“Where did you get such ideas?” asked the druid. It was the first Skyre had heard his voice in days. Whether the druid intended it or not, it was punishing. The Vaich had felt his quiet like a lance. Hearing him now made him strangely delighted, even if the words were not for him.
“My father says, if ye be naughty, then the Vaich will come’n toss ye in the ground. A wee well’ll be ye’s prison!”
“How bleak,” said the druid.
Skyre silently agreed.
“Ken there?” The boy gestured to a high ledge, where a crooked staircase leaned precariously. The sturdiness of the structure was questionable at best, but would have been good play for a wee lad. “Tis where Callum fell and went dumb. He dinnae talk no more.”
“It’s cursed!” said another. “By an evil ghoul! He comes and pushes ye off the top!”
“Won’t ye cast it away, íridh? ’Fore another falls!”
Cursed? Skyre supposed it was, but not with black magick.
After a long moment, the druid said, “I’m afraid the foul is too thick. There is no hymn I could speak to disperse it. No… it is terrible, indeed. And should any boy go near, it is sure to swallow him whole.”
The boys cried, “You must do, íridh! I dinnae want to be eaten!”
“Then all there is to do is stay clear and not be taken by the spirits.”
Skyre smiled as the boys rushed off, screaming in terror, and the Sun Matron descended like a hawk. “You dreadful thing! What’ve you done to the bairns?”
“Nothing at all,” said the druid calmly, “though I considered to cook them into stew.”
“By the flame! You vile witch—”
“Enough!” said Skyre, placing himself between them. “Go off and chide the trees!”
Medhin was stricken, her dark eyes widening. “But—”
Skyre scoffed. “Away! Find something to do.”
She nodded a bow and shuffled off, leaving the king and his consort. Now alone, Skyre felt less sure than he had a moment before.
“It’s good what you did for those boys. It’ll steer ’em, well.”
“Fear is the only teacher a boy will heed,” replied the druid.
Skyre’s heart tightened in his chest, but he did not hang himself upon the words. Instead, he cleared his throat and held forth the flowers.
“A gift,” he said. “For your coffers. Though I ken it’s poisonous. It’s called—”
“Glacillia,” said the druid. “Its uses are few.”
Skyre frowned. “Cannae ye enjoy a thing for its beauty?”
The druid reached out, taking the flowers. The gesture was cutting.
“I’m sorry,” Skyre blurted out.
The druid traced the stems with his fingertips. “I question for what does my laird apologize?”
He had no answer, yet knew every truth. Which would he say? Was he sorry for taking that thing from its home? Was he sorry for locking him in fire and stone? Was he sorry for sentencing him to death? Was he sorry he’d survived?
Or was it the rest? Those nameless things. Those moments he could not pry from his mind and could never—given a thousand years—put out into words. A foulness so deep that no hymn could bid it disperse.
No, he could say nothing of that.
