His fingers tightened in the sheets.
Men do not dream.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. And there, between those walls, it wasn’t safe.
He gazed out at that odd and empty chamber. He had been given to it the day prior. It was not a prison inasmuch as it was, by all measures, lavish. The cottages of the Everstretches would not have known such opulence if their occupants worked a hundred years. The crockery was inlaid with beryl, and the windows were dressed in green velvet. There were pelts upon the ground, and furs made up the bed. He had never slept on something so sumptuous, and would have been happy never to do it again. But he knew better than to think his time at Rhyd-hal was over.
The door opening jolted him, and a plump woman bustled through. She paid him no mind, whistling all the while, her arms stacked with fresh, folded linens.
“Good,” she said in a thick voice, “yer awake.”
His brows knit. She was not a máraigh; her dress was too plain. Her veil sat heavy on broad shoulders, and tucked back greying curls. She went to the window and swept open the drapes. The druid squinted in the sunlight. His head ached with the remnants of last night’s phantasms, and the sun stirred his pain.
“Look at that,” the woman said delightfully. “A good’n day it tis. Aye, but with ye still in bed…” She bustled back over. Now that he could see her properly, he noted the antler bone hung about her neck. A small talisman, but recognizable as a totem of Carn’Thalach, the Huntfather. A name that had been attributed—incorrectly, the druid judged—to Murtagh, spirit of the harvest.
Those in the Everstretches had begun, long ago, to turn forces of nature into men. One could say, they were the small stones upon which the An’Atherin built their imperious temples. The druids had taught the people to be wary of making gods in their minds, for reasons that had proved inevitable.
When a man can see himself in the mask of the divine, he will try to don it.
“It is a great danger to wear that here.” The druid nodded towards the talisman.
The woman’s twinkling woad orbs slid to it, and she chuckled. “Dinnae fash. The big’n be much too busy with their work ’n way to mind me.”
“You are not from here.”
“Aye, but off in the eastland. But isnae work that keep me there. I do my chore ’n keep me head.”
She went about, tidying the room.
The druid relaxed somewhat, but the throbbing in his head quickened, and he kneaded his temple with a palm.
“What’s the matter with ye?” the woman asked.
“Nothing.” He knew better than to speak his truth. Seeing visions in the night was a strange story, and he was strange enough.
“Bone ache, is it? A bit of the willow bark will do it in! But ye dinnae need me to tell ye that, druid.”
His fingers reached instinctively beside him, only to remember his staff and satchel were gone.
“I’ve not been allowed any of my effects,” he said bitterly.
The woman gave him a sympathetic smile that seeped into all the wrinkles on her face. “Aye, I dinnae suppose so.” She carried over a tray of breakfast and placed it across his lap. “Some fermented mare’s milk ’n a nice oatcake. We’ve got to thicken up that belly—ye look like ye haven’t eaten in half a season!” She jabbed a finger into his ribs, meriting a soft grimace. “Go on ’n eat. No one will come ’n claim ye, yet.” She pointed towards his head. “I’ll go ’n get that fixin’ for ye. Fresh clothes on the table.”
He stayedsilent as she scurried out of the chamber. The druid had not expected to find warmth there. And even still, was unwilling to let it disarm him.
But he took what was offered.
After finishing his breakfast, he climbed out of bed and went soundlessly to the window. In the grey light of morning, he could see the storm clearly. The distant sky over the sea appeared as if night, even when the sun shone. A chill crept over him, as if someone had walked past his shoulder.
It couldn’t be coincidence that a life dreaming of seas and storms had led him to that corpse of a castle. And amongst such unsettling company…
The moon priestess haunted him. Her inexplicable appearance in the wood, whether illusion or otherwise, had not left his thoughts. Neither had the obvious question burning cold beneath his skin.
He carries the pale mark.
Why was he…?
He turned from the window, inspecting the clothes on the table instead. There sat a plain white gown and some woolen stockings. Garments fit for a sacrifice. Gone were the dusty robes and the worn cowl that had been his longer than he had fit them. In their place, a simple silver girdle and some slippers. He found them distasteful. Still, he could not go about the castle in nightclothes. If he were to go about at all. So, he slipped into the gown. The fabric was loose and uncomfortable against his body, still raw and aching from its scouring.
