The druid frowned, but the Vaich did not explain.
Instead, he said, “Get up. We’ll be off before sunrise.”
“Off?” the druid questioned, his voice hoarse with sleep. “We are leaving?”
“Aye. We make for the Fáoth. Dinnae dally, and pack only what you need.”
He was gone before the druid could question anything.
Odd.
The druid had accepted that his path to the Fáoth would be fraught. He was still working out a way to slip out amongst the Féin—a feat made more complicated by the king’s assignment of his nightly watch. Since his confinement in the west, he had never felt more protected… or more hindered.
But why had the king changed his mind?
The druid rose, packed his few valuables, and prepared to leave. Upon the bedside table lay the flowers gifted to him by the Vaich. They looked out of place there, all dead and elegant and dripped in candlelight. He had heard, once, that Whitesigh had the scent of falling in love. To him, they smelled of thunder and fear.
It was murky grey over the village of Afór, but a hint of daylight peeked into the western skies as the druid made his way to the stables. He had dressed in his linen shawl in preparation of the coming warmth. Summer would soon break over the Fáoth like a verdant storm, and he would be there to see it.
He would be there to hear it.
A shiver swept his skin.
As he approached the stables, the sounds of hushed voices drifted over to him.
“You sure you don’t want me to follow?” It was Greyv; his usual unserious cadence was gone, and the concern threaded in his words was hedged in annoyance. “This is bold, even for you, Skyre. Those wildlings could flay you alive.”
“You ken that isnae their way. I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re doing this because you think you’ve something to prove—”
“I do have something to prove, but not to you.”
The Vaich didn’t sound angry. There was resignation in his voice. And ache. The druid stepped further out of earshot, feeling strange for having intruded. He pulled his hood up, as a bitter wind stirred. But as his eyes passed along the distant trees, he noted they were eerily still.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his skin started to prickle.
A rustle behind him made him wheel around. The village was quiet. The residents had not yet risen. Tools lay strewn in the dirty hay, but there was no one around to make use of them.
A familiar dread crept into him. His mind saturated with memories of the cloister. The world seemed to narrow and grow smaller, as if caught between glass.
A whisper brushed his ear.
Again, he spun, this time coming face-to-face with the Vaich.
“Druid?” He stood, holding the reins of Saorla’s bridle. His brows knit, almost as if he were… “What’s the matter?”
“I…” The druid glanced back over his shoulder.
Just like that night.
“I thought I heard something,” he muttered.
The Vaich glanced behind him at the empty alley. “Probably just a dog or some such. Are you ready?”
The druid nodded. “Are we to… go alone?”
“It will be faster this way,” said the Vaich. “And we’ll need return before the convoy reaches Annath.”
