His presence seemed more to do with public perception—a charade the Thrys encouraged. The Vaich was married; the druid claimed, and all manner of uncertainty appeased.
So, their mornings became routine.
They took breakfast together. There would come the chamberlain who would bring the pups, and they’d run, clumsy and delighted, to the druid’s skirts. One, in particular, was persistent, and the druid would take him in his hands and admire his crinkled nose.
They were bonny, with their fur curled and their ears folded. They brimmed with energy and life. The Vaich had named them Inar, the elder and more docile, and Arken, the persistent one. Though the druid did not enjoy to call them thus. He said, “Creatures of the world are nameless.”
“That has not stopped them from seeking your affections,” the Vaich said bitterly, bribing them with sausage beneath the table, but they remained at the druid’s feet.
“I should not stand in the way of the beast. If he comes or he doesn’t.”
The Vaich flushed red. “He always comes.”
It was not uncomfortable there. At least, since the wedding, they had been left to dine alone. That did not fare especially well with the Sun Matron, who made many unclever attempts to intrude. The druid thought that if she wanted to eavesdrop, she might have waited till there was something important to hear.
That morning, the chamberlain had delivered the official registry of all landholders in Cullach. The druid understood little about the Reaffirmation, but was told the ceremony would be perilous. The Vaich would decide who would be laird and who’d be made Aard, and who would lose their titles entirely.
“The land belongs to no one,” the druid said.
To which the Vaich argued, “Tell it to the tax man.”
The druid only picked at his plate, preferring the porridge. Instead, gave his meat and cheese to the dogs. They growled and battled for the jerky while the king pored over the lists.
“I dinnae suppose your dreams tell me who I shall pick.”
“They are not so precise,” said the druid. The Vaich often referred to the dreams in a sardonic way, though not entirely dismissive. The druid could not discern whether the Vaich believed him or not. He was adamant about his desire for proof.
“Problems are brick and mortar,” he had said. “I cannae do battle with ghosts.”
A month ago, the druid could have appreciated the pragmatism, but felt each night like a nail hammered into his heart. Lady Merah had spoken of partnership, but as it stood, he and the Vaich were strangers.
He needed to win his trust.
The druid had devised a plan. The king’s Aardmût was swiftly approaching. He had been told this was a pilgrimage assumed by every Vaich on the formation of his Aarden Féin. It would be the final mark of his coronation.
There would be a large entourage; all of the Vaich’s men would be required to ride with him, a selection of castle servants, as well as the royal consort and the overseeing máraigh. It was a three-month-long ceremonial procession that would begin in Rhyd-hal and take them around all of Cúil Cullach.
If the druid could get into the Vaich’s good graces, he might convince him to venture into the Fáoth. The convoy would pass near the eastern forest, and a small detour would be insignificant.
At least, that is what the druid would say.
“Everyone wants something,” the Vaich muttered, scanning the messy record books.
“Might I see them?” asked the druid.
The king raised contemptuous eyes. “And what will you do? You ken nothing of the west.”
“So I don’t. Then, why should it matter?”
The Vaich considered that, though, not very long. He waved him over with an impatient hand. The druid came, the pups biting at his heels, and the Vaich pointed to the names. “Behold, our kingdom.”
The druid read the words on the page and asked, “Will you tell me of them?”
The Vaich fixed him with a suspicious look. “Why should I do that?”
“At the ceremony, I shan’t speak. So, it is you who must make the right decisions.”
“Is this a test of yours? I have spent a lifetime being tested.”
