Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
The Augeri
The convoy made its way along serpentine roads towards the eastern weald. Mist clung to the underbrush, curling about the fetlocks of their horses. The path wound like a river through the green hush and if one didn’t mind the tread, might have veered off and been lost amongst the fog.
They had journeyed far beyond the lands of hearth-fires and song, into a realm of secret and whisper.
A cathedral of beech and yew arced overhead and beneath their verdant watch, the day stretched and bent unnaturally.
Until at last, the trees parted, and the druid saw it: a vast spectral temple risen from the earth.
Its spires were pale and its stone bones were wreathed in ivy and moss.
The last of evening’s sunlight spilled into the glade, gilding the high, lancet windows.
And at the temple’s feet lay a still black mere; its shadowy surface unbroken but for the drifting scatter of waterlilies.
The druid felt it in his heart. This was no temple. It was a threshold; a place where the world of men ended, and something more powerful began.
They disembarked the carrach and their escort swiftly departed, fearful in the shadow of the moon. The druid had been told it was not permitted for men to enter—only Nytherí and those who wished to join their ranks. He was neither; an exception to all their rules.
An exception… or a splintering.
Hirí was to act as guide for, as she explained, there were designated Speakers amongst the Nytherim, and otherwise he would find only silence. And, indeed, when they entered, there was an overwhelming calm. It was not peace, but peculiarity.
His footsteps were noiseless in rooms empty of echoes. The druid remembered what Hirí had told him. Listen. But there was nothing to hear.
It was as if they stood in the throat of a long-delved mountain. The interior chambers were grand and carved from glittering indigo stone. The flecks of silver mimicking a velvet battlefield of stars.
The moon priestesses moved about their midnight halls in melancholy, shrouded and soundless.
They seemed not of that world, their bodies threaded along as their minds waded in boundless aether.
The air was thick with incense and the druid could not disregard the sensation that some lingering force stirred beyond an unseen veil.
“I will go and speak with the High Nytherí,” said Hirí.
He wondered if the Oracle knew of his coming—as these women oft did—before he had ever made a move. “Can I not come before her myself?”
“Perhaps, but not now. Let me go to her first. In the meantime,” she grinned, “make yourself comfortable.”
Could even a corpse call such a frigid place comfortable?
The priestess left the druid to his devices.
He had not expected to roam freely there, but these silent women were far from the bombastic menaces of Rhyd-hal.
In fact, they took no note of him at all.
His dáihe had always told him that mankind walked with spirits, but he never felt it more true than now.
He was but a single breathing soul in a sea of ghosts.
One passed near his shoulder. She was young, perhaps seventeen, with grey hair and eyes like ice. The druid thought that if he reached out his hand to touch her, his fingers might glide right through.
How many of these girls were there? All of them with the same odd hue. All of them the same as him. And yet, there was still warmth in his fingers; a comfort he wished to keep.
He wandered about the temple, growing familiar, but no less disturbed by its cavernous halls.
Towering pillars watched his passage like silent governesses.
Unlike the maze of Rhyd-hal, the Augeri was a hollow behemoth whose breath breathed cold.
It tiptoed up the back of the neck, forcing glances over the shoulder.
Many of the rooms were empty, though he made notes of their purpose. There were meditation chambers and an infirmary, a dining hall and two sleeping quarters. The library was grandest of all, with rows of dusty books, their pages yellowed with age. Maps and charts covered the walls.
But above was the strangest thing of all—a mosaic of silky blue broken by opaque crystals.
It stretched across the vaulted ceiling and emitted a faint mist. The longer one looked, the more it appeared to ebb and flow.
The blue undulated like the night sky, and within it, those pale crystals winked.
He recognized the image they formed. He had seen them a thousand times growing up in the Fáoth—tapestries of constellations written in smoke.
What he was looking at now was indeed the glittering cosmos over Cúil Cullach, studied for hundreds of years by his folk.
The druids had mapped the stars and the sky’s turning, and knew of the comings and goings of celestial things.
Did these women study the same maps? Had they carried forth his people’s teachings?
The druid stood still, but the conjured sky above him shifted steadily, mirroring the heavens’ natural rotation. His gaze danced across silver stepping stones, identifying the three great stars.
The Thae.
As children, all druids were taken out on a summer night and left in a great green field.
He could still remember the warmth of arms carrying him to the glen.
He was sat amongst the cool grass and left to fend for himself.
He remained in that quiet field for hours, busy with the bugs and the weeds.
After a while, he grew tired and wished to return.
But he was alone there. Alone with the wind and the dark and the cry of wolves. But a story hung in his mind.
North to sea, and west to fire; east to the ice and stone. South to dark and a thousand pyres; by maiden’s light we roam.
The star of the North glowed gently blue, and the East like falling snow. The South star was faintest of all, and the West star was the sun. If one could find the Thae in the sky, so too could they find their way home. And so, the children would meander back. At least, most of them.
Upon the celestial map, the Thae inched closer, signaling the coming summer.
For one night every year, the three would converge so near in the sky that their light would burn together.
That day was called Belthín, and the druids would gather in celebration.
This year would be no different. And as usual, he would not be amongst them—but for entirely different reasons.
He watched the moon, drifting slowly across the mosaic.
The Thae converged every year… but on rare occasions, in a grand display, the moon would join at their center. The druid recalled the farmer’s wife from the village; her joyous song echoed in his mind.
All beware and care the ísthmhach.
The ísthmhach came once every thousand years, and if the map was to be believed, it would be soon upon them.
The thought was chased by the sensation of lips pressed against the back of his neck. His hand flew up, brushing the skin, and he spun to see the space behind him was empty.
His mouth opened, but another voice spoke, whispering his name.
“Cerys.”
He looked side to side.
He was alone.
Shivers rolled through him.
The druid crept from the library into the empty hall. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with candelabra. The stone looked back at him as his blurred reflection moved within the glossy walls. When the whisper pinched his skin again, he spun, seeing a hundred variations of himself doing the same.
But there was no one.
“H-Hirí?” he called out. No answer. The flames dancing upon their wicks bent sharply and extinguished, as if guttered by a thrust of wind.
“Cerys.”
His exhale clouded before him.
One by one, the candles lit, guiding him down a winding stair. That voice, haunting and smooth, beckoning in his ear.
Gossamer webs laced overhead and ancient dust rose beneath his feet.
The air was heavy and stuck in his throat.
Reaching the last step, he found himself in a dark, damp cavern and was greeted by carved faces draped in veils.
They lay with their hands rested against earthen chests. All women… all beautiful.
All forever entombed.
The druid stepped down into the crypt, pausing as his slipper touched the floor. Carefully, he bent and removed his left shoe, then his right, letting his bare skin press cool against the stone. Silently, he moved between their sculpted shrouds, their smooth faces, pale as they had been in life.
The cold sank deep into his bones.
He trained his eyes in the dark. Upon the walls were murals—ancient scenes telling stories of ages past. None was more decadent than a triptych near the center, each illuminated panel depicting the story of a woman in white.
In the first, the woman stood praying amidst a tangled wood.
She and all the world around her fogged in darkness, yet her eyes glittered silver and gold.
In the second, the woman was bound upon a ship over black water.
His vision muddied as if he’d been thrust beneath the waves.
A stifled, watery scream roared in his mind.
The third panel showed the woman rising from the deep, haloed in fire, greeted upon the shore by a hundred kneeling men.
The text etched above read:
The Drowning of Nythis.
“Cerys.”
When he turned, he found himself opposite a feminine facade. It was carved in white marble and grander than all the rest. Her hooded form hewn in beauty, her face… He stood upon the tips of his toes and brushed his fingers against her cheeks. Soft to the touch, and even more familiar.
The druid had seen her face before… in his reflection.
He drew back as if burned.
“Alluring, isn’t she?”
The druid spun to face Hirí behind him—his gasp chased by her giggles.
“Did I startle you, wee dear?”
“Twenty-six winters I roamed this land, yet you hunt with the steps of ghosts.”
Her cat-like grin was unmoving. “You’ve certainly wandered off the beaten path.”