Chapter forty-four
The Beast of Bréchart
The convoy stopped at the village of Afór. It was not a large settlement, but had a respectably sized mead hall for them to take rest. It was only midday, but a great dark cloud rolled overhead.
Hirí exclaimed excitedly, “What a tempest! I wonder, whose soul is it after?”
It was a jest, or so Skyre supposed, but no less vexing.
“There’s some time, still, before the rain,” said Rask. “Let’s make acquaintance.”
It was typical for a village to gather for the Vaich’s greeting, and this one was no exception. The village reeve welcomed them. “My gracious liege, forgive our ignorance—we knew not of your coming and havenae prepared a feast. Please take what we can give.”
It was kindly said, and Skyre felt all the more miserable. It wasn’t their fault for not knowing, and now they could do nothing but accommodate.
“Your Vaich does not begrudge any measure of unprepare. We’ve sprung upon you, and for that I am sorry. Any hospitality will be warmly held,” said Skyre.
“Certainly!” said the villagers. “It is our honor! The Vaich blesses us with his flame!”
He wondered if they truly believed that. Perhaps all he was, instead, was a nuisance.
To their credit, the people of Afór were quick to overcome their unreadiness and brought food and gifts.
A woman appeared with a basket of wildflowers. They seemed at a glance to be lilies, but on closer inspection, Skyre realized he didn’t recognize them.
She smiled knowingly. “Do they catch your eye, m’laird? They’re quite rare!”
“Rare? Where do they come from?”
“They can be found only in craig country.”
“Nearly nothing grows there,” he said, skeptically. “Especially nothing so beautiful.”
“Ah, but she is resilient! Glacillia is her name, but here she is called Whitesigh.” She plucked one from her basket and gave it to him.
At once, he was taken by its perfume. It carried the subtle sweetness of fresh wind and pine. The scent was there, then gone, and he wished that he could keep it.
“She smells of love,” the woman said. “But don’t burn her—it’s poison, ken.”
He drew back. “You offered me poison?”
She chuckled. “No worries, m’laird. Treat fair lady well, and she’ll do nae harm to thee. Behold her beauty for a time and do be kind to she.”
His gaze drifted to the druid who was currently being mobbed by old maids. The totems hung at their necks did not evade him, yet… it wasn’t anger he felt, but relief.
“Good lady,” Skyre said, “would it put you out to request another of your harvest?”
“Take of me all that you wish, my Vaich.”
He took three.
The village was bustling. Their horses had been taken out to stable and the farrier offered to gift the king’s mare and her son new shoes. Most the men had already taken up stay at the mead hall, but others walked in the square to stretch their legs.
On the edge of town was an old stone kirk, whose bricks had crumbled long ago. The elements had battered the structure till it looked like gnawed bones poking out from the dirt. Ivy devoured everything in its path, the vivid green mocking the angry grey sky.
The druid was led about by the hands and skirts by children pointing happily at different sights. Skyre followed at a slowed pace so as not to be noticed. At least by the younguns who were taken by the idea of a pretty queen.
One said, “I thought ye would be taller!” Skyre chuckled, and another yelled, “Oi! Ye cannae offend! They’ll throw ye in the dungeon!”
