Age of Druids (11 page)

The Mistgate filled with a watery essence when Rory placed his fingers in the hand-print on the pedestal. “You coming or not?” he asked.

“I’m in,” Sheng said. He might not approve of Rory leaving Flùranach behind in Danastai, but the others would find out soon enough. It wasn’t his place to rat Rory out. Besides, for all he knew, they might agree that Rory had done the right thing. These druids were nothing if not loyal to each other.

“Good.” Rory nodded. “Got everything?”

“Yep.” In addition to the kit they’d taken to Danastai, they’d packed extra food, a blanket each, knives, and several talismans.

Rory turned to the Mistwatcher on duty. “This gate stays open for a half hour. Make sure no one moves the destination until we come back.”

The Mistwatcher saluted in response. “As you command, my lord druid.”

Although Rory had already given the same instruction several times, the Mistwatcher didn’t complain. Sheng understood Rory’s caution. They had no idea where they were going, and neither of them trusted Ewain. He might be ancient and admittedly brilliant, but he had his own agenda. Still, Ewain clearly wanted them to succeed in getting this Cup of Cultus, so he wouldn’t gate them into a pit of fire. Probably.

Rory exhaled loudly, steeling himself. “Right.” With a glance over to Sheng, he nodded, then strode through the gate.

Hesitating only a moment, Sheng followed. When he reached the other side, a wall of resistance hit him and he gulped in a mouthful of water. One of Rory’s limbs lashed through the water and smacked into him, nearly knocking him back through. They weren’t just underwater, they were somewhere deep and dark. The only light came from strange, distant spots of glowing plant life on corroded ancient pillars and tall, flowing seaweed obscured their view even more.

Just when Sheng thought their situation couldn’t get worse, something scaly slipped by his leg, bumping him hard. Rory thrashed in the water, trying unsuccessfully to return to the gate. Sheng managed to grasp one of his arms and yank him back, closer to where they came from.

Rory’s eyes were wide with panic, and whatever creature had passed Sheng before did so again, this time with even more of a thud. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally managed to pull Rory all the way to the gate. It took all his strength, but he tugged Rory to the Mistgate and yanked him through.

They tumbled to the ground together, both coughing up seawater and gasping for breath. Rory rolled onto his side, clenching his hand into the ground as though terrified something might drag him back underwater.

“Close it!” Sheng shouted to the Mistwatcher, who obeyed immediately, then called out for help. Within moments, more Mistwatchers appeared with swords drawn.

“We’re fine,” Rory said through the coughs, although he didn’t look fine. His ginger hair was plastered to his face by the water, his skin had gone a pale shade of green, and his eyes had a haunted look.

“You can’t swim, I take it,” Sheng said.

“I’m from Scotland, ya daft git. Of course I don’t swim. You ever seen the North Sea? Bloody hell,” he spluttered.

Sheng assured the Mistwatchers they were all right, but they retreated only after he stood and helped Rory to his feet. Their bags and all the contents were soaked through. Sheng dropped his pack with annoyance. “Looks like we need a Plan B.”

Rory tried to wring out his shirt, but it was sodden. “Aye. You could say that.” He glanced at the gate with mistrust.

“So we wait and talk to the others?” Sheng kicked off his ruined leather shoes, trying to avoid stepping in the deep puddles of seawater on the garden floor.

“I don’t see any other choice,” Rory said. “We’ve got to get that artefact, but hell if I’m going back in there.”

Sheng nodded. “We’d best find Hon about getting someone to clean this mess up.” Royals and dignitaries who didn’t yet have permanent gates in their halls used the Mistgate daily.

“Aye,” Rory said, looking around. After a moment, he met Sheng’s eye. “Thanks, mate. You saved my life.”

“It was nothing.” Sheng shrugged, but he suspected Rory might have been right. The Scottish druid had been in a full-blown panic and easily could have drowned.

“Well, thanks anyway,” he said and shook Sheng’s hand. “I owe you.”

“We’d best get changed. Hon’ll have a fit with all the water we’re going to track through the Hall.”

“He’s fussy as an old woman, that one,” Rory said, smiling for the first time since they started their journey in Danastai. With another glance at the gate, he shuddered and the grin faded.

Chapter 7

The following night, Munro was tired, frustrated, and needed some time alone. He knew he should be down in the transport hub working on the large gates, but instead, he sat in the druids’ workshop, moulding an iron diadem. The metal responded to his touch even better than stone. When the size and shape were right, he took his stylus and inscribed runes inside the ring. Some he copied directly from his flute and others he chose from intuition alone.

Blowing on that damned flute all the time was inconvenient, but Munro had grown dependant on the ability to see the flows. He’d already tried creating a ring, but it didn’t give the right current of power. He hoped an item worn on his head would give him more directional control and perhaps something he wouldn’t need to breathe through. One interesting thing he’d learned from using the flute was that the body had certain seats of power: one at the head, another in the chest, one at the stomach, and one at the groin level. His own came from his head. Whether the location offered a reflection of his sphere or his personality, he didn’t know.

Hours passed as he worked, shaping and playing with the runes, seeing them dance in response to his efforts. Over the past months, he’d come to understand Ewain and why he always referred to the fae as “our creatures.” The fae were, in many ways, like living artefacts. Although he had no doubt of their sentience and independence, the flute had shown him that everything about them was a complex dance of magical flows, embodied in flesh and blood in the same way the piece in his hands had begun to take on the characteristics of the magic he used to shape and enchant it.

Standing to stretch, he considered the diadem. Maybe if he put it inside a baseball cap, the other guys wouldn’t think he’d gone crazy by wearing a bloody crown. They’d never let him live that down. It wasn’t his fault that as a stone druid, metals responded better to his gifts than wood or cloth. Sheng’s air talents poured miraculously through fabric, and he’d been experimenting with stitching runes. Lisle’s blood flows clung to leather in a way Munro envied. If he showed Sheng this metal piece, perhaps the Aussie druid could make up some kind of bandana to do the same thing.

Hon entered the workshop, hovering at the door. “My lord druid, you’re being called to the council.”

“The what?” Munro asked.

“I relayed the message two hours ago. You said you were available to attend.” Hon sniffed his disapproval with the barest of movement.

Rather than confess he hadn’t really been listening and had only said whatever necessary to get Hon to go away, Munro nodded. “Of course. I misheard you.”

“Naturally, my lord druid,” Hon said with a slight smile.

“Where are they meeting again?”

“The great hall,” the head steward replied, as though well aware of the druid’s attempt at misdirection.

Munro raised his eyebrows. The druids never used that room for their private talks, not that they often held formal meetings. For the most part, they used it to allow faeries to come meet with the unbonded druids and test for a potential match. With Huck and Demi gone, though, they’d stopped doing the formal testing. Lisle said if faeries wanted to talk to her, they could come help her work in the city, and Sheng had followed suit.

After thanking Hon, Munro made his way toward the great hall, turning the diadem over in his hand as he pondered. The magic of the runes inscribed on it practically jumped off, barely clinging to the surface. He wanted very much to put the piece on to test its effectiveness, but he’d wait until he had some privacy. As he sensed the power imbued in the iron, a flutter of excitement filled him.

When he entered the great hall, he saw he was the last to arrive. Narrow, rectangular tables had been positioned to form an octagon, with seats placed along the outside. Only one chair was empty, one at the head of the room, a conspicuous position which meant he wouldn’t be able to slip in unnoticed.

All the available druids were present, along with the faeries they were bonded to. Munro met Eilidh’s grey eyes immediately. What was she doing here, and who had called her? He tried unsuccessfully to interpret the circumspect look on her face. He’d been so wrapped up in his runework that he hadn’t noticed her presence at the Hall. Tràth had come too, much to Munro’s surprise. Even more of a shock was the attendance of a fair number of the keepers. The druids worked with them frequently, but rarely did they put in a formal appearance at the Hall.

The room went silent as he entered, and their stares weighed on him. He caught more than a few glances at the diadem in his hand, and he grumbled to himself. Why hadn’t he left it in the workshop? He knew why, of course. The new artefact was a compelling piece, full of promise, and he wasn’t yet ready to let go. An apology came to his lips, but Aaron saved him the embarrassment.

“Good,” Aaron said. “Right on time.” He waved to the empty seat. “I was just explaining the ground rules.”

“We have rules?” Munro asked and got a chuckle from the room in response.

“Only for the moment,” Aaron said, tapping the table nervously. “We’ve asked our fae bonding partners to listen in but not to speak unless asked a question, and requested a vow of secrecy about anything they hear tonight.”

“What’s going on?” Munro asked as he lowered himself into the wooden armchair.

Aaron glanced at Douglas, who addressed Munro’s question. “Last night, Keeper Fiyr brought the Hall a proposal. Aaron and I discussed the matter briefly with Lisle. We decided the idea warranted a full meeting of the Hall.”

Fiyr, flanked by several keepers and seated directly across from Munro, acknowledged him with an eager nod. Munro studied the other faces around the table. Rory and Sheng looked as clueless as he felt. He met Eilidh’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She answered with a slight shake of her head. Glancing down at the runed diadem in his hand, she gave him a puzzled look. She had as many questions as he did.

Aaron sat at the table to Munro’s right. “Keeper, would you like to lay out what you suggested to us last night?”

“Certainly,” Fiyr replied. His gaze met Munro’s. “We propose the Druid Hall raise a monarch to sit on the throne at Rìoghachd nan Ceòthan, a kingdom we predict will grow to be the centre of government for the Otherworld.” Gesturing to the keepers on either side of him, he said, “We offer ourselves as your conclave, to advise and serve however necessary.”

No one spoke as Munro took the information in. Typically, he liked faeries’ blunt manner. At the moment, he was too shocked to reply. He looked to the faces of the other druids, and then to their fae bond-mates. Prince Tràth appeared pensive, Joy subdued, as though she’d known exactly what Fiyr planned to say. Lastly, Munro met Eilidh’s eyes. Her brow knitted into a thoughtful frown.

With a sigh, Munro said, “No.”

“All due respect, mate,” Aaron began, “but you don’t speak for all of us.”

“That’s the point,” Munro said. “I
don’t
speak for you. None of us have ever been over any other. We can form a formal council, even make a few rules if that makes you happy, but to give one person supreme authority over the others? Over the entire Otherworld? I for one wouldn’t want the responsibility. Would any of you?” With a gesture to Eilidh, he said, “And we expect the queens to be okay with this? Hell, they have enough trouble with things as they are.”

“That’s a portion of my point, my lord druid,” Fiyr said. “Much of the conflict arises out of confusion. You druids, if you don’t mind me speaking frankly, have tried so hard not to assert authority that the few times you’ve needed to, your actions or words have come as a shock. I suggest you put a monarch on the throne; provide a structure the queens will understand and respect. They can choose to stand with you or not, but who would stand against you?”

“What do we have to gain from this?” Munro asked.

“Peace,” Fiyr replied. “Stability. Structure. The rule of law for Rìoghachd nan Ceòthan. The city at our doorstep has already grown into the seed of a druid kingdom. Its palace sits empty, and new citizens arrive every night to serve you there. By building this place, faeries from many kingdoms have created a place for you.”

Munro sat back, waiting for someone else to speak. No one did. “Aaron?” Munro prompted. “What do you think?”

“The idea makes sense. If one of us doesn’t take the throne in Ceòthan, the city will either become a lawless frontier, which isn’t good for anyone, or one of the other queens may try to claim it. Since the reunification of the Otherworld, geographically, we’re closest to Tvorskane, Ashkyne, and Zalia, so that could very well mean Zdanye, Konstanze, or Naima on our doorstep.”