“Those who live amongst the nach’durnathan do so because they are in need of community. My ilk are nomadic by nature, but not all are designed for such paths. The elder need tending, and the young, rearing. And that responsibility falls on us all. Any who take up home here are required to contribute, so that all may share in the offerings.”
Skyre’s frown only deepened. “But if it’s tribute they wish…?”
“It is a shared life,” said the druid, “not borrowed, nor lent. It is paid in effort, not coin.” He nodded towards an old man at the kettle, patient as a woman ladled broth into his bowl. “It matters none to him how much gold lines your coffers. It would serve him better to be given porridge.”
“The frail ought to be in their beds.”
“Why ought they? Give him some easy work to do with his hands and keep busy his mind. He could needle a fine quilt, perhaps. And keep the bairns warm. No one here is useless, and neither is that which they give.”
He led the king’s eyes to the conies.
“Your cooks would shave its hide and throw its stomach on the fire. You’d stew the meat and feed its bones to the hounds. And in some ways, I suppose, it is well-consumed. But my kin do not send to waste any part of the beast. Hide, bone, blood… even its eyes and tongue might brew a potent potion.”
Skyre grimaced.
“Take your catch to the giver,” said the druid, “and you will be fed.”
And so, the king went oddly down the path towards a pavilion where hung strings of herbs, talismans and charms. He knew not their purposes, though the smell was pleasant, and as he drew near, he noticed bundles of fresh bread, soft and braided.
The woman—the giver, he supposed—seemed familiar. At least, her manner was recognizable and he didn’t have to question why. But Skyre could not speak their silent language, and so he held out the rabbits and said, “For your storehouse.”
He braced to be turned away, but instead, the woman hummed proudly and took them from his hand. “A braw catch. Will make a fair stew for the celebrations tonight.” She hung them from the wooden rafters and then drew her eyes over him. “A strong fellow you are. And there is much of you—the pines call you up from the ground. Some meat, then, and some bannocks for you.”
Skyre was jilted, not in anger, but surprise. The words felt so… ornery. He hadn’t known what he’d expected, but it wasn’t what he’d received.
“And, um…” His eyes trailed aside, following the druid in the distance. Pale and small—even amongst his own kind—but he moved with an ease Skyre had not seen on him before. They weren’t friends. They weren’t enemies—that might have at least been intimate. Rather, they were strangers; wolves of foreign packs stepping within each other’s den.
No, that was far from the truth, for the druid had not been given even footing. He was forever on a stage, beset by a hundred swords, and he hadn’t emerged unscathed.
But he’d not been broken, and there, amongst the world he’d been torn from, for a moment, those cracks seemed nearly sealed.
“Yes?”
The Vaich blinked, coming back to attention. The woman watched him with knowing. A smile took her lips and she said, “For two, then?”
“Aye,” he whispered.
She nodded, retrieving another bannock from her bundle.
With his claim, he returned to the druid, finding him coming down from the laundry in the direction of their dwell. Skyre hurried up beside him, showing off his haul. “It’s a hearty meal!”
The druid nodded. “It is grand.”
They went inside, where the druid folded the clean garments and stoked the fire. Skyre laid out their breakfast on a cloth and brought the pot of spring water. He’d bring some to Saorla later on.
“It is not so bad, such a life. Did you live here before?”
“No,” said the druid with a shake of his head. “I’ve not lived anywhere for a great long time. Not since I was young and struck off on my own.”
Skyre considered that, his mouth full of bread. “I thought you kent these folks.”
“They’re as much strangers to me as they are you.” The druid reached over, breaking off a piece of crust from the king’s hand.
“So, you go from place to place… but you dinnae ken those you come to, and you dinnae ken who you’ve left? Maybe it is odd, after all,” said Skyre. “When did you strike out?”
“I was fourteen winters. A bit early, perhaps. But suppose I was impatient.”
“You, impatient?” Skyre smirked. “I dinnae believe it.”
