The boy nodded.
Speaking witchery would only end poorly. It was far too precarious to be what he was.
A dreamer adrift in a dreamless world.
The druid was led down to the village, where the farmer waited, wet in the eye. “Look’it there, druid! How can I ever repay ye?” The man gave his old cow a proud pat. She stood now, breathing well when her mouth wasn’t full of grass.
The woman was there, too, and she said, “What wonders ye work! Yer hands blessed by túr an’ ’Tagh!”
“They are no more blessings than wind or wild,” said the druid. “Spring comes soon. Mind well your stock and plow.”
“We’ll heed yer good word, íridh.”
“Then I will be on my way.” But the words came to a slow close.
Beneath his feet, the ground stirred. A shifting that began at his toes and stretched up his legs to his crown. In his ears was the rumbling of hooves. He drew still. So still, in fact, the villagers asked him what was wrong. But the druid only turned his head to the hills, and there he saw them.
Ebon and gold bannermen, like a dark flock, rode up the valley in procession. Their standards caught high in the breeze, bearing the emblem of a golden stag. The rumbling quickened; rolling thunder across an empty land. As they grew near, their gilded insignia glistened under the grey sky.
“The Vaich’s riders,” said the woman. The villagers had grown tense around him. Whatever peace that belonged there was now an uncertain stranger.
“What would they have of us?” asked the farmer.
“More levies, most like! The burglars!” cried his wife.
All were silent as the bannerman approached—horses grand and black as midnight, towering over those beneath. They had two carrachs with them, which carried forth people of great standing, but one, the druid noted, was empty.
A wizened rider came forwards and stared down at the peasantry with stony eyes. He looked strong for his age, but gripped his reins in a tight, apprehensive hold.
His attention fell upon the druid. For a moment, the rider hesitated. He dragged his gaze away, considering each villager in turn. Whatever he was looking for, it came not in their rugged faces. He looked back to the druid and spoke.
“Cerys.”
The word felt foreign. Not because the druid did not know it, but because he had not heard it spoken in many long years. Not since the days amongst thenach’durnathan, where he had lived young with his people. It had never sat upon the tongues of stone-dwellers, most especially those.
“That was the name granted to me,” said the druid. “How did you come to know it, fire seeker?”
A woman came down from the carrach. She was dressed in blazing silk and dark veils. Her golden jewels jingled as she stepped up beside the rider, settling an iron gaze upon the druid. Then came a second, her veils lined in silver, hair like moonlight. Two priestesses. One like fire, and the other, ice. Both fixated upon him.
“A man?” said the first, her breath full of bile.
“Adruid,” said the second, her lips a soft smile.
“Is he the one?” asked the rider.
“It is no coincidence,” said the moon priestess. “He carries the pale mark.”
“A folly,” said the sun.
“Is he the one?” the rider repeated, less patiently. The villagers trembled beneath his tone. The druid’s fingers tightened around his staff.
The sun priestess pressed her lips. “Bring him to the Vaich.”
The air was divided between a dozen bellies. The moon priestess undressed him with curious eyes, an amused smirk playing across her face. Her irises were not the earthy dark typical of Cullain, but a ghostly silver not unfamiliar to him. She said nothing, no word of explanation, simply turned and followed the first back to their carrach. And then he was left to the mercy of men who dismounted and came to his flank.
“Ye cannae take him!” cried the villagers.
The bannermen paid them no mind.
