By then, the woman had come back into the room and brought a cup along with her. She set it on the table and looked at the neglected socks and slippers with distress. “Come now, íridh. Ye’ve got to dress proper.”
“If the king has issued law on footwear, then I should like to see its doctrine. Otherwise, I am pleased to come as I am.”
“Now, dinnae fight. They willnae look kind on me who let ye wander bout like a goat!”
The druid scoffed, but no sooner had the breath left his throat than the woman herded him into a nearby chair. “Be good, will ye?”
He struggled against her grip—a surprisingly strong thing earned from years of hard labor. She caught his ankle in a sturdy grasp, even as he tried to pull free.
“Yer a wild kin, but yer nae out in those wilds, a-nis. Things are different at the Hal—though you mightn’t like ’em.”
He glowered in defeat as she unfolded the stockings over his knees. But it was far from the worst of her torment. She reached for the slippers, prompting his writhing once more.
“Aye now, íridh, aye now.” She secured the slipper over his foot. It was as if he’d been tethered down by ball and chain. “Yer a lil’un,” she said with a smile. “I never saw one pretty as ye. I see now, why the Moon would choose ye.”
“I have not been chosen of anything.”
The old woman chuckled. “Even ye might see, there’s nae fighting the hand o’ fate. ’N she come for ye, wee one. She come.”
He pressed his lips tight. There would be no fight should the Vaich settle on his execution.
“That will be all, Halla.”
The duo stilled as Medhin appeared in the doorway. Her face was stern as ever, and the druid bit back a scowl.
“You,” she said curtly, “come with me.”
The druid was brought for examination. Or so he supposed, as he stood beneath their calculating watch. His judges included Medhin and a man in robes of black and gold.
“Othrik,” said the former. “High Priest of the An’Atherin, Keeper of the Eternal Flame. Though, it is sure you know little about the way of the Sun.”
“I know what is certain,” answered the druid. “The creature of flame passed over this land long ago, and your predecessors called it God. You have no authority to keep me here. Your kind have failed to subjugate my kin for generations, and you shall fail, again.”
“Speak less,” the priest growled, the creases aside his eyes wrinkling further. “Cárth thí nighm, cré thí haim.That I might be made to stand in the presence of such heresy! You druids are but rabid rabble… ought to have been thrown to the sea centuries ago!”
“Then I would have you throw me.”
“You little—”
“That is not for either of us to decide,” Medhin interrupted, leveling a cautionary gaze at the priest. She circled the druid like a coiled serpent, and though his eyes did not follow, he prepared for the strike.
“You are a son of Cullach, and youwillanswer to your king. The Moon called you here, wanderer. The prophecy cannot be denied. And if it should be determined that you should serve it, then serve it you shall.”
“You still have not told me what this prophecy requires,” said the druid. This time, he looked the snake upon the mouth.
The answer did not come.
He understood that whatever part he would be made to play, it was neither prisoner nor sacrifice. Neither would have unsettled the sun followers so much, and indeed, his presence there had brought their seemingly unshakable pillars tumbling down. No, this puppet master was greater than them. Greater, even, than their king. But whether fate or prophecy steered the way, the druid was to be brought before him.
He was led into the belly of that earthen beast, a maze of stone that poured into a central chamber. The room was as grand as the ceiling was tall, and torches blazed upon every wall. Above, chandeliers wheezed and sputtered, wafting smoke through the hall. It was filled to the brim with men and women of the court—warriors and advisors, but also ladies and lower cleirigh.
A narrow path of dust and dun awaited the druid, and he was made to walk between: a feast on display to a ravenous party. At the end was the dais, lit in firelight. And there the Vaich sat in a throne of rowan, carved in the likeness of a stag.
The máraigh stood sentry on either flank; Medhin at his right, and Hirí his left, and beside her an older woman all in white. The druid might have thought her a ghost, the way she stood there, a pale wisp in the dark. She, like the younger priestess, carried the same uncanny pallor, though her stature and position suggested that her station mirrored that of Medhin’s.
This was information the druid would have rather lived without. Entering that hall like cattle on parade made him all too aware of his tethers. He belonged to the forest, not a royal court, but there he was, come before it.
Murmurs preceded his every step. Whispers followed his wake. Words, words, and empty words, until…
