Though, he could hardly believe any scholar of the An’Atherin might concern themselves with the words of druids.
One passage in particular struck him.
“From the notes of Malthnur, on the Black Tide and the coming of the Muuirn…It began in the dead of Mírach, when the seas turned to iron. The fisherfolk of the western cliffs saw first the shapes upon the tide—vast pale ships. With no horn and no banner, they came. Not men, nor creatures known, but things of ruin—made of ice and skin and the oldest stone. They moved without word, without want, save for one thing alone: the flesh of men. But they found the world empty of offering.”
As he read, the druid’s mind danced in dreams. The scene from the lake was again within his head; the apparitions moving, just as monstrousas he recalled them, but clearer now. They were giants, great and fearsome, with hulking bodies built for destruction.
“Then, the great beasts turned their heads to the sky, and one by one, waded back into the dark, carried off by the tide that had borne them.”
And just like that, they were gone. The creatures… the vision… the room was still.
They had come before.
His mind worked, grinding the truths down, yet they became no more digestible. Had he seen the future? Or had he simply remembered something all memory had forgotten?
But the image of the Vaich stood bloody on the field would not subside.
If they had come before… could they come again? If itwasa warning, then a world awaited without moon. Without sun. And only he now knew of its coming.
But what could he do? Aside from that record, he had no proof but his own spoken word, and he could hardly believe himself. His only ally, Hirí, was leagues away at the Augeri, and the Oracle had yet to wake.
He did not even know if such creatures could be defeated.
How had it happened before?
No matter how many times he read the passage, it became no more clear.“Empty of offering…?”
A noise stirred his blood and the druid’s head shot up. Footsteps on the stair. His heart pounded. He tore the page from the tome, folding it as gingerly as he could manage.
The footsteps grew heavier.
He blew out the lantern light and searched the room for a place to hide. But this time, there were no corners deep enough to stow him.
A sound—the fluttering of wings and the scratch of stone. He glanced to the window, his eyes catching the familiar silk feathers upon the ledge.
“Ainfír?” he gasped. The raven looked at him, tilting its head. The druid rushed over. Standing on his tiptoes, he pushed the parchment through the small opening. “Ainfír, keep this safe. I must go, but I promise you ten crusts if you’ll help me.”
The raven chittered, and the druid hushed him as the door swung wide. He darted behind a shelf as the footsteps echoed louder. The gold ofa fresh lantern dripped inside. There came a hoarse, gruff clearing of the throat. The druid recognized the voice at once.
Othrik.
He pressed against a shelf, as if he could contort himself smaller. His breath grew in the tightness of his chest, but he dared not release it.
There came the rustling of papers and the clink of the iron lantern upon its hook.
The druid was still.
“Be gone, vermin!” He tensed as the old priest swept into view, shooing the raven on the sill. “You are ill omen!”
The creature cawed at him loudly, ruffled at the man’s animated waving. Then it reached down, snapping up the folded parchment with its beak and hurried off.
“Damned thing…” Irritably, the priest turned, his rabid eyes falling squarely upon the druid.
His blood ran cold.
“You,” hissed the priest. “By flame… is this some foul vision?”
“Yes,” whispered the druid. “You are terribly delirious. Lay down your head and be fast asleep.”
