Skyre desired more than fealty. Even if he had to bow a king. Even if he had to bow a goddess. There would be no challengers tohiscrown.
“If Laird Ûvain is so eager to play host, then I will oblige him.” Skyre smirked. “For when my Aardmût sets out, I will have with me the strongest warband Cúil Cullach has ever seen.”
Chapter four
The Lady in the Lake
Your name was spoken in prophecy.
That is what they told him.
The druid had never spent much time with the men of the west, and now, amongst them, had become no more familiar. He thought them strange. They certainly thought the same of him. They spoke little. They answered less.
Across the green moors, they travelled by daylight, and in the evening, they made rest. The druid stayed quiet and vigilant. Though they shared the earthen blood of Cúil Cullach, the great rifts of time and allegiance had sprung between them like insidious weeds. From north to south, east to west, they had become a brotherhood divided. They were grown on the same rugged land, birthed from the same primal root, and yet it was sure the men beside him would give a far different telling of what it meant to be Cullain.
Still, it wasn't lost on the druid, the peculiar nature of his captivity. He was neither chained nor mishandled. There was, he supposed, a fragile peace. The prophecy the riders spoke of held great sway over their hearts, their minds, and inevitably, the hands that stayed their blades. His need to remain had become, to them, a matter of sacred mandate. But that made his position no less precarious. In his mind was the image of his kinsman, strung up upon the cross. The stench of burnt flesh still stuck in his nose.
It wasn’t trust between himself and his captors. The riders glared askance, muttering suspicions beneath their breaths; “Dinnae let him close, or he’ll witch the horses!” No, they trusted in his complicity, or rather, his fear of their consequence.
That, however, remained a gift ungiven.
Instead, he considered the curious theater; whatever guiding force led them to him was still at play, and that, he settled, was the most disquieting detail of all. He did not abide the western gods, and yet, inexplicably, they knew his name.
Every evening, the riders sat around bonfires, sharing food and speaking stories. But before the men took their meals, two things would happen.
First, two plates were gathered, and every man contributed. Some with jerky, and others mushrooms and bits of bread. Some had dried berries and offered those. And itwasan offering, as they piled it high in favor, and the rider would bring them—one to the sun priestess, and one to the moon. Medhin, the former was called; the latter was named Hirí, but the men did not address them as such. Rather, they called themmáraighand did not look them in the eye.
Second, the rider came to him and offered him tender. This was often meat or cabbage, and the druid was in no position to refuse. Only when he’d taken his portion did the rider go off, and the supping sallied on.
Rarely was he engaged elsewise.
And still, he watched them.
They had the well-fed builds one expected of men of the king. They stood tall, broad; some as many as fifty or sixty winters, and those that were young already carried marks of battle. They were clothed in long cloaks lain over with pelts, andfeiligh—leather tasset battleskirts—a traditional garment that dated back to the Awakening. A tradition the men of the west had iterated upon. They were fitted with golden warbelts bearing the crest of the flaming sun, and were worn over the men’s tight-fitting braks.
All the riders wore helmets crowned with horns and boots and bracers made from dark-tanned hide. Gilded gorgets were worn upon the chest, but the stomach was left uncovered—a testament to the Cullain’s resilience against the cold.
But it was not the men who most interested him.
Far more bewitching was the priestess of the moon, whose pallid appearance at once entranced him. It wasn’t a fancy he felt—he was certain he could not. But rather, an undeniable and striking resemblance that gnawed at him like a starved dog. Her hair and eyes were the color of ash, and, like he, she stood out amongst her kin.
Twelve years ago, he had left the emerald tangle of the Arran Fáoth and begun his wandering along endless roads. In all his travels, he had never once come upon one whose hue matched his own, and felt an unnervingkinship with this woman. He shivered and his stomach seized. He could not fathom havinganythingin common with these people.
At the thought, her silver eyes found his across the camp. And, with a haunting delight, she smiled.
Beyond the moors, villages speckled the land, far grander than any the druid had known. Stone gave way to wattle-and-daub and the paths were filled with busy folk. Wherever they went, onlookers gathered and eyes beheld him, not with wonder, but bewilderment. Women came to their garden gates, hands clasped, speaking prayers to the máraigh, but only silence followed him.
The highways between villages were wide and winding and travelers and merchants came and went. At a crossing outside a bustling city idled an old man in a tattered cloak.
The man rushed out onto the road before the company. The horses whinnied as their masters pulled back on their reins, halting before the beggar, who hit his knees in supplication.
“My lairds!” he croaked, lifting trembling arms. “Alms for the poor, sirs. Coin for bread.”
“Out of the way,” barked the old rider.
The beggar bent his head deeper. “’Twas a rough winter, sirs, have mercy—”
“If you’re hungry, get to the villaigh and work for your keep. Cullach has no need of feeble breeds.”
