“No!”
Skyre felt with every moment he shouldn’t be there. He was out of place in a land that was his, and he understood none of its rules. He couldn’t tell up from down or real from imagined, and thought if they stayed too long, he would be consumed.
“I suppose for you it seems strange,” said the druid. “Somehow… otherworldly. But in fact, itisyour world. That which you have forever been a part of.”
That couldn’t be further from his truth.
None of this sat right with him.
“The communion…” he muttered.
“What about it?” asked the druid.
“Is this really… what you want?”
“Of course not.”
The druid lowered before the pit, pushing his fingers into the packed earth till the dirt gathered beneath his nails. The silver band at his knuckle reflected the firelight.
“I wish I were anywhere else.”
Skyre’s heart thumped.
“Then why should you… Is there no other way? Maybe someone could go in your place?”
“That won’t be possible. It is a rare gift, the communion.”
“A gift?”
“It is thought true singrs are born with their abilities. We all have an ear to the land, but those few hear more deeply. They are called Listeners. They train their whole life to harmonize, but success is never guaranteed, for the communion must be performed inside an Urna’ha.”
“A womb tree? But those are only myth,” said Skyre. He had learned of them only accidentally during his years of study at Righnach’Dúir, and even now could hardly recall. It was said the first men were born of the land and from the womb trees they hatched. It was more fable than fact, yet the druid looked sure.
“Spoken like a true stonewalker,” he said. “In fact, they are very real. Though few remain. Once, hundreds of them filled this forest. But most have been lost to time, reclaimed by the earth.”
“And you know where to find these trees?”
“Indeed. It is our great duty to protect them. But sometimes… they grow hungry. Not all of it is tragedy. If one be lost within, their blood and soul enrich the womb. There is honor in such a sacrifice.”
Skyre stared at him. “You would find honor in being devoured by a tree?”
“Should it need to feast of my flesh, then that would be a good death.”
Skyre didn’t laugh—he wasn’t sure the druid was joking. Instead, he said, “Surely you’d prefer to return.”
“Surely,” agreed the druid. “Although the risk is just as sure. Parsing through many thousands of years would be a feat even for the most experienced Listener. The longer one communes, the more likely it is that the womb perceives them as offering.”
“At least you must’ve had a fair bit of experience, I expect?”
“Not at all,” the druid said with ease. “I have never communed before.”
“What?” growled Skyre. “Not once?”
“Not ever.”
“But you said it would be okay!”
A new fear settled inside him, and not simply the fact that the druid was mad, but that they were walking into certain disaster.
