In all his time, in all his journeys, the druid had never felt mighty. But for once, there was command within his bones.
Chapter thirty-nine
The Stallion
So began that long voyage.
They followed the road up the northern coast, the Quell dark against the horizon. And there it would stay, like a haunting reminder; a whisper over their shoulders.
They rode for many hours a day, though not swiftly. With so many in the entourage, it took them a great deal of time to get anywhere at all. But it became clear to the druid that it was not as much about the destination as it was the ride itself.
It was nothing like he expected.
They stopped in the villages and were met with fanfare in each. The townsfolk offered gifts and supper and sometimes there would be feasts. If the village was large, they would stay at the inn and people would flood into its mead hall from all over the tír to see the king. There would be a roaring fire and a bard and a piper. They would dance and the Féin would court.
The Vaich was in good spirits.
“Go on and find yourself a warm bed,” he told Greyv. “There’s a ginger roost for you there, already on the wine.”
Greyv grinned. “Either she’s a fine ginger… or it’s really good wine.”
“Ye ought to keep yer cocks in the pen,” said Rask, “Lest ye seed bairns in e’ery villaigh here to Cairnfea.”
“Come off it, old man!” shouted Greyv. “You won’t say you weren’t hungry on ol’ Lach’Dun’s run!”
“Aye, he was younger then, but only a little more good-looking,” said the Vaich to uproarious laughter.
The druid watched them all from his place aside the fire.
“It’s as I told you,” said Hirí, lowering down into the chair beside him. She had a goblet of wine and a sparkle in her eye. “Men are unsurprising.”
He glanced askance at her and she laughed.
“Oh, but you areparticular, darling. You’re much too delicate. But that is a tool, you ken.” She nodded towards the corner where Jor whispered to Nacht. He could not hear their words, but the grave looks upon their faces stirred his belly. “You see,” Hirí said, her voice quieting to a whisper. “It is not all joy and revelry.”
He did not need foresight to speculate about their discussion. It would be a fool’s hope to think Jor would be content with an advisory position.
Hirí churned her wine, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the goblet. “I would worry less about making peace, and more about making allies. Then, whichever side the penny drops will still be good tender.”
“I do not court the idea of rebellion,” said the druid.
“Rebellion?” she mused. “Why, who said anything about that?”
The druid sighed, Lady Merah’s words echoing again in his mind.
“We each have our roles to play.”
Aard Greyv had found his ginger, and they were so forwards about their courtship that the Vaich ordered them upstairs. Amongst the fuss, the druid made his way across the room. Nacht had since gone off and Jor idled with another man the druid recognized from the ceremony as Lach’Dun’s second son.
“Good eve, my lairds,” said the druid. Jor gave him a bow.
“Our Queen graces us.” It seemed less like an insult and more matter-of-fact. “Ah, I’ve not yet had the chance to introduce you—this is my brother, Cían.”
Cían was certainly the more vibrant of the two, with a surprising swath of copper hair cropped short about the front. He was smaller than his brother by a fair measure, and from the soft of his skin, the druid put him at perhaps eighteen.
“Well met,” said the druid.
“I’ve never seen a druid before. I thought you would be wilder,” said Cían and his brother sent him a reproachful look.
