The Vaich slid off of Saorla, landing with a thud. He took in the three druids before him and settled on the last one.
“We had an agreement,” said the Vaich. “And I willnae be the liar.”
The druid’s eyes widened.
The Vaich glanced at the sword still clutched tight to the druid’s chest.
Carefully, he held it out.
Time spilled between them and slowed. Fingers brushed his as the Vaich gripped the hilt. He trembled. The Vaich saw it.
“This is your fight, but I willnae leave you to face it alone.”
“What if I…”
He couldn’t say the words, and the king did not let him.
“Finish this,” he murmured, “and you’ll never have to hear thatthingagain.”
The druid bit his breath.
He turned to face the womb tree.
He wanted to run, but a sudden warmth enveloped him. Startled, he looked at his hand and found it cocooned within another. His eyes rushed upwards, entwining the Vaich’s golds.
“I will wait here till it is through. But a moment away.”
The druid’s heart was desperate to believe. But he had not saved Onath, and the Vaich could not save him. Yet, the warmth remained, as if his body relented where his mind refused. It clung to the comfort deep within those words.
The druid nodded.
The closer he drew to the tree, the more deeply he heard them: those low… haunting hums. They pulled him near and drove him away, but he had no choice but to push through. He braced himself against the bark and felt the heartbeat beneath his fingers in rhythm with his rushing blood. He faced the forest, and, slowly, lowered himself down into the womb.
He was tense as stone, even as the tree lulled him into a state of lucid sleep. The faces before him blurred. Wooden vines snared around him, tight against his stomach, ribs and throat. The rind scratched at him, pricking his thumbs, letting the blood. And he felt it— the slow creep of a coming dream as it gripped his waking mind.
Around him, there stretched an endless dark, till shadows gave way to the hint of dawn. A whisper of gold broke the horizon and light flooded forwards, then retreated and retreated again, ebbing and surging like relentless tides. The sun rose and fell, the moon chasing it across the sky.
Days rolled into seasons, Túrna to Sólarch… Baine to Mírach, and over again. Leaves burst forth, green unfurling like fire, before withering back into bare branches until all was cold and ice.
The vastness stilled, and there he was, at the water’s edge, beneath a midnight sky.
He had been there before.
Moonlight pooled upon the rolling sea and the waves came up over his toes. He had stood there maybe a hundred times. But this one… this one felt different.
Upon the glass water, his reflection shimmered—pale skin and silver hair caught in a soundless wind. But as he gazed down, he realized… the reflection was not his own. Not truly. A figure stood where he believed himself to be, and she was beautiful as a whisper. Her ghostlike gown spilled softly around her, her eyes were wide and luminous.
She was familiar. And yet, he knew not her name. Only that he had seen her face all his life through.
He reached forwards in wonder, and she mirrored him. His fingertips brushed hers beneath the sea, sending ripples cascading over the water’s surface. It fractured around his touch and he plunged forwards through glass.
The world tilted.
He hung suspended in a sunless sky and felt the timeless quiet. Above him—the gaping moon. Around it, the three great stars shifted into alignment. He saw the map in the Augeri library. He heard Hirí’s voice inside his head. He heard the words to an old song, screaming through his dread.
All beware and care the Ísthmhach,
Faeries tarry there.
