Chapter 57
Chapter fifty-seven
Cerys
The inn was a smoky contrast to the vibrant green of the Fáoth. The usual revelry was once again absent, even amongst the villagers who seemed nervous in the company of the Féin. The men mulled about in the morning, sending the druid furtive, angry looks.
It wasn’t just the news of the Oracle’s passing that had driven down their smiles. Their faces were stone and ash; their eyes shifting shadows. It was unease, yes, but also suspicion.
As disheartened as he had been on their ride south, it was nothing compared to what he felt in the absence of the Moon.
The Oracle was dead, and now there was no authority on which he could call. All his hope had gone with her, all his proof of what he had seen in the mere. Without the Oracle, he would need to rely on his voice. The one thing that had so often failed him.
He was on his own—a feast for crows.
“The passing of a Seer is met with somber.” It was Nacht.
Despite his gargantuan size, the druid hadn’t heard him come up.
His question must have been clear on his face, as the holler nodded towards the muttering throngs.
“Oracles are the mouth of Nythis. And only they have the power to see the Sun.”
“That is why they name the Vaich,” said the druid.
“Mm. But when she passes, that thread is cut. For a moment, we’re alone.”
If it was true or if it wasn’t, it hardly mattered. Men needed to believe that somehow, something tethered them to the divine. Now, that tether was broken.
Maybe he was not so different as he thought.
“The conclave shall decide on a new Oracle,” said the druid. “Then, will their moods be lifted?”
“Aye,” said the holler, “in time. But for such a thing to happen suddenly… it makes a man question.”
It wasn’t natural what had happened to the High Nytherí. The druid doubted anyone had forgotten, but the matter was returned to their thoughts. Perhaps Old Borrach was right.
It was ill omen.
Flickers in his mind… visions of fire and blood. He had dreamt it in the night. Now, he feared it there beneath the sun. All those men come to ruin… a ravaged, bloody field, and the bodies…
He shook the thoughts away.
“The healer comes,” said Nacht, “I shan’t bother you anymore.”
The holler bowed and departed, and the druid followed the healer upstairs. Her name was Litha—a woman who spoke little, out of fear or respect, he did not know. She had been mute when tending to him the day prior, and seemed content not to meet his gaze again today.
The little room was quiet, but the sound of the hearth. She unspooled his bandages and inspected the bruises, which had faded from blue to ugly yellow.
“Better this morn,” she murmured. “But it may be wise to let it—sift the rot, ken.”
“Englebere,” the druid said softly. “If you have it amongst your stock, grind it finely and mix with nectar. It will help the blood to thicken. Letting will only bleed me faster.”
The woman blinked at him. “A singr if I’ve ever heard one. Then the rumor is true. The Queen is forestkin.”
He writhed beneath the title.
“Englebere,” Litha said thoughtfully. “I will see if it grows about.” With a chuckle, she added, “Seems ye dinnae need me to tend ye.”
“Your skill is well-applied,” said the druid. “And I believe it gives the Vaich some peace.”
She grinned, spreading a thin layer of ointment over his skin. “It is good to hear the Vaich is a man of such compassion. How sweetly he tends his wife.”
She flashed a knowing look that made him squirm, but it wasn’t disgust within his heart.
“Sweetly…?”
Fresh bandages were wound around his ribs and she sheared off the excess linen.
“Good and tight?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
She helped him to his feet. “Let’s get ye something to eat, hm? That color in your cheek is no good.”
The two descended the stairs together and had no sooner reached the landing when the door to the inn burst open, and some village men rushed in.
“Miss Litha, tis the Gormand’s boy!”
The woman straightened, her face twisting in concern. The men of the Féin perked up, but it was the Vaich who stood and asked, “Has there been some accident?”
“The boy’s had a fall and his leg’s a right mess,” said a villager.
“It’s the bloody mountain again!” roared another. “The damned thing is cursed!”
“Cursed?” said Jor. “What nonsense is this?”
“Tis an old story,” said Litha, “But boys… ye ken how they be.”
“It isnae a story!” the villager growled. “Good men go up and die! There’s a fell beast on that peak. It mangles em up, and spits em out! You cannae lie, Litha. How many corpses ye’ve seen… all these years and still it haunts us.”
The healer shook her head, but the way her lips pressed tight, it was as if she was swallowing the memories down.
“Dinnae spout nonsense! Tis men like you who steer those boys astray.” The woman turned to the Vaich.
“They hear the old legends and go up to prove them wrong. But it’s treacherous, and most dinnae return.
The ones that do come back in an awful way.
Not from beast—but road. The path is jagged and terrible steep. ”
“No beast?” said the villager, “Nae, it’s a monster, black and hungry! Travelers be lucky if all they find is the pusmoss.”
Pusmoss. Known around the high country as flesh-eaters’ mold, an unpleasant fungus that poisoned the brush around it. It would make an awful rash in a matter of hours, and if not dealt with, would leave the skin to peel itself raw.
The druid had only had the misfortune of seeing its effects but once in his life, and he would have been happy never to see it again.
“We try to keep them away,” said Litha, “but the wee ones dinnae learn.”
“Wee? Hamish was sixteen! Ken, Miss Litha lost her son to the—”
“That’s enough!” hissed Litha. “Take me to the boy.”
She picked up her skirts and sent the druid a final glance. “You’ll be well. Call for me if the ache gets worse.”
The healer and the villagers departed, but one man remained, turning his cap nervously in his hand.
“If they are too proud to ask, then I will do it myself. My laird, yer men could clear the pass—save us from the beast.”
Cían gasped and all eyes turned to him. “I ken where we are! It’s just like Grandpa’s story. The mountain of the golden axe! Cárthsíarna! Don’t you remember?”
“Hush up and find something to do,” scolded Jor. “This is all hogwash.”
“Our trouble is real,” said the villager. He looked at the Vaich with desperate eyes. “Please, my laird, do think on it.”
The man departed and the kiern remained in uncertain silence. All but Cían, who said, excitedly, “If there’s a beast on the mount, we ought clear it out!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jor.
“Story or not,” muttered the Vaich, “we shouldn’t let them lose their good boys to the slope. Suppose something could be done.”
“There’s enough of us about; we could send a detachment up. What could it be but a few angry trolls?” said Alak.
“But what if there really is a golden axe?” said Cían. “A weapon that could kill a hundred boars with a single swing…”
“You’re too old to believe in these stories,” growled his brother.
“Come on, Jor, wouldn’t you like to see? Anyway, if there is some beast up there, the Vaich can handle it. You’d be a hero, sire!”
The Vaich’s golden eyes swept the smiling, eager faces of his men and met the druid’s across the room.
A wordless knowing passed between them.
“If these people are plagued and ask for my help, then the Vaich will see it done.”
There were cheers from the kiern, but Jor scoffed. “And be later still? The fortress awaits in Annath.”
“Then they shall wait a day more,” said the Vaich. “This village need not lose another boy to some misfortune. It’s the very least we could do.”
The air in the inn had changed in a moment. Filled, once more, with bravado. And the more they grew excited, the weaker the druid felt. With all the laughter, he went unnoticed, creeping quietly up to bed.
His gown pooled on the floor at his toes as he inspected his bare, bruised body. When he closed his eyes, he was again in the womb, the walls closing in around him. It was hard to breathe beneath the binding, just as it had been that night.
He tried not to think of the woman, but her face and the white tree were constantly on his mind.
Stumbling, he grasped for the bedsheets, crawling in between. It was warm, but not comforting, and a feverish fog settled over him.
A deep, hopeless black unfolded before his eyes. It was familiar to him now—an unnerving and relentless geist. And within the dark came loathsome visions.
Corpses piled in uncanny patterns. The foul stench of blood in his mouth and nose. Upon the air, a wicked voice whispered words he had never heard.
Red was the sky, bathed in carnage, mirroring the world below, and with an awful shriek, it ripped open, birthing ghostly ships of rotting wood.
Listen.
Listen.
A thousand shifting worms squirmed against his flesh. The blood-drenched soil pressed in around him as he thrashed against the dread. He felt shackles on his wrists. They tightened on his pulse. A voice screamed into his ear—
“Druid!”
His eyes snapped open. The room stared back at him, and amongst it sat the Vaich.
Strong hands gripped his arms and the moment they loosened, the druid scrambled free, burrowing into his chest. The Vaich tensed against his trembles, but the druid could do nothing but fist his fingers in the fur of that smoke-soaked mantle.
For a moment, he thought he might be sick, but the scent of him settled his stomach.
“You… You were screaming in your sleep,” the Vaich whispered.
“All I see is death, and all I hear is silence.” The druid coiled closer. The sweat on his skin had grown cold. He shivered.
Wordlessly, the Vaich pulled the blankets around his shoulders.
“Leave us,” he said, turning his head to the door.
The druid peeked up, realizing the Vaich hadn’t come alone. Nacht and Alak stood at the doorframe, Rask and Cían close behind. His cheeks heated, and he ducked back down, attempting to make himself smaller.
“I am sorry,” he said as the men went off. “I did not mean to cause such a frightful scene.”
“Well, it couldnae be much worse. Most already think you mad.” The Vaich smiled, but it stung.
They both knew the truth in his jest.
“It is irresponsible. I will correct it at once.”
“You cannae control your dreams, druid. Do you mean to never sleep?”
“If that is what it takes.”
“Dinnae be foolish.” The Vaich’s voice was a warm exhale against his ear. The druid shivered once more. “I cannae let you do that. You’re unwell enough as it is. We’ll simply fashion you a muzzle.”
The druid scoffed.
“Do you wish to speak of it? Your dream?”
He glanced up, heart thudding at the inquiry.
There was once a time when he had begged for such response. Now, he had no idea what to do with it.
“I… I will tell you later,” he muttered, glancing away. “I do not want you to go up the mountain with such things on your mind.”
“But that’s such a long time,” the Vaich teased softly.
“You ought to sleep while you still can.” The druid’s fingers were still tangled in the fur of his mantle and, slowly, he forced himself to release.
“Well,” said the Vaich, clearing his throat. “I’ll let you alone to rest.”
Before he could stop himself, the druid reached out, halting the Vaich as he rose. “You’ll be gone. In… In the morning?”
“Aye,” said the king. “We leave at first light.”
“I wish to be there. To see you off.”
The Vaich looked as if he might refuse him, but those golden irises burned low. “Very well. I’ll send someone to fetch you. Until then, sleep better, druid.”
“Cerys.”
The room was still, but the Vaich’s rush of breath. He paused, as if seeking confirmation. The druid answered with a nod.
“Cerys,” he repeated gently, the sound a song upon his tongue. The sort of sound one might enjoy to be called. “I’ll… see you at first light.”
The Vaich’s skin left his once and for all, and the moment he was gone, Cerys wished he would return.