But could not bring himself to say. He did not know what his visions meant; if they were prophecy or omen or madness. Yet he knew whatever answer would terrify her. So, he bore it away.
Halla grasped his hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Ye ought to rest. Let’s get ye to bed.”
He quietly agreed, but as they ascended the tower, his attention caught on the storm in the distance. His stomach stirred, both with familiarity and fear, and his steps slowed.
It was as if watching a predator lying in wait for its prey. Those on the shore lived unwittingly, with a hundred dripping fangs at their back. The Quell was a mystery, and the less he knew, the more nervous he became.
Thosecreaturesin his vision had come from the mist and left his world in tatters. And he did not even know their names.
“Halla,” he said, and the old woman stopped. “What does the An’Atherin tell of the storm?”
She frowned. “If they wrote of it, I wouldnae ken.”
“You have never read the annals?”
“Aye no, íridh, I cannae read… The old cleirigh speaks the Word, and the faithful give their ear.”
He had nearly forgotten. It wasn’t oft the country folk were learned. He had taught many villagers to read or to write their own names. Even so, they followed the An’Atherin’s holy word. As doctrine… as record. As once they had done with druids.
“The Kell is ages old,” said Halla. “I remember my máta told me when I was a bairn, and her máta before her, that it was Marn who first brought it, ‘n it watches on ‘n minds the shore.”
It was not the first he had heard of the Quell being thought a protector. Even before he had come to the west, the druids spoke tales of Marn. To them, the sea was fierce and generous, until men twisted it to suit their nature. Marn became a woman of great beauty and torn rags; her hair like water weeds. She embraced Cúil Cullach with open arms, and her temper determined their bounty. If Marn was pleased, the tides would be giving, and there would be an abundance of fish and frey. If her tribute went ungiven, she would punish sailors and swallow their ships down to the depths.
His ilk did not speak of Marn in such a way; rather, it was a force of wind and tide. It came in high and went out low, and it could not be tamed. They did not tell of the Quell’s coming as punishment or gift.
It simply was.
“If it is kennin’ ye be wantin’,” said Halla, “there’s the bookhold just there at the kirk.” She pointed through the arches to the temple, separatedfrom the main fortress by two paths. The first, the cloister, would be guarded during the day and likely still at night. But the second…
His eyes trained on the bridge that led from the castle’s southwest wing to the temple’s upper loggia. The same wing that housed the druid’s bedchamber. It was certain he would not be permitted in the archive alone, if at all. The priests were no allies of his.
“But why should ye be so worried of a thing?” said Halla. “It’s ne’er changed, the old Kell.”
She wasn’t wrong. Yet, his dreams told another story. Perhaps before, he had been prepared to accept the Quell as some trick of nature, some phenomenon of sea and sky. But now… now he wasn’t so sure.
For days, the druid observed the temple.
The bookhold waited; a chamber of stone and ink where the written wisdom of ages rested beneath ever-watchful eyes. The druid could not walk freely within its halls, nor turn its pages by right. And yet, the texts within were his to claim, if only he could reach them.
So, he watched. The priests of the An’Atherin came and went, clad in dark woolen robes, their schedules shaped by habit—prayer at dawn, study at noon, supper, then contemplation in the evening. He learned the cadence of their movements, the rhythm of their work. At night, the temple fell to silence, disturbed only by the solemn footfalls of those who lingered past curfew. The lamps burned late, but always, in the deep hours, they waned.
On the fifth night, he crept from his chamber a shadow, bare feet soundless upon stone. The castle’s halls were hushed in slumber, wheezing torches casting long limbs of light across the walls. His path was careful, his steps soft.
At the bridge, the wind grasped at him, carding its fingers through his hair. Below, the courtyard was drowned in darkness.
No movement.
He pressed forwards.
The temple loomed before him, a monolith of brute faith. Its heavy doors, a final gate. He reached for the handle when—
Footsteps.
A slow, measured tread beyond the door. His heart tightened.
The latch rattled.
The druid rushed into the cold recess of an alcove, his thin form tucked into its narrow depth as night shrouded him.
