For centuries these holy men had led people to hate. The druids had never gotten involved. Perhaps they had too easily accepted their slow death. It was not a war they could fight, and so locked themselves away. Thus they, too, were at fault for what followed. The teachings of his kin had been replaced by cruelty; by a violence passed down from one generation to the next. It was not the way things were supposed to be. Maybe his dreams were their reckoning; a final culling for all their wrongs.
Was it worth saving a people so misguided?
The image of the Vaich stood over piles of broken bodies guttered like a waning light.
Maybe, somehow, he could stop it.
But should he?
There came the thump of footsteps on the stair.
“He’s mad!”
The acolyte jumped, startled by the outburst. Air rushed into the druid's lungs as water dripped from his lips onto the cold stone floor. Finally, the old priest came into view, eyes red with wrath. “The Vaich has lost his mind!”
“Has the wedding been canceled then?” the druid muttered.
The priest slammed his codex upon the table. “It is the law of this sect that the Vaich shall not take into marriage, nor to bed, any unclean of the faith of flame!”
It was not an answer. Thus, the druid concluded that whatever permission the priest had requested had not been given. Salt burned in his nose and throat, but the satisfaction of seeing the man so enraged dulled his pain significantly.
“It was my understanding that should I succeed your trial, this matter would be settled.”
“You miserable wench!” The priest’s nostrils flared and he fisted the druid’s flaxen strands, jerking back his head. The druid’s toes swept the stone, trying to find purchase as his wrists ground against iron. “You ought to have died there! I should have known better than to give you over to those abominable whores. This Vaich is too naive.”
The druid’s mouth twitched weakly in amusement. “How terrible for you. Your little gold pawn is floundering.”
“You may bewitch the king, but do not think I will be as easily swayed. Mark my words heathen, youwilldeclare yourself before the fire and accept the Great Strider as king of gods!”
“I accept nothing but truth. I have seen no rider of suns nor heard his decree.”
Othrik growled, gesturing his acolyte over. “If it were up to me, you would be burned in the holy flame. But perhaps something morefamiliarwould suit you best?”
The druid bit his lip to stop its tremble. His scalp ached where the priest held tight his dripping locks, but he refused to cry out. The bucket raised before him and the dark water within reminded him of the loch.
The priest leaned into his ear, his foul breath turning the druid’s stomach. “The king requests I keep you pretty for your wedding night. But I’ve trained many a little bird like you. The Vaich is young, and violence—it ripens with age.”
His fingers tightened in the druid’s hair, and with a grunt, he shoved his head into the bucket.
This time, the druid kept his mouth shut.
The water flooded his nose and his body jerked, saying what his words would not. Instantly, he was back in the mere, his mind grasping in the darkness. But his body buckled as the priest held him tight against the wooden staves.
Thiswas what power did to men.
Long ago, they had been one; now they were martyrs and monsters.
And which would he be?
If he stayed quiet, then all he despised would come to ruin. Yet, to see them suffer, to see them slaughtered as he had on the blood-slicked battlefield of his dream…
He could have done it. Turned from his calling a second time. Yes, he was good at it by now, wasn’t he? Closing his ears. Averting his eyes. He took and took and took what was offered, but when called… he would not listen. If he fled again, what would be different? The druid had already watched his world’s slow burning. Now he could watch it bleed.
At the cost of all of Cullach, he could sentence them for their crimes. Apocalypse on the tip of one petty tongue.
It was a power he held for one fleeting moment… and, silently, let go.
Othrik wrenched him free of the bucket. The druid gulped down air, but the priest covered his mouth and nose with a gnarled hand. “The longer you fight, the more painful it will be.”
