Chapter 53
Chapter fifty-three
The Stranger
He wouldn’t wake.
A night and day passed and Skyre’s hope grew thin. He knew nothing of the Fáoth. He knew nothing of its wares. He knew only the fire and fury.
He considered riding out. He could fasten the druid to himself and ride till the beast was weary. But the deep bruising across the druid’s body buried the thought. He feared to move him—that even the slightest of jostling might threaten its spread.
He had seen such things before.
Once, he and Greyv climbed the trees outside Righnach’Dúir. Away from prying eyes, they’d shimmied up the tallest pine. They’d been boys then, rough and clumsy.
“I’ll make it there ‘fore you!” He had taunted.
Greyv laughed. “When you catch up, it shall be winter!”
But when the older boy reached the branch, the bough below shattered and all their ambition came tumbling down.
Skyre remembered the way Greyv’s elbow swelled.
“Will he lose his arm?”
“Little Laird Rhosyn is strong,” Medhin had said, “but we’ll need to let the blood settle lest he come to rot.”
Those words stuck with him now. The druid’s torso, narrow and soft, had become a fearsome blue.
There were marks where it seemed as if some beast had grabbed him; the knots of branches were stamped upon the once-pale hue.
Blood purpled against the surface, and every hour it did not disperse the Vaich grew wearier.
He sat beside him as day turned to night, as warmth became cold. He prepared a fire and covered him with his mantle. Still, the druid did not stir.
Skyre couldn’t sleep—would not, fearing the moment he closed his eyes would be the moment the druid woke. He began to drift late in the night, only to be stirred by a wet snout against his cheek. He groaned, dragging his gaze up to Saorla.
Sadness lined her deep brown irises and he sighed, resting his head against hers.
What was he to do? Despite all his shepherding, he was ill-equipped.
Twenty years in the grove and now he could do nothing but sit and wait for death to come or spare them.
They had trained a boy to kill, but had not taught a man to heal.
The druid’s hands brought life. And his… his offered nothing.
Skyre raked his fingers through his hair, and it grew more and more disheveled.
As sun broke, he heard the softest gasp.
At once, he crawled forwards, cupping the druid’s head. He watched the rise and fall of his chest. It was steadier now. Was he getting better? Was he…?
He let himself hope.
On the third morning, he became delirious himself.
He stoked the fire and wiped the druid of sweat and went out to find some water.
He recalled a stream nearby and thought he could return in quick time.
He tightened his kit to his waist and traced back in the direction he’d wandered that night after he and the druid had argued.
But even in the daytime, the Fáoth was disorienting, like a world askew.
His anger that night had eclipsed his fear, but now he hadn’t space in his heart for rage. He was tired. Not of his heavy limbs or the sting of his stripped knuckles. But of the wasted moments. Now, he wondered if he would have the chance to make right his wrongs.
The druid’s final words bit at him.
They are coming.
Whatever the druid had learned—all the answers rested on a caged tongue. The Vaich felt utterly unmoored.
It was a stroke of luck when he heard the babble of the spring, and hurried down the green bank to see it. He sighed with relief, retrieving his waterskin and filling it fat. He washed his face and had a drink. The cold water was sobering.
But a sharp whinny cut through the air and he shot bolt upright. Again, it came—he had not misheard. He swiveled in the direction of their camp, his teeth tightened as he yelled, “Saorla!”
He raced back, knowing if something had frightened her, then it was not she alone in danger. A boar? A bear? His heart roared as he tore back through the wood. He broke through the trees into the oak grove.
Shock coursed through him.
Knelt over the druid’s body was a cloaked figure.
Skyre wrenched loose his blade. “Get the fuck away from him.”
The figure glanced up. Peppery hair… grassy eyes… Skyre hardly registered what he saw. All he knew was anger.
“Sían thí,” said the man, holding up his hands.
“I said move!” Skyre growled.
The stranger rose to his feet. The moment there was distance between he and the druid, Skyre lunged at him.
But his advance did not get far.
The Vaich stood, stunned—his blade caught between silver. He hadn’t seen the stranger draw and his eyes flicked up to his face, watching a devious smirk curl across it.
“My, my…” the man cooed, “you are a testy one.”
Skyre’s jaw set. He yanked on his blade, tearing it free and squared himself before him. Thin and wispy he was, though not small. He was lean as a hunting hound and just as swift. And young, despite the greyish shade of his hair.
Skyre jumped at him, but the stranger dodged—a blur of motion and fog.
“You ken,” he said delightfully, “I did come to help you, but this is much better.”
“Be quiet!” Skyre hissed, wheeling about. He charged again, but the stranger twisted aside, sending the king stumbling. A haunting laugh followed.
“Do you rush headlong into everything? I must say—very poor strategy.”
Skyre’s skin heated till he thought his blood would boil. “Stand and fight me!”
“Why? I’d never win like that.”
Enraged, Skyre swung. Again and again he thrust his blade, each time he met only air.
The stranger tiptoed out of his reach, less like a warrior and more like a dancer.
Skyre had never seen anyone fight like that.
It wasn’t the sort of skill one fell into on accident.
To say the man was experienced… that was an understatement.
Skyre recognized the look of a creature who’d been trained for a single purpose and the more he watched him, the more he understood.
His eyes recorded his steps, near too quick to follow, but noted the patterns as the man bobbed away.
The king mirrored.
They circled each other as if in a grand hall with the harp and drum leading their jaunt. Skyre’s blade arced right. The man darted left. The king planted his feet, feigned a leftward slash. His quarry moved on the tips of his toes. Skyre drew back, repositioned, thrust his blade at his center and—
The sharp metallic clatter ripped through the air.
“You’re clever.” The man’s smile deepened. He had brought his dagger up as shield and, with a flourish, he turned the Vaich’s blade away
They stepped again. This time to the right, and again, the man was forced to counter. Again, Skyre followed, his attacks swifter. The stranger parried. With each thrust he was forced to draw, was pressed back. Skyre saw his opening—a brief hole in his defense.
He struck out.
This time, the man did not parry and instead pointed both blades.
They held each other at the throat.
The stranger chuckled. “I like you.”
Skyre growled, “Who the fuck are you?”
“My name hardly means much, but if you’d like to have it—Gowan.”
His voice had a youthful, confident lilt.
“What are you doing here?” asked Skyre. “Robbing stragglers deep in the pines?”
Another chuckle. “One could ask the same of you. Not many wanderers about in the Fáoth.”
“He’s a druid.” Skyre cut his eyes to the unconscious form upon the pelts. “He came to visit his kin.”
“And it seems it did not end well for him.” He withdrew one of his blades and the king tensed. “Aye now.” Gowan sheathed the dagger and pulled his satchel free, holding it up in offering. “I ken something of herbs and he’s in a bad way. If you allow me to tend to him, I can ease his pain.”
Skyre tightened his grip on his sword. “You can… save him?”
“There’s not much that can help its gather, but I’ve bandages, and some sweet for the heat.”
Skyre did not lower his blade. If he let the man go… he could harm the druid. But if he did nothing…
“Will he…?” The words slipped passed his lips, and for the first time, the man’s smile faltered.
“If he wakes, he’ll likely fight it off. If we cannae draw him out of this, it is likely he succumbs.”
“And you can give him something to… to wake him?”
“A mix of incense could stir him up, but it’s for him to decide.”
Skyre’s knuckles were white on the hilt, but he knew… there was nothing else to be done. Scoffing, he pulled his blade away.
He didn’t trust Gowan. But it was the only help he could give. If he did nothing, the druid was good as dead.
“Do whatever you can,” he muttered. “But if you hurt him—”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
Skyre twitched, watching the man lower next to the druid’s motionless form. He hated his decision more with every second. He went and calmed Saorla, but the words, he knew, were for him.
The man laid out his satchel and began to mix tinctures.
“What is that?” Skyre barked.
“Meadowsweet, as I said, and englebere.”
Skyre knew of neither.
“Is it some poison?”
Gowan laughed. “No.”
He cradled the druid’s head, and every pore in Skyre’s skin ignited.
He started forwards, but leashed himself, letting the man drip the mixture between the druid’s lips.
He could not deny Gowan’s hands were gentle.
And he both appreciated… and loathed it.
The man lay him carefully back against his makeshift pillow, then, tediously, bound the wounds.
Skyre was rigid as stone.
“Isn’t that too tight? You’ll hurt him like that.”
“It ought be a bit tight,” said Gowan. “You’ve got to keep the blood from swelling.”
He didn’t know if that was true, but he thought of Greyv’s accident in the grove and stayed still. “Very well.”
Skyre did not speak more, afraid to disturb the work. When Gowan finished, he set aside two vials. “These should help with the pain. A few drops—be sure he swallows.”
Skyre said, “How do you ken all of this?”
It was then the king realized what he hadn’t seen before—familiarity. The man’s face was fair, and his features nearly faerie. Before he could work it out, Gowan said, “My sister. She taught me well.”
“Is she a healer?”
The man’s eyes darkened. “She’s good at mending things. Bones, bumps… boys.” He shook his head and stood. “That’s all I can do. The rest is up to him.”
“I’ll pay you,” said the king.
“No need. Coin’s not what I’m after.”
“Then you have my thanks.”
There was a cough, soft and strained. Skyre rushed forwards, dropping to his knees.
“Druid?” He was too afraid to touch him, lest he disturb the bleed. But he saw his breath quicken, and his lids pursed, as if in dream. There was color in his cheeks now, but he did not wake.
Skyre’s shoulders dropped. “How long should it take?”
“I cannae say. All there is to do is wait.”
“Then, goodbye to you. I don’t know who you are or what you were doing here. But should he wake and we cross paths again, do not think I shall forget it.”
Gowan nodded and turned to leave, but the king’s voice called after.
“And if he should suffer… if you’ve played some trick upon me…” Skyre fixed his golden gaze upon the stranger. “I will scour this country to find you, and you will know the flame.”