Skyre did not speak more, afraid to disturb the work. When Gowan finished, he set aside two vials. “These should help with the pain. A few drops—be sure he swallows.”
Skyre said, “How do you ken all of this?”
It was then the king realized what he hadn’t seen before—familiarity. The man’s face was fair, and his features nearly faerie. Before he could work it out, Gowan said, “My sister. She taught me well.”
“Is she a healer?”
The man’s eyes darkened. “She’s good at mending things. Bones, bumps… boys.” He shook his head and stood. “That’s all I can do. The rest is up to him.”
“I’ll pay you,” said the king.
“No need. Coin’s not what I’m after.”
“Then you have my thanks.”
There was a cough, soft and strained. Skyre rushed forwards, dropping to his knees.
“Druid?” He was too afraid to touch him, lest he disturb the bleed. But he saw his breath quicken, and his lids pursed, as if in dream. There was color in his cheeks now, but he did not wake.
Skyre’s shoulders dropped. “How long should it take?”
“I cannae say. All there is to do is wait.”
“Then, goodbye to you. I don’t know who you are or what you were doing here. But should he wake and we cross paths again, do not think I shall forget it.”
Gowan nodded and turned to leave, but the king’s voice called after.
“And if he should suffer… if you’ve played some trick upon me…” Skyre fixed his golden gaze upon the stranger. “I will scour this country to find you, and you will know the flame.”
Chapter fifty-four
The Prophecy
Heavy lids lifted to reveal a crackling fire. It was a pale morning and the druid’s body was draped in a familiar mantle that smelled strongly of sage. He found it difficult to move, as if a hole had been cut at his feet and the strength bled out.
The druid searched for some explanation as to how he had gotten there and found him leaning against a tree, his raven head slumped to the side in sleep.
What had happened?
The druid wanted to speak, but his throat burned. Saorla was nearby with her pack still saddled. Weakly, he inched his body forwards.
He had not made it off his bedroll before a hand pinned his to the ground. His gaze swiveled to find the Vaich above him. And he was… The druid’s chest tightened. For maybe the first time, the Vaich was unreadable.
“Tell me what you wish and I’ll bring it to you,” he said.
The druid brought his fingers to his throat.
“Drink?” The Vaich reached for his waterskin. He helped the druid sit up, his touch like a velvet swaddle.
The druid drank deep, and a quiet strength returned to his bones. Slowly, he settled with the harrowing truth that he had survived.
But how?
A bone-piercing pain split his head as memory flooded in. He cried out.
“Druid!” The Vaich braced his shoulders.
Fragments of dreams danced through his thoughts—the stars in alignment, a woman’s face, the image of a white tree against the sky.
