One clear day, they crossed the path of a traveling wagon carrying four girls and their sullen driver. The druid recognized himself in their pale, dirty faces; the simple muslin of their gowns. They looked like lambs to the slaughter.
Hirí watched on with interest. Her horse was beside his—a spotted grey gelding, delicate as she. “Look at them go, the dears.”
“Who are they?” asked the druid.
“The little birds, of course. To be taken south to the nunnery.”
“Nunnery?”
“My dear, how do you think a saint is made? They mold them from sinners. Those girls—thoseundesirables—have no place to go. If they remain, they’re a burden. If they go, they can be put to use. The Thrys…” Her eyes flickered towards Medhin, ahead on the road. “Did you never wonder where they come from?”
“Do they not choose their path?”
“The path is chosen for them. But not by gods. As always under the Sun, men decide. But it is not so terrible,” she said happily. “Most will be swallowed whole and die. And if, mercilessly, they live, they shan’t recall this day. They will learn the Odes and the songs of fire, and become good, faithful girls, all broken and buried.”
His fingers tightened on the reins. “It seems your gods want nothing but to punish their believers.”
“To follow a god in faith is burden, but the blessings come… if one is true.”
They made camp in the wood near Verkmar, and some women came from the fishing village down the way. The men delighted in their spoils—not least of all, the Vaich.
It was wet and rainy, so the druid went into his tent and did not come out for supper.
The next few days saw little excitement. They had reached the long country and settlements were thin. The air was crisp in the highlands; familiar and brisk against his skin. It was now well beyond the thawing, and green things were growing, again. The druid used the freedom he’d been given to go out into the glen in search of herbs. He had been long away from good earth, and without his carryings. The journey was good for gathering; He found liuscagh, the great herb, its broad leaves wet with morning. He plucked it at the root, murmuring thanks to the soil. Further along, he found beitha, its creeping stems nestled in the shadow of a leaning stone. Its bitter root could stave off fever and call the body back from the wasting.
By the river, where the ground turned soft beneath his feet, he gathered bil-na-huth—good for easing pain when chewed raw.
At night, he spent hours crushing them into fine powders. He’d collected many things by bartering in the villages—phials and flacons—and enjoyed to be left to his devices. The smell of herbs settled him. And it made him uncareful.
There came a night of usual ruckus. The druid had grown accustomed to the Féin and their roughery. He found it best to ignore them. But sometimes, they challenged his patience. The noise had become too much to sleep, so he lay in his bedroll, reading near the lantern. There was a commotion outside, and a lumbering form came tumbling through his tent flap. The men oft stumbled about in the wee hours, not knowing up from down or their head from their feet. The druid thought it was all a terrible nonsense. For being the Vaich’s honored kingsguard, if there was any attack, they’d be swept within the minute.
The druid cleared his throat to draw attention, hoping the man would sober enough and go off. But he turned about, looking perplexed, until his eyes fixed wildly on the druid.
There was recognition there, but not the sort the druid expected. Instead of realizing his blunder, the man’s eyes became ravenous. The druidsettled his tome and sat up. “You should go out,” he said. “This isn’t your place.”
“No…” slurred the man. The druid recognized him as one of the Aards from the lowlands. He didn’t know him by name, but his stench alone was enough to sour his belly.
“I said go on.”
The man took one staggered step forwards. Instinctively, the druid drew up his legs.
“Ye come from the villaigh, did ye?” the man muttered, his words a stew in his mouth.
“No,” the druid said firmly, “I am the Vaich’s consort and this is my place.” He thought the words would stir something, but if the man understood him, he was happy to disregard it. He came closer. “Go out, or I will call for someone.”
“Who’ll ye call?” The man dropped to his knees; his form heavy against the soil.
The druid glanced at his bedroll, feeling the blade beneath. His fingers itched, but he did not move.
The man followed his gaze, a smirk spreading over his lips. “What do ye have there? Come on ’n let me see.”
“You’ll regret it if you do,” the druid whispered.
“Aye?” Their eyes met.
He lunged.
The druid moved at the same time, hand groping beneath the pelts for the dagger. But the man grabbed his wrist, and his thin bones groaned beneath the crushing strength. Teeth clenched, he dropped the dagger and was dragged down. The man’s face loomed near, his stinking breath hot against his skin. “Ye’ll kill me? Little thing… I’m the Vaich’s Aard.”
