Cerys smiled, small but certain. “Then, I’ll see you in the morning.”
The party started up, and as they climbed, the sun peeked out over the horizon. They’d packed light, but their kits were heavy in preparation for any enemy they might find. All manner of wildness made home in the Fír, but the men found it all quite quaint.
The slope was carpeted in heather, and the moss-clung rocks were damp with dew. A cool, crisp breeze goaded them eagerly onwards.
They passed weathered shrines, unrecognizable to the Vaich. One of the men, Torin, came from the east near Brannoc, and was versed in the Old Gods. He spoke their names as they went.
“The stones are laid for Taig, spirit of the river, and that one there is Bréchan, Lord of Mountains.”
“What about this?” asked Cían, pointing at a totem carved into the head of a bearded man.
“Carn’Thalach—the Huntfather—god of the wild and of predators.”
Skyre smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
Cían said, “Is it alright for you to say so?”
“Who is going to say otherwise? If you dinnae crawl back and tell them.”
The incline became steeper, but nothing troubling, and the shrines became more sparse. Skyre wondered how old they were. It was reasonable they dated back to the founding of the villaigh, during the time when all of Cullach still honored earth spirits. And maybe, he thought, even older than that.
“That there,” said Torin, nodding towards a large, twisting stone, “is for Túr, spirit of the land.”
It was a word Skyre knew well, but had never questioned from where it had come. How many other words had they borrowed from the druids? He considered when he got back, he might ask.
“And this one?” questioned Cían. They stopped before a bronze carving. Its features were eroded, but one could still make out the face of a ram and the mounts where the horns had been.
Torin grew quiet and, carefully, he said, “Tis Rún. Spirit of the sun.”
Skyre had never seen the face of his divine master, and yet it was curious to think the ancient Cullain had imagined him a ram. The An’Atherinspoke of Æon’Righ as the blazing sun, but when embodied, he had the body of a great hooved beast.
Skyre tilted his head, as if to get a better look, and he couldn’t deny the similarities. His chest tightened, but he painted his smile back on.
He said, “A noble attempt. But at the end of the day, mutton’s place is the supper table.”
The men laughed.
The path wound up and down in places where the rocks dipped and crested. Skyre felt like a currach bounding over the sea, riding waves of earth. The steps were worn with time, hardly discernible beneath a layer of dirt.
“Mind your footing,” said Skyre. He led at the front, second only to Eirn, who hailed from the north. He was used to the terrain and walked like a ghost over the stone folds. The same could not be said for Maran, who was widest amongst them, and—the men often joked—built like a bull. He moved well, given his size, but struggled with balance, and so they teased him.
“It’s a long way down!”
Maran growled, refusing to look. “Dinnae ya think I ken’ih?”
It was hours before they reached a natural break in the path. The land jut out, forming a small outcrop.
“It’s a good view here,” said Eirn, urging them over.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” said Cían.
“Strange?” asked Skyre.
“There.” The youth pointed into the distance as the king came and stood beside him at the ledge. The mountains sprawled south towards Annath. “All the snow there above the treeline,” Cían said. “But… this peak hasn’t any at all.”
Skyre hadn’t considered it. In fact, he hadn’t heard anyone mention that it was odd. Not all mountains were capped in white—that wasn’t unusual. But Cían wasn’t wrong. Every peak around them glistened shining silver; those lower and higher than they were now.
“It is strange,” Skyre muttered. “Suppose this one’s got warm skin.”
