“Of course. It speaks of the arrival of a villainous people. Creatures who came from beyond the sea. It refers to them as… Muuirn.”
It was an odd name for odder beings. On the one hand “muuirn” could mean ice or winter, or the time in which it came. But Skyre had certainly never heard it spoken in such strange context.
“I was never taught of such a thing, and I was studied in the annals of all history.”
“No,” said the druid. “Only the history they wished you to have. That such an account survived at all in these halls is nothing short of miraculous. Though, how it came to be here… I do not know.”
It was a fair question. One he had no answer for, and he considered that the druid was right.
There was much he had not been told.
“If this account is true, then what happened to theseMuuirn?”
The druid shook his head. “It says simply that they departed, having found the country barren of flesh. Though, the account is incomplete. If there was more within the script, it is long lost to the flame, but there is another way to reclaim it. Your priests are not the only ones to archive the world’s story.”
Skyre scoffed. “The druids.”
“It is not idly I return to them. But my people possess a particular power. And this power has long been proved. This very record is a testament to that.”
Skyre eyed him. “Of what do you speak?”
“It is called the Naém. A communion—a pact we of the forest have with the trees. Through them, we may see the past.”
Skyre had heard of this power before, though the An’Atherin were skeptical to say the least. The druids were a primal people and their words full of savage things.
“Why should I believe anything the wildlings have to say? They might all be as raving mad as you,” said Skyre.
“It is not madness you fear.”
The king stiffened. “How should you ken anything of me?”
It came like a whisper, soft and silken. For the first time, those pale lips curved up as the druid smiled. It was an odd and gorgeous thing, and the Vaich could not wring it from his mind. So lost was he in that stretching moment that he nearly missed the words that followed.
“You are rather… undifficult.”
There was a long pause, and then… Skyre laughed. He laughed and laughed until his cheeks hurt. Till his chest burned and ached. “If you wished to call me simple, you might just say that.”
The smile lingered a while longer. “Not simple,” said the druid. “Though, predictable.”
“Then tell me, what do you predict of my reply?”
“I wouldhopethat you would say yes.”
“And if I say no?”
The druid considered that for a good while, and said, “Then I shall do it, anyway.”
Skyre grinned. “Yes,” he muttered, “predictable.”
“Your answer?”
Skyre held the parchment up one last time. “Do you truly believe in this… this dream of yours? Giants and ships and long-departed monsters…”
“I believe in understanding. If there is truth there, I wish to know. And if it should come to be, I will learn how to stop it.”
The druid’s smile had gone, but the depth in his eyes spoke of years—of distance and time. Such conviction would not allow itself to be ignored, no matter how badly Skyre wished to.
And he should have. He should have said no. Everyone would expect him to. So many decisions had been taken from him, to even consider it felt like a charade.
