They prattled off their names, each of them more enthusiastic than the last, but he heard none of it. He knew those who greeted him came in transaction—with words, with gifts, with promises—all wishing favor from the Vaich.
And he, without any desire of his own, had come to hold it.
Chapter thirty-six
The Shadow
The druid waited long enough for the men to get drunk before slipping away from the party.
Swift and soundless, he crept down to the cloister. The crisp night air nipped at his skin. The moon waned above. For a moment, he breathed it in, relishing the quiet.
He missed it.
He missed the world beyond the walls. He missed the smell of the forest; the damp of the grass after rain, the sound of life awaking to spring.
The cloister was still. The druid listened for any movement. He had been hopeful… but then, it was late after all. And perhaps, too optimistic to trust in wild things. Just as he accepted defeat, there came the soft clap of fluttering wings.
He gasped as the familiar silken form landed beside him on the stone.
“Ainfír!”
The raven trilled in reply and the druid sighed with relief. He hadn’t seen the raven for a while, but had prepared for him anyway. He reached into his purse, retrieving the scraps he’d pilfered from supper. He set them upon the balustrade and the raven hopped near.
“Quite discerning you are,” said the druid as the raven plucked at bits of bread. Then, content or otherwise, it went off. When some time had passed, the druid began to think he was, indeed, too hopeful. But then it returned, feathers glistening with moonlight, and clamped in its beak…
The page he’d saved from the bookhold.
“You are too kind,” he whispered, giving the raven a gentle stroke. The druid took the parchment, gingerly unfolding it. He could see little in the dark, but the faded runes were a promise.
He had his proof, however fragile. Now the Vaich would have to accept that some part of what the druid spoke was truth. If he navigated carefully, he was sure he could make the Vaich see reason. If he could only force his hand about the Fáoth…
The raven cawed, dragging the druid’s attention upwards. As his eyes passed along the far side of the cloister, something shifted in the shadows. His skin prickled. He considered to call out; to ask the person to present themselves, but something warned him against it.
It could have been one of the priests on a late round, or one of the guests come down from the feast. Yet, the shadow stilled, as if it had caught sight of him, and now they watched each other in the dark.
Dread tiptoed through his mind. Instinctively, he stepped back. The shadow seemed to twist beyond the columns, as if deliberately avoiding each pool of fading moonlight.
The world slowed.
Ainfír squawked, chasing the rapid beats of his pulse as footsteps echoed in the corridor.
“Who comes there?” he called. The raven flew up towards the spandrels, and the druid took another step back, stuffing the parchment into his sleeve. This didn’t feel like a priest coming for a simple reprimand. It didn’t feelright. His breath stumbled, but his limbs were too heavy to move.
The footsteps hastened. His lips parted, but no sound released, until—
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder and the druid spun. The scream caught on his tongue as he looked up into a deep emerald eye.
It reminded him of…
“A-Aard Nacht?” The druid’s heart rapt against his chest, but he composed himself as best he could in front of the massive man.
“Your Majesty, are you alright?”
“I…” The druid glanced over his shoulder, training his ears through the eerie still.
The footsteps had gone quiet.
Had he imagined it?
