“Believe what you like,” the druid said simply.
“And where did you go?”
“Nowhere. Anywhere. I wandered, and that was enough.”
“But you must have done something?”
“Not really. Sometimes I would come upon a village. They’d trade alms for work—prayers and such for their animals and crops.”
“I thought you didnae believe in that sort of thing?”
“It is not about whether I believe in it. Buttheydid. So, I worked for my keep.”
Skyre tried to imagine the druid’s life before him. He felt more foolish and more villainous with each passing day, and perhaps he had only just begun to be punished for the crime.
He had come to accept there was no leashing that creature. One could come and bottle him up, and still, he’d seep out into the world to which he belonged.
“Then, how does it feel?” Skyre said more gently. “Coming back to this place.”
“It is… strange being here. And yet, the land has not forgotten me.”
Skyre chuckled. “Nothing could forget you.”
The air crackled. They shared a long, uncertain look.
What surrounded them then wasn’t prophecy, obligation or ritual. There were no spears pointed in expectation, no overseeing gaze. For maybe the first time, they faced each other in a moment which asked nothing of them; the world obscured by a fragile mask. There was no authority in that tent, just the smoke and the dirt and their breathing bodies.
“Druid, I…” He wanted to bite his tongue as soon as he’d spoken, but the words lingered between them. “I want you to ken I’m—”
The rustle of the hide door silenced him and the Fíor entered.
“Ah, there you are,” said the old sage. “They’re digging the fire pits now. Would you mind very much giving the lads a hand? Good-bodied men are in short supply.”
“Of course,” said the druid, but Skyre stood first.
“That’s heavy work. I’ll go on his behalf.”
The Fíor appraised him, though what he determined, Skyre didn’t know. He nodded, simply, and went off again.
“I’ll see what is needed. Could be good for them to have a stallion like me,” said the king with a wolfish grin.
“Stallion?” The druid smiled, but quickly hid it away. “An ox maybe. Or an ass.”
Skyre laughed.
Chapter fifty
Belthín
Afternoon kissed the forest and the druid snuck down to the stream. There was an unusual chill for the first day of summer. Still, he discarded his garments in a manner Halla would have disdained and waded into the cold water.
He had missed bathing freely at the castle. Rhyd-hal made its way on basins of boiled sea, but the druid enjoyed the freshness of an open spring.
White waters trickled between worn stones, filling the air with a lovely song. The spring was cool glass and he cupped it in his hands, seeing a thousand glinting diamonds. He washed his face and took a drink.
The sun was high, diffused through the treetops into a warm, grey glow. Blackcaps trilled overhead, like pipewhistles carried on the breeze.
He had grown up here.
