Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1)

by Christopher Lee

  “Arabella,” said Bres. “A marriage to the Fae.”

  “I assure you the Princess is as beautiful as any that the realms of men have to offer.”

  Bres felt anger rise within him. “And you never thought to tell me this before now? How long have you kept this decision from me?”

  “Boy, you will do as I command?” said Balor.

  “I am your son, not your property!” said Bres. “Gods, you’re as bad as the meddling Nemeton.”

  Balor gripped him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Son, if you survive the Conclave and are chosen to ascend into immortality, what I’ve done to secure peace will not matter. You will no longer be required to marry. If you survive and are not chosen, then you will be the potential heir to both the throne of Fomor and Hyperborea. And if you should fail the Conclave, well… you will be beyond any betrothals I could plan for you.”

  Bres began to see what his father had labored so carefully to achieve. Bres was now in a position to change the world, no matter which way fate directed. He had been so caught up in following his passion for liberation he overlooked the power of diplomacy. Even Andraste seemed to be taken aback. Though the agents of the grove were secretive, it was rare to catch them unaware.

  “Forgive me Father,” said Bres. “I allowed my emotions to rule. I could not see the truth.”

  “All is forgiven my son,” said Balor. “You must always remember that we the royal blood must always rise above the baser feelings of lesser men. Men like Ubara. They are tools, they have their place. It will forever will be beneath us.”

  Bres nodded, “What would you have me do with Lord Ubara?”

  “I leave that decision to your judgment Prince.” said Balor. “Now if you'll both excuse me I must attend to other matters.”

  Balor walked out of his chambers and out of sight.

  Before Bres could follow Andraste breached the silence, “If I could have but a moment of your time Prince Bres.” He turned to her. “Your father is a stubborn, but noble man. Though I’ve long supported his reign and his policies, I cannot sit back and watch him be Dagda’s fool any longer.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Bres.

  “Dagda does not make deals that benefit parties outside of his interest. He cannot be trusted. Though your father believes him to honest and noble, he will prove false before the end. Your father would have you place your life under the knife of that butcher. Should you be required to walk the path your father has set before you, you will need allies if you wish to survive. Allies like myself, and others sympathetic to man’s plight.”

  “What would you have me do?” Bres asked.

  “Free the Penitent Ubara and keep him close to you. He wants to use you to achieve his own aims, but you can use that against him. Your father is not wrong in believing men like Ubara to be valuable, despite how dangerous they may be. The trials you will face at the Conclave will be unlike anything you’ve ever faced. You must be prepared for anything, and your main resource is numbers. There are twenty realms, and twenty royal bloodlines. Twelve of them belong to the race of man. You must learn to leverage those numbers against the Fae. If you do not, they will crush each of you beneath their heels. I trust you will see reason in my words young Prince. I beg your leave. I must depart Fomor before the dawn.”

  Bres bowed to the druidess and watched her disappear into thin air. He wondered if she was being truthful. His heart told him that she had her own agenda, but her logic was sound. There were more men than there were Fae. Still something about achieving greatness through deception felt wrong. He hoped that his old mentor would have advice to point him in the proper direction.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lugh, the half-blood Vagabond

  Names and games,

  Set forth blazing flames,

  Can he prove all he claims?

  The gates that stood before him sparkled and gleamed in the afternoon sun. A nearby tavern filled with the sound of song, laughter, and the aroma of ale. A bard’s fingers picked the strings of his lyre as his lips sung of Dagda’s victory over Atum. The tables were full as men gambled and wenches opened cask after cask of ale for their drunken patrons. Lugh looked at the merrymaking with glee, he longed for a drink after his long journey, but the druid Birog had been clear, he was to present himself to King Dagda Nuada and seek a position in his royal household. Lugh did not understand how he was to carry out this task, only that Birog told him that if he did not, that she would turn him into a toad.

  Why a spotted toad? he wondered.

  He did not want to make the journey. She forced his hand by threatening the imprisonment of the only family he’d known. For all their faults Feorn and Dofaar were his brothers, and if he had to do this to keep them from being tossed in a dungeon so be it. He did not want to join King Dagda Nuada’s household.

  “My talents would be put to good us among the common folk Birog. Dagda has no need of a house bereft of honor.” he whispered to Birog.

  “So you think being a wayward sellsword and a roving physician is what your father wanted for you?” she countered.

  “If it fills my belly and my cup,” he said. “The opinions of dead men carry little weight druidess. Pretty hard to get your way when you’re dead.”

  “That is the purpose of sons, to carry out your work when you pass,” she scoffed. “For a person of such skill and talents you sure are daft. Had I not taught you everything I know I’m certain you’d have ended up with lance through your guts.”

  He’d been a good student, but he did not know why things just stayed with him. Whether it was archery, herbal tonics, or divination from the stars, he succeeded in all he put his mind to. All save one very specific thing, acknowledging his history or his destiny.

  He tried to run from it on multiple occasions, many times making it as far as the Old Kingdom across the Median sea. No matter where he ran, Birog found him and cast him into one predicament or another to jog him into avenging his father. Lugh had no clue why Birog was so involved in his life, He suspected that in some fashion she had loved his father, Cian; loved him even after he ran off with the Eithlinn and fathered a bastard son, loved him as he fought a doomed rebellion, and loved him even after he was killed. It was her love that saved Lugh. And though he could not for the life of him figure out how the son of the Fae who betrayed the King of the Tuatha De, was about to join the Kings house.

  “It’s the king of the Fae or a magical giant with a look that can kill. The choice is yours” Birog had said in the tavern.

  “A magical giant of a man whose eye kills men on sight... great... remind me why I am here Birog… It’s madness isn’t it. I’ve gone mad.” he said.

  As he lamented his situation the gate which he stood before swung open and the majordomo walked forward. Lugh was not the only one present. There were merchants, Fae nobles, and commoners, all demanding the time and attention of the majordomo. A ragged vagabond from the Ironwood would be the least of his concerns. The majordomo had to push and weave his way through the crowd.

  “Follow him,” said a tiny voice on his shoulder.

  Birog hadn’t sent him here on his own. He was too valuable to her. She’d taken the form of a mouse to stay undetected until he was presented to the King.

  “Follow him,” she squeaked louder this time and nipped at his collarbone.

  “Alright, alright!” he cried.

  Lugh pressed his way towards the majordomo. The crowd cornered him and were shouting their demands. Some wanted an audience with the King, others wanted the King’s report.

  “Quiet! Quiet please!” the majordomo shouted to the mob. “All will be answered in due course and at the proper hour. The crier will call out the King’s report. Until then is there anyone who wishes an audience with the King, please step forward. A host of nobleFae shuffled forward and Lugh remained just behind them.

  “Now is your chance! Go go!,” Birog cried, and she nipped at his ear.

  Lugh stumbled f
orward bumping into two of the nobleFae who looked at him with disdain. He was not dressed as they were. He wore a tattered hood that covered a dirty face and unkempt blond beard, a shabby tunic covered his broad chest, and his boots were full of holes.

  The nobleFae were dressed in the finest threads the city offered. Shades of purple, red, green, and blue decorated their bodies signifying their esteemed stations. “Well excuse us, young man, we have important business with the King of Hyperborea. What could a dog like you hope to gain from an audience with his majesty?”

  Lugh was prepared for the insults. He was half Tuatha and half Fomorii, half man half Fae. The Fair Folk had never taken kindly to men. The half of his blood that was of man was considered crude, tainted, and untrustworthy. From their vantage point, they could not tell that he was half Tuatha De. When he removed his hood, their disdain turned sharper. Half-bloods were often considered even more undesirable. Their gasps betrayed their bigoted beliefs.

  “A half-blood!” one cried out. Another laughed at him. Soon after the mob joined in the mocking laughter. Lugh stood firm. He knew this reaction well and was prepared to deal with it as he always had, through violence.

  “They’re really annoying me,” he spoke through closed teeth.

  Birog knew this, and she moved to steel his nerves.

  “Pay them no mind. Remember what I told you.” said Birog.

  Lugh knew she was right, if he retaliated here, his worst fears would be realized. He would be jailed, or worse handed over to Balor. If he were to successful in this task, if he were to reclaim his birthright, he had to play his cards right. He stood before the majordomo and bowed in the proper Tuatha Dé fashion. Courtly fashion was one skill he’d picked up on the road. His hand outstretched he displayed the crest of the Ironwood to the majordomo whose eyes caught the glimmering silver ring in the sunlight. His eyes appeared to bulge from his head and he raised his arms to silence the mob.

  “Silence!” he paused. “Declare yourself young man.”

  The crowd quieted down and Lugh nodded in gratitude.

  “I am Trog, son of Glan, a minstrel and craftsman from the Ironwood. I have many skills I can offer the King in return for a position in his court, much more than any he has in his service. Of that, I can be certain.”

  The crowd gasped. Many of them had heard the name. He’d taken up the moniker to conceal his true identity. It was the name of a ghost, the shell of Lugh’s hidden existence. The rebellion of Cian and the Ironwood clans had been well known and even more unpopular than the Fomorii were in Formene. The Tuatha and the Fomorii had been at odds since the Tuatha conquered the land of the Fomorii ancestors in the first age. The only thing they liked less than a Fomorian was a half-blood from the treacherous Ironwood.

  “Trog, I’ve heard’t of ‘im didn’t Glan ride with Cian?”

  “Cian is dead!” one of the crowd cried. “Dagda kilt’ him, tossed ‘im from ‘is horse.”

  Another responded, “He’s half-blood, Perchance he is Trog!”

  They continued to banter over whether Lugh was who he said he was. Lugh could feel the situation turning from his favor. His nerves tensed. The majordomo was in shock, he wasn’t prepared to deal with a half-blood of the Ironwood, not today. If he didn’t speak up soon the crowd itself would turn from curious mob to the kind that might string up the son of a traitor. His hand drifted towards the hilt of his sword. The crowd grew more and more discontented.

  “If it is ‘im, ‘es a traitor. I say string ‘im up. King Dagda would give us a reward.”

  They’d turned on him as he had suspected they would. The Tuatha were no friend to the Ironwood. Lugh turned his full attention to the mob. His hand upon the hilt of his sword, he looked to Birog for guidance. “Got any more bright ideas?” Birog was silent. “Very well then we do this my way,” said Lugh. Just as he was about to draw his sword a voice shot out of their ranks.

  “It been said the warriors of the Ironwood can throw a spear an impossible distance. Is it true?”

  Their voices silenced. They knew the voice well, and they knew better than to continue their rabble-rousing in her presence. The crowd parted and revealed a young Tuatha Dé sheFae with an entourage of several other Fae. Lugh turned to look at where the voice had come from. His eyes locked onto hers and his steely reserve melted away. Her hair was cut short, light browns mixed with shiny copper and her eyes gleamed as green as polished emerald. It was a feeling that Lugh was not familiar. His life on the run never allowed him to relax, let alone court a woman. If he wasn’t being hunted by Birog, it was someone else looking to collect a fine bounty by returning him to Balor. She was unlike any sheFae he had ever seen. She walked with a heavenly grace that when coupled with the power in her eyes captivated all that laid their own eyes upon her. It only took Lugh a second to realize that he was not dealing with a commoner, nor a simple nobleFae. She was royalty and everything about the way she walked, talked, and even breathed betrayed it. Yet this was a different royalty. There was no herald. She had no guardsman parting the way for her, or rolling out a carpet for her to walk on. The wore no elegant gown or veil. She was dressed as a commoner, but she walked among them with such commanding presence. This was no fragile Princess, this was a goddess in the flesh. She walked closer to him her eyes analyzing him, calculating every aspect of his demeanor.

  “You boasted so eloquently about your talents, and yet now it seems you’ve lost command of your tongue,” she spoke. “Or am I falling victim to one of your other skills? Deception perhaps?”

  Lugh was paralyzed, she had stolen the stage from him. He could feel Birog moving underneath his tunic, preparing to jog him from his pitiful state, but he saved her the trouble.

  “I am who I say I am,” he replied. “And who might you be?”

  The crowd laughed. She turned to him her eyes blazing with spirited flame. “For a legendary hero you sure a daft aren’t you. I am Princess Arabella, daughter of King Dagda Nuada, ruler of the kingdom of Hyperborea and as of this moment, I am the only thing keeping you from being roasted alive by this mob. Perhaps you might pay me the respect of a proper bow.”

  Lugh did so in elegant fashion he displayed his formal training, a sure sign he was educated among nobles. Arabella nodded her eyes displayed surprise.

  “A decent enough bow. Anyone here can see you have been educated, but that does not make you who you claim to be. You see, I have heard of Trog of the Long Arm. His exploits are sung by bards from the Old Kingdom to the Forbidden Crags, a hero of sorts. If you call someone who runs from danger a hero. What exactly is it that you, Trog offer my father for a position in the royal house?”

  Lugh paused for but a moment. She had him on the ropes, she had tactically cornered him, but he had an ace or two up his sleeve. He was as the exploits had mentioned, a master of many skills. He was certain that any of them would grant him what he asked, thus he aimed to call her bluff.

  “I am trained in every art there is. Pick one of your father’s masters and arrange a contest. I am confident I will best any in your father’s company. The physician perhaps, or the smithy, it matters little.”

  Arabella appeared unimpressed by his boast. She motioned for one of her men to step forward.

  “Very well,” she paused. “This here is my father’s best man with a spear. None in the kingdom of Hyperborea or any other on earth has ever thrown a spear more sure or over a longer distance. He is the best of my father’s javelineers.”

  The javelineer tossed a spear to Lugh and stood beside him. Arabella called forth a Fae with a bow. She leaned in and whispered direction to fire an arrow. He took out his bow, notched an arrow and let loose his shot. The arrow sailed through the hot afternoon air for what seemed like an eternity before it found its mark. The commoners looked on in awe. He had fired the arrow so far that few if any of them could see where it had landed. Arabella motioned for her javelineer to step forward.

  “Whichever of these two marksmen places their spear closer t
o the arrow shall be the victor!” she cried out to the crowd. It erupted in jubilation. Lugh rolled his eyes.

  “What shall the victor’s trophy be?” asked Lugh.

  “The victor can name his request, ask and it shall be granted.” she responded

  He had been in this position time after time, tavern after tavern. Once someone heard the name Trog, he was bid to perform a trick for the crowd. There was, but, one distinction in this contest, Lugh felt that if he didn’t win this contest, his life may be entrusted to the crowd. Lugh watched as the javelineer stepped forward took aim and lunged forward tossing his spear with beautiful accuracy and deadly precision. In all of his travels, he had never seen another throw the spear so technically perfect. The spear sailed through the air swift as a falcon and met its mark a mere foot from where the arrow had landed. The crowd cheered and roared at the successful mark made by the javelineer. He raised his hands in praise and haughtily marched over in a victorious trot to the Princess and looked back at Lugh awaiting his throw.

  “An impressive throw,” said Lugh. “A hard feat to match. Yet I believe everyone here knows the Princess herself could have thrown that spear and arrived closer to the mark.”

  He bowed to her. “Or am I mistaken?” he goaded.

  Arabella fumed. She looked to her javelineer for another spear. The Princess had learned of his exploits, and he had knowledge of hers. She was more than a mere princess prancing around in fine gowns. Arabella was the daughter of the Great Dagda Nuada, his Master of Shadows. She was as trained and able as any male in her father’s armies. She carried the spear with ease and approached the station where Lugh and the Javelineer had stood. Lugh bowed and moved out of her way. She gazed at the target and raised the spear. The spear came from her hand quicker than the arrow from a bow. It was clear to all that Lugh had been right. The spear landed, making its mark a mere length of a spearhead away from the arrow. Arabella turned to Lugh.