Skyre shook his head and shrugged himself loose. “Go,” he said. “Enjoy the night for me.”
Greyv frowned. “You really won’t stay?”
“Mm. Just like old times.” Skyre smiled weakly. “I’ll live through you.”
Night fell over Rhyd-hal. The king’s private chambers were warm in the amber glow of fire, yet Skyre was far from comfort as he slumped in his chair. He’d read “his” proclamation at least fifteen times and still the wordsdid not settle. His mind was both too full… and too empty. Every so often, his skin would stiffen as little yips bit into the silence.
The druid sat before the hearth; his skirts splayed over the bearskin. The pups played about them, digging amongst the fabric, clambering at his legs. Skyre watched them irritably, seeing their tiny tongues wag; their wide brown eyes desperate for affection. And the druid—their silent provider—scratched their bellies as they rolled over to expose them.
Skyre’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t you make them be quiet?”
The druid said nothing at first. Then, he rose, scooping the younger pup—Arken—into his arms. “You were so delighted in their receiving. I can’t imagine you’ve soured so quickly.”
Skyre tried to ignore him, but the druid came to sit at his side. The puppy squirmed excitedly, licking the druid’s face, though the latter remained unbothered. He said, “If you’ve something on your mind, you may tell me.”
“Nothing is the matter.”
“Is that true?”
Skyre went silent.
The druid leaned forwards, letting the little beast run back to its brother. The room filled with the sounds of their vigorous chase. “There is every reason to be uneasy about the Mût. The embarkment is a great undertaking… or so I’ve been told.”
Skyre let slip a dry laugh. “If you dinnae ken, then you shouldnae say needless things.”
“Alright.”
It was easy to forget the druid was not like those who made home at Rhyd-hal. Nor like any he had met before. He was particular and frustrating, if accidentally.
“Then, I will be blunt. I wish to return to the Arran Fáoth.”
Skyre’s brows knit. “Not this again.”
“Not to leave entirely. Rather, if we shall be voyaging cross country, then I would like us to make rest there. You wish to pass into Annath. We may go, first, by the northern road. If it is no trouble.”
“That isn’t…”
“There is purpose,” the druid continued. “I have reason in asking. Though, I do so in the hope you will also have reason in answering.”
The king’s lips pressed and he could think of nothing to say except, “The route has already been decided. We may not trend so far east as to take you where you wish.”
“But you are king. If you choose, we could go anywhere at all.”
Skyre’s fingers dug into the parchment.
“It need only be a week, or less.”
It wasn't begging. The druid knew not how to plead. And yet, it wasn’t lost on the king the nature of his appeal. His words were matter-of-fact, but lacked the grease he so often heard in others.
“I told you, I willnae entertain some delusion—”
The druid’s hand slipped into his sleeve. Skyre braced, though knew not why, and calmed only as the druid withdrew a folded paper. He reached for it, but the druid held it back. “Be gentle. It is fragile.”
Skyre settled his proclamation on the table beside him and grasped gingerly for the parchment. He could barely discern the runes beneath the firelight. Some he recognized, though most were foreign. No, not foreign—ancient. “I cannae make it out.”
“The script belongs to the first of men,” said the druid. “The eldest of our kin.”
He tensed against the idea that ever they might share a thing, but such history, he supposed, was true. Then, the record which he held now was certainly hundreds of years old. He turned skeptical eyes upon the druid. “Youcan read it?”
