“Well?” She burst.
The druid stared.
“What did Himself make of ye?”
At the mention of the Vaich, the druid’s already poor mood soured. “Heseems unlikely to make mud from wet soil.”
Halla gasped. “Come now, ye shouldnae speak so boldly or it’ll be my hide, it will!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one is here to punish you.”
Halla’s voice dropped low. “The Vaich is the son of Sun. He can hear our most quiet thoughts!”
The druid scoffed. “What nonsense.”
The Vaich was nothing more than an overgrown child who had too long been told of hisvast importance. The way he thrashed about like a fish on a line proved his desperation, not his strength.
The druid disliked him immensely.
He pushed aside his breakfast tray and got to his feet, eyeing the shoes she had brought with disdain. Before he could voice his disagreement, the maid ushered him behind the dressing screen. “There’ll be no goings before we’ve made ye presentable!"
The druid swallowed his frustration. This routine—much like he—had overstayed its welcome. The druid had no desire to be dressed every morning like a plow horse, but the yoke of captivity tightened around his neck all the same. It was not in his nature—or any druid’s—to rise to anger.
But that man would be his greatest test.
The druid made his way through back staircases and dimly lit halls. He passed servants who looked puzzled at his presence, but was largely disregarded until he reached the southern courtyard. He presented his stamp to the guards at the doors, who exchanged confused and irritated looks. But the Speaker’s stamp was an authority they couldn’t argue. It seemed the Moon’s power had more sway than they dare admit, and the druid could do nothing but thank it as he stepped out into the green.
A gaggle of youths in black cassocks gathered in the sun-dappled garden. The druid ignored their boisterous laughter as he retrieved Hirí’s letter from his sleeve. He quirked an eyebrow at the scribbled map. Enigmatic as she was, artistry was not amongst her talents.
Quiet chittering caught his attention. At his feet were four dormice nosing at fallen hazelnuts. His shoulders relaxed.
Maybe there was breath in that carcass of a castle, after all.
Holding up the parchment, his fingertip followed the lines of ink. On the far side of the yard was a stone archway that would lead him to the postern. He readied to follow, but a shadow came over him.
The youths had wandered over and now leered at him with provocative grins, cornering him against the balustrade. From the softness of their skin, he could tell they were no older than fifteen winters and as eager as newborn pups. He had seen their garb before. Their sashes were made of linen instead of silk, but the golden trim was recognizable.
These were acolytes of the An’Atherin.
“If it isn’t our honored guest,” said one.
“I have a stamp,” the druid said, having no interest in engaging them further.
“A stamp?” The youth smirked. “Now, who gave you that?”
“Don’t be hasty,” said another. “He’s the Vaich’s business.”
The druid’s lips pressed. “Suppose you three should get some business of your own. Then go off elsewhere and mind it.”
The first stepped forwards, cocking his head. “I never knew a druid could talk. Thought your sort mucked about in the forests, grunting like beasts.”
“I am not surprised to find you immensely uneducated,” said the druid. “I am, however, disappointed.”
The youth snarled, “Disappointed? In me? What givesyouthe right?”
“I claim no right. Only, it grieves me to know you have not learned to read.”
“I can read!” Unlike druids, there was no vow of passivity written into the Odes. The acolyte reared back, fist clenched, ready to strike. But the druid remained steady, unflinching. He drank in the youth’s bright red face, watching the anger seep from his cheeks. As if haunted by the smaller man’s uncanny stillness, the youth lowered his fist and grabbed the druid by the collar instead.
