The druid.
In that moment, Skyre thought nothing. He believed nothing. He spoke nothing as he went forwards, wading out into the shallows.
“Skyre!”
Whose voice had called to him, he didn’t know. He moved as if possessed, marching through the frigid water till it came above his waist. And there he beheld him: lips blue, eyes closed, flaxen hair fanned around him as light bathed the curves of his body. He seemed merely asleep, adrift in a hushed world.
It should have been impossible.
That disobedient… delicate little thing…
But there he lay.
They had given the gods an offering… and the gods had offered him back.
Skyre reached out, his hand cupping the druid’s head, the other leading his body closer. The water held him gently, but he had gone too cold. Holding the druid’s limp form between his arms, he carried him to the shore and laid him upon the frosted earth. All who remained had gone quiet, speechless in wonder.
“Torches,” he commanded. Some men knelt down and held their fires near. Skyre looked up, finding Greyv’s puzzled expression. The king held out his hand. “Your mantle.”
Greyv hesitated before carefully unbuckling his mantle and sliding it off his shoulders. Skyre took it, wrapping it snugly around the druid.
Hirí brought her fingers to his neck, still smudged in silver paint. “He lives!”
Skyre did not take his eyes from that ashen creature.
“… all intended,” he muttered.
The druid did not wake. But Skyre knew the moment he did…
Everything would be different.
Chapter twenty-three
The Fog
The druid was enveloped by unyielding heat. His eyelids pressed, pulling open in slow awakening. He winced, overwhelmed by the flare of the sun, and tucked himself deeper into that cradle of warmth.
The world was a blur coming into focus.
Before him stretched the moors, green and cold beneath the high noon of Nirn. Wild heather blanketed the hills and the wind tousled the mane of a russet mare as she moved at a steady pace beneath him.
His head perked up.
He was cocooned in thick wool, which kept him upright on the horse, but he was not alone there. The druid’s tired eyes trailed over open skin, settling on the branded sun. It had been two months since the mark was made, yet the flesh was still raised and red with scarring. He continued up the Vaich’s angled jaw, to the molten gaze heavy on the road.
The wool bound them together, tied fast at the Vaich’s shoulder. It pressed the druid into the warmth of his chest, firm despite the rhythmic jostle of the horse’s gait. The riding party fanned out behind them, with one carrach for the máraigh. Though, Hirí was not with them.
What had happened? How long had he been asleep? He was dressed—at least haphazardly—as if they had left in haste. But the last he could recall, he had been sent down to his dark grave.
Once more, he lifted his face to the Vaich, and this time, found him gazing back.
“Awake at last.”
The druid tensed, his fingers curling tightly against the wool. “I am sure that is no great celebration for you. Where… are we?”
The Vaich’s lips dared a smirk. “Achnadhuinn. You’ve been asleep two moons’ rise.”
The druid pursed his lips. “Then, I have passed your test and you spirit me back to my cage. I suppose it was a spectacle.”
