By evening, the forest had grown so thick there was no use in riding. Mercifully, they dismounted. Skyre guided the mare and the druid went ahead to make sure her path.
A deep mist gathered.
“Good girl, Saorla. It’s nae harm to you…” The words were gentle, but Skyre was not sure of their honesty. Visibility became sparse, even for his trained eyes. Yet, the druid kept his pace, as if unbothered. “How much further along?”
“Not long now.” The druid’s voice was a ghost between the trees. Owls hooted above in the looming leaves. From every corner, from every height, Skyre felt watched.
“Is it always so… unsettling here?”
A soft, distant chuckle. “How so?”
“You ken… feels… off-like.”
“The forest breathes. You walk upon its tongue.”
Skyre’s lips drew back in a grimace. “When you say it like that…”
Again, that haunting laughter floated over. “You’ve nothing to fear,Your Majesty.”
“Aye…”
Skyre had not begun to think about the measure of his name… or the worth it might have in a place like this. There was nothing in the forest that bid him welcome. The ground seemed spiteful beneath his feet, as if he stood on trial; held accountable for generations of wrong.
When was the last time a Sun King had come to the embrace of the woodkin? In all the annals he had read, there were never such accounts. In fact, little at all was spoken of druids, to the point where he’d begun to think them altogether other. It was easier to believe they were not Cullain, to convince himself he needn’t bother. And yet, in word, at least, he had exercised his possession of them.
Saorla snorted beside him, and he gave her neck a comforting pat. “S’alright, old girl.”
“Here.”
The druid appeared before him. When had he come there? Skyre’s memory felt… strained. The druid held out a handful of plump berries. Skyre didn’t recognize them, and his muscles tensed. But the mare gave them a sniff, her nostrils flaring about the druid’s palm and, happily, ate them up. The druid stroked the beast’s snout, nearly hypnotic in his tender care of her. A thought that made Skyre’s heart tighten. The druid let the mare lick him clean, then turned and was again down the way, faster than the king could recount.
Strange.
As light faded from the sky, they came upon a path. It wasn’t much but a worn tread within the brush, but movement became easier.
The path wound upwards into a thick grove, where the grass grew higher aside old stones, marking the way to an enormous tree. It was hung with wooden charms and tokens and weathered knots of braided reeds. The tree was fatter than all its kin, and—Skyre was sure—markedly older. A hum seemed to emanate from it, and, though he considered it was only his imagination, the branches appeared to grow longer as his gaze lingered.
He looked away.
It was then he noticed the druid was no longer in front of him, beside him, or anywhere he could see, and he came to a slow stop.
“Druid?” His breath trembled, a fog of white followed.
“Just there…” The sound fell against his ear. The druid stood where moments before had been only air. His pale eyes were fixed upon the tree. “Durnath Fiaragh; the guardian of the grove.”
The hum grew louder. Angrier.
Skyre felt bare.
“It’s as if its eyes were upon me…” he muttered.
Wind rustled the branches, changed direction, and blew cold. It washed his skin like a thousand whispers. His heart drummed harder within its cage.
Saorla whinnied. Skyre was forced back a step as the gust swept the grove, catching up flaxen strands and the fur of his mantle. He was staring down the mouth of a storm whose violent exhale dared uproot him.
“This place… by the gods, this place!” Skyre couldn’t move, but all the world shrieked past him.
And then stopped.
