Trials of the Hierophant: Vol. II of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (7 page)

onnor watched as the gossamer sheets of misty rain moved over the forest. Waking in a cold sweat that morning because of the damp weather, he took comfort in the sun’s evening light as it broke through the pale storm clouds.

He wondered what Ceridwen’s new position had taxed her within the time of his seclusion. Certainly, he knew, she could handle whatever faced her, but the possibilities piqued his curiosity. He looked forward to seeing her, to seeing anyone, upon taking his vows. The tradition to remain in contemplative seclusion with only the forest and the Deities as companions seemed mystical and spiritual at first, but it had grown to be a lesson in patience more than anything else.

Orrin would come for him soon. Connor felt his face redden with embarrassment. He had heard nothing‌—‌nothing out of the ordinary, at least. He heard the wind through the trees and the songs of birds outside the hut. He heard the babbling of the stream. He heard the taps of raindrops on the roof when it stormed. He did not, however, hear Their voices.

After such a time without hearing the sound of another voice, he welcomed the idea of leaving the sepulchral clearing. He did not enjoy the foreboding thoughts which haunted him. Alone with the sound of the wind whistling through the boughs of the trees, he thought, for only a moment when he looked up at the swaying leaves, he heard the whispers of the forest folk. Did his mind play tricks on him? Or was it too much to hope the forest itself granted him welcome?

During his seclusion, it became customary for him to rise as the first light reached the window. Though he knew it could not be earlier than midday for the sun to break through the canopy, he looked upon the time as dawn. With such little light each day, he slept longer and longer in time. Though his instruction from Orrin did not include it, he heard rumors that to sleep for such long hours had been known to be frequent among initiates. Perhaps, he thought, it was through his dreams he was meant to make contact with the Gods.

In his time in Arlais, he learned the single most important tenet they strived to uphold: all were one. That very bit of knowledge remained the truth at the center of the arcanum. To be part of Arlais was to hold true to this single grain of sand. Even those who followed the Maker held part of that truth within them, no matter how hidden within it might be. But to be a priest of Arlais was to know the greatest of the arcana, the Dieties, whatever the name, were from one universal divinity.

He frowned as he looked at his dwelling. He could not remember how many days he had spent there. The sun rose and set, and it had all become a blur. He would be most glad to rid himself of that horrible cramped hut in the forest. Damp with the coming of the spring rains, his sleep never gave him more than a few hours rest. Though, he was soon to reside in the house of priests where he did not imagine sleep came any more willingly.

He found it hard to believe he had been in Arlais for almost two seasons, and soon a third. Yet, he could hardly remember a time without the comfort of the wood surrounding him. Cærwyn and his childhood seemed so far now, swept away in the past. He wondered how his uncle fared and hoped his days were not filled with worry at his absence from court. No messenger came to Arlais from Cærwyn. A messenger from Helygen remained an infrequent enough occurrence that news of the outside world came to rely on scouts from the inner workings of the forest. In times past, such action would not have been necessary, but with the Lady Rhiannon gone and the world on the brink, information the scouts provided were of great import.

Connor crossed his arms, ready to leave the rough cloth robe behind him at the end of the day. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. A somber tingle went up his spine. Though he would rejoin the others in a short time, never had he felt more alone. He thought of Gawain and where he must be and if he yet lived. He struggled with the bitterness he felt over what he sometimes saw as Gawain’s defection. Now that he was conscribed to the Goddess, there was no way to know when, or if, he would ever return. It was an unsettling thought. He let so few people get close to him. It was insufferable to think of never seeing Gawain again.

“He has made his vows, in his own way.” Connor spoke aloud to the trees, to the Gods, to whomever could hear his wavered voice. “And now, I shall make mine.”

The canopy of trees blocked out the sunlight and signaled the start of the ritual. All that was left for him to do was wait.

“Connor.” The soft-spoken voice of the elderly priest, Orrin, crept up behind him.

He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Is it still your wish to stay here among us, young one?”

“Yes, very much so,” Connor answered in the hushed voice of habit.

“Then you mean to take your vows this night?”

“I do.”

For a moment, Connor found himself swept in the tides of matters which occurred, and his head swam. So few had returned to Arlais. It was true that there were still many, but compared to their numbers before the assault, they paled.

“What shall you require of me?” Connor asked. Before this night, he had not been told the depths of what it meant to take vows.

“You will pledge yourself to serve the God and Goddess in Their truest forms, which you shall come to know through your service. And to recognize as part of this service an allegiance to the High Priest and Priestess, as they are Their vessels in this plane.”

Ceridwen, a vessel for the Goddess Herself. Connor still found it difficult to comprehend. Yet, he found it befitting that the woman who played mother to him as a child should now speak for the great mother of them all.

He thought of the many things he would surrender in his service, and for but a moment he felt doubt in his heart. While Arlais had been all he ever longed for, now that he stood on the precipice before his decision, the uneasiness in his stomach grew. Excitement and fear warred within his gut, for he knew once he entered the fold of the priesthood, his destiny was no longer his own.

“Child?”

“I am ready.”

“Come.” Orrin took his hand in guidance.

Connor then noticed several other priests had entered into the clearing. Dark blue paint covered, but did not fully obscure, the faces of men he knew as friends. One priest came forward and lifted Connor’s hand as though it were as fragile as a new blossom in spring. Another, whom Connor recognized behind the mask of paint as Llewelyn, walked toward him with a small bowl in his hand.

As Llewelyn dipped his finger into the concoction, Connor closed his eyes, able to smell the pungent aroma of herbs within the blue paint. His skin tingled as Llewelyn drew the symbols of their people upon Connor’s skin. He knew from Aife it was not the woad pigment which caused his skin to react, but the herbs and mushrooms crushed within, the recipe being a most sacred part of the Arlaïn arcanum. He sniffed the concoction and smelled the belladonna locked within. The paint helped sever his ties from the world and allowed him to see with vision unclouded. He would be able to see and hear the God and Goddess as well as the spirits of the forest.

When Connor opened his eyes, he realized the priests had already led him into another clearing. From the brazier light, he saw Ceridwen and Cairbre in front of a large bed of flowers placed upon boughs of cedar. The priests led him forward to stand before them.

As Ceridwen spoke, Connor’s vision grew hazy. He felt the cool metal of a cup touch his bottom lip, and he sipped the sweet elixir as it entered his mouth. A honeyed drink to hide the unpleasant taste of the aconite steeped within the brew, working in tandem with the paint upon his skin.

Some time passed, and he realized he lay upon the bed of flowers. He did not remember being led or carried to them, but the surrounding strong scent of cedar and violets confirmed where he was. His cheek rested on his hands and, just beyond the haze he saw the crowd.

A priest peeled back his robe down to his waist, exposing his back to the cool night air. He gasped as the first pinprick of the sharpened quill pierced his skin. With each tap of the quill, he felt the pigment sink beneath his flesh. Dots, lines, and swirls spread across his back and chest as a priest worked his magicks.

He flinched when two others poured lavender-scented water over his tender skin, but the sting soon faded.

Though his eyes remained closed, Connor sensed he no longer dwelt in Arlais. The earthly world had faded away, and he inhabited a place he did not recognize.

Eyes open, he felt his stomach turn. He flew far above the ground. The whole of Dweömer spread out beneath him for many leagues around. He saw the world as the birds saw it, and he forgot to be frightened.

He looked to the north and saw the snow-covered mountains of the Gabraëth range. Despite his great height, he could see the people beneath him. Gweliwch was teeming, preparing for war. Thick, gray clouds of smoke rose against the crisp backdrop of white snow, and he could smell the stench of iron.

To the east, turmoil ravaged the Annwydian countryside. He watched the poverty-stricken inhabitants of the kingdom scavenge for even the smallest scrap.

Connor heard his own voice cry out. “Their Maker has forsaken them, and yet they still blindly follow his teachings.”

A woman’s voice, foreign but which contained familiarity, came from all around him. “Is that so different from those at Arlais?”

Then a bright flash blinded him.

He had no idea what it was. But when he regained his eyesight, he once again saw Dweömer below. Armies marched across the land and carried destruction with them. The banners of Gweliwch, Annwyd, and Cærwyn met on their battleground: Arlais. Flames from the Hwerydh Forest licked at the edge of the Brynlands to the north and the plains to the south.

“This cannot be!” Connor shouted.

In another instant, he found himself standing upon the ground, a thick cloud of dust swirling at his feet. As the dust cleared, he could see corpses all around. He did not recognize the blood-stained ground sprawled out before him.

As his eyes fell upon a huddled mass, his stomach turned. Gawain lay before him, bloody and bruised. Yet, he still lived. Dust once again swirled around him as he reached out to Gawain, and Connor found himself enshrouded in darkness.