“I know the ache you feel,” he said. “It will never heal, my daughter, but you can use it to fuel your purpose. What you hold in your heart for Lugh will never leave, but you can afford him a life, a purpose, a destiny that will serve our people. Is that not worth harboring the pain within your own heart?”
His words were true. It was time to eliminate foolish and childish feelings, not matter how hard it hurt. She focused the pain into anger, and the anger into resolve, it was a potent process of inner alchemy. She looked at her father, and they shared tears. His heart ached as hers did, a bond among the fairy folk caused them to bare each other’s burdens.
“What would you have me do my King?” she asked.
Chapter Nineteen
Pythia, the High Priestess of the Great Goddess
In womb of Earth do they meet,
Verses sung to Her heartbeat,
One among them sows deceit.
Spring was upon the land. The island of Eíre was painted by colored blooms and budding trees. Surrounding the ancient stone city of Tara, were millions of tents for the millions of pilgrims that had flocked to hallowed ground. It was an enchanting sight that was sure to befuddle the minds of those gathered. On this forbidden island, the masses would witness a story, that would turn to legend, before falling into deep myth. None understood the gravitas of the moment more than the High Priestess Pythia did.
Pythia knelt before the altar in the Temple of the Goddess and prayed. Candles and fresh flowers adorned the stone circle that encircled a gargantuan oak tree in the temple’s sanctuary. Inside the bark, within the pulp of the massive oak was a soul older than her own.
“Greetings sister,” said Pythia.
The branches swayed in response, and the bark croaked as the nature spirit stirred.
“I come because I do not know who to speak to. The children of the cities return to our hallowed shores. They come from every corner of this world to revere our Great Mother, but I fear their presence. These children have forgotten purpose, they seek to control lands, not to live at their side.”
Pythia had been raised in the Order from youth. It was these lands she was born of. Though Pythia had endured many incarnations, this body had never Eíre. Never had she seen so many of the progeny of the Goddess.
“They are legion. So many that come here do not understand you live as I do. Your kind will suffer in these months as the rest of the world will when they leave this place. You must have faith in our Mother, O’ Great Oak King, Lord of the Forest. Send word to the saplings, the groves, and the thickets that men return to Eíre. They are to have heard the prodding footfall of the horde descending upon us.”
Pythia rose and pressed her hand against the tree, “Dig your roots deep old friend and weather the coming storm.”
Pythia left the sanctuary and returned to her chambers in the tower. From the tower atop the holy temple Pythia and her acolytes watched as the faithful gathered. Bonfires lit up the night as far as the eye could see. Three fortnights had come and gone since she had sent word to each Nemeta. The news had spread far and wide, and millions had already arrived in Tara, with millions more still en route. Many would arrive after the trials of the Conclave began. The would continue to do so until the final days of the Festival at Midsummer's Eve. Over the course of the next two-and-a-half months, Pythia and the Sacred Grove would oversee the largest gathering of souls in a thousand years.
Pythia grabbed the hands of two of her acolytes. “Sisters would you join me in prayer to our Great Mother?”
The nine acolytes who attended her joined hands in a circle. They were of all races, creeds, and countries. Each had come into Pythia’s service of their own accord, sacrificing the lives they had hoping to bring peace, love, and light to the world.
“Great Mother our creatrix, our Goddess who reigns over all. We come humbly into your service.” their voices spoke in perfect unison. “May your Bards keep the Law. May your Ovydds heal and bring comfort to the weary. Bless this land that is without sin, for upon it stand your tainted children. May we be given the wisdom, the serenity, and the grace we need to light their paths in the coming months.”
The circle of feminine devotion swayed in ecstasy as their souls reached out and touched part of the divine. By their faith they conjured the warmth, beauty, and intelligence of the Goddess.
“The worlds of men and Fae have grown vast. Their numbers multiply in the prosperity of the peace you forged from the fires of the First Age. Blessings be upon our orders, the Bards, the Ovydds, and the Derwyddon. Blessings be upon the Golden Fist of your will. Blessings be upon the High Priestess, whose mouth and ears connect us to your celestial grace. Make light the weight upon her shoulders, so she can show us all the meaning of your strength. As the multitude looks to her to answer their prayers in the coming days, bless her with the wisdom your children need. Bless the city of Tara, the last bastion of hope. May it be a city upon a hill for all to see in the coming darkness. This we pray in your name, Awen.”
Pythia opened her eyes and looked upon her sisters. They had revived her body after her last communion with the Goddess. She had taken rest in the arms of the forest. She’d recovered her strength by joining with an oak tree deep within the wood. No matter how many times she walked the spirit world, it had diminished her. She had remained in folds of the forest for several weeks before making way to the holy city three days ago.
“Sisters, in two months we will welcome the incarnation of the Goddess. Many of Her children will not comprehend the events of the trials. When the sky is torn open and thunder crashes against their ears, they will be fearful. It is our duty to be the comforting hands that bring her flock from her power and show them her mercy and grace.” said Pythia. “Has all been prepared for the others?”
“Yes Mistress,” said the head acolyte. “The final members of the Circle arrived in the holy city two days hence. Per your instructions I sent invitations entreating them to meet you in the mystic caverns.”
In the coming weeks, there would be many meetings both political and religious, in both public and private. The Hidden Circle had many members that held both political offices besides their Oath of Surrender, but in the mystic caverns below the Grand Temple affiliations outside of the Oath were forbidden. In the dampness of the womb of the Earth herself, the Derwyddon revealed their true fealty.
“High Priestess,” the voice of one of her acolytes brought her back to the present. “It is time to prepare you.”
Her acolytes dressed her in the regalia of the High Priestess. She was draped with snakes and bored the sacred markings of the Goddess in paint upon her hardened skin. She wore a headdress of antler, branch, and fruit. They sprayed her with the refined scent of flowers and showered her in blessings. Each one cast the power of their spirits into their work in reverence of Pythia’s holy office.
Pythia stood before a mirror in her chambers and viewed their work. “You have blessed me sisters. Our Mother would be most please by your devotion.”
She closed her eyes and enjoyed a quiet moment.
“High Priestess the ArchMagus Amyrannii has requested to escort you to the caverns. What shall I tell him?” asked one acolyte.
“His presence is most welcome. Show him in.” said Pythia.
Pythia peered into the mirror and felt the familiar presence of the Morrighan staring back at her. Ever since she had called on her within the grove, their connection had lingered. It was a product of any spell that exceeded the limits of time and space. She had broken something in the Hallow when she’d called the Morrighan to her aid. Pythia had wondered if the effects of her call were permanent.
Phantom Queen, Battle Fury, Wise Crone how may I be of service? Pythia transferred her thoughts to the Morrighan.
They had spent the past weeks exploring this strange side effect of her call. They had enjoyed a modicum of success in communicating over vast distances. Morrighan in Formene, and Pythia in Eíre.
I wish to know Amyrannii’s mind. He has
been all too quiet about the Seræphym. The Morrighan responded. Dagda feels it is connected to Falbanach’s emergence from the dreaming.
What would you have me do? Asked Pythia.
Allow me to remain behind your eyes and ears. Said the Morrighan.
Is that wise? If he suspects we conspire, he will use it against the Fist. The Circle is not what it once was, he has won allies within the Circle. Should we be suspected of collusion against his agenda will we not risk dividing the chamber? Pythia inquired.
The chamber is already divided. Let him weave his petty score, he is but an ant, a man who should have never been given the power he holds. In time he will reveal his true face. Said the Morrighan.
So be it. Said Pythia. Meet us halfway through the catacombs. It may catch him unaware.
Pythia maintained her connection to the Morrighan. She heard her acolytes ushering him. He entered her chambers and bowed.
“High Priestess,” said Amyrannii. “You are a vision of her beauty. I am grateful you have seen me fit to escort you to the Circle.”
Pythia turned to him. He was a peculiar looking man, or perhaps it was her opinion. His blonde hair, his beady green eyes and his curled lips often spoke of his disdain for the others. He was a power hungry sort, characteristic of his breed. Men had always turned her stomach. Their metallic synthetic ways stood in sharp contrast to her own people. Though she was of the uncivilized tribes, she had lived many years among the civilized who lived in the Grove. They were an ungrateful, short sighted lot. Amyrannii was no different. Though he bore the mark of the Three Rays, she had never seen him as an equal. He’d mastered many of the most secret arts of the Order. Amyrannii had merged with, a shape-shifting primordial river spirit when he took the Oath of Surrender, giving him remarkable alacrity in shape-shifting. He was not only a shifter but a druid of the most powerful magnitude.
“ArchMagus, the pleasure is mine,” said Pythia. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
She watched him walk about her chambers fiddling with trinkets. His way was one of deception and misdirection. He was a formidable ally, the sort needed to combat the evil incarnation of Atum when he was born. Now he served well in routing out apostates and containing political threats like the Penitents.
“I come because word has reached my ear that the sleeper has awoken?” he inquired of Falbanach.
Pythia was unsure how to respond, Amyrannii was fishing for information. It was his way, his power had come from his agenda against apostates. He’d hunted them with reckless avarice, which proved his loyalty to their charge, even if she and the oldborn did not approve of his methods.
Give him what he wants, he will reveal his hand. Said the Morrighan.
“Your ears are well trained. Falbanach has risen from the dreaming though none of us have heard any word from him. I would expect your bards have more knowledge than I of his whereabouts and whence he will come.” said Pythia.
Amyrannii’s face betrayed his irritation. “They have sent word. He makes his way by way of the road. I am afraid the road is long and fraught with danger from his Caer within the Greatwood, will the old beggar be capable enough to complete the journey? Perhaps I should send my bards to escort him.”
“I do not believe he requires our aid anymore than Dagda does in reaching the sacred isle. I trust he remembers the way.” said Pythia.
“Ah. Perhaps you might clear it up for me. Did the Goddess mention her reasons for ending his sentence?” he asked.
He reeks of fear and deception. Said the Morrighan.
Deceptive he is, but you should understand better than most true deception is not so blatant. It would seek to place someone like Amyrannii in its wake. Could it not be misdirection? Asked Pythia.
Show the wretch his place. Use his fear, he will reveal himself. Said the Morrighan.
“You’re distracted High Priestess, is there something I should know about?” pried Amyrannii.
Pythia looked at Amyranni her eyes aflame with blue fire her voice laced with the power of thunder. “You well know her words are for my ears alone. I am her word on Earth. I will decide when, where, and whom hears the word. You cannot enter my chamber and demand this of me. Nor should you show such weakness before one of the Circle.”
Amyrannii stepped back. “Do you threaten me High Priestess?”
Pythia’s voice returned, “No, I do not threaten Amyrannii. I promise that if you ever cross that line with me again, you will know her wrath.”
He was taken aback. Pythia was a soft spoken member of the Circle. She was graceful, prim and proper. But she felt the Mother stirring within her. As the months progressed closer to the Midsummer sun she became filled with the power of the natural world. In this time when she was possessed by the Goddess, she was unparalleled in her raw power. Even the other members of the Derwyddon feared her ability.
“Falbanach’s return is not your concern. It is not your place to question her will, nor is it mine. Lest I allow the crone to visit you as she did in your Trial of Nwyfre.”
She watched Amyrannii’s skin crawl at her name. He had a fear of the crone, of the wise woman whose mastery of life and death far exceeded the short bright shining life of a mans. While they mastered the light of the masculine, the females held mastery over the infinite dark. She knew he coveted that power, but power such as the shadow could never be granted to those who fear it.
“I beg your forgiveness High Priestess.” said Amyrannii as he bowed before her. “I was carried away with zeal. It is my station to be ever cautious and suspicious of those who have shown a disregard for her sacred will.”
Pythia nodded. “You are forgiven, son of Atum.”
He shows no sign of betrayal, though he hides something from us. I will drag it from him in council. Said the Morrighan.
She placed her palm upon his head, “Rise and take my arm. The others await our arrival.”
They proceeded to stairs that led below the Temple of the Goddess into the depths of her womb.
Meanwhile, the Morrighan walked through the narrow passageways of the catacombs far below the Grand Temple. The hour of the night was as peculiar as was the place. She and the other members of the Circle were called to confer. Such cloak and dagger meetings were rare in recent memory, even for their Order. The entire organization of the Nemeton had grown complacent. The Fir Bolg a century before, the rebellion of Caer Ironwood, were both omens of a coming dorcha. Omens the Grove did not foresee.
The Morrighan felt as remiss as any in not detecting the coming darkness. She should have foreseen the magical man in Fo was a sign of something larger on the horizon. She was the protector of the Vale and leader of that Nemeta.
The Fir Bolg foreigner’s impassioned speech at the Great Hall of Balor was a public display of man’s arrogance and inability to remain humble.
She wasn’t sure what to make of the man or his silver tongue. No doubt many were taken by his charm, not to mention the mystical gifts with which he hoped would woo the leaders of men to his cause.
The dorcha itself did not concern the Morrighan. Darkness came and went, the entire reason for the Oath of Surrender was to create a soul capable of cleansing the blight.
What is more pressing was the growing dissonance of man? She Thought.
She placed her concern aside momentarily. Tonight she would reconnect with ancient allies and her closest friends. Morrighan had not seen Pythia in person in many years. She’d not seen her since Pythia had incarnated again. It would be momentous to engage with her equals once again as their gatherings diminished in the last few centuries.
Morrighan was enjoying exploring this new found connection with the High Priestess. She thoroughly enjoyed how Pythia had made the ArchMagus Amyrannii squirm. Though Morrighan was a powerful sheFae in her own right, she marveled at the raw power of Pythia.
The Morrighan saw light spilling out of a crypt as she rounded the corner before the entrance into the large caverns. Her feet were swift and silent as
she disappeared from view. She hoped she would glean secrets from the other members of their clandestine congress. As each of others had their particular charge. There were many secrets between them. Each of them held a sacred power that the other did not. The Morrighan knew above all, that power was how wars were won, and war was her precious child.
Inside the crypt, ArchMagus Amyrannii and the High Priestess were engaged in conversation. They spoke to each other in the infinite language, the language known only to the Goddess and those who’d taken her Oath of Surrender.
“Have the Seers within the Ovyddic Order gleaned knowledge from the A’kasha about this matter with the Seræphym and the apostates?” The High Priestess Pythia asked Amyrannii.
“Nay. If a sinister plot has been forged by a force either foreign or domestic, the Order remains blind to its machinations. If you recall even the Fir Bolg remained hidden from our view.” explained Amyrannii.
His voice was pure and clear, yet the Morrighan detected that he was hiding something from Pythia, something he’d buried deep within himself. The Morrighan watched through Pythia’s eyes as the Amyrannii spoke. She wondered about the man, where he’d come from, and from which heap of dung he had crawled out of before he was selected as tribute to the Conclave over four centuries ago.
Despite his humble beginnings as one of the banal folk from land of Elam, Amyrannii ascended the rungs of power. His office superseded that of the Morrighan. He controlled the two lesser orders of the Bards and Ovydd as such he was well respected. Even King Dagda took heed of his word. Despite her continued distrust of his intentions he continued to succeed in not tipping his hand. He was trusted by all, but the Morrighan was ever wary. She did not question his intentions, only his means. Those within the Order believed once someone took the Oath of Surrender, their blood was bound to the Goddess. Morrighan could never find it in herself to trust that man could be cured. Man would always find a way to break that which cannot be broken.
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 23
