Chapter 59
Chapter fifty-nine
The Hunter
It was midday before Cerys came down to the hall.
He hadn’t realized how poorly he had slept in the days since the Naém, or how different it was to sleep in a bed of fur than a pelt on the ground.
A part of him felt ashamed for thinking so; he had never disparaged the earth before, but his tender ribs knew better.
The men were out in the village making the most of their time.
Summer was in full bloom—he could see it on their faces.
Some boys played ball in the square, and the men joined in, laughing and making a show of it.
Even the oldest amongst them seemed young again.
Gone were their mantles, their golden sigils and iron blades.
They were children, stirring up dust, stumbling towards make-believe goalposts.
He was reminded, again, of his youth in the Fáoth, but the edges of those memories frayed. He belonged there no longer, and neither did he belong here.
He thought of Hirí, away at the Augeri. At the best of times, she was hardly worth trusting, and yet she was the only one who understood him. If he could tell her what he had seen… what would she think? The woman in his dream, in his memory—who had she been and what gave her such power?
Cerys did not believe in coincidence. The whispers… the prophecy… the dreams. All of it hinted at a life he knew not. A life that called to him from a time in which he had never lived.
At least, not as he was.
“You are so like she.”
Cerys spun to see the shadowed form of the Sun Matron. Her face was neither filled with fury or disdain, and yet, she had never come in welcome, and so, he braced.
“She?” he said. “Of whom do you speak?”
“Nythis, of course. It is obvious.” She came up beside him, gazing into the yard from the open doorway. “How much power you have in silence.”
“I don’t—”
“You still deny it, even as you bow the Sun to your command? I thought you merely a charmer. Some sorcerer sent from the green. But there is nothing simple in the way you’ve bewitched him.
” For an instant, the mask cracked and before him was not a woman of God, but a mother in fear, and her voice trembled. “He loves you.”
Cerys was doused in fire and ice. His cold body burned beneath her hands as she reached to cup his face.
“I beg of you… lead him not unto destruction. He is young and still unsure. He was a good boy and may yet be a great man. I beseech you, druid—do not seduce him from his path. It is his destiny.”
“No man is destined for rule,” he whispered.
“But someone must.”
Cerys looked away.
Shouting arose, bringing the game to a halt. Medhin released him, grasping her shawl as she stepped out to see what was the matter. The men came up the way, a group of them, he recognized, having been of the Vaich’s party. They were bloody in places; scratches and gashes upon bruising skin.
His stomach knotted.
“What happened?” asked Medhin. “Where is my son?”
“Alive. Ettins attacked us, but we were able to defeat them.” The largest of the group held a second man wrapped within his mantle. He came inside and laid him upon the table and the rest came quickly after. Cerys went, too, and as the mantle unfurled, a gasp spilled from the crowd.
“We tried to come quick but… was a ways down the mountain.”
Upon the man’s sloughing flesh were dark, scabby rashes.
Pusmoss.
“Summon Miss Litha at once!” someone shouted, but Cerys stepped forwards.
“I will need a hot knife and some boiled water. Do not come near or the poison can spread.”
The men, having huddled close in curiosity, now hurried away.
“Someone fetch my satchel, and a bucket for the flesh.” One of the cooks looked sallow and yellowish. Cerys sighed. “Perhaps two buckets.”
The druid drenched his hands in a mixture of goose fat, thyme and beeswax to stave off the poison, and diligently peeled off the infected skin.
The man’s exposed arms and back had been most deeply affected, and the rot had had hours to take root.
As he worked, Jor came down asking questions, which Cerys pretended not to listen to.
“What happened?”
“It was the woody beasts we found on the mountain. But it would have been a clean fight if not for the brush. Took a hit into a thicket. The Vaich had us bring him down. But the party fares well, no need to worry.”
Cerys’ heart lightened, but Jor said, “Where is His Majesty now?”
“The others went up. Thought they’d climb the summit. Sure it’ll make a good story when they come back down.”
A flicker of a smile teased his lips.
How like him.
Litha rushed in looking shocked as Cerys finished applying cool towels.
“Yer Majesty!” she gasped. “Ye shouldnae risk yerself! Please, let me finish.”
“It is alright,” he said. “I have given him something for the pain, but I will need to mix a poultice.”
“He could do with some wood leather,” she agreed. “I’ve run out, but it grows near the edge of the forest.”
“I’ll go. You stay here and patch up the rest. That man there, his arm needs tending, and likely a splint by the looks of it.” Cerys wiped himself down. The cook was heaving over his bucket, and the druid gave the woman an encouraging nod before heading out.
The fresh air hit him like a prayer, and, for a moment, he let his eyes drift towards the mountain. He wondered what it must be like so high up. He wondered if… if the Vaich… He tucked his thoughts away and headed for the outskirts of town where the garden gates backed up against the forest.
Wood leather was a russet-colored plant, not easy to confuse, with large papery leaves that could serve as bandage. It was known widely amongst his kin as Second Skin, as it could be layered over surface wounds and, if dampened, carried regenerative properties.
Cerys scoured the forest, finding a slew of young plants amongst a thicket of yews. He bent to pluck the leaves, creasing them gently and tucking them into his satchel before moving to the next.
It was deep afternoon. The sun dripped through the treetops. The branches above cast long shadows that slowly grew and spread.
He paused.
Odd.
All birdsong had ceased and the rustle of wind had gone mute. A chill crept within him.
He knew this feeling.
He took a step back. Then another. He tried to recall where he had come from, but the forest disoriented him.
It isn’t natural, he thought, it isn’t right!
Darkness crept in and with a desperate gasp he turned, his feet trying to run. But he was tethered. A hand gripped his hair and a cold silver dagger pressed against his throat.
“My… my…” A voice chuckled against his ear. Cerys fought, but their grip tightened. The blade cut into his skin. “Now, don’t struggle. Don’t you know how long I’ve waited to meet you?”
“Who… are… you?” Cerys winced as blood dripped down his neck. His captor leaned forwards, a smile on his lips.
Pepper colored hair and grassy eyes…
An undeniable familiarity.
“A more pressing question… how does a druid come to be Queen of Cúil Cullach? I am so eager to know your story.” His mocking whisper dropped into a hiss as he pressed the blade deeper. “Won’t you tell it to me, cousin?”