Chapter 55
Chapter fifty-five
The Oracle
They made their way south.
On the fourth day, they reached the edge of the forest and returned to the open country. There, Saorla could stretch her swift legs. Though, even free from the tangle of the deep green, the Vaich did not push her hard, too fearful to jar the druid’s wounds.
They went on in the daytime and camped by night, and left again in the early morning.
The druid slept frequently, despite wishing otherwise, and had taken to drifting even when they were mounted, lulled in the Vaich’s embrace.
It was always warm against him, and the druid allowed his tired body to rest.
But his mind would not submit.
They made camp before evening, though there were few good places to choose.
The highlands were wide and bare, and the peaks of Fír loomed.
The Vaich chose a place near a stream and built a small fire between a ring of standing stones.
The grass was damp from rainfall, and he laid out the pelts to keep them dry.
“I’ll bring Saorla to drink, don’t go wandering about.”
“Even if I do, you would see it quick enough,” said the druid.
The Vaich smiled. “Aye. But I cannae be chasing ye down and tossing ye over a hind in that state.”
The druid tutted in reply. The Vaich went off and the druid inched closer to the fire. His sides ached, no doubt aggravated from the ride. They would soon reach Tuhr Mor—the eastern pass—or so he expected. He had never been that far south.
The king returned up the bank and hitched Saorla to a small stone. He passed the waterskin. The druid muttered his thanks and had a drink as the king sat opposite him. “Not much left of the feed, lest we get lucky here in the moor. But some jerky, if you like.”
“I’m okay.”
“Have it anyway.”
So he did.
It was quiet for a while, though not uncomfortable, at least for the druid. After some time, he noticed the Vaich picking at his fingers.
“It makes you nervous… being so exposed.”
“Aye,” the king muttered. “Not much to do if something comes for us on an open field. I can fight well enough, but I’d bet blood on the one who can see me first.”
It went quiet, again, and every so often the Vaich’s eyes would flicker towards his side. After a while, he said, “Suppose you should have some more of that potion?”
“I am not in much pain.”
“Alright.”
It went on like that, and after a few minutes, the druid said, “You needn’t watch me like a freshborn foal.”
“I ken’ih,” the Vaich whispered, forcing his eyes away. It lasted only a moment before they slipped back. “You should sleep.”
“I have slept enough.”
It wasn’t the truth. The druid was more than tired. Even when he drifted, his mind spun. He did not want to see those dreams.
He did not want to see her.
All those days at Rhyd-hal, the druid had been losing bits and pieces, but whatever was left of him had been siphoned out into the womb. Now, someone else’s memories filled his head. That fractured, quiet little world he had once called his.
In its place were visions of death and destruction.
And worst of all, he still did not know why.
Even if the earth had borne him twice, it seemed inclined to kill him at every turn.
He held his head as the ache settled in again, thrumming in dissonance with the pain in his ribs.
“Druid?” the Vaich asked.
“It is heavy. So heavy. I wish I understood—” he gasped, watching the familiar shades of his kin vanish in his mind. There was no sun. There was no moon. The forest was far behind.
Now, he was truly alone. And…
“I do not know myself.”
His words dripped into the deepest silence. It seemed to stretch for hours into years.
Then, a dry laugh tumbled over the flame. The druid glanced up to see the king’s face twisted in rage. That old fire had resurfaced, pooled into his molten orbs, and his muscles tensed beneath his skin.
“What a load of horseshit.”
The druid’s breath snagged.
He felt himself brace in a way he had only known twice; a silent surge of need to protect himself against a danger he could not name.
“I’ve never met a thing more sure than you—who might bow a man with the curve of your lip.
” The Vaich’s face contorted in a snarl, but it was not the way the druid remembered it.
“You were a king before you bore a crown, and could not be questioned—would not be cowed. Now you tell me you dinnae ken yourself? Now you tell me you have forgotten?”
The Vaich laughed. He laughed and laughed till the high country echoed with his sound.
“Who has come and filled your head with these uncertainties? Was it I? Then speak my name and I shall rake myself across your coals. Or speak another, and I shall flay their skin from their bones. That is your power. And for a season now it is all that I have known.”
The words burrowed angrily into his mind. He panted, breathless. He was there upon the shore again, gazing down into the water. And a mirror looked back at him.
Who… am I?
“You are Queen of Cúil Cullach.”
He froze, his body rigid with the realization he had spoken the question aloud, and thus, the Vaich had given him an answer.
“You are Chosen of the Moon.”
“Titles mean nothing,” whispered the druid.
“Then tell me what does.”
He trembled. “I think I have been here before.”
The king came and knelt before him in the dirt. His hands reached, but did not touch, halting over his skin.
“I dinnae care if you’ve lived a hundred lives. All that matters to me is this one.”
All those little fractured pieces spilled across the ground. He ached, and his eyes stung. He turned his face. “Please…” begged the druid. “Go away. Don’t look at me—”
He staggered to his feet, his legs like stone beneath him. In a moment, he was falling back down into the womb, into an endless bleeding sky. And just as before, he hung suspended, only this time, it was not the air that caught him.
The druid’s eyes trailed up to the man who held him. Muscles thick, scent musky… his face obscured by a woven mask.
His heart seized.
“Don’t hurt him,” the Vaich said.
It was a warning… and a plea.
“What a catch.” More figures emerged from the dark—tall, built, concealed.
The druid trembled, glancing desperately towards the king knelt now at blade point.
Those golds held him tightly, and he felt himself fraying, wishing anything he could spool time in reverse and place himself back within his grasp.
“What have we interrupted?” One of their captors stepped forwards, his blade beneath the Vaich’s chin, pushing his face up. “A rutting man, enjoying his wife? Now, that is one for the books.”
The Vaich’s eyes narrowed, and he cut them sharply upwards. “You fucking whoreson.”
The man cackled, sheathing his sword. With a dramatic flourish and a bow, he pulled off his mask to reveal his handsome face.
Laird Rhosyn.
A chorus of laughter echoed over the hills. The man holding him removed his mask too, and the druid stifled his gasp. “Aard Cían?”
The younger man beamed. “Sorry, Majesty. Ken, it wisnae my idea.”
The rest removed their masks, and the druid recognized Alak and some of the others from the Féin. His heart slowed, but his lips pressed tight. His fear of what could have been was quickly swallowed by what they might have heard.
“You ought to have seen your faces!” Greyv laughed, helping the Vaich up. “The first time I’ve ever gotten you on your knees—”
A rough thud split the air and the Aard’s head snapped to one side. He stumbled backwards and at once the party froze. Cían tensed behind him, but no one dared to move.
“I should break your neck,” the Vaich hissed, fist still clenched from the strike.
Greyv was utterly still, his dark eyes laughless. All hint of a smile had gone from him, and in its place was something haunting.
The look of a man betrayed.
“All those years of sparring… you’ve never minded my iron at your throat. Yet, more oft I feel yours cold against my flesh.” His words were blades of their own, the dark mark on his cheek a splintered shield.
“You don’t understand your mistake,” said the Vaich.
“Oh.” Greyv glanced at the druid, sending a shot of cold through his heart. “I ken it well.”
“Take your hands off him,” the Vaich growled at the youngest.
At once, Cían released him, and the druid gripped his throbbing side. The Vaich pushed Greyv away, coming over to ease him down. “Rest, druid. The blood’ll swell if we’re not careful.”
“H-he’s hurt?” Cían cried. “I-I didnae ken, my Vaich!”
The king said nothing, helping the druid to settle back. He searched the satchel, finding the last of the tincture, offering it up to him. Gingerly, the druid took it, raising the vial to his lips.
“If he’s unwell, there’s a villaigh to the south, but a two day’s ride from here,” said Alak. “The others have made rest there for the while.”
“We’ve spent all day on the road. He needs to sleep,” said the Vaich. “You’ll stay here the night. And burn those godsdamned masks.”
“It was just a bit of fun,” said Cían.
The king glanced up. “There’s always a consequence to fun. And those too young to ken it.”
The party settled. The boys from the Féin made camp nearby, and the Vaich stayed beside him. They spoke nothing of their earlier conversation, but in the quiet, nothing was resolved. The pain had worsened, and the druid could think of nothing beside it. The Vaich could only watch him tremble.
The fire crackled at their feet and in a whisper came the words, “I’m sorry. I let my guard down.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said the druid.
“It was and it won’t happen again,” the king vowed through clenched teeth. “I promise.”
The night was short and the camp too quiet. The ache kept the druid awake into the wee hours of the morn, and within the hush, he heard their voices. Less like men and more like animals warring in the dark.
“I thought I could trust you not to humiliate me. Do you think we are still in that grove? That this is some game?” It was the Vaich’s voice, furious and sharp. The druid braced as if waiting for the strike.
“It is all your game, Skyre,” Greyv hissed back. “Do not forget who yearned for the hunt. Now you’re crawling on your knees before a woodsingr. I can’t recognize you from the top of your groveling head—”
A scuffle followed, and the druid gripped his gown tight.
“Do you not see what you have done? The Féin stands in shambles! You left, Skyre. This whole godsdamned procession in your honor and you sheared off for two weeks. By god’s flame, what did you think?
He would sit idly in wait of your return?
Lach’Dun’s little snake’s still seeding the grasses even as he turns on his pyre.
You’ve allowed these weeds to take root. Crith na túr, you sowed them!”
“You think I dinnae ken it?”
“All I see is a man in heat. This isn’t you, and best remember what you are, and soon.”
The sound of retreating footsteps echoed like a war drum. The druid pressed into the pelts beneath him, fresh terror curdling in his belly.
Had he become the crux of his own worst fear?
He had dreamt an impossible foe, and now, when they most need be united, little fractures spiderwebbed across the stone. The druid knew the danger of a thousand tiny splinters. If they could not suture these wounds, it would all come tumbling down.
The white tree loomed on the horizon of his mind, and in the dark, it withered.
It was a quiet ride through the craggy pass of Tuhr Mor where the lush, open expanse of the highlands narrowed between rocky hills.
The peaks of the Fír glistened in the sun as they veered west to a small village gathered in the shadow of the mountains.
It was cradled by meadow and tufts of forest; The stone cottages were spaced generously and between them wove burgeoning gardens.
The air smelled of fresh tilled soil, and the earth was green and gold.
It was drier and warmer there than in the moors, and the druid’s sore lungs pulled in sweet breaths.
Their horses gathered about the square, and the Vaich’s chamberlain came to greet them.
“Is there a healer about?” asked the king.
“I’m alright,” insisted the druid.
“Were you injured?” asked Jor. He came with Nacht in tow, and there was Rask and Medhin, also. In fact, everyone had come.
All but one.
“Where is Hirí?” The druid’s question fell heavy, and every face grew grim.
Jor answered, “A rider came just four days past with a message from the Augeri.”
“A message?” said the Vaich, but with those words, the druid knew.
“The Oracle is dead.”