“The healer’s hands are often bloodiest.” The holler glanced out over the hills. The sun was dipping low in the distance, silhouetting the tussocks in deep amber. “There’s still a bit of sun. Let’s make good use.”
The druid couldn’t say no. He wanted this man to trust him—to trust the Vaich. And offending him now, no matter how small, was in no one’s good interest.
So, he let the holler guide him out into the clearing. They stayed within the perimeter, meriting curious gazes from the watch. But no one questioned Nacht.
The man looked like a black bear against the sunset, but his eyes were calm mentors. Almost familiar. Like… likehis.
“I ken you fear unnatural things,” said the holler. “But there’s nothing unnatural about killing and war.”
The druid bristled.
Nacht continued, “Even your people choose hunters so that the rest of you can supper.”
“It is different.”
“Is it?"
“We hunt out of necessity. Half your kills are sport.”
“It may be. But even a dog will play games. If you were born with horns, wouldnae you use them?” The holler presented the dagger’s hilt. “This will be your bone, your antler, your tusk. And I’ll be those come to skin you.”
The druid didn’t like this game, but he had no choice, and the holler’s words were not untrue. He had spent most the season as prey. Now he was being made to play slayer.
The holler told him how to stand. And when the druid did so improperly, he pointed and told him how to fix it.
“Set your legs apart, ready your knees. Dinnae be stiff or that’s how you’ll end up.”
He told him how to hold the dagger.Reverse the grip when you’re pressed chest-to-chest, and orient it rightways when you mean to drive in, and be careful to avoid the ribs, or you shan’t see it again. Be wary of sacrificing too much reach, and ken most Cullain will go for the gut.
“So should you,” the holler said. “It’s a bloody business, but it’s good ‘n soft. Ripping into bodies is for tougher stuff.”
These were not lessons for him.
He had never been given weapons, but seeds, and that which he carried was not a blade, but a conduit.
For a single, ghostlike moment, he was transported twelve years into the past.
All druids set out at the age of fourteen to choose the branch from which they would craft their stave. This process often took a spring and they would carve until summer, but he had decided in a day.
He chose an alder sapling that had grown in the dell where he lived. He was drawn to it, not because it was grand, but because it wasn’t. It was frail and not particularly sturdy. It was young, like him, but dying. They had told him it was no good to carry rot, but he thought the ill was charming. And so he had cut it down, leaving its sick roots to be consumed by the forest.
He supposed he had always been a very poor druid and had simply spent a lot of time not thinking about it.
Now there he stood with that dagger in his hands, justifying survival amongst killers.
“This is miserable,” the druid said. “Have I not had enough death for one day?”
“Very well,” said the holler. “Tomorrow, we’ll do it again. At sundown, I’ll come for you.”
“Suppose I’ll be ready.”
But he wasn’t ready. And he didn’t want to be.
“Your Majesty.”
The druid paused, looking up at him.
“I ken this isnae your place. You dinnae belong here, but while you are, I’d be remiss in my duty if I did nothing to help protect you.”
