Rhynie, Aberdeenshire - c. 570 CE
Broichan had not expected to be afraid.
Thirty years old, and he had witnessed more descents than he could count. He had sat on the ledge above the sacred pool while Drust walked the deep roads, while Forcu held the thread, while the mysteries of the deep waters revealed themselves to everyone but him. He had documented everything. He had understood nothing.
Now Derelei stood before him in the spring house, her pale eyes assessing him the way she assessed a symbol stone—looking for meaning, for the shape beneath the surface.
"You're certain?" she asked.
"No." His honesty surprised even himself. "But Forcu's fever hasn't broken. The king requires a reading before the solstice council. And Drust—" He gestured toward the walker who waited by the pool's edge. "—Drust cannot go deep without a holder."
"Holding isn't witnessing. You understand this."
"I've watched it done my whole adult life."
"Watching isn't doing." Derelei moved closer, lowering her voice. "When the door closed to you, all those years ago—that wasn't failure. The gift shows itself differently in each of us. Some walk. Some hold. Some read. Some witness. You witness. That is your making."
"And if I also have capacity to hold? If it was never tested because I was too young when they tested for walking, and then too proud to try the other role?"
"Too proud," Drust said from across the chamber. He hadn't moved from his position by th…
