Trials of the Hierophant: Vol. II of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (3 page)

onnor looked out over the groves from the top of the small incline just outside the main gardens. He took a deep breath of the morning air, the scent of violets dancing before the aromatic curtain of herbs and blooms. He had woken long before the first pale light of dawn pierced the canopy of the forest. He thought he would be excited for this day to finally arrive. When he lived in Cærwyn, the prospect of such a day would have filled him with utter joy. But that was before.

A chill blew from behind, and he pulled his cloak around himself. The plain robes he wore would not be enough to keep him warm once the deepest days of winter set in.

Beyond the sound of the wind, he recognized the familiar, soft footsteps which approached him. “Sawyl,” he said, grinning. “You need more practice if you wish to become an initiate soon.”

“Oh‌—‌”

Connor turned to find the boy dressed in thick robes with an elongated basket strapped to his back. “Did you make that one yourself?” he asked, suddenly ashamed of the handmade smaller one at his feet.

Sawyl shook his head. “Cathbad did.”

“Are you off to your lessons with Cathbad then?”

Sawyl nodded. “Today, he has promised to teach me more about the yew groves.”

How lucky Sawyl must be, Connor thought as he studied the boy. There were a number of proselytes, but none of whom garnered the attention Sawyl received. He had practically been fostered by Arlais itself, doted on by the senior priests and priestesses. Connor wondered if he realized the sheer amount of knowledge he had been given before even pledging to become an initiate in the order. Though it went without saying, Sawyl would become a priest someday.

“Aife tells me Cathbad is quite impressed with you.”

“He is?” Sawyl gave him a beaming, toothy grin.

Despite his lowly position as a proselyte, he had been appointed by Ceridwen as her informal attendant. The High Priest Cairbre objected at first, unsettled by the thought of a Hume male attending the high priestess, but Ceridwen was quick to allay his fears.

In addition to Connor, the senior priestess Aife had been named for the traditional, formal role of Ceridwen’s attendant. A most fortuitous appointment, as far as Connor was concerned, as she was the mistress of herbal teachings in Arlais, a subject in which he wished to excel. The ability to work closely with her, as attendants to the high priestess, would allow him to garner any information she may reveal, even indirectly.

“What are you doing today?” Sawyl asked.

“Today begins my first day of seclusion, before the rites when I take my vows.”

“Are you ready for them?”

“Yes. Although I do not look forward to remaining in seclusion for so long.”

“Until spring is a long time.”

Connor agreed, but the seclusion would be necessary for him to reflect on his devotion, and to call upon the spirits of the forest to inform them of his intentions.

Sawyl turned to walk away, but then looked at him. “Do not die.”

Connor smiled. “It is only seclusion, I will be fine.”

Sawyl shook his head. “Not that. I meant after.”

“After?”

Sawyl looked around before he spoke, his voice low. “I have heard tales of what can happen after the seclusion. Some have dangerous, violent reactions. Some cannot stand the pain. There was a priestess once. She screamed and flailed about, shouting about the flames erupting from her skin. She screamed and cried until she was out of breath‌—‌until she stopped breathing.”

Cathbad called out from across the groves. “Sawyl!”

“I better go.” Sawyl rushed off, nearly tripping over his robes.

“Me too,” Connor said under his breath. He shrugged his shoulder, feeling it tense. He did not need the initiation rites to worry him of such pain, the ever-present curse upon him saw to that all too well.

He continued to practice a silent walk through the forest, cradling the new basket that had dried only the day prior. Silence had always been a necessary skill practiced by those at Arlais, but it was more important than ever after the assault. He knew he must master the skill. He must place his feet with precision, and blend in with the trees, slowing his heart rate, breathing with shallow, calm breaths. He knew he could become almost invisible, once he perfected the technique.

The first festival to take place since the attack would occur after his seclusion. The Irlasydeni Festival celebrated the return of the fullness of life within all the plants in Dweömer. It was during this festival that the proselytes could choose to take their vows and become full initiates of Arlais.

Connor was the only proselyte who would take vows this year, however. Sawyl would, were he older, but it would be several years before he would be considered. No others had come to the forest since the events of the Ddirym Festival. He could not blame them for being frightened. He too felt a terrible dread when he woke in the mornings, waiting for the day the army finished the task that those from the Vega Outpost had started.

He was unaware of what happened in the outside world, but within the forest, all had been peaceful. If Ceridwen had seen visions or received messengers, she had not relayed any information of circumstances which may have arisen. He no longer had the luxury of questioning Ceridwen, however. She stood as the leader of the faith he would soon pledge his very life to uphold.

Connor stopped mid-stride.

Reminiscence had the ability to be a painful, gut-wrenching thing. It slithered into his consciousness without any sense of warning as the scent of sweet grass twisted his clarity into thoughts of yesterdays long since lost. An intoxicating emotion, he could feel its grip on his heart, squeezing with such force he thought he would burst from the pressure within.

He gripped the coarse bark of a birch tree next to him, peeling some of its papery sheets with his hand as he steadied himself. Memories flooded forth of his mother, the scent of sweet grass in her hair as she tucked him into bed. Then he remembered the last time he had been in his drying house at the castle. Gawain had been there. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He took a deep breath, and coughed, the dull sting of emotion still clinging to his throat. He looked down at his palm. Stained red with a spatter of blood, he wiped it on the bark of the tree before rubbing the back of his hand against his lips, finding it too was bloody.

“Ah, Connor, I worried you lost your way through the forest.” The soft-spoken voice of Orrin tore him away from the moment. “Are you ready?”

“I am.” Connor lowered his chin and hid his hand behind him as he walked toward Orrin.

Orrin led him deeper into the forest to a tiny hut sequestered away from the main grounds of Arlais. The small stream trickling into the clearing around the hut came from the sacred well at the base of the Brynmor, an offshoot of the brook flowing to the walled garden of the high priestess. Other than this water, Connor would ingest very little until the time his seclusion ended.

“Do you miss them?”

“Hmm?” Connor looked to Orrin.

“Those you left in the outside world.”

He exhaled. “I miss them as the sun misses the stars, come morning’s light.”

“Eloquent for one so young.”

The compliment was lost on Connor, muddled in his thoughts. He could not declare he had no regrets in leaving the world behind for Arlais, but he also could not bring himself to give words to his regret.

“Now, tell me why you will go into seclusion.”

“So that I might find myself closer to the spirits of the forest.”

“Not just those of the Hwerydh, but those of all the world.”

Connor nodded.

“How does seclusion help you do such a thing?”

“By leaving the noise of the world behind me, I might hope to hear the voices of the spirits within myself.”

“Very good. Your lessons have taught you well.”

“Thank you.” Connor bowed his head slightly, his old habits of bowing to royalty returning momentarily. He did wonder if he lied to the priest just then. It was a verse practiced well, but he did not know if he would hear such voices. He was only Hume, after all. There were many others in the priesthood though, he rationalized. If they could hear them, so could he.

Orrin led him deep into the forest, deeper than Connor ever dared venture before. Whispers of the wind through tree branches rustled leaves and the grasses on the forest floor.

“In the old days, there were more here.” Orrin pointed.

Connor looked toward the older man’s crooked forefinger, following it to the clearing before them. A dilapidated one-room house of stone sat in the center of the clearing next to a small creek. Surrounding the area, circles of unmortared stone and the rare scattered rock were all that remained of the other buildings which once would have housed other initiates, Connor assumed.

Sod roof. Hide-covered windows. Connor hoped it would be enough to shield him from the cold forest nights. Above the dwelling loomed the bare, white branches of a monstrous tree, long since dead to the ages.

“This was the first settlement of the Dicadah, those who came from beyond the Sea of Glass to the east.”

Connor scanned the area again. “Only five houses?”

Orrin nodded. “If that small group had not been found by our ancestors, who knows if they would have survived? Their knowledge would have been lost.”

“What knowledge?”

He smiled. “Now is not the time for that. You will learn all about our history in due course. For now, you should focus only on your growth in seclusion.”

Connor looked to his feet, not knowing why he felt embarrassed at having asked the question.

“I wish you well.” Orrin walked away, and soon Connor could not see him through the dense forest.

Connor placed his hand on the flap of leathers across the door and sighed. He placed his foot on the threshold stone and said the small prayer he had been taught to say upon entering any unknown place which caused him alarm.

He pulled back the flap and found himself surprised at the quaint abode. It had been recently cleaned, and fresh food and water had been placed on the table. Several pieces of brown bread with butter and jams on pats beside them, a handful of berries, and two slices of roasted venison were on the plate.

Connor sat down to eat, surprised to find the venison still warm. It would be the last hot meal he would eat until his seclusion ended. He looked to the corner of the room next to the stone fireplace. A large crock packed with salt and dried meat sat near a tightly-woven basket with what remained of the twigs for kindling. The stream outside provided plenty of fresh water, but that dried meat would be his only sustenance until he rejoined the others.

After eating, he realized how late in the day it had grown. Though, he thought, most light could simply be blocked out by the trees so deep in the forest.

The fireplace was empty, and he knew he would need a fire when the night grew cold. Nothing had been left to chance, and he found an axe leaning against the pile of logs outside. They would never burn properly without being split at such a size, he thought. Pulling his sleeves above his elbows, he lifted a log and turned it on its end. As he hoisted the axe above his head, he felt his shoulder strain, but ignored it as best as he could.

With four logs split, Connor found himself covered in sweat. He carried them inside, and arranged them in the fireplace before standing back up to stretch, feeling his robes stick to him with sweat.

Frowning, he stripped off his robe and placed it on the bed. As the mattress of straw rustled beneath his touch, the familiar scent of lavender filled the room.

The cool evening air brushed against his naked body, and he felt his skin dimple. The water of the stream barely reached his knees, so he knelt down to wash himself. He scooped water into his hands and splashed it up onto his face.

He looked at the fresh, pink scar across his palm, a reminder of what happened atop the Brynmor which would stay with him for the remainder of his life. Taking a deep breath, he balled his hand into a fist, feeling the raised flesh of the scar beneath his fingertips. Death had not made itself unknown to him, but never had he helped it claim a victim‌—‌until that night, that night which seemed almost a dream from another life.