And the silence and the dreams followed him.
***
Three days passed with no word from the king.
After their confrontation at the kirk, the druid expected his sentence would be severe. Indeed, the walls of that dark place seemed to close in. Some days, he would watch the city from his tower up above. Little people moving like tadpoles through a current of streets, unaware of his curious eyes following their mundane routines.
But the druid spent most of his time walking the castle—the places hecouldgo, which were few and quiet. Rhyd-hal was far from unaware of his comings and goings, and ever confident in its abilities. It was a fortress built to keep people out—and to keep those within.
The hollow corridors were catacombs, pungent and stale. The closest he came to freedom was the cloister, where he could spend hours uninterrupted. He would leave his stockings and slippers on the staircase and crawl between the arches, letting his legs hang over the balustrade.
He observed the ravens that made homes there, and with time and bartering, they became good friends. He would bring them shavings of wild apple and pie crust, and they would offer him gifts in return. With one, in particular, he enjoyed a lovely courtship. The druid had taken to calling himAinfír, which meant nameless.
Ainfír was small compared to the others, and often slow to his supper. The druid was keen to withhold at least one shaving in his pocket, just for him. In the mornings, Ainfír would wait with presents of twigs andbuttons. “It’s very kindly of you,” the druid would say. He would take them back to his room and keep them in the drawer beside his bed.
He did a great deal of idling, which is not to say his days before Rhyd-hal were busy, but a nomadic life was one of movement. Now he felt lazy, to the point where he’d become ill with it. He could not recall having ever been ill. Aside from his dreams, his constitution was strong. Now here, of all places, it had failed.
By the fifth morning, no news had come still, and the druid awoke with a fever. Halla fussed, bathing him down with cool cloths and wafting the room with meadowsweet. He did not eat for two days and became thinner despite the maid’s best efforts to fatten him up. In the evenings, she would prop the windows open, letting the brisk chill kiss his heated skin. She would sit and rub his back with oil salves of mithwort. He grew sleepy and relaxed as her gentle hands worked.
It reminded him of the days with his dáihe—the nursemaid who cared for him long ago. He could only suppose she cared, though he had never been hers. Nor had any of the others she had wetted. But she had held him gently and knew his heart. It made him wonder how it felt.
“Halla,” he whispered.
“Mm?”
“Have you no children of your own for whom to make soup and rub their backs?”
She laughed. “Aye, once, íridh. Once I had a wee bairn. Till ten winters he came to be, then took ill with the blood.”
His eyes lowered. “I am sorry.”
“Ah, the land—it call him back. But that was a long’n time ago.”
“Does it not still make you sad? Every day you come to me and smile. Even when you needn’t.”
There was a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her face. “When my Tochan lay, barely a whisper on his lips, there came an earth shepherd from the wood. ’N he sat with my wee bab till his hours went dark. Before he come, the bairn could only see ghosts, ’n I was scared he’d go’n alone. But the shepherd take his hand, ’n he saw me there, one last time. The auld singr let my bairn go to his grave in peace. Yer good people, íridh. I ken it be.”
“Did he give you that?” He nodded at the bone talisman around her neck.
“Aye, he did. ’N I kept it forty years!” She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “What of ye, dear? Ye must miss your máta, away in the green.”
“Máta?” The word was foreign on his tongue. “I expect you mean the one who bore me.”
Halla frowned. “Is she not alive? Bless her name…”
How could he explain he knew not? That he could not recall her face, nor had ever spoken her name? “It is… not how things are done amongst my ilk.”
“Is it so?” Her brow crinkled. “Ye’ve not been raised by she?”
He shook his head.
“Do ye ken her?”
Another shake.
“Ye must have a nurse, or the like? Some family?”
“I was reared by many. I belonged to all—and no one.”
