Stop this.
“Falsity?” The Vaich shook his head. “Æon’Righ—”
“A great terror passed over the sky. And on its back, it bore the light of creation.” The druid spoke the words of the Odes, the chant of the first of flame. “Yes, I know your creed. And I know its truth. That which your priest would strip the skin from my bones to speak. Once, it was known. Now, it is heresy. Your Sun Laird was no god, but an ancient beast. Flesh and blood. It came from the west, and crossed over this land, and was never there again seen.”
“How could you know that?” spat the king.
“The same reason we are here now—the Naém.”
“I dinnae believe it.”
“Then don’t. Perhaps men need their heroes. But do not ask me to abandon my life for a lie.”
The Vaich’s cheeks had gone red with rage. His fists clenched at his side.
“For your sake,” he whispered, “I’ll leave first.”
The druid’s body weakened, as if having awoken from a fever. Whatever had compelled him a moment before drained out of him, and he felt sick as the Vaich turned away, taking the starfire with him.
“Wait—”
The king swung himself up on his horse, and with a click of his tongue, she shot up, alert, and bolted into the forest.
The night pressed in all around him as the druid stood alone in the grove. Moonlight trickled over his skin, but the warmth that had been there was gone.
Why did he feel so empty? What had he said that was wrong? And why did he care that the Vaich had left him… when it was what he had wished for all along?
Chapter fifty-one
The Womb
It was a long and lethargic morning. The druid moved about the camp in a daze. He felt weighed down, as if all the jewels and bindings had been dredged up from Loch Luin and once more bound themselves against his skin.
No one questioned where the Vaich had gone. They were wanderers, and leaving was what they did.
He supposed… no one had expected him to stay.
But it mattered.
The seeds were still buried in the ground where he had left them. The pits he had dug for the kindling still smoked throughout the day. He had been there, even if briefly, and it mattered.
The dwell was unbearably cold. Even with the fire going, the druid’s warmth did not return. He found himself glancing towards the door. Waiting. Expectant. Baiting hope.
It was nearing evening when the hide finally lifted. He leapt to his feet. But it was not the tall, dark-haired form of the Vaich, but rather, the Fíor.
“It is time to harvest your tribute.”
The druid’s stomach soured. He swallowed down the mucus thickening in his throat.
He nodded, even as his body fought, and followed the man out into the wood.
The druid had seen many Listeners embark on their communions. And he remembered each one as a white-clad corpse drenched in blood.
He was led to a thicket of lively trees, and his heart sunk as he heard them. Scrambling in the bushes, fluttering in the treetops—unknowing participants in an ancient pact.
The Fíor grasped his staff in both hands—a thick, ashen birch branch with a great gnarled head—and his eyes turned milky white. He had seen the power before. In the Fáoth, it was calledfelga—the shared sight. If one was attuned to the creatures of the forest, they could be invited in. Then he could see as they saw, and fly as they flew, but there was more to that connection that went unsaid.
He had thought, once, that such a power belonged to druids. But he had been shown the scathing truth that it did not, and that it could be performed just as well… on humans. He could still remember the worming sensation of the Oracle’s eyes in his mind.
