Comfort was dangerous.
He said, “I assume the Belthín preparations are done?”
“So they are,” answered the Vaich. “And I hope there’ll be dinner. Or shall I hunt again?”
“No need.” The druid reached down to grasp his things. He began to pull them on and the Vaich quickly looked away. “Does my body disturb you that much? You have seen it plenty before.”
The Vaich bristled. “Dinnae speak like that.”
“That’s right. The An’Atherin dislike the truth.”
“I’m not like them,” the Vaich muttered.
The druid considered him. “Prove it.”
When the druid and the Vaich meandered back to the grove, the celebration was already underway. There were low tables set up around two raging fires, with mats for them to sit and observe. They came and knelt.
A woman played a wooden flute and a man strummed an old crwth. The song they spun was one he had heard since he was young. It had no words and yet the cry of the strings beneath the bow reminded him of newborns. In a way, it was befitting the beginning of a season, but he had always felt it was somewhat melancholic.
“What is the occasion, anyway?” asked the Vaich.
“Surely the men of the west know of Belthín?”
The king shook his head.
A twinge of something pinched at him, but the druid ignored it and reached for a plate. It was laden with growing things, fresh from harvest—root and nut and sweet leaf.
“Belthín is the day we welcome the summer and prepare the earth for its bounty.” He held out a small, russet berry. The Vaich took it in hand, staring expectantly.
“You eat it,” said the druid. The Vaich looked skeptical, but popped it in his mouth. As he chewed, the druid added. “But not the seed. It is poisonous.”
The king spat it out.
“Are youtryingto kill me?”
The druid laughed. “Not at all.”
He slid a berry onto his tongue. The juice was bitter. When the seed came away, he spat it into his palm and carefully dug it into the dirt—not shallow enough to be disturbed and not deep enough to be smothered.
“... odd people,” the Vaich muttered, but took another and spat it out. The druid watched him from the corner of his eye. He found he could not help but look, to see the king’s reactions: he seemed busy in his work, spitting out seeds and burying them. His hands were dirty from digging, but his mouth did not complain.
The druid tried to focus on himself. Yet every so often, that focus strayed.
The giver came round to ladle out stew. The meat was fresh—he recognized it as rabbit, and the Vaich seemed proud of that.
In the last light of day, they wound crowns of yellow whin, and when the king’s fingers stumbled, the druid reached for him.
“Like this,” he said, showing him how to twine the stems.
“What does it matter? I look ridiculous enough as it is!”
Gingerly, the druid placed it on his head. “Then look ridiculous,” he said.
The Vaich huffed, but didn’t resist as the flower crown settled on his dark hair.
“You see? It is lovely.”
“Icannaesee,” the Vaich said irritably.
