The druid took in the lone mount, understanding that this outcome had not come painlessly. “I have burdened you.”
The Vaich grunted and looked away. “Be quiet and get on the horse.”
And so, they started out. The druid took roost at the nape, and the Vaich, behind him, urged the beast on with a soft squeeze to the girth. Saorla trotted forwards, her strong shoulders shifting beneath. The village fell away as she broke into an easy gallop, and the smaller it became, the deeper the druid understood.
He was returning, after all. Not home, but to a place he had once known… and feared.
Chapter forty-seven
The King
The ride through the highlands was unusually calm. The Vaich was quiet and, for once, the druid felt inclined to break the silence. “You changed your mind.”
It was slight, but he felt the tightening of the king’s chest against his back. “Aye.”
“Why?”
“I gave you my word.”
“That means nothing much to me.”
The Vaich’s hands fisted the reins. Heat radiated off of him, but if he wished to argue, he held it back.
“There’s a chill on the wind,” he said, instead, pulling the shawl up around the druid’s shoulders. “You ought to mind yourself, lest you catch the death.”
A smile tempted his lips. “I minded myself many long years. I was never ill before I came to your halls.”
The Vaich let out a dry laugh. “A woodwalker come out of his wood… Suppose, much like a fry without water—got you all dried up.”
They rode for hours, stopping occasionally to rest the horse and sleep. The king kept mostly to himself. The druid did not question whatever war raged inside him. That battle belonged to the Vaich alone.
The highlands unfolded before them until the wall of the eastern wood crested the horizon. It was both comforting… and foreign.
By nightfall on the third day, they reached the treeline. The vast stretch of the Arran Fáoth rose before them like great green giants; the pale underbrush not yet hued with summer. By season’s peak, it would be a verdant sea, lush and thick and sweet.
Memories of a different world came flooding back, but worst of all was the quiet mutterings that grew as they passed.
A sound only he could hear.
Once safely within the embrace of the forest, the Vaich pulled aside to make camp. His golden eyes darted amongst the treetops, but his childlike awe went unsaid.
The druid gathered branches and kindling for a fire and placed them about the pit. The Vaich had marked it with stone, digging shallow into the dirt. He made a strong flame as the druid wrestled with the pack at the horse’s hind. The rope was knotted tight and would not yield. As he struggled, the Vaich came up behind, pulling it loose with a firm tug.
“What’s the matter, druid? You ought to have more nimble fingers than that.”
The druid said nothing, watching the Vaich turn and carry their bedrolls to the fire. He set them up, one opposite another, and pitched two simple tents—little more than ox hide hung over four thick branches. He bound them with twine, making sure they were sturdy before laying out the pelts. They had brought with them some rations from the wagons: nuts and cheese and sausage.
The druid removed his shoes and curled up beside the fire. Likewise, the Vaich lay sprawled upon his furs. It was nearly comfortable.
The druid asked, “Did they teach you all of this? At Righnach’Dúir?”
“Aye,” said the Vaich. “It’s a bonny place, that. All wilds where there isnae women.” The druid watched him for maybe too long, and the Vaich leveled a smirk at him. “It’s no king who cannae handle himself out in the wood. I dinnae need to be a singr to ken how to praise the land.”
“Knowing and respect… those are two different skills.”
The Vaich did not deny it. A pause stretched, and then he asked, “And what of you, woodwalker? What shall I make of your family? What shall they make of me?”
“I am afraid you misunderstand.”
