Skyre was desperate to seem capable, and so cleared his throat.
“I am Skyre Cillchéinn, King of Cúil Cullach. I—”
“I know who you are,” said the Fíor. “Never before has a Vaich of the west come willing into our midst. Yet, the Fáoth has allowed your passage; thus, I greet you with grace. Let us see how you differ from your predecessors.”
The king’s fists tightened.
Perhaps it was a challenge. Perhaps it was a gift. Either way, he accepted.
“This truth you speak of.” The Fíor turned to the druid. “What brings you here with such urgency?”
“I wish to partake of the Naém; to hearken its word and drink its wisdom.”
“A Listener?” The elder seemed surprised.
Listener?
“Yes,” said the druid, his voice hushed. “I have long suffered visions of ghosts past… or future. I believe I have seen echoes of creatures from beyond the Quell. I need to know of their first comings.”
“Ah, but I am afraid that is impossible,” said the Fíor. “Before the trees talked, the land was silent. Much of history came and went before the first communions, the Quell amongst it. That time lay outside the ability of even the most careful Listener. It is far too dangerous to attempt.”
Skyre leaned forwards. “I thought you chased some archive. Some magick to see history. Of what danger do you speak?”
The druid said, “The Naém is not a simple thing. Though, should I bear it, it may show me the answers I seek.”
“Bear?” Skyre frowned. “Does it require some sacrifice? A trial of ill make?”
The druid was silent and Skyre’s heart clenched in warning.
“Will it… hurt you?”
“Its nature is unforgiving,” whispered the druid. “If I am not strong, then it shall destroy me.”
“That is a certainty if you insist on foolery,” said the Fíor. “The Naém requires discipline. Concentration. A resilience that is cultivated with time. And you are still young, child. This ambition is, I fear, beyond your reach. The longer one delves into deep time, the more likely he is to be lost. Such things have long been forbidden. But that shall not be your choice. No one has survived the depths of history.”
“But ithasbeen done,” said the druid.
The elder’s brows pinched low over his eyes as the druid withdrew the tattered piece of parchment he had once shown the Vaich. That strange account which no one could explain, yet written there as testament.
The Fíor’s wrinkled hands were gentle as he unfolded it, and a look of grim concern came over him. “Where did you get this?”
“Thearchives of Rhyd-hal,” said the younger druid. “I may not be able to speak to its purpose, but surely its authenticity is—”
“A dark reminder of darker days,” whispered the Fíor. Skyre and the druid exchanged a brief, uncertain glance. “There were… stories. Whispers of an infernal pact between flame and wood. Our kin kept as captive—or convert—by the perilous kirkmen of the west. Though what use they were was never known. Could it be…”
“What do you imply?” Skyre ventured. His voice sharp.
The Fíor said, “The Naém was a thing of impeccable curiosity for men too quick to damn it. But these records would have me think they had theirownanswers for how they could reclaim it.”
The younger druid went still. “Forced communions.”
“What?” Skyre hissed.
“When first I read it, I thought it was some sort of inquisition. And perhaps… perhaps I was right. The An’Atherin wished to access the Naém for their own advancement. But to do so they would have had to use those whose bodies were built to commune.”
“They did no such thing!”
“How could you know?” the druid asked quietly. “These records were hidden for centuries, and your priests are far from honest. If theydidtake druids captive and force them to commune, it is sure they learned things they wished to hide. A thousand years of predation of my people followed. Do you have some better explanation?”
