“By fire and flame,” he gasped, “what power makes home here?”
The totems swayed on the branches, and what followed was a haunting song.
It was the unmistakable sound of laughter.
Now, Skyre was certain he was imagining things. He saw the path they’d arrived on, but the scene was nothing like it had been. Saddled along its flanks were makeshift dwellings, canonical in shape, risen about a framework of wooden cabers. They were matted with grass and moss and smelled strongly of earth. And between them darted wee young things. Their giggling chimed in the air.
How had he not heard them before?
And not only them—there were others. Women in muslin gowns hanging wool, and old maids poring over iron cauldrons. People walked about, quiet and busy.
“Am I seeing visions?” he whispered. “Are these ghosts?”
That soft laugh echoed at his side again. “You aren’t mad.”
He wasn’t so sure.
The druid nodded towards the mare. “You may let her wander; she will not roam far.” Skyre hesitated to release her, but the druid said, “She is safe here.”
“You promise nothing will happen to her?”
“Do not fear the Fáoth—it has judged you well. Here is a haven for all earth’s kind creatures.” The druid guided the mare out to the grove, and, reluctantly, Skyre watched her go. “Now, you’ll need be brought before the Fíor.”
He recalled the druid telling him such elders were their leaders.
“Brought before? It would seem pertinent to remind your kin I am still their king. They should be brought beforeme.”
The druid smiled. “There are no kings here.”
His mouth fell open, but before he could speak, the druid gestured him forwards.
The Vaich was led on... a matter with which he was deeply unfamiliar. He had been guided, mentored, but in that place, he felt as if a horse brought to water. As he went, the druids watched him, and he felt the weight of their earthen gazes. They were willowy, thin and tall as the reeds wherein they made their homes. They had earthy hair and eyes—lighter in shade but still familiar to him. Even here, the druid’s hue was an exception.They said nothing and did not approach him. Merely carried on with their lives as if he were a passing thought.
Everywhere he’d gone, he’d been met with fanfare, smiles and revelry and begging hands. People knelt before him. They cried his name. They recognized him—even when they knew not his face. But in that moment, all his gold, all his gallantry was stripped away.
He was a stranger.
There were no guards, no sentries, no ushers to mind their steps. They walked freely, without threat, all the way to the dwell of the elder. No servant greeted them. No attendant took their name.
“Terach æn,” said the druid, nodding his head. The elder responded in kind.
They came and knelt as if equals.
Skyre’s knees dug into a mat of woven linden bast. Around him was the scent of peat. It was a small and cozy dwell, not grand or boisterous. Its decor was meager, and its occupant more so.
The Fíor was a greying man, wizened and worn with time. He boasted a long, wiry beard, and his eyes were dark and woody. He looked long upon the king, and said, “You smell of the sea, stonewalker.”
Skyre was too awed to speak. He thought to introduce himself. He thought to give commands. He came up with only silence.
Then, the druid spoke again, “Ma thíohair onúrach, a tháim nó chu-dugh thaoghaire.”
And the elder answered, “Æn cé, leabhóir, thu thí gahnn i ár ndúir?”
“Is é an Aarden Vaich, ríthúr na Cúghlain. Tagaih tháim míd du ddfhíor.”
It was an elden speech, long forgotten by the folk of the western holds. Skyre could parse the meaning only in scattered pieces and felt otherwise foreign; an invader in his own country.
The Fíor leaned back, his eyes settling upon the king.
