But the light was already fading in those silver eyes. The druid weakened against him. His final words escaped in a breath as he collapsed back into Skyre’s arms.
“It is… a door.”
Chapter fifty-three
The Stranger
He wouldn’t wake.
A night and day passed and Skyre’s hope grew thin. He knew nothing of the Fáoth. He knew nothing of its wares. He knew only the fire and fury.
He considered riding out. He could fasten the druid to himself and ride till the beast was weary. But the deep bruising across the druid’s body buried the thought. He feared to move him—that even the slightest of jostling might threaten its spread.
He had seen such things before.
Once, he and Greyv climbed the trees outside Righnach’Dúir. Away from prying eyes, they’d shimmied up the tallest pine. They’d been boys then, rough and clumsy.
“I’ll make it there ‘fore you!” He had taunted.
Greyv laughed. “When you catch up, it shall be winter!”
But when the older boy reached the branch, the bough below shattered and all their ambition came tumbling down.
Skyre remembered the way Greyv’s elbow swelled.
“Will he lose his arm?”
“Little Laird Rhosyn is strong,”Medhin had said,“but we’ll need to let the blood settle lest he come to rot.”
Those words stuck with him now. The druid’s torso, narrow and soft, had become a fearsome blue. There were marks where it seemed as if some beast had grabbed him; the knots of branches were stamped upon the once-pale hue. Blood purpled against the surface, and every hour it did not disperse the Vaich grew wearier.
He sat beside him as day turned to night, as warmth became cold. He prepared a fire and covered him with his mantle. Still, the druid did not stir.
Skyre couldn’t sleep—would not, fearing the moment he closed his eyes would be the moment the druid woke. He began to drift late in the night, only to be stirred by a wet snout against his cheek. He groaned, dragging his gaze up to Saorla.
Sadness lined her deep brown irises and he sighed, resting his head against hers.
What was he to do? Despite all his shepherding, he was ill-equipped. Twenty years in the grove and now he could do nothing but sit and wait for death to come or spare them. They had trained a boy to kill, but had not taught a man to heal. The druid’s hands brought life. And his… his offered nothing.
Skyre raked his fingers through his hair, and it grew more and more disheveled.
As sun broke, he heard the softest gasp.
At once, he crawled forwards, cupping the druid’s head. He watched the rise and fall of his chest. It was steadier now. Was he getting better? Was he…?
He let himself hope.
On the third morning, he became delirious himself. He stoked the fire and wiped the druid of sweat and went out to find some water. He recalled a stream nearby and thought he could return in quick time. He tightened his kit to his waist and traced back in the direction he’d wandered that night after he and the druid had argued. But even in the daytime, the Fáoth was disorienting, like a world askew.
His anger that night had eclipsed his fear, but now he hadn’t space in his heart for rage. He was tired. Not of his heavy limbs or the sting of his stripped knuckles. But of the wasted moments. Now, he wondered if he would have the chance to make right his wrongs.
The druid’s final words bit at him.
They are coming.
Whatever the druid had learned—all the answers rested on a caged tongue. The Vaich felt utterly unmoored.
It was a stroke of luck when he heard the babble of the spring, and hurried down the green bank to see it. He sighed with relief, retrieving hiswaterskin and filling it fat. He washed his face and had a drink. The cold water was sobering.
