“They?” questioned his caretakers, puzzled by his inquiry. “If someone is frightening you, Winterling, you should come and tell us at once.”
But hehadtold them. And they didn’t understand. They couldn’t, because there was no such thing. In sleep, there was only darkness and the quiet of slumber’s calm. He was unusual in his gift of dream, and unhappily so.
They told him the reed whistle called to the spirits. And indeed, it invited his haunting.
***
The morning mist tasted of sea salt.
A month since the druid had departed for Rhyd-hal, he again found himself upon unfamiliar roads. A convoy was arranged to lead him north and once more, he passed beneath the iron gates and beyond the high walls of stone. Their horses followed a well-trodden path along the coastal cliffs.
Over the sea, the Quell loomed against the horizon, stirring memories of pale ships. His dream had not left his mind. Rather, it brought the waking world into sharper focus. The wind howled in his ears. The cold gnawed at his skin. It was as if he was at the bottom of the hill again, dreading what waited on the other side.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Beside him on the carrach, the moon priestess eyed the tide. They were to go together to the Augeri, a place the druid knew little of. Hirí’s company was hardly comforting, but all he was permitted.
“Beautiful?” he asked.
“The Quell. Such a gorgeous thing. As violent things often are.” She smiled. “It’s the power of it, you ken. The force of nature. Surely a druid can admire that.”
The Quell was peculiar, but unchanging. It was not like the sun or the moon or even the sea. It was not like the spirits his people embraced. It was something different, entirely.
“What do you know of it?” he inquired, wondering if the priestess would oblige him again.
“It is uncertain how it came to be,” said Hirí. “Your ilk should know better than any.”
He shook his head. “Through the Naém, my people have seen far into the past, but the march of time erodes our sight. It is likely the Quell came about long before the first communions were made.”
Hirí laughed. “So youdoadmit your flaws. How novel.” He dismissed her prodding with a purposeful silence, and in it she continued. “The fifth Vaich—Tor Cillchéinn—sent a fleet of currachs out beneath the storm. It is said they survived the first onslaught of the swell, but passed into the fog and were never seen again. Wreckage of their ships washed ashore, but no trace ever came of their sailors.”
A grim tale such as that would have been at home in the Fáoth. But its gruesome nature was disheartening.
“Many men have attempted to break through. None have succeeded,” Hirí said. “What lies beyond the storm, it is sure we shall never ken. But some like to think it comforting.”
“Comforting?”
“Well, if we cannae go out…” She smirked. “Then certainly nothing can come in.”
He considered that. “Maybe it’s true…”
“Dinnae fash! You will see it again, soon.”
His already foul mood soured. “I would appreciate it if you did not tease.”
The druid was well aware of his circumstance—being led at the bit from one prison to another. Even with the castle fading at his back, its cold hooks remained dug in.
“Tease?” said Hirí. “Not at all! Only lightening the mood. Most fear the Augeri, but you needn’t worry.”
“Why should they fear it?” He had not yet been told what his trial would require, and considered it might be simpler not to know. But he could not let it rest. “What do you plan to do with me?”
Hirí’s vixen grin was a harbinger of disagreeable events, and with it came no answer.
By nightfall,they made camp. As before, they were fed ahead of the entourage, but this time, the first plate was his.
Hirí’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “You see how it grows? How it changes? You are Consort, now.”
“We are not yet wed,” he reminded her, sternly.
“And yet they treat you as if it has already come to pass.” She nodded to the offerings on his plate. “Think of what they shall give you when you are Queen.”
