The Nytherim were silent, but Skyre’s pulse was a war drum in his ears.
“I speak only what the Moon whispers,” said the Oracle. “To deny her is to deny your king.”
Skyre tensed.
This was his destiny. A destiny promised to him bygods. Now thrown into question by the very voice that had granted him his crown.
His nails bit into his palms.
“Cerys,” he whispered the name, feeling its bitter taste upon his tongue. Skyre gathered his bearings, his gaze daring the sky. “Then let my first order be this: Find thisqueen. And bring her to me.”
Chapter two
The Pale Mark
In the far green east of that country lived the druids.
They were Cullain in name alone, though they had roamed the wildlands long before kings wore crowns. Before men gave the gods names. They were rarely seen, and never many at a time, save by those in the Everstretches who, on occasion, would see one in a year and then no others for many more. It was understood amongst settled folk that the druids were nomads and never remained anywhere, nor was anywhere from where they had come.
There were tales told by elders—who liked to make things up entirely—that they were born in the trees and would return there when they grew old.
“To the land they came from,” they’d say, “and they give it back what they took.”
Druids were strange, even to those who enjoyed them. Though nowadays, those were few. Still, stories endured of the good work they did; the power they possessed. But those stories remained in the east, as the west grew cold towards old magick and those who carried it. Civilized men had no need for woodwalkers in their cities of stone or halls of fire; indeed, they were a great oddity best forgotten.
And that was how he preferred it.
Hebeing an odd thing. Quieter than his kin and perhaps too small for his work. He was not particularly durable, at least, not by first glance. The staff he bore, carved from a sickly alder branch, was taller than he, and his robes considered plain, even by beggars. But perhaps most striking of all was the pale of his hue. Where most Cullain were fair and dark of hair and eye, he was born the color of winter. With locks like wheat and eyes of silver, he’d be radiant, if not so meager.
The druid lived a simple life.
He was not preoccupied with how westerners saw him—druids never were. Since he’d begun his wandering, he’d rarely passed through the same place twice, and never committed any name or face to memory. His hours were spent on roads of moss with the underbrush damp beneath his feet. He owned only what he carried—poultices and potions and incense of dried sage. At night, he slept beneath the wychwood trees, and on clear evenings, he would lie in the meadows and listen long into the twilight. He cared for little but the verdant reach unspun before him, the untamed depths of the forests and the peace of a lonesome existence.
Until that spring.
It had just become Bréchanach—the Unthawing—and the forests were sparse. The brittle branches would not yet bud for two moons through and the frost made it difficult to forage. The druid fasted most days and had grown thin, till the bones of his chest pressed taut against his skin. He wandered, aimless, and came upon a northern hold. He thought to seek shelter and a warm meal, but a foul stench stifled his hunger.
His steps slowed as he approached, and his fingers tightened upon his staff. The village’s dark gates greeted him with the still-burning pyre of a faceless man—his ashen body strung up against an iron cross.
All his life he had heard stories of the callous ways of the An’Atherin; the Sun Faith. The An’Atherin’s followers—which included most swaths of Cullain people—worshipped the flame. An entity which they named Æon’Righ. Those who did not submit were subject to persecution.
From childhood, he was warned away from the west. For a druid who strayed too near the sea would be met with fire. In the highlands and in the east, such notions were not so deeply rooted, but with the passage of each year, the flames spread.
The druid’s gaze swept along the palisade and returned, reluctantly, to the smoking corpse. He spoke a bitter prayer for his fallen kinsman, and went no further.
He decided he would travel back down the valley.
Nearby the forest of Ffenadwyn was a village he’d visited many years ago. He remembered it little and was certain they remembered him less. For days he journeyed, keeping to the edge of the wood till he reached the rugged expanse of the open moors. That wild place saw little dwellings but some scattered cottages and the odd hunting camp.
The road was made of memory alone, as the grasses grew high over recent footfalls. The druid did as he had all his wandering and even before—in the emerald groves of his youth. He followed the stars and the sun and the day moon, until he could see the village down the valley. The túrgaine abodes were built amongst the hills, laden in moss. Turf grew up over their pointed roofs and wreathed the stocky chimneys. The land was good for gentle tilling, and a flock of mire sheep idled about in open fields.
He arrived at midday, when the farmers had come in for dinner. The children were playing in the yards and grew watchful as he passed. He was unhurried, even as the village slowed in awe. There were no iron crosses. Rather, carved effigies hung upon the fences, and there were altars gathered with bird bones.
A woman awaited him along the path, and he halted before her. Her face was thin, weathered. A stole of thick fur warmed her shoulders. With a calloused hand, she held forth a wedge of bread.
“Alms, woodsingr.” Her voice was rough, yet reverent. “Ye must be hungry.” He took the bread with a grateful nod, and she wiped her hands upon her apron. “There’s more where that came from. We’ve sausage in the larder and if ye’ll stay awhile, there’s a place in the barn for ye.”
The villagers came to their fences, hopeful as they awaited his answer. Quietly, he gave it. “If it is no bother I should stay.”
