“They give me little but silence.”
“Respect need not be loud. Many queens of the past were deeply beloved.”
“Yet, their claim lived and died with their Vaich.”
Hirí tilted her head. “But your Vaich shall never die.”
He scoffed.
They ate and settled in their tent, where it was warm against the chill. They had a single candle lit between them, and the heat of their bearskins. The priestess looked gentle in her nightgown; an odd departure from her usual wear, and maybe for that reason he noticed it—a crimson marking upon her wrist. Dark flame woven in an infinite braid.
His brows furrowed. “This symbol…”
She smiled, pulling her sleeve down over it. “A gift from many ages ago. A time long before I came to the Augeri.”
“Whendidyou come to it?” he asked.
“I was a wee thing—only thirteen. Dinnae you ken, I was the youngest to be named Nytherí!”
She seemed proud of that fact. He didn’t doubt she was.
“It was lucky I made my way to the house of Moon. Many girls like me are not so lucky. Men still fear what they cannot explain.”
“But the Nytherí are revered,” said the druid.
“The ones that live. When faced with magick, men will bury first and prosecute the grave. The Augeri is our sanctuary, at least, for those who are true. But that is not always so easily discerned.”
She reached out, gingerly taking a tendril of his pale hair between her fingers.
“How strange and beautiful you are. The Moon’s mark reveals itself in time. Mine did not ripen till I reached the Augeri. But you… you were born of her hue.”
His skin itched and he writhed out of her grasp, wanting nothing more than to change the subject.
“Will you tell me about it? The Augeri?”
Hirí grew pensive. “It is not a place of celebration. That is to say, it’s quite somber. The Nytherí are sworn to silence, but the quiet is not unwelcome. Most who come there do so to dream. That is the great magick of the Moon. We listen and we dream and we commune with our goddess.”
The thought settled oddly. He could only vaguely grasp at this ability they shared. It was unimaginable to him to think these womenenjoyeddreaming, and wondered if he was like them at all.
He, too, had thought, once, the Nytherí’s visions were similar to the Naém—the sacred power entrusted to his people. But the Naém was a state of being; a memory, not an illusion. Visions and apparitions… these were things of enigma.
“What does it mean?” he asked softly. “What does it mean to dream?”
Hirí’s silver eyes were like starry mirrors. “It is a great harrowing. Imagine yourself stood beneath the dusk, cold and warm all at once, and around you, only the echo of open sky. And there you are, bare before it.”
He closed his eyes and felt the fear and the wind and the wonder.
“A dream is a whisper, breathed against the skin. It calls to you, but does not speak. It makes love to you, without even a touch. You see far into every distant horizon, without ever having opened your eyes.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
And like nothing familiar to him.
“Beautiful… and terrifying,” said Hirí. “But such are the gifts of gods.”
“A gift of the gods?”
A part of him wanted to tell the priestess all that he had seen. Perhaps if anyone could guide him, it would be her. Did he want guidance? He wanted something. An answer. An understanding. To know why, out of every walking thing, he was the one to be summoned.
