The druid tried to turn over, but his body had grown feeble. Hirí guided him with her hands upon his hips.
“She… tricked me,” he muttered.
The priestess paused. “She?”
“A spell… that magick… doesn’t belong to you.” His head pulsed. He thanked the pain for ridding him of all his thoughts, lest they be devoured by the ever-watching eye now branded in his mind.
Hirí smiled, but it was sharp. “The Oracle does what she thinks is best. Curious, she is, to know of you. After all, it is you who have made her a fool.”
“Fool?” he asked, brows knitting.
“She’s never had to explain herself till now. Her sight was impeccable. Unquestioned. But you are our little pale thorn, hm?”
He shook his head and fell unconscious.
On the third day, he finally rose. The temple had become more somber. The moon priestesses mulled about as they usually did, though, even in silence, he could sense their anticipation.
Before fall of dark, Hirí brought him to an altar chamber. “The riders from Rhyd-hal will soon arrive with the Vaich. They will bear witness to your birth.”
Should he survive, surely, the king would be most disappointed.
In the chamber, he was stripped bare, and the priestesses began the tedious process of painting his skin in strokes of silver. Too weak was he to protest, and so, they darkened his eyes and lips, and made sigils on the palms of his hands. His feet and arms were covered, and when the dye had dried, he was anointed with scented oils.
Then came the adornments.
He was fitted from head to toe in ornament. Rings were stacked upon his fingers, fit with glittering jewels; his wrists and ankles bound in bangles, an electrum circlet wreathed his head. But none were so grand, nor more ornate, than the woven torc settled around his collar. The thick metal coiled together, and from it hung beads of pearl.
The druid’s aching body was heavy with its fittings, and he knew that to be by design. He said, “It is no wonder so few survive when you do all in your power to ensure it.”
Hirí giggled. “But of course! Only an act of God will allow your passage. If you shall sink, then it was meant to be.”
He could not discern from her words if she believed it or not. The more he considered, the more certain he was this could only end one way. He had been foolish to believe he would find answers; to wonder what, if not man, had brought him there.
He had merely walked into a trap.
It was all so familiar…
By the time they arrived at the dock, night had settled. The shore was dotted with torches—the men from Rhyd-hal. He did not care to find the Vaich amongst the crowd, but sensed his presence like a fearsome fire.
The druid was led to the end of the dock, where the High Nytherí waited.
“So comes the hour,” she said with a smile. “Luin fírth, oíléag hír.” He could still feel her battering the window of his mind’s eye. “May we find more than darkness.”
His wrists were taken and bound with bronze cuffs. He was boarded onto a small wooden skiff, upon which stood two men, one to steer and the other…
“Do not touch him idly,” warned Hirí. “He is still of the Moon; he is not to be mishandled.”
It was a great irony, but the druid did not speak that. The skiff was untethered, and out into the lake they went. As the shore grew smaller, his heart tremored. Slowly, at first, as if unsettled by the dark. It was not death he rued, but the tragedy of having stumbled into such tangled brambles. He supposed, if he was to die, at least he was returned to the wild. Though even a druid would quiver before their watery grave. And he did.
It was cold.
Soundless.
The wind raked his skin raw.
Moonlight lit their path, revealing the unforgiving dark loch beneath them. As the moon dipped behind the clouds and the stars began to sparkle, no light came upon its black surface. To think, within moments, he would meet it.
The skiff halted.
