Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1)

by Christopher Lee

  Dagda had seen the depths of depravity in the hearts of the first man. He had fought with the ferocity of a dragon against their perversion. Thousands fell to his war club, his sword, and his magic. Yet only at the end did he see the last glimmer of hope for their kind. It was that minute chance, where hope springs eternal that Dagda placed his faith, where he chose to live in harmony with the will of his Mother.

  “We should have destroyed them,” said the Morrighan. “Had we done what I believed necessary, she would not be forced to sacrifice her life. Her life is forfeit by your mistakes.”

  “It is not a mistake to hold hope.” said Dagda. “We both know what lays before her. We’ve seen what happens when children defy their elders. We cannot fall to the same mistakes as our brother. You were there, you saw that there was still light left within him, at the end.”

  Morrighan glared at him and turned her back. “I saw nothing, it was you who embraced him during his final moments. I turned away from your hopeless quest to salvage him eons before. Whatever hope you had for them died with him.”

  Dagda’s heart felt the cold barbs of her tongue. She had been his most beloved and loyal consort. Their hearts were intertwined, their convictions the same, yet on the matter of humans they differed. He had never understood why she had abandoned their brothers legacy.

  “Why have you remained loyal Morrighan? If your heart points you towards such enmity for them. If the poison lived within Atum, it lives too within me.”

  She turned to him and took his hand. “I stay because I believe she chose you to lead us through the darkness he brought forth. It is you Dagda, not Atum who would show us the way.”

  Dagda had never believed himself deserving of the providence that the Goddess had bestowed upon him. He doubted himself and his ability to withstand the darkness. His brother had failed to do so, and Dagda did not consider his abilities to be superior. Atum had always been more gifted, more powerful.

  “It is precisely because of that reason that she chose you my love,” said the Morrighan.

  He smiled and cradled her face in his hands. She kissed him. He had grown used to her probing mind. Her gift revealed the truth within the mind of others. Each of the Derwyddon, the survivors of the trials of Conclave were given the gift of access to the divine. It manifested itself in different ways. They were all eternal, they all manipulated magic, and they all personified a virtue of the Goddess. Together the pair were a force.

  “Why do you think I chose you?” she said. “It s courage. You have looked into the depths of yourself and seen the dragon. You’ve slain its wild nature. You are the one who rides the beast, controls it, and lets loose its rage upon your enemies.”

  “Will your passion ever cease to arouse?” he asked her.

  “If it did, would you feel weak?” she paused. “Would you miss the sound of my voice?”

  “I could not live without the power of your words.” he promised.

  They strengthened him, and she fed off of his strength.

  “Why our mother didn’t choose you to rule, I will never know.”

  “Perhaps you will relent your rule and see what a Queen would in place of a King.” she flirted, and he laughed.

  She could have him break the shackles of his conscience with a single word, and he knew it. Yet she had never coerced him into anything more than physical pleasure. She brimmed with the power of their Mother and stood a far better choice to rule. Their destiny had been decided for them, they were to live in this time, to serve. Freedom from the bonds of eternity belonged to their children. Her passion unraveled his consciousness. They fell into each other weaved by their desires.

  When they came to the Morrighan ran her fingers across the torc that remained around his neck. The tips of her fingers danced across the elaborate runic markings embedded in the metal. Dagda knew she was paying particular attention to his intention with the torc.

  “You have many torcs my love, what use does this one have? ¨ she asked.

  Dagda sat up from the cold floor of his laboratory, sweat still dripping from his body. He had kept his work secret for centuries. Though he knew she was not clueless to his pursuit, nothing remained shadowed from her sight for long.

  “There is something I must show you,” he said before standing. He reached down and took her hand lifting her from the floor. Together they walked towards his cauldron their naked forms dimly lit by the blue candle flames that surrounded his laboratory. Dagda placed his open palms above the cauldron. The torc around his neck glowed green.

  By the stars I command

  By the bones beneath the sand.

  By the skin of the tree folk,

  By moonlight I invoke,

  Forth from the twilight’s vale

  Open to me the Hallowed Veil.

  The cauldron roiled and bubbles within the waters burst spitting moisture from the metal womb. A ball of luminescence sprang from beneath the water's surface and into the air in a brilliant display of light. The light blinded all sight forcing the Morrighan to shield her eyes. Dagda watched in awe as his words provoked the realm between the worlds to come forth. He watched as she uncovered her eyes. They betrayed her disbelief. She walked around the laboratory, examining it with scrutiny.

  “The Hallow,” she whispered. “How have you done this?”

  Dagda watched her examine the magic of veil itself. They were now standing in the place where magic was born. It was the place of their strength, of their sovereignty over the physical world. Where they stood the forces of the universe converged into a well of from which they could draw.

  “With this magic we could strike down any who oppose us,” said the Morrighan. “Does Pythia know?”

  “I have not pierced the veil to harness it,” said Dagda. “If she does, she failed to report it. I’ve taken great care to hide this work from all. All save you. You are the only one I can trust with this. I show you now only that you might carry on my work if I should fall.”

  The Morrighan looked at him quizzically. Her focus remained fixed upon war. She was forged by the fires of battle and fury.

  “If not to use it, then why risk this?” she asked. “The Grove would send you into the Dreaming for this.”

  “The Hallow is not simply power. It is the gateway to our power, a door that man may no longer use. The Bane of the Fallen has cast its powerful web over the realm of men. And it has worked for thousands of years. Yet we both know it has not achieved security. Apostates are born every year among the banal folk. Each one a great threat to the peace. Should any of them present an issue that carries immunity to the curse, mankind’s power could once again return.”

  “Which is why they should be put down before their power returns,” she retorted. “With this access we could do just that. Can you not see? A world free of their sin?”

  “What would our Mother think of your lust for their blood?” he challenged.

  “She clings to her babes as any mother. That does not make it just, nor does it provide safety for our children. Ask yourself, would she act if they sought to destroy us?

  In her passion for riding the world of their tainted souls she had missed his meaning. He sought not to use this against them by crushing them outright. He could have done that if he so wished. If the Mother would allow it. However, She had been clear in her will.

  “We are Guardians, not executioners.” he said. “Or have you forgotten your oaths?”

  She huffed in retribution. “That you would strike me with such venom.”

  “I do not strike, but bear caution and sound judgment. Should our Mother’s judgment towards mankind be ill founded this magic will allow our people refuge? We can open the way to the Hallow and allow our people to retreat between the worlds. Where the petty vendetta of man cannot find our blood. We will leave them to fester and decay. And when they have gone from this world, we will rise and reclaim it.”

  She did not look pleased. “You would have our people flee, from these barbarians? To l
ive in hiding never knowing the full grace and gifts of our Mother?”

  He hung his head. “Man’s destiny must be fulfilled. You were there when she declared it so. They are the people chosen to free us all from the bondage of conflict, of the cycles of death and lead us to paradise.”

  “Paradise is here Dagda, here on this sacred ground!” she said raising her voice. “You cannot believe these men would leave us be if we retreated. Their bloodlust exceeds the boundaries of space and time. They hate us, and they will continue hating us. They will not stop here, they will hunt us to the ends of the world. Men like that bastard leader of the Penitents will never stop. Not even your veil can protect us forever.”

  Dagda looked at her, “It will buy us time. Time for the mark to present itself.”

  “You still believe the old man?” she queried. “Six thousand years have past, and nothing. No sign of it.”

  “He returns to us from slumber” he countered. “If he returns now, then it presents itself. There is hope!”

  “He is not who you think he is Dagda, he will never be. He is gone.”

  Again her words cut through to the heart of the matter. It was foolish of him to place such faith in the visions of men or gods. But he was ever the fool. Thousands of years had passed and mankind had proven no more worthy to be Her champions than the beasts of the field. The warred with each other, spilling their blood over trifles and lands they would never to hold on to. They were mortal, and they were damned to live short lives. Still, he saw something within them. For all of their terrible sin, they maintained a divine spark that was more beautiful and daring than any of he and his kind. The Fae respected Her creation, they were caretakers of it, and lived a life in harmony with nature, but they too were limited by their creation.

  “Perhaps I am the fool, and perhaps my plans to save our people will be inadequate. The Nemeton has many ways to deal with man should they once again rise and challenge her will. We can cull them, we can punish those who break the sacred laws, but never in thousands of years have I seen the sword change the heart of a man who believes in a cause.” said Dagda.

  “Then perhaps the next time you see one, you should have me hold the blade.” she retaliated. “Have you planned on telling the others of this breakthrough?”

  Dagda sighed. “I grow suspicious of their interests. A gnawing itch scratches at the back of my mind. There are some among us whose allegiances no longer lay with Her.”

  “Emyrs and Pythia remain as loyal as the day we first took up arms against him.” said the Morrighan.

  “I do not question the old born, I question those who did not fight against the demon kings. Those born to combat the dorchas have never known the true reasons the Nemeton is imperative to our survival. Nor will they ever until man commits himself to realizing his true purpose. Which is why I fear sending our dear Arabella into the trials? I do not want this eternity to be her responsibility. If only there was another way.”

  He looked at her his eyes welling with tears. He wanted to break the law with all of his might to defend his daughter. In this instance he felt exactly how the Mother did about mankind. He would move heaven and earth to save Arabella.

  “We could leave now. You, me, and our daughter. We could go now and let the world be the world. We could be a family. In the Hallow our possibilities are limitless.”

  “We both know you would never abandon your children” she jabbed.

  She paced. “Besides, there may be another way,” said Morrighan.

  Chapter Seven

  Lugh, the half-blood vagabond

  Blood of Fae, blood of man,

  Fate doth always come to call,

  To the one who can do it all.

  Few dared walk the eastern quarter at night. The night was decadent, full of debauchery and vice. In this tavern nary a soul was pure. It was the most unsavory of establishments in the eastern quarter. Filled with song, laughter, and the aroma of ale mixed with sweat and blood. Drunkards slugged each other, and night wenches worked their wares on unsuspecting fools. In the corners boggies smoked the spirit leaf. A minstrel's fingers picked the strings of his guitar as his lips told of the legend of Belenus. Tables were full as men gambled and wenches opened cask after cask of ale. The minstrel lamented the tale they had all heard.

  A man,

  A mere man,

  With a strong back and an iron will,

  Took upon himself the fate of us all.

  Belenus the man,

  Belenus the hero,

  Whose chariot flies,

  He who rides the sun.

  Will he burn as the fool?

  Or will he rise as the shining god?

  At the largest table in the tavern sat a jubilant man with a busty, lewd wench on his knee. His braided blond hair hung long against his back signifying his relation to the Ironwood Clans.. Her fingers weaved their way through his hair while his sea colored eyes lusted for her. This man understood the lesson of the minstrel’s song well. His life of folly and foolery mimicked the ancient myths and tragedies. His boisterous laugh filled the room as his companions sang the local drinking tune. He rose from the bench. Took a woman in each arm and spun them around in exuberant dance. The women’s dresses swayed in the tumultuous tornado that was the man’s drunken celebration. The minstrel had played a new tune. As the crowd sang along, the drunk sang with them.

  Let the songs be sung!

  Of hearth and home.

  Tell of the feats of heroes,

  The ale will flow,

  The women will blow,

  And the seeds shall all be sown.

  The man’s laugh roared through the tavern. His name was Lugh. He raised the tankard to his lips and chugged before slamming it down on the table. Ale splashed on the wooden floor in a fit of drunken glory. Lugh was not intimidated by the streets in the least. He had grown up in the wilds of city slums and deep forested woods. In the shadows of being a stray abandoned child Lugh was raised by the world. It was in taverns and boroughs like this where he had made his way. The only places he could ever call home. His childhood was mired in filth and hardship. Lugh wasn’t sure how any of his life had occurred as it had, it was a whirlwind of chance. In fact he didn’t see it as life, but survival.

  Tonight he didn't care about the rules or his past, tonight he drank. He met with Feorn and Dofaar. They were the best kind of scoundrels. They had all known each other since childhood. Together the three had terrorized the streets cities and the highways between. Equipped with the brains of the twins and the brawn of Lugh they were unstoppable. The three were as close as brothers who shared blood. The twins were Aélfaren, a race of people that hailed from the Vale of Enon. Their complexion was like pale blue moonlight. Their eyes were red, resembling a feline's and their ears came to a point behind their heads. The twins were two of the most wanted thieves in the great city of Formene. Both of their heads were prized at two thousand gold pieces. Their latest offense, the theft of a Baron's prized stallion.

  In unison the three of them tossed back a long gulp of sweet aromatic mead.

  “Come boys!”

  Lugh put his arms around the twins and walked them to the bar. He called out to the bartender. “Three yards of your finest mead on me!”

  The twins cheered and the patrons of the tavern smiled, minus one disgruntled looking man who drew Lugh’s eyes. He looked at the man, making out his clan markings. He could only observe for a moment before being drawn back into the festivities.

  “What's the occasion Lugh?” Dofaar inquired.

  Lugh handed them a bottle each and pried the cork from the bottle with his teeth.

  “Gentlemen. Tonight we celebrate! Because in one week's time, we will all be at the Midsummer Festival. Where all are merry and where no blood is spilled? The one time of the year where the world stops for a spell.”

  “May our purses be lined with the gold of a thousand clueless pilgrims.”Feorn chuckled.

  Feorn and Dofaar were always eager
to exploit the seasonal festivities. Stealing from pilgrims year in and year out kept their pockets lined. This year was no different, save one thing. This year the three of them were planning a big score. The plan was to steal the sword, named Honor’s Call. Forged for the Baron of the east quarter. The name of the blade was ironic considering the Baron was one of the most corrupt people in Formene. This year the boys were planning to take from the wealthy bastard and give it back to those who needed it.

  Lugh spoke, “I overheard a guardsman relaying orders for the security around the Baron. I will only be able to keep the eyes of the Oak watch off your case if you behave.”

  “Behave?” Feorn said.

  “Meaning don’t get caught this time,” replied Lugh.

  Dofaar let out a sarcastic laugh, “We'll be in and out faster than you can finish that cask of ale.”

  “Is that so?” Lugh replied.

  Feorn tapped him on the shoulder. He had moved from his seat in front of Lugh and had pilfered the coin purse off of the hulking man in an uncanny amount of time. He jingled it in front of Lugh's face and laughed.

  “I think we'll be able to lift a blade from a ridiculous old fop like the Baron.”

  Lugh grinned and sat up. His foot swept the legs of Feorn out from under him. Lugh snatched his purse back as Feorn hit the ground with a thud.

  “You see Feorn, that convoy will be guarded by five of the best. Even as slippery as you mistborn are, you’ve got to be slicker than that to evade the short tips.”

  He referred to the slang that the Aélfar called the Fair Folk. The Aélfar had long tipped ears, and the Tuatha de Danann had shorter tips. Each of the races had a demonstrative slur.

  Feorn smiled as he got up dusting off his jacket. “Short tips may have keen eyes, but you of all should know their eyes can be duped.”

  Lugh spoke through his teeth. “Hold your tongue long tip,” Feorn referred to the little known fact that Lugh was a half-blood. Besides, I’m only half short tip, the other half has no problem knocking a few teeth out of Aélfaren heads.”