“My heart,” she whispered, “let me make you something to dull the pain.”
“I’m not in pain!”
The men were gathering, some returning from the river down the bank. Rask sat at the table, sharpening his knife, watching with keen grey eyes. Skyre could not bear to meet them. Instead, he was found by Greyv, who put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Rough night, eh? Ground is hard as she comes. Might as well be sleeping on stone! Come on, why don’t you sit?”
He didn’t want to sit. He didn’t want to be spoken to kindly. Their quiet words grated on him. He wished someone would yell.
“Breakfast,” he demanded. “I’ll send you all out to the axe if you don’t move your asses!”
“Gods, you aren’t a morning person,” Greyv quipped.
Skyre laughed sharply, if only because of how absurd it was. He let his friend steer him to the table and into the chair at the head. Rask pushed a tankard in front of him.
“Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Drink.”
Skyre shivered.
“You best mellow out before you ’come arealproblem.”
His teeth ground, but he gripped the tankard, swallowing its contents down. Jor was watching him from across the way, and it fanned the flame inside him. A thousand gazes followed him wherever he went. But today, they felt heavier.
His skin prickled.
It wasn’t the feeling of impending danger. Rather, the off-putting sensation of being unable to explain a thing that ought not to have been; like a ghost passing at the shoulder. And for a moment, he wished it was. He wished he could turn and find emptiness, but instead found a thing more cruel and more haunting than any ghoul or apparition: The druid stood at his tent, his thin frame clad in white. His pale face keeping all its secrets. He spoke nothing. His eyes were silent.
Skyre dragged his gaze away, digging it into the tabletop. The voices around him became murmur, then babble, then incessant, irritable buzzing. The cooks brought breakfast. There were eggs and bacon and mushrooms.
The smell made him sick.
“You look like you’ve had a lashing, Korv,” said Greyv, playfully. The king went still at the name.
“Aye,” muttered the man, coming up to the table. “A bit heavy on the drink, I was.”
“Mm. You ought to go down to the river and sober up.”
“Aye,” Korv said again.
He went off and Greyv chuckled. “I think he’s not likely to remember the lastweek.”
Skyre’s eyes flicked to the druid, who moved about the camp like a memory. Something that had been, that no longer was, and now took the shape of sorrow. He brought his plate to the end of the table, where he sat and ate.Wordless. Jor feigned concern, whispering words to him the Vaich could not hear.
Skyre stabbed at a mushroom. “He’s a lucky whoreson, Korv. Most wouldn’t survive a night like that.”
The druid did not look up.
Greyv said, “Another hour at the keg and he wouldn’t have. Good thing you were there to stop him.”
Skyre scraped his fork against the plate. “Maybe I ought to let him have his fun.”
A clatter rang through the air.
Heads jerked up, swiveling towards the end of the table where the druid sat. His hand was empty. His spoon had ricocheted off the plate and fallen somewhere amongst the grass. Yet… he didn’t move. No one did.
