Cerys did not believe in coincidence. The whispers… the prophecy… the dreams. All of it hinted at a life he knew not. A life that called to him from a time in which he had never lived.
At least, not as he was.
“You are so like she.”
Cerys spun to see the shadowed form of the Sun Matron. Her face was neither filled with fury or disdain, and yet, she had never come in welcome, and so, he braced.
“She?” he said. “Of whom do you speak?”
“Nythis, of course. It is obvious.” She came up beside him, gazing into the yard from the open doorway. “How much power you have in silence.”
“I don’t—”
“You still deny it, even as you bow the Sun to your command? I thought you merely a charmer. Some sorcerer sent from the green. But there is nothing simple in the way you’ve bewitched him.” For an instant, the mask cracked and before him was not a woman of God, but a mother in fear, and her voice trembled. “He loves you.”
Cerys was doused in fire and ice. His cold body burned beneath her hands as she reached to cup his face.
“I beg of you… lead him not unto destruction. He is young and still unsure. He was a good boy and may yet be a great man. I beseech you, druid—do not seduce him from his path. It is his destiny.”
“No man is destined for rule,” he whispered.
“But someonemust.”
Cerys looked away.
Shouting arose, bringing the game to a halt. Medhin released him, grasping her shawl as she stepped out to see what was the matter. The men came up the way, a group of them, he recognized, having been of the Vaich’s party. They were bloody in places; scratches and gashes upon bruising skin.
His stomach knotted.
“What happened?” asked Medhin. “Where is my son?”
“Alive. Ettins attacked us, but we were able to defeat them.” The largest of the group held a second man wrapped within his mantle. He came inside and laid him upon the table and the rest came quickly after. Cerys went, too, and as the mantle unfurled, a gasp spilled from the crowd.
“We tried to come quick but… was a ways down the mountain.”
Upon the man’s sloughing flesh were dark, scabby rashes.
Pusmoss.
“Summon Miss Litha at once!” someone shouted, but Cerys stepped forwards.
“I will need a hot knife and some boiled water. Do not come near or the poison can spread.”
The men, having huddled close in curiosity, now hurried away.
“Someone fetch my satchel, and a bucket for the flesh.” One of the cooks looked sallow and yellowish. Cerys sighed. “Perhaps two buckets.”
The druid drenched his hands in a mixture of goose fat, thyme and beeswax to stave off the poison, and diligently peeled off the infected skin. The man’s exposed arms and back had been most deeply affected, and the rot had had hours to take root. As he worked, Jor came down asking questions, which Cerys pretended not to listen to.
“What happened?”
“It was the woody beasts we found on the mountain. But it would have been a clean fight if not for the brush. Took a hit into a thicket. The Vaich had us bring him down. But the party fares well, no need to worry.”
Cerys’ heart lightened, but Jor said, “Where is His Majesty now?”
“The others went up. Thought they’d climb the summit. Sure it’ll make a good story when they come back down.”
A flicker of a smile teased his lips.
