Chapter 20 #2
“I simply took a wrong turn.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but he desperately wished to go.
“How curious.” Her eyes led him to the triptych. “Generations of my sisters are buried within this crypt. They say their voices can be heard from beyond the grave.”
“What is dead, is dead.”
“Certainly,” she said, admiring the painting. “We are not gods, after all.”
The image of the drowning woman burned into his eyelids. As he gazed upon her face, twisted in horror, his lungs wanted to burst; every breath ragged in his throat.
“Do you know why the An’Atherin fear the Nytherim?”
“No.” The word pressed out of him.
“It is simple,” said she. “It is because our magick is real. And men fear what they can’t control. They will forever seek to destroy it—it all began with her.”
“Do you mean to say the An’Atherin tried to kill her?”
“It is what they do. Break things… destroy them. Forge them anew.” Hirí shook her head, as if batting away a stray thought. Her gleaming irises fixed upon him. “Are you afraid?”
The sound of water rushed in his head.
“This place is… suffocating.”
Lightning flashed behind her eyes. “I knew at once I saw you. It is said that Nythis only bore daughters. But it is certain you are her son.”
The word was a cold blade, plunged into his heart.
“I have told you—your myths mean nothing to me,” he whispered.
“You think she a myth? You couldn’t be more wrong. Nythis was flesh and blood. Her bones lay still beneath the Augeri—here in this very crypt.”
His eyes widened.
“She walked this land as real as we. And she—with blood warm in her womb—lay with man. It is no coincidence that dreamers are few. The power lives in the seed.”
“You are speaking nonsense—”
“I am speaking truth. I know what you are, dreamer.”
The druid swallowed. The icy waves crashed over him, breaking down his denial.
“Then… what will you do?” he asked. Would he be kept there in that deathful place? Would the Vaich be told of his oddity? Perhaps he would be deemed unworthy of marriage and instead be held to the coals.
Or worse—the reverence would grow tenfold.
He couldn’t breathe.
The priestess straightened, and all at once the maelstrom stopped. His mind went utterly silent.
“Nothing, of course,” she said. “We Nytherí must look out for one another. Your secret is safe with me.”
The druid blinked, baffled. “You… won’t speak of it?”
“Not even to the High Nytherí,” she whispered, holding a finger to her lips. Seeing his befuddled face, she smiled. “I told you. I am your ally. Rather, your most humble servant, my queen.”
She bowed with such zeal one would think her a mummer.
“Now, allow me to escort wee lamb to pasture. I have word from the Oracle—you will meet at dawn. But now, you should supper and rest.”
Nothing worth having in life came easy; thus, the druid was distrustful of simple things. Yet, there before the triptych, he felt a woeful joy, as if a weight had been lifted from him.
And that was most frightening of all.
Together they departed. The whispers did not come again, and he did not inquire further. As they passed the lattice windows, he thought he glimpsed a light in the dark and peered through the dimpled glass.
There, above the black water, was the shape of a ghostly woman cloaked in dustless white. The druid stumbled, sending the candelabra screeching across the floor. His eyes squeezed shut and opened again, but the mere was undisturbed. No light… no woman.
Only shadow.
Heart thumping, he swiveled to meet Hirí’s haunting grin.
Breathlessly, she murmured, “Welcome home.”
The priestesses rested in commune. The floor was draped in velvet and all their sleeping bodies breathed in tandem. But the druid did not dare to drift, lest the visions come again in the night. His thoughts paraded in endless circles.
It is certain you are her son.
He had never been anyone’s son, much less a false goddess.
False?
He pressed his eyes shut. What did it mean… to be Nytherí? If that is what he was… If the priestess’ words were true. Did that woman’s blood run through him?
He had never known another like him within the Fáoth, and none he had ever met had recognized him. He was an oddity; thus, he concluded he was the only one… until he travelled west. But he was a druid, through and through—a child of the Fáoth.
Wasn’t he?
His mind would not still. His steady life had been unmoored, and he could not bear to drift in uncertainty.
He had never believed in gods or prophets. He could not say that is what guided him now. But if there were such things at work… then he was going to find out.
Before first light, Hirí stirred him. “Did you not sleep, my darkling?”
He did not reply.
“You should take care not to press yourself needlessly. The trial will exact a greater toll.”
“If you are my friend, as you say that you are, you will tell me what awaits in this test."
Her eyes twinkled and she said, “Not to worry.”
If Hirí wanted to be coy, then he would get his answers from someone else.
She escorted him to a darkened chamber. The air within was thick with myrrh. Smoke curled lazily from blackened censers and silken drapes cascaded between pillars. The alcoves were gathered with a smattering of candles and chalices—rims dripped with the dregs of anointing oil.
The High Nytherí knelt praying amidst a circle etched in white chalk, wherein animal bones and dried herbs were arranged precisely. Her face was smeared with blood. The druid was brought to the edge of the circle and made to kneel before her.
An attending maid carried cups of wine and placed them between. The druid waited. Then, the Oracle said, “Drink.”
He eyed the cup, and her low chuckle followed as she raised her head to meet him. “We have not brought you here to poison, woodsingr.”
Slowly, he lifted the cup to his lips. The wine smelled of bilberry and yarrow. Both were common flora, advantageous in healing. Still, he was skeptical. He drank carefully, though nothing came about but a small tingling in his fingers.
“It will fill your belly. Prepare it for the days to come.”
“Tell me,” he said. “What is this trial?”
Her pale eyes considered him a moment. “The test involves a period of cleansing. You shall fast three days and then you will descend to the bottom of the mere. If you are judged pure, She will bring you under her embrace. If elsewise…”
She need not have spoken that.
“The Luin Cáronach will be our path to understanding. Many see visions in the water. I believe the same will come to you.” She nodded to the maids, and more wine was poured into his cup. “Whether you believe it or not, you must admit it is uncanny. Or did you not wonder why you carry the Mark?”
“I wondered,” he confessed.
“And I suppose you devised your answer. You simply did not like its sound.”
“You claim I am gotten by some ill-fated woman, one thousand years ago?”
The Oracle chuckled. “You are more clever than that. Aye, true Nytherí are descended from a divine bloodline, though not all of us are gifted with sight. I wondered very much about you… Was I wrong to assume? If you were, indeed, a seir, then perhaps that is why She called you.”
His brows furrowed. “Meaning…?”
The woman tapped her fingers against the chalk. “To have my place, that is.”
A burst of air escaped his lips. “Become Oracle? What madness.”
“So it would seem!” She laughed heartily. “Now drink.”
The druid felt his skin tighten. He reluctantly tipped the cup to his lips. Between being queen or prophetess, his destiny was a gilded cage.
“I am no one from nowhere and to that I wish to return.”
“Perhaps you are,” the Oracle said. “That remains to be seen. The trial may reveal what knowing we seek. Or it may eliminate our worries entirely.”
The way she spoke the last words made his chin tense. There was a hint of delight in her voice. These women were all the same. They took great pleasure in their game.
It seemed to him that two forces were vying for his fate. One that was certain of his demise; the other, certain of his victory. Either way, the answers he sought were at the bottom of that lake.
“Very well,” he said. “I accept this trial. But not for you and not for him. If there are greater forces at work, then I will give them their chance to show themselves. And whatever is to be revealed—it is for me, alone.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “How bold.”
She lifted her cup to her lips, drinking down the wine, then leveled an amused gaze at him. A whitish film curtained her silver orbs and with a toothy smile, she said, “Whatever awaits you in the dark water…”
His stomach clenched and, try as he might, he could not press it down. He doubled over, his fingers clenching in the fabric of his robe as nausea roiled within him.
“… I will see as you see.”
He cut his eyes to her, gritting his teeth. “What did you…?”
“Witch’s Draught,” she offered in reply, glancing to the cup. “It won’t kill you, don’t worry.”
His hand splayed against the cold stone as his body heated. Her presence was within his mind; an ancient eye opening to the dark depths of his reverie.
“Your preparation begins now,” she said. “Three moons you have.”
His teeth ground as the claws dug deeper. The ache spread through his limbs as her laughter danced around them.
“I advise you embrace this pain, druid. It may be the last you ever feel.”