Chapter 22
Non
From the knoll where the summoning circle had brought us, we had a clear view of the celebration beyond. This was what I called a party.
Thousands of people had gathered in the clearing spanning miles behind Llwyn Onn. As the sun set behind the castle, it provided a dramatic backdrop for the festivities.
Jazz was right; the clearing before us was a sea of colours.
Some people had chosen to wear the habits of their respective Coven.
But just as many wore whatever colour they felt like.
I felt a weight lifted from my chest knowing I could enjoy myself tonight and not stick out like a sore thumb for wearing black.
People danced between fires, and dozens of tents of varying sizes and colours were erected between the crowds.
A bonfire larger than any of the other Aelwyds sat just beyond the gardens of Llwyn Onn.
Its amber flames burned so bright that it provided enough light to illuminate the entire clearing.
Behind the blaze sat a large tent, the fabric the same forest green as the Central Coven's habits.
Jazz, whose fingers were still interlocked with my own, tugged me towards the revel.
We ran, or more like stumbled, down the knoll at such a speed that I was certain my heart would punch through my chest, it beat so fast. After a few near falls due to my shoes getting caught in the hem of my dress, Jazz had insisted I take them off and throw them into the forest surrounding the field.
Breathless, my feet caked in mud and half my hair loose from its plait, we finally reached the outskirts of the celebration.
You'd think I'd feel self-conscious, showing up to my first revel looking half feral.
But amid the crowds of Witches and Wielders dancing in the glow of the bonfires, I was relatively tame.
Groups of musicians with lutes and panpipes danced around, each playing a slightly different song from the other. The clash of the music, coupled with the raucousness of the crowd, seemed to blend into a chaotic soundtrack that was growing on me.
Jazz had slowed to a walking pace, thank the gods, because I wasn't sure I had the stamina to keep running like we had. But they still walked with intention, clearly fixed on a specific destination.
As we moved through the crowd, a bearded man pulling a cart full of empty tankards handed me a jug filled to the brim with a magenta liquid.
The jug was so heavy I dropped Jazz's hand and cradled the booze in my arms like a newborn.
He gave me a grin that was missing a few teeth, reminding me of my least favourite patron of The Pig.
“Wimberry Wine?” He shook one of the tankards in my face.
I accepted the cup as he took the jug from my arms and popped the cork, and the aroma of sweet berries filled the air. Once he'd served me my drink, I noticed that the tankard was only half full. I gestured for him to keep going, which he did, reluctantly, until the cup was full to the brim.
“You wanna’ be careful with tha’ stuff, love. It'll put hairs on your chest. I ‘aven't seen anyone drink like tha’ since the East went into hiding.” He cackled. “They could put it away better than any other Coven I knew!”
He staggered off into the throng, his cart of tankards rattling behind him.
Turning in a circle, I hoped Jazz was waiting nearby, but I had no such luck.
I continued pushing through the closely packed bodies, exploring the sights as I wandered from fire to fire, tent to tent.
Not all attendees were inebriated and looking for a good time; hordes of children ran around, some pulling silk kites behind them in a myriad of colours.
A group of teenagers fired sparks of power at bags of grain propped against the side of a cart.
Eventually, I stumbled upon a cluster of tents huddled together in a cul-de-sac.
It seemed to be a dead end, and it seemed pointless to double back on myself, so I moved to explore the largest of the tents, whose door was pulled back.
Moving closer, I could see the tent had been fashioned into a type of crèche.
Dozens of small bedrolls had been placed on the floor, and children sat cross-legged on their beds listening intently to a purple-haired woman.
She seemed to be telling them a story as her hands moved fluidly, controlling orbs of light that would shift into the shapes of various animals and plants.
The children squealed with delight when one of the light animals would disappear inside their ear before reappearing on the other side of their head.
With no sign of Jazz and everyone around me celebrating without a care in the world, I leaned against the entrance and listened to the women's melodic words.
The storyteller spoke with a broad Northern accent, which added to the drama of the tale she told. Despite the late hour, each child seemed wide awake and enamoured with what she said, although one or two of the younger ones stifled yawns with their hands.
“Now, are we ready for the tale of our Crewrs?”
The children cheered and clapped, some jumping off their bedrolls with excitement.
“Alright, settle down, this will be the last one before bed.” The woman's announcement caused a few groans of protest, but she waved them off and cleared her throat.
“When humanity first walked this land, nothing separated the Otherworld from this one.
Beings from Annwn and Annwfyn, realms once ruled by D?n and Llyr, roamed between.
For a time, this way of coexisting worked; mortals, creatures, and gods had harmony.
But, like all things, this eventually became tainted.
The gods grew greedy, and, unsurprisingly, the mortals turned to the Witches, who were the next most powerful beings, to restore the balance.
But despite their best efforts, the Witches were unable to tame the gods.
Sealing the realms seemed to be the only option, but this would require power far beyond their capabilities.
Only power held by D?n and Llyr could do such a thing; however, the two had long since departed these worlds, having moved on to the afterlife, a plane of existence where not even the gods could reach them.
But a group of determined Witches worked tirelessly, researching a way that the Crewrs could be contacted.
The specifics as to how they did it are not for your little ears, but twelve brave Witches sacrificed their magic in a desperate bid to forge a temporary path of communication.
Thank D?n they succeeded, and their sacrifice was not in vain.
During their brief time speaking with the Crewrs, they learnt they were unable to return themselves to seal the realms but instead gave the Witches a gift.
Two from the twelve were chosen to hold the power of the Crewrs, so that they'd always be able to open and close the realms freely from that moment on. One gifted the power of D?n became known as the Orwen. The other gifted the power of Llyr became known as the Orddu. Together, they were able to seal the realms shut and restore balance to our world once again.”
A long silence stretched as the children looked on in awe. Eventually, one of the older children almost jumped out of their seat with excitement as their arm shot up in the air. “Can I be the next Orwen, Aunti Cath?”
The purple-haired woman smiled gently as she patted the small boy's head.
“The power of the Orwen and Orddu can only be held by one person at a time. It is not inherited but passed on freely, either upon the death of the current holder or through a ritual where they willingly pass the power on. The current holder can recommend a successor, but the final decision is made by the Crewrs. Only they can deem someone worthy.”
That must have been a huge amount of power for one person to hold. Having seen what some Wielders did with only a small piece of the Crewrs’ power, I couldn't even fathom what the Orwen or Orddu could do.
From the far left of the tent, a teenage boy in a black habit spoke, his face covered by the shadows he stood in.
“I assume the first Witches succeeded? No one speaks of the gods as if they walk this realm anymore.”
The kindness that radiated from the storyteller vanished the moment the boy in Western colours spoke.
“Yes, the realms were sealed, and the Orwen and Orddu were able to control the gateways to the respective realms. Orwen to Annwn, Orddu to Annwfyn. No god, Witch, or Wielder can pass between realms without opening a gateway.”
It might have been the half tankard of wine I had polished off while listening to the woman tell her story, but a question made its way up my throat.
“Where are the Orwen and Orddu then?” Every head in the tent swivelled in my direction, but I kept my focus on the woman, ignoring the sea of wide eyes that fixed on me. The woman's gaze lingered on my black dress before she cleared her throat and shifted in her seat.
“Twenty-five years ago, the Orwen was taken from us by the hands of her counterpart. It came as no surprise that the Orddu was as corrupted as his maker,” she sneered. “There has been nothing but imbalance since. The Orddu was excommunicated from his Coven, but he still walks freely.”
The wine turned sour in my stomach as I mentally added another name to the growing list of people who had met their demise at my father's hands. I wonder if the woman telling the story knew who I was somehow; in fact, did everyone at this celebration know I was Gwaun's daughter?
A scoff from the shadowed side of the tent interrupted us, and the teenager from before spoke again.
“If the last Orwen perished, then who replaced her? You said the gift is only passed by choice or death.”
The storyteller's eyes bounced between the boy and me. I realised it must have looked suspicious that two people dressed like Western Witches were gatecrashing her bedtime story.