwell and lower onto his cot. “Then I will go with you. To ensure it.”
“Ensure it?” asked the druid.
“Your safe return.”
“To you, you mean.”
“That’s not…”
“I did promise.” The druid smiled, lying back against the pillow. “And I mean my words.”
The way the druid spoke was gentle, but it was scalding. Skyre considered him a bit longer. Then, silently, he reached up and removed his mantle. His bracers followed, and his bangles and boots.
He laid down in his bed, and over the dying embers and thinning smoke, he saw that pale gaze watching him.