“Sire,” said the vicar. “The ritual is not yet—”
Skyre turned his burning gaze upon him. “Go.”
A murmur rose and died, and one by one they filtered out. The last to leave were Rask, whose eyes were like heavy stones, and Medhin, who watched him in sorrow.
“Go!” he shouted again, until the chamber was empty but for the smoke and the smell and the two of them. The druid lay still upon the altar, his silver gown in disarray; his body shivering despite the heat.
Skyre knelt, lifting the druid’s head.
“Speak, druid,” he whispered. “Speak! For god’s sake!” There was a long, dragging moment, and still the druid was silent. Skyre grit his teeth. “You chose this! I told you to go! I would have let you run!”
His voice echoed off the walls, burning and cutting at his skin. His shoulders shuddered; his chest tightened. And then, he heard it.
“Will you listen now?”
Skyre stared in disbelief, and the druid gazed up at him.
“You…?”
“I have dreamt pale ships upon our shores. Something is coming. Something I believe we were chosen to stop.”
Chapter thirty-two
The Morning
The druid stirred awake. Not to the bustling of maids, but a quiet nearly serene in its loneliness.
His eyes opened to a dimly lit chamber. He had never seen it before, yet knew at once where he was. The grandness of the bed, with its thick velvet canopy and warm dark furs; the musky scent of sage and smoke told him to whom it belonged.
On a near table sat a bowl and beside it a pile of dirtied rags. His body had been scrubbed of the silver sigils, the paint removed from his lips and eyes. It was a poorly job, but it was done.
Curiously, he sat up, searching the dark to find the Vaich in a chair beneath the window; his figure doused in shadow. Whether he noticed the druid or not, he remained quiet and so the druid spoke first.
“How long have I slept?”
The Vaich tensed at the sound, but did not turn. “… not yet midday.”
So, he had slept the night through. That begged the question—why was he there? If not to share the marital bed, the Vaich might as easily have returned him to his room and let his girls handle the cleaning. Instead, it was almost certain he had done it himself.
“Have you spent all night in that chair?”
The Vaich did not answer.
A throbbing ache was in his belly and groin, and an unreasonable burning elsewhere. The druid recalled the ceremony only in broad strokes, but did not wish to linger in dull memories. It was passed and now it was settled.
“Did we depart that place together?” asked the druid.
“I carried you. You fell unconscious upon the altar, and so I brought you here.”
It was as he expected, yet no less curious.
“The blood,” the Vaich muttered. “I tried to… but there remains… some…”
The druid glanced again at the bowl. “That is alright.” He pulled back the furs, only getting so far as one step from the bed before he was forced back down.
“What are you doing?” hissed the Vaich, gripping his arms.
“I would tend to it,” said the druid, but the Vaich did not budge.
