Chapter 50
Chapter fifty
Belthín
Afternoon kissed the forest and the druid snuck down to the stream. There was an unusual chill for the first day of summer. Still, he discarded his garments in a manner Halla would have disdained and waded into the cold water.
He had missed bathing freely at the castle. Rhyd-hal made its way on basins of boiled sea, but the druid enjoyed the freshness of an open spring.
White waters trickled between worn stones, filling the air with a lovely song. The spring was cool glass and he cupped it in his hands, seeing a thousand glinting diamonds. He washed his face and took a drink.
The sun was high, diffused through the treetops into a warm, grey glow. Blackcaps trilled overhead, like pipewhistles carried on the breeze.
He had grown up here.
Gazing into the thickets of heather, he could see a childlike version of himself hiding amongst the weeds. A ghostly form followed, green gaze alight, his laughter echoing across memory.
The druid closed his eyes. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to hear the sickening sound of Onath’s last moments, or to remember that the very same fate might await him in the morrow.
He wanted to enjoy it, to revel in the wind and the wood. But every hour the murmurs grew louder. Every minute the trees called to him.
He tried to ground himself—digging his toes into the silt. But a heaviness pressed in.
Why had he come there? He should have stayed in camp. Should have let his mind be lulled by busyness and distraction. Alone, he felt exposed.
Rustling disturbed the brush.
The druid searched the branches. For an instant, he thought he saw a shadow shifting between the boughs. His heart leapt.
The birds had gone silent.
The Fáoth was filled with many strange things, but this shadow was different.
He opened his mouth to call out, but the words that broke the silence weren’t his.
“By the flame and all God’s fire!”
He turned, finding the Vaich upon the bank, face twisted in horror.
“I told you, you’ll catch ill like that! What is the matter with you?”
The druid collected his scattered thoughts. The dim of the forest seemed at once to pull back, and the sunlight again glittered upon the surface of the water.
“I wished to bathe, and so I bathed,” he said. “Is it such an awful thing?”
“It is when the wind would curse you fast to your grave—and the water would quicken it.” Golden eyes raked over the discarded garments and the Vaich’s cheeks flushed.
The druid tilted his head, but the Vaich would not look at him. “Do you suppose I have never done so before?”
“Test fate and he’ll answer. It’ll be the death for you if you dinnae come up and put on your wear!”
The druid laughed, momentarily forgetting his discontent.
Was it joy he felt? Wonder? In any case he refused to move, and the Vaich, exasperated, came down the bank to correct him. He waded into the shallow water and gripped the druid’s wrist.
They both went still.
It wasn’t anger he touched with… and it wasn’t fear that made the druid quiet.
His dagger lay somewhere on the shore in a rumple of fabric.
He knew the man before him had the strength to kill him, and indeed, likely would have enjoyed to many days ago.
But facing him now, he was certain of his safety.
They lingered there together. The druid as faerie as the mist within which he stood. He cast no shadow and might have been carried off at the slightest breeze. But the Vaich was grounded—a thing that took up space. A dark that commanded and eyes that fought, even at peace.
Silently, the Vaich reached up and unfastened his mantle. With a turn of the wrist, he braced it around the druid’s shoulders. When the smaller still did not move, he scoffed, sweeping an arm beneath his legs and carried him up the bank.
The druid said nothing, only watched in fascination. He neither rejected nor affirmed, and that seemed to drive the king wild.
A fact which endlessly amused him.
“You’re a mad one,” the Vaich muttered irritably. “I give you grace and look what you do with it. You’ll sooner kill yourself if I let you. This whole quest is a farce.”
“It isn’t,” the druid said easily. “I really must see this through.”
“Hogshit.”
The Vaich set him down beside his clothes and pulled the mantle tighter around him.
It was thick and heavy, the fur of the collar tickling his chin.
The dark fabric contrasted his pale skin, shrouding him like a warm shield.
The druid felt himself swallowed within, followed by a desperate need to dig himself out.
Comfort was dangerous.
He said, “I assume the Belthín preparations are done?”
“So they are,” answered the Vaich. “And I hope there’ll be dinner. Or shall I hunt again?”
“No need.” The druid reached down to grasp his things. He began to pull them on and the Vaich quickly looked away. “Does my body disturb you that much? You have seen it plenty before.”
The Vaich bristled. “Dinnae speak like that.”
“That’s right. The An’Atherin dislike the truth.”
“I’m not like them,” the Vaich muttered.
The druid considered him. “Prove it.”
When the druid and the Vaich meandered back to the grove, the celebration was already underway. There were low tables set up around two raging fires, with mats for them to sit and observe. They came and knelt.
A woman played a wooden flute and a man strummed an old crwth.
The song they spun was one he had heard since he was young.
It had no words and yet the cry of the strings beneath the bow reminded him of newborns.
In a way, it was befitting the beginning of a season, but he had always felt it was somewhat melancholic.
“What is the occasion, anyway?” asked the Vaich.
“Surely the men of the west know of Belthín?”
The king shook his head.
A twinge of something pinched at him, but the druid ignored it and reached for a plate. It was laden with growing things, fresh from harvest—root and nut and sweet leaf.
“Belthín is the day we welcome the summer and prepare the earth for its bounty.” He held out a small, russet berry. The Vaich took it in hand, staring expectantly.
“You eat it,” said the druid. The Vaich looked skeptical, but popped it in his mouth. As he chewed, the druid added. “But not the seed. It is poisonous.”
The king spat it out.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
The druid laughed. “Not at all.”
He slid a berry onto his tongue. The juice was bitter. When the seed came away, he spat it into his palm and carefully dug it into the dirt—not shallow enough to be disturbed and not deep enough to be smothered.
“... odd people,” the Vaich muttered, but took another and spat it out.
The druid watched him from the corner of his eye.
He found he could not help but look, to see the king’s reactions: he seemed busy in his work, spitting out seeds and burying them.
His hands were dirty from digging, but his mouth did not complain.
The druid tried to focus on himself. Yet every so often, that focus strayed.
The giver came round to ladle out stew. The meat was fresh—he recognized it as rabbit, and the Vaich seemed proud of that.
In the last light of day, they wound crowns of yellow whin, and when the king’s fingers stumbled, the druid reached for him.
“Like this,” he said, showing him how to twine the stems.
“What does it matter? I look ridiculous enough as it is!”
Gingerly, the druid placed it on his head. “Then look ridiculous,” he said.
The Vaich huffed, but didn’t resist as the flower crown settled on his dark hair.
“You see? It is lovely.”
“I cannae see,” the Vaich said irritably.
“Then trust me.”
Their eyes met—a tether hung with too much regret. The druid pulled away and let it stretch taut.
“The crown is a symbol of vitality and growth. It is also said that he who wears his wreath through the night can drink without consequence,” said the druid.
“Then there’ll be ale?” asked the Vaich.
“Of course not.”
“Mm. The longer I stay, the more I’m sure I’ll turn just as mad as you.”
“I could enjoy the man, if he be mad.”
The Vaich smiled, and the druid couldn’t decide what to make of that.
Once, the king had been the predator, then the prey, and now he was neither. He looked at the druid, not in threat or fear, but something far more pitiful.
Something more devout.
He squirmed out of the thought.
“I ken you’ve no reason to wish to…” The Vaich’s hesitation was abnormally loud. He shifted uneasily, and tapped his leg. He had never hid his emotions well and his discomfort was contagious. “I thought I might… I mean, there’s things I’d like to ask…”
“What would a king ask of me?”
“There’s much I dinnae ken of your kin.” The Vaich’s face strained as if he’d misspoken. “Of you.”
“No,” the druid agreed, “and why should you like to? It has never bothered you before.”
“Is it so wrong for a man to wish to know of his…” The Vaich’s fingers clenched upon his knee, his amber signet glinting. “Forget it.”
The words vanished, but the sensation remained. The druid felt bare, as if he had been stripped raw. And his fear grew. Not from the cold that lapped his bones, but the unpalatable realization that he enjoyed it.
This was a man he could not forgive. A man that had stood against him.
Even now he was an anchor, whether by choice or fate, and the druid could not forget what he stood for.
Outside the green walls of his ancient forests was a world of brute power and cruel faith.
He could not save one without the other, thus he had allowed that power to permeate.
But what had grown in that fertile soil warmed him like a raging fire.
And fire was terrifying.
The Fíor called out and the children gathered watching as he conjured shapes in mist and smoke—faceless people made of tufts of little clouds.
“It is beautiful magick,” whispered the Vaich.
The sage spoke an old story in their elder speech and the Vaich leaned towards the druid and whispered, “What does he say?”