by Lela Markham
Even as he prayed to be found wanting, Gregyn swelled with pride for his skills, of the innate strength of gift that placed him apart from other mere apprentices in the Art. He might someday be a master and masters had naught to fear. No one could come against one such as Talidd. Gregyn wanted to know that sort of invulnerability in a way that only a former street urchin could.
The first bell rang, echoing across the swamp like a call to a burial. Gregyn shuddered. Time to wash. Time to prepare. Don’t dawdle! he told himself sharply. Time enough for a ritual of your own. He paused as the gong’s echo slowly died in the mangroves.
Seeing the croc laying low in the brown water under a mangrove root, Gregyn cast a hiding upon himself and set the nearby water shaking with a thought. The croc glided toward what it thought was a bird, though mayhap it knew he was upon the log. When it reached the phantom prey, Gregyn slapped Air around its jaws and lifted the struggling croc to the rock quay on Talidd’s island. Diving in, he struck out to meet it. Pulling himself out of the water, he drew his dagger and slit the croc’s throat. As the rich red blood flowed, Gregyn bent over the rift and sucked down all that he could stomach. He felt ethereal power flow into him, filling his entire being all the way to his toes. He felt as if he must glow with barely contained power. Staking the still bleeding croc on a pole, he left it for a servant to dress, rinsing the blood from his face and hands in the nearby swamp. Then he turned to the dock, ready to face the rest of his day.
Whichever servant had been given the task of watching him today had already left a basket of cleansing implements for him on the dock. Gregyn had always known he was being watched, had always been careful to be the dutiful student, the unwavering initiate. Since the day Talidd’s agenda had first become clear, Gregyn had known that he must never let it be known how much he hated all of it.
Don’t dawdle! Being late to a ritual was a killing offense, he knew. At the very least, the consequences would be unpleasant. Stripping naked, Gregyn sudsed with a scrap of soap and then rinsed in the bucket of settled water provided. He dried off and donned a clean breech cloth. The sun settled into the treetops. In the far distance, a bull croc roared. Gregyn wondered, not for the first time, if the death there might be preferable to the life here. It would be so easy to fail to take precautions when he killed for the blood power. With a shudder, he admitted to himself that he was not that desperate yet.
The ritual hut might have been deserted for all the activity Gregyn saw as he approached the stone structure and stepped into the alcove where the robes and other personal ritual items were kept. Talidd’s black robe with the myriad of sigils was already gone, as was one of the journeyman robes in charcoal grey. Taking a deep breath, Gregyn opened the cupboard where hung the robe of the apprentice. Color meant much in this ritual and tonight the robe was red. Gregyn gripped the cupboard door, fighting dizziness and nausea. Red!
Gregyn fought his mind to calmness, reaching deep down into the training that Talidd had so meticulously drilled him in, buoyed by the croc blood as it coursed through his system. Slowly, slowly, in the storehouse of his mind, he placed his fear on a shelf and covered it with a golden cloth, so he could don the robe without shaking like a leaf in high wind. He would come back to it later when it would be a useful tool and not an impediment.
Thus calmed, Gregyn entered the ritual lodge without so much as a quickened breath. His resolve almost crumbled when he saw Sawyl standing inside the door, but he had been well-schooled, trained as much by life as a starving street urchin as by life as Talidd’s apprentice. Odd to realize that. Talidd’s training had saved him from the streets and the streets’ training had saved him from Talidd’s training. Where did I learn the trick with animal blood?
The ritual lodge had been built without windows and the doors were staggered to prevent light from entering. Light is the enemy of dark, Talidd’s instruction echoed in Gregyn’s mind. The plastered interior walls and almost everything else were painted black, making the room seem vast. In sharp contrast, the floor sported an elaborate maze painted in vivid colors. Lore said only one with the knowledge of the stations could survive the crossing of the maze. Greyn knew the stations by heart and fervently wished he did not.
Tall stands held lit candle lanterns with the louvers almost closed. Talidd noted Gregyn’s entrance as he threw a handful of herbs on a brazier. Gregyn took a slow, deep breath as the mind-numbing smoke billowed toward him. He held the smoke until he needed to breathe, feeling the magic relax his neck and calm his stomach. Tempted to take a few more breaths so as to feel naught, Gregyn schooled himself against it. The duties of the ritual demanded that he not drug himself too much. Gregyn thanked Nudd for the herbs and accepted what little he could afford to indulge.
He held by the door, waiting for Talidd’s instructions. He had not done enough rituals of every type to know with certainty what would happen next; silence held the fewest dangers.
Talidd struck a small gong, starting the ritual.
“Nudd, we come to ask for wisdom and clarity in the seeking of omens,” Talidd intoned. His mage’s voice sent shivers down his apprentice’s spine. “Gregyn, open the stations,” he ordered. Sawyl handed Gregyn a bowl with some dark liquid within; Gregyn smelled blood. This meant a stepped increase in the ritual, beyond anything he’d done before. This was the ritual that had killed Eaddyn, though the young apprentice had worked at a much lower level. He had undoubtedly not known the intoxicating power to be found in killing a croc.
Gregyn steadied himself and stepped forward to the beginning of the maze. He took seven steps and bowed to the west, then spoke in a mage’s voice, deep and commanding.
“Nudd, father of winter, ruler of night, come to stand with those who serve you.”
Talidd struck the gong. Gregyn straightened and took seven more steps along the maze, then stopped and bowed to the east.
“Nudd, destroyer of summer, he who hangs a curtain across the sun, come to stand with those who serve you.”
Gong! Gregyn took seven more steps, bowed to the north.
“Nudd, bringer of death, gatekeeper of hell, come stand with those who serve you.”
Gong! It seemed as though the building vibrated with the resonance of the gong. Gregyn took another seven steps and bowed to the south.
“Nudd, God of the underworld, master of night, father of winter, come stand with those who serve you.”
Gregyn’s hands began to tingle as he felt somewhat enter the lodge. He didn’t have time to wonder what Sawyl or Talidd might be doing. With the sounding of the gong, he had a fifth station to open. Seven more steps brought him to the steps of the altar, diagonal from the door.
“Nudd, we serve you and give you our blood to satisfy your hunger. Come stand with those who serve you.”
Gregyn poured the contents of the bowl into a larger bowl to one side of the altar. The candles flared, scented smoke reached Gregyn’s nose. The master and journeyman came to stand beside him, bracing him on either side. When they stepped onto the altar stage, Gregyn stepped up with them, entering Nudd’s realm for the first time. The tingling in Gregyn’s hands had crept up to his elbows. His face felt aflame. His senses preternaturally sharpened, he realized with a shock that Sawyl, who had never seemed in the least emotional, was breathing raggedly. Fear?
“Kneel,” Talidd ordered. The apprentice obeyed. As Sawyl stepped behind him, Gregyn took a deep breath, sucking in the drugged smoke until he drifted somewhere in a void. The journeyman pulled the back of Gregyn’s robe up and reached in and under. Gregyn breathed again of the saving smoke; though it numbed him to what was going on, it did not make him unaware. His body responded to Sawyl’s manipulations and a warmth flushed through his cold flesh. Talidd grasped his left wrist with a firm hand and drew his ritual dagger. Closing his eyes, Gregyn let the smoke take him as an image of the equerry’s daughter rose in his mind. His breath came hot as a groan of near-climax escaped his lips. This ritual never ended in climax, for sexual grati
fication was not the purpose, but the power of the desire. Gregyn felt the dagger slice his skin, felt Talidd milk the wound for blood. Slowly, slowly, the blood flowed into the bowl. Through half-closed lids, he watched Talidd drink it down. Then the older man began to chant in the Old Tongue, invoking Nudd and Arrhodda. Gregyn felt tingling spread all over his body and the taste of coppers at the back of his throat. Suddenly his body was no longer his own and his mouth moved of its own accord.
“All is afoot. You need not know. You need not know. All is afoot. All is afoot. Wait, wait, until the turning of the tide. He lives. Wait, wait, until the turning of the tide.”
As suddenly as the awen had come, it left him, causing his limbs to jerk like a string puppet. Gregyn collapsed forward onto the altar, gagging, bringing up the water he’d drank in lieu of a midday meal, intermixed with the undigested croc’s blood. He vaguely acknowledged the sacrilege of vomit on the altar before he convulsed in a seizure that took his senses.
The dream world swirled with mist and shone with an odd light that Gregyn had never seen before. Gregyn extended his arm and could not see his fingertips, so he stood stalk-still, waiting for what might come to him. The dream world could be dangerous if one bungled about in it and Gregyn had not lived into his second phase of apprenticeship without learning not to bungle.
A tall young man with dark hair and bright eyes emerged from the fog and paused. He wore a cloak and breecs in a plaid Gregyn did not recognize. Most who came to the dream world were there by accident, having entered from their ordinary dreams. They didn’t stay long ... heartbeats at most. This lad, however, paused and looked at Gregryn as if fully aware of what he was about.
“Do you feel the storm coming?” he asked and then his clothes dissolved and he wore only a breech cloth and a slave chain around his ankle, a leather water bottle at his waist. “The storm will wash all away,” the lad said, as if by explanation. Then he turned, donning his clothes in an instant and walking away into the mist.
A section of fog swirled and parted and Gregyn saw a beautiful woman with long dark hair dressed in breecs and a siarc, standing on a ridge line, her hand held out over an army as it marched toward utter darkness. A raven of incredible size winged toward her, black wings against the murderous sky.
The thunderous thump-thump-thump of wings sounded behind him and Gregyn ducked just as a dark winged creature much larger than a cow closed on the raven.
Gregyn came to himself still on the altar stone, listening to Talidd and Sawyl speaking behind him.
“He’s too powerful,” Sawyl was insisting. “That’s the strongest awen I’ve ever seen anyone channel. I’d be dead if I drew that much. If he only knew, he’d be dangerous to us both.”
“He doesn’t know and I still have the power of the name. He’ll not be able to harm me, or you, for a good long while.”
“I’m not sure about that. I didn’t cast the name spell. You did.”
“My spell will hold for you, lad. I know it! More importantly, he must never know.”
“What of this omen? He’ll remember what he experienced.”
“Will he?” Talidd inquired in a voice that struck fear in Gregyn so that he shuddered involuntarily. Talidd missed naught.
“Awake, lad? Good, good.”
As Sawyl dragged Gregyn to his feet, the lad met eyes with Talidd, though he did not want to. Immediately, he felt the world spin. I’ve felt this before. When?
“You’ll not remember this, Gregyn. Sawyl had the omen. You got sick and defiled the altar. Do you remember that?”
“Aye,” Gregyn whispered, his will gone. “I was afraid of the omen and I got sick.”
“Sawyl had the omen. Do you understand, lad?”
“Aye. Sawyl – omen.”
“You’ll remain awash until you wake up at the dawn. Do you understand?”
“Aye. Sleep. Need sleep.”
Gregyn stumbled along beside Sawyl to be rolled into his hammock, where the journeyman muttered.
“You’re a scary lad and you don’t even know it. When Talidd dies, I’ll have to kill you quick. I will kill you. If only I could harness the omens, but you’re too strong. You’re bound by his spell now, but that won’t last, not after he dies. Kill you quick.”
Gregyn felt the world spin off into a murky sort of grey. He awoke to the early dawn, fog enclosing the island. He sat up in the hammock, disoriented as the last he could remember was the knife slicing his arm in the ritual. Only a faint line indicated that he’d been cut there once. He never did scar, odd enough given the swamp’s climate, and sometimes he healed quickly. He didn’t know why and he wasn’t about to ask Talidd for an explanation. Rubbing his eyes, he rolled out of the hammock and found a bucket nearby to wash the old vomit from his mouth. He’d bit the inside of his cheek during the ritual and it stung. Opening his eyes, he found an image in the dancing surface of the bucket. A hand holding a sword, working a sword. Gregyn stared, unable to identify the hand, unable to open the vision any wider. Then, as if by magic, Gregyn heard Sawyl’s voice saying “I have to kill you quick. When Talidd dies, kill you quick.”
Gregyn shuddered and the vision dissipated. Despite feeling like leftover porridge, Gregyn recognized immediately that his future plans must include escaping from Sawyl -- or killing him. Sawyl acted in fear and warned Gregyn, who did not question the reason, only plotted his survival. Returning to his hammock, he feigned sleep to plot the perfect plan to thwart Sawyl.
Founding Year (FY) 1028
Dublyn - Spring
Padraig traveled a leisurely pace toward Dun Trevellyn, realizing from his encounter with Marya that he needed a bit of time to get used to humans again. The Kin bathed regularly, especially after mucking out stables. If he couldn’t manage to visit a farmstead without nearly retching, a town would be too much, and he needed to be able to enter towns for what he was about. He also needed time to remember the language and customs of his father’s people. It had been so long since he’d spoken and lived among them that he made endless mistakes. Of little consequence in the smaller villages and towns, they might get him hanged in Clarcom. So Padraig stopped at the small villages along the way and hung out a shingle for his herbs. He was mostly paid in chickens and cheese, but his master in herbs had taught him well how to turn such into coin.
Thus he’d been traveling an eightnight. Trevellyn village had grown a bit since last he had passed through. Padraig sold the last of his wages in the village market and counting his coin. He had plenty, having saved a bit during his time with the Kin, who had little use for coin; he calculated he could afford to meet his obligation in Dun Trevellyn without impoverishing himself. He made a pouch of some cloth he kept for herbs and walked up the hill to Dun Trevellyn.
“Where are you bound, herbman?” the guard asked at the gate. His tone seemed friendly, helpful, not hindering.
Built upon an artificial hill in a broad valley populated with small farms and plenty of cows, Dun Trevellyn itself consisted of a four-story broch with two shorter half-brochs and the usual tumble of sheds and stables within the walls. The ward had been paved since last he’d been here.
“I’ve business with Lord Geran.”
“Lad, run a message to the rig,” the guard called to a passing page, a tall young man who might have been in his last year. “Tell him that this man is here to see him. What is your name, lad?”
“Padraig of D – Cenconyn.”
“Be quick about it, lad.”
The page nodded toward Padraig, though his eyes, the color of a tarn lake, narrowed in suspicion, or mayhap evaluation, though Padriag could not guess why. The lad strode off toward the dun and returned a bit later.
“The rig says you may attend him in the great hall,” he said. “I’ll accompany you.”
Though Padraig knew the way well, he did not object. The lad gave him a long look sideways.
“Is somewhat amiss, lad?”
“Your accent is Denygal, not Cenconyn.”
“I’m late from Denygal,” Padraig lied. The language of the Kin still colored his speech as clearly as it colored the speech of the Denygal. Mayhap it was permanent. He didn’t mind.
“I see. Family there?”
“Why do you ask?”
“My mam is from Denygal, or truly she was born in Cenconyn, but her mam was from Denygal and she spent a good deal of time there.”
“‘Tis a lovely place to spend much time.”
They entered the great hall, a full round of the main broch. Padraig scanned about and saw a man who might have been Lord Geran standing near the honor hearth. He glanced toward the page, who nodded as if he had read Padraig’s question from the air. Though this piqued Padraig’s curiosity, he’d come for a duty and he meant to get it over with.
“Padraig of Cenconyn,” Geran greeted cheerfully. The gangling youth had grown into a tall slender man with blond hair and a trim moustache. “You’ve become a journeyman, I see.” Padraig assumed he guessed at his status as Lodiac was not with him.
“Aye. I’ve been free of my master about four years.”
“‘Tis pleasant news. What brings you to my dun?”
“I heard of your father’s death and wished to pay my respects.”
“Thank you,” Geran said. He looked momentarily sad. “It was a burden I was raised to take up, but I still grieve that I must do so.” He shook himself and brightened. “It is good to see you, though. I thought about you a bit last winter watching some of the riders dice.”
“Aye, well, that’s the other part that brings me here. I hope you’ll not have me hanged for a common thief and accept this with the honor that I did not have that winter.” He held out the pouch of coins.
“What’s this?” Geran asked, honestly confused, testing the heft of the coin.
“I cheated you at dice those long years ago. Now I wish to make myself clean of that crime.”
