The rider scoffed, nodding towards the castle. “There is the great seat of Cúil Cullach, home of the Aarden Vaich.”
The Sun King.
“And you have brought me to kneel before this king?”
“By divine law, heisyour king, whether you treefolk believe it or not.”
“My gods do not speak law,” said the druid. “They do not speak.”
“Yourgodsare dead. All Cullain will answer to Æon’Righ, and the Vaich will decide what is done with you.”
The druid did not enter the fortress of Rhyd-hal in tethers, and yet, he knew upon his passage beyond its darkened maw that he was no longer a free man.
He paused at the threshold, gazing over his shoulder as the doors heaved shut, sealing him away from the wind and sky. His eyes were slow to adjust to the firelit halls. Bolted brackets on the wall held hissing torches—not of wood, but iron.
This place was filled with dead things.
His grasp tensed around his staff. His feet felt nothing beneath them. Not the vibrations of voices, or the hum of the earth. Everything was silent.
Medhin stepped forwards, her dark irises radiant in the light of the braziers.
“You will be brought before His Majesty. As you are an…outsider, it is my duty to make you presentable.” Her lip curled in disgust. “I do not know for what purpose your name was spoken. The High Nytherí’s prophecies have never needed questioning. But I ask myself what the divine would want of creatures like you.”
“Whatever your god spoke was folly,” said the druid. “And I have no interest in humoring the whims of zealots.”
Hot rage flashed in her gaze. “You are offered some leniency by sheer right of circumstance, but I caution you to tread carefully. If, in fact, it is reasoned that this was naught but a prophetic fluke… that leniency will bequicklyrevoked.
“As it is, you are in no condition to meet a king. You will be washed and clothed and arrangements made for the morrow.” A simple glance towards the men at his flank preceded her next order. “His staff.”
The druid’s eyes widened, his fingers tightening instinctively against the gnarled wood.
“Don’t—!” he gasped as one grabbed the staff sharply, overpowering the druid with the ease of a great animal, tearing him from that which he had held since setting out in the world. He could feel the priestess’ heavy smirk.
“You’ve no need for such things here. And I could not allow you to come before our king with a heretic’s wand.”
“It is no danger to you. Return it to me!”
Her laughter filled the hall. “Why, it is just a stick! Would you unravel yourself for that?” She snapped her fingers and the man beside him broke the branch across his knee. The druid’s body jolted, feeling something inside him sever.
It was the first thing that had ever been his. His only companion. And they had splintered it as if a twig underfoot. Try as he might, he could not silence the war in his heart.
How easy it was for them to destroy things.
How little it mattered.
They were children breaking toys, caring nothing for their meaning. And they would do the same to him.
“Take him,” said Medhin gesturing towards a clutch of maids.
His knees dared to surrender, but before he could buckle, his arms were grabbed, and he was herded through the corridor like an unruly sheep. The maids in their white aprons and veils of linen became blurred ghosts. His vision streaked with flame and dust. The sound of his breath rose in his ears, beating in time with his blood. A door opened. He was thrust inside a room with a wooden basin at the center. He mumbled words… lost them amongst the commotion as his robes were peeled away. Layer by layer, he was stripped, till everything he had once carried lay strewn upon the floor.
A thick hand between his shoulder blades pushed him forwards.
Steam wafted, mingling with a peppery incense that clotted his senses. Hands gripped his wrists, forcing him down onto a stool, and diligently, they began their work. The maids wiped at him with sponges and rags, pouring water over his head till his pallid strands were dark and soaked. They dug under his nails, picking at the dirt. His feet were placed in the basin and scrubbed. The hard skin ached as it was filed down, till they were pink and raw, and all the years of earth beneath them had been washed away.
Urgency polluted the air. His mouth parted and closed, but nothing escaped, even as his mind begged. The women did not speak. Only toiled till every inch of him was burnished clean.
His lips shivered, not of cold, but chaos, and his breath came slow and unsteady. He was rubbed with scented oils like a midwinter pig, and he felt his shoulders curling in on themselves.
