“Aye,” said Old Borrach.
“Aye!” said the men.
“Come, boys,” said the Vaich with a smile. “The queen is spent and wishes to sleep.”
“You’d like a story?” asked the druid, glancing from face to eager face. Perhaps it was the mood, perhaps it was the drink. Whatever it was, they looked at him with excitement, and he, sure and sober, could not deny them. “Very well.”
The Vaich seemed surprised, but did not speak in rejection and did not demand him away. All the men drew quiet, waiting for the druid’s word.
“I have been to many a village here in the highlands. Now, I recall there was one…” His voice was soft beneath the crackle of fire, and the warriors drew closer to hear. “Yes, it was a quaint place just like this. Bréchart, it was called. I had come after Mírach—it had been an unforgiving cold and their stores had run low. A woman and child had taken ill and died, and the widower lived aside the forest. He spoke to no one and was rarely about, only to chop wood in the yard. They said he’d become bitter having buried his ilk, and could sometimes be heard in the wee hours of the morn, weeping for their graves. It would be eight months before my travels led me back, but the Bréchart I had known was no longer.”
Cían asked, “Had things gone amiss?”
“It did not appear so… at first,” said the druid. He let his thoughts swell between rumbles of thunder. “But as I walked, I realized… The children were not playing in the yards, the animals had been put to barn. There was no one about but an old haggard maid, and I came down and asked what had happened. It had begun in the spring, said she. The widower had gone off, though spoke nothing of his going. But with his vanishing, something had come in his place.”
The room had become heavy. The men were mute, their eyes fixed upon the druid. Even the Vaich had gone still beside him, and dared not speak as he continued.
“It started with the hens… then the cocks… scattered and bloodied at the edge of the wood. Not eaten, but torn. The nights grew foul. They’d hear scratching at the walls, as though an animal trying to recall how to come inside. Some nights, there came footsteps of a great heavy thing in the dark, and if one drew near the door, they would hear a rattling breath rasped between its hinges.”
Even the strongest amongst the Féin had grown pale, and others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The pause was pregnant with morbid curiosity and the druid’s eyes trailed to the fire. “One by one the villagers vanished. Like the widower, no trace of them was ever found. But of the fewwho remained that autumn, they warned of the hideous sound. It speaks… as if human, in voices that seem familiar. The voices of their friends… the voices of their neighbors… the voice of a most troubled man. And always it begs…let… me… in.”
The story ended, but no one spoke. There was no laughter, nor jeering, only the gentle roar of the hearth. Finally, Nacht broke the silence. “I’ve never heard such a telling.”
“Nor I,” said Rask.
“Seems our queen has a knack for bardry,” said Jor, followed by mutterings of praise.
“I shan’t sleep a wink,” said Cían.
“He could tell another?” asked Alak.
“Perhaps another night,” said the druid.
There was some disappointment, but most bid goodnight, and the druid turned to the Vaich. He found those molten golds upon him, filled not with anger, but something more unsure. The druid said again, “If it please you, I will take my leave.”
The Vaich stirred. “Of course.”
“Then good night to you.”
“Yes,” whispered the Vaich. “Good night.”
The druid stood, the crowd parting for his passage, and off he went to bed.
Chapter forty-five
The Lamb to Slaughter
Thunder shook the sleepy hall.
Skyre had not gone to bed.
His Féin sprawled about the furs and benches, their snores a cacophony to his thoughts.
The road behind them lay in tatters, and the unspooled thread ahead frayed thin. It had not yet been a full month on the Mût. Days of stone had become days of wood, and he was the flame caught between. The druid’s story haunted him, as much to do with the druid did.
There was no relief.
His skin was raw, and every word the woodsingr spoke was the salt within.
