Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (47 page)

When Connor opened his eyes, it took him a moment to realize he was in the house of priests. He heard the haunting sound of a dirge in the distance, which did not help his headache.

“Up, up, you!” said Sawyl from the foot of the bed. “You nearly slept the day away. If you do not get up, all the food will be gone and you will go hungry and not have the strength to go to the Brynmor. Best not be expecting me to carry you, no, sir. You are too big for me.”

“Have I slept long?” Connor yawned.

“You missed morning prayers. But you would not attend that unless you were a priest. You also missed the midday blessing, but you could not go to that either.”

“Is there an activity I have slept through which I could, in fact, attend, Sawyl?”

The boy thought for a moment. “No, just the food. But Lady Ceridwen told me not to wake you until after midday.”

Connor looked outside and could see he had, indeed, slept most of the day away. Whatever light may have graced the sky had drifted beneath the horizon while he slept. He struggled to think of the last thing he remembered.

“Here.” Sawyl held out a garland of sweet-smelling white and purple flowers woven together with herbs. “I wove mine myself, and Lady Ceridwen said to make one for you as well.”

“Thank you.” Connor placed it around his neck and crawled out bed.

The bonfires! What happened last night?

“Violets.” Sawyl lifted his own garland to his nose and inhaled deeply before he explained the symbolism as proudly and properly as any priest. “These violets are for faithfulness, lavender for devotion, and rosemary for remembrance.”

Connor realized that it was odd for any of the plants to still be in bloom. Yet another marvel he attributed to the forest.

“And this?” Connor pointed to the small, yellow blossoms.

“Those are…” Sawyl blushed as he tried to remember.

“Agrimony,” an elder priest said as he came into the room. “To show thankfulness to the God and Goddess for all they have given us.”

Sawyl looked to the floor sheepishly. “Yes, I remember now.”

“Connor, the Lady Ceridwen asked me to fetch you for the festival.” Llewelyn bowed his head slightly. “Please go to the Brynmor. She will meet with you there once she has attended to the Lady Rhiannon.”

“Thank you. I apologize, I do not recall your name.”

“Llewelyn.”

“Thank you, Llewelyn.”

The priest bowed his head again before leaving.

“Do not forget that,” Sawyl scolded. “You will hurt his feelings.”

Connor bent down to take the starmetal sword from his satchel. He did not know the policy regarding weaponry at Arlais, but felt he should not bear arms in front of a priest. Thankfully, Llewelyn was already gone.

He carefully attached the sword to his belt with a makeshift scabbard made from the linen strips wrapped around the blade. The sword fit neatly beneath the folds of his cloak. Once he felt satisfied that no passerby would be able to see the sword, he looked to Sawyl and held out his arms.

The boy nodded his approval before turning toward the door.

Connor stepped outside, pleased to see the amount of people walking through the forest. However, he also noticed the amount of strange glances he received. He shivered. From their looks or the cold, he did not know. It was as though they could tell he was from Cærwyn, from the Hume world and not of the forest realm. As long as he had lived in his uncle’s castle, he never truly felt part of that world. Yet here, among Arlaïns, he never felt like more of an intruder as on this sacred day. Had they looked at him this way before? He did not remember.

“You should not smile so much,” said Sawyl.

A cold wind blew against him, cutting through the weave of his tunic. “And why is that?”

“It is the Ddyrim Festival.”

Connor noticed the somber faces which surrounded them. As he recalled, the name of the festival, Ddirym, in Humespeak meant
dormant,
as it spoke of the end of the fertile season, the end of the light half of the year.

“Last night‌—‌that was for smiles,” said Sawyl. “Today is not for smiles.”

Functioning as the Meïnir day of the dead, it was a time to acknowledge death; the death of the year and the birth of anew. The nature of the evening must stir unpleasant memories. Humes who followed The Maker saw it as a day of ill omen and feared to come near the forest. What wickedry they must believe happened in Arlais this night!

Connor laughed to himself at their ignorance before he realized this was not the day for laughter. Laughter was something for the morrow when the moon shown high in the sky and the celebration of rebirth began.

“Llewelyn said the veil between this world and the next is thinnest on tonight.”

“Did he?”

The wind shook the dried tree branches like bones, and Connor could feel a chill travel up his spine. He assured himself it was merely the wind and turned in the direction of the crowd.

“He said life energy from the plants and animals leaving Dweömer leaves a hole in the border wide enough for spirits of the dead to return.”

Connor remembered Ceridwen having told him some time ago people would offer gifts to the fire in order to both appease vengeful spirits and to give peace to lost loved ones who were no longer of this world.

He was glad to have left behind the fatalistic aura he had about him in the early days of his journey. While he would pray for the souls of the dead, he would celebrate his own rebirth that would come with his cure. He was also thankful he had not given in to his grief and instead carried on.

Gawain was to thank for that. Where was he now?

Connor wished Gawain could attend the festival. What a charge he had upon him though: a champion of the Goddess Herself.

He paced himself behind a woman carrying her infant. The child was looking at him with wide eyes and smiling, and Connor could not help but return the smile, despite Sawyl’s caution.

As he walked the path toward the Brynmor, he met the first flakes of snow. He held out his hand and watched as snowflakes quickly melted away in the warmth of his palm. Before long, the flurries of snow quickened their fall, blanketing the ground in a matter of minutes. Though it was not unheard of for snow to fall so early in the year, it was a rarity.

Sawyl grabbed his hand, walking at his side, looking up at him. Dressed in an ill-fitted robe, clearly that of an elder priest, the boy stumbled all over the hem of the heavy wool.

“Here.” Connor knelt down, pinched the robe on either side and tucked it in the woven hemp belt around the boy’s waist. “This will help.”

Sawyl took a few steps and grinned, freely able to move his feet without catching on the robe.

“Come, we do not want to be late,” Connor said as he brushed the snow from Sawyl’s tousled hair and pulled the hood of his robe up to keep him warm.

They reached the Brynmor and already a crowd surrounded the base. Others celebrated throughout Arlais, however, not only at the Brynmor. Atop, only the senior priests and priestesses stood around the crackling glow of three bonfires. The central bonfire was so large its heat reached even those in the very back of the crowd.

“What is happening?” Sawyl tried to push his way through the crowd to no avail. “I want to see!”

“Climb atop my shoulders.” Connor helped him up, wincing as the boy struggled for a better view. As the twinge of pain grew into a raging heat from his chest through his shoulder and down the length of his upper arm, Connor regretted his decision. He ignored it as best he could, closing his eyes and taking several belabored breaths. He did not want to worry the boy, whose excitement shone through even more than before from his new vantage point. “Can you see them now?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what is happening.”

“People are carrying their gifts up to the bonfire.”

“What kind of gifts?”

“Things for the dead; bundles of herbs and flowers, totems, food.” Sawyl then lowered his voice and leaned down to Connor’s ear. “I think it is silly. They burn good things like pasties and toys. Dead people do not need those. How can you eat if you are dead?”

“It gives people comfort to believe the things they throw into the bonfire are being given to loved ones who have left this world, Sawyl. It allows them to cope with their loss since they can no longer see them whenever they want.”

Sawyl shrugged, sitting back up.

“Would you like to make an offering?” Connor asked.

“I have nothing to give.”

“You could toss flowers into the fire for someone you have lost. Perhaps your mother?”

“I do not know my mother.”

“The Mother Goddess then. I am certain She would appreciate your flowers.”

“Yes,” Sawyl’s voice brightened. “She must like flowers or there would not be so many everywhere.”

Connor squirmed through the crowd, apologizing to the many people he bumped into, which Sawyl found marvelously amusing. Finally, they reached the foot of the Brynmor where warm water bubbled up from within the great mound, turning to steam when it reached the frigid air.

As night drew closer, it brought an even colder wind with it, and Connor found himself quite glad to have the warmth of Sawyl’s body against him. He saw the mist of his breath in the air as he waited in the long line to the Brynmor. The closer they approached, the stronger the smell of the burning cedar.

The woman before them, a Meïnir priestess, took the small, curved knife from her belt and cut a lock from her long hair. She spoke softly as she cast the hair into the fire and clasped her hands together. “Gaffoch dangnefedd, Fam.” She then lifted her hands to her lips in salutation before rejoining the crowd.

“She wishes for her mother to find peace,” Sawyl whispered before he hopped off Connor’s shoulders to make his offering. He removed his garland, kissed the flowers, and tossed it upon the logs. “Dduwies Ddiolcha chi. Archa yn unig chi bendithio fy.”

It was a common blessing that Connor had heard several utter. Sawyl spoke with the eloquence of a Meïnir, and he said the blessing with as much conviction as any other, despite his age. He stood before the fire for some time in silent prayer before he finally turned. He descended the Brynmor only partly where he stood as he waited for Connor.

Connor suddenly found himself feeling self-conscious as he approached the fire, the heat of the flames on his face. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the few coins he still had. Three coins‌—‌just enough. He felt embarrassed to only offer the paltry coins, but he had nothing else. He did not want to simply mimic Sawyl and throw his garland into the fire, lest he receive mocking glances from those around him. He threw the coins forth, watching as the soft metal began to melt.

He then closed his eyes.

The first two coins were for his father and mother. He pictured them together, happy in the next world. Or, perhaps, they had even moved on and been reborn into a new life. He smelled the scent of flowers woven in his mother’s hair, and he could almost see both of them standing beside him, covered in snow. Feeling his throat tighten, he blinked away tears.

He tossed in the third coin for the Goddess, praying first she grant him a cure for what ailed him. As he stood there in silence, however, he felt guilty for the selfish prayer. He instead asked that She watch over Gawain, wherever he may be. He then saw Gawain too, as clearly as he had seen his parents. He rode atop a horse, traveling toward a river beyond the western border of the Hwerydh Forest. He fared well.

Finally, Connor opened his eyes, and he realized he had been standing before the fire for quite some time. The snow that had been on his hair and shoulders had melted completely, drenching him in water. He looked around to find that other priests and priestesses had joined those atop the Brynmor. The High Priest Cairbre nodded slightly to him, which Connor understood to be a gentle signal to rejoin the crowd. But when he turned, he slipped on the slick snow-covered grass and immediately bumped into someone.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

And then the High Priestess Rhiannon, Lady of Arlais and earthly voice of the Mother Goddess, said in a soft voice, “Are you all right, child?”

Connor felt the life drain from his face. Despite her veil, he knew her immediately. Her attendants accompanied her, as did her bodyguard, who stood partially between Connor and her with his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Please, forgive me, my Lady!” Connor instinctively bowed at her feet, ignoring the pain of the cold snow on his face. He lay flat on the ground, arms outstretched beside him.

Sawyl came forward to Connor’s aid, but Ceridwen, who now stood beside the Lady Rhiannon, held out her hand and motioned him to be still.

“Cynan, help him up,” Rhiannon gently commanded.

Connor looked up from the ground and saw the large man loom over him. Cynan held out his hand, and he took it. He was surprised at the strength Cynan wielded as he lifted him as easily as a child. Only when he again stood on his feet did he see Ceridwen, who assured him with a smile.

“My Lady,” Ceridwen spoke, “Connor wishes to request your permission to become a proselyte of Arlais.”