Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (46 page)

They reached the final clearing when the late afternoon sun fell just below the tree canopy.

“This one’s my favorite,” Sawyl declared as they stepped beyond the perimeter of trees.

Sprawling before them, gardens filled the clearing. Unlike the groves of trees Sawyl showed him, herbs and spices of every kind imaginable grew in plots of land sewn perfectly for each use.

The aromatics grew in the beds closest to them. Closing his eyes, Connor could distinguish the more pungent herbs, the rosemary, the lavender, and even a hint of apple mint hiding among the others. Beyond, flowers grew. He assumed they all had some medicinal purpose, or they would not have been grown near the herbs.

“Aife said I can help with the gardens when I am a priest.”

“Aife?”

“She works with the herbs. She is training to be the mistress of herbal teachings now. I do not get to see her much anymore. She used to play in the garden with me when I first came here. When I was little.”

Connor took note of the boy’s tone and did not ask him any further questions. It became quite clear his parents were dead. “I had a garden of my own back home.”

Sawyl’s eyes grew wide. “All to yourself?”

Connor nodded, finding the boy’s enthusiasm not unlike his own at that age when herbs had been mentioned. “I suppose it is in disarray without me there to tend it.”

“You can when you go back though, right?”

“When I go back…” Connor let out a long sigh. He did not expect he would ever see his uncle again. It would have come as quite a surprise to ever leave the Hwerydh, he guessed. Once he became a proselyte, his actions would no longer be his own to choose, so leaving to visit would be out of the question.

“I forgot you want to be a priest too.”

Connor swallowed the hard lump in his throat, seeing no reason to tell the boy of his condition.

“Look.” Sawyl pointed to the sky where orange and gold light danced across the tops of the trees and onto the clouds.

“They have lit the bonfires.”

“Shall we go to the Brynmor?” said Connor.

Sawyl nodded and scurried off, only skidding to a halt when he realized Connor had not also bolted off behind him. “Hurry, hurry!”

Connor did his best to jog down the pathway flanked by the medicinal herbs. Had the boy not been standing there, he did not think he would have noticed the worn path through the trees to the north. He wondered if these well-hidden pathways were the reason few found Arlais without a map.

Sawyl grabbed his hand and took off again, pulling him toward the Brynmor.

Heart aflutter, Connor’s anticipation bubbled within him, rivaling even Sawyl’s excitement. Before the sacred mound even came into sight, he heard the crunching of leaves beneath the feet of those filtering through the trees to attend the bonfire.

Sawyl pulled him into the clearing around the Brynmor. He stared in amazement at the green hill rising high out of the ground. On the flat top, he spied the two bonfires, stoked by proselytes. Beyond the lick of the flames, he thought he saw Ceridwen, but only for a moment.

So many revelers emerged from the forest that Connor could not even begin to count how many were in the area. Sawyl continued to pull him through the crowd, ignoring the murmurs of the people they bumped into along the way. Connor could not manage to look any of them in the eye. Eventually they made their way to the front of the group, and stood with their toes on the slope of the Brynmor.

Darkness fell, and the moon hid behind the clouds. Only the light of the fires atop the hill illuminated the area. Then horns blew.

Connor craned his neck over the crowd, but could not see the musicians.

Jingling bells came next, followed by the procession of priests in white, flowing robes. Another shimmering chorus of bells joined the horns from the western side of the mound, and the priestesses walked through the parting crowd. Both groups walked up the side of the Brynmor, slow and deliberate in their pace.

“What‌—?”

“Shh!” Sawyl swung his arm, backhanding Connor across the leg.

They broke from their line, swaying in time with the bells they carried, forming a circle around the bonfires on the mound. Then, with a thunderous clap of their hands, the bells silenced.

From the other side of the Brynmor, rose the sound of the crowd’s footsteps like the patter of rain on the castle walls back home. The horns blew again and the quake of drums boomed from within the trees.

Between the bonfires, Cairbre emerged, crowned with oak leaves and flanked by two priests. Connor recognized the high priest from the clansmeet in Cærwyn.

The two priests stepped away from the high priest, casting handfuls of herbs and crystalline resins into the fires. The astringent smoke swirled and flowed down the sides of the Brynmor, blanketing the grass. Soon, the entire area filled with a golden haze.

Though accustomed to incense, Connor had not expected the sensation he felt bearing down on him from the smoke. The hair on his arms tingled and his entire body trembled with electricity.

Snow fell. The whispers of the crowd grew into a murmur as they swayed in time with their eyes closed.

Beyond the murmurs, a soft humming, the buzz of honeybees in a springtime blossom. The humming grew into chants of invocation from the circle of Arlaïn priests and priestesses. The crowd of supplicants soon lent their voices, chanting and humming in time with those atop the mound.

Cairbre called out, and the crowd answered with chants of appeal. The high priest stepped to the side, disappearing beyond the bonfire. A massive white bull then appeared, lit by the growing flames. Loose skin hung below the nape of its neck, mimicking the white shade of the fin between its shoulders. The horns of the beast had been cut off.

Ceridwen emerged from between the fires, and he let out a low sound when she patted his side. Dressed in flowing blue robes, she kept her face hidden beneath a gossamer veil, held in place by a silver band around the crown of her head.

But Connor still recognized her. And for the first time, he noticed the silver torques and bangles on the higher-level priests and priestesses. Cairbre remained the only one without silver. His adornments, a torque around his neck and on each upper arm, were gold. Even the oak crown atop his head shined with golden threads woven throughout the leaves.

Sawyl stood transfixed on the white bull, his hands trembling.

“Are you feeling well?” Connor whispered, careful not to incur another slap on the leg. If the smoke made him feel queasy, he could only imagine how odd the boy must feel.

He only nodded, his unblinking stare locked on the sight at the top of the slope.

“…yn bendithio,” Ceridwen cried, the knife in her hand catching the fire’s light.

The rumble of drums grew louder, as did the chants from the crowd. Their canticle joined the beats so precisely it was as though the song reverberated throughout the forest.

The two priests who accompanied Cairbre stood on either side of the bull, their hands gently rubbing its back.

Sawyl apparently knew what was to take place. He grasped Connor’s tunic, fist clenching, lower lip trembling. And when the crowd’s song surged, he threw his arms around Connor and buried his face.

Connor held his breath.

The masterful manner in which Ceridwen moved her hand caused a collective hush to fall over the crowd. She slashed across the neck of the bull in a crescent.

For but a moment, the bull still stood proud and tall, even as the scarlet river began to flow across his white skin, trickling over the folds of his neck. But soon, the blood came far faster as the gash became wider. A grumbling squeal escaped from the animal as his front legs shook and buckled beneath his weight, a cascade of red spreading across the snow-covered grass.

The priests held their position, continuing to stroke his sides as he fell forward, the strength in his legs waning. The bull’s back legs struggled as he tried to stand, unable to accept the futility of his efforts.

Sawyl opened his eyes to the sight only once, just as the bull fell with a powerful thud. A tremor shook through them all.

Connor expected some explanation to come next, but found none.

Cheers went up as the priests threw more herbs on the bonfires. The smoke flowed down the slope of the Brynmor and blanketed the crowd.

The sweet scent burned Connor’s nostrils. The fumes blurred his vision and churned his stomach. He looked down at Sawyl, and then everything went dark.