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

by Christopher Lee

  “Will the Ensí himself be in attendance?” Dagda queried.

  “His attendance is unclear, my eyes and ears could not ascertain the intention of the delegation nor of the assembly present, safe to say the Prince Bres parlayed for his release.” said the Morrighan.

  “With all the tribes of men gathered in one location, we may be able to determine if a lasting and balanced peace is possible.”

  “Of course we must consider the danger of gathering them in one place. We risk unification, should an incident incite them. We must be cautious of this man Ubara, and his followers. They are not like the men of Fomor. While they remain but a thorn in our side, their knowledge of the old ways makes them dangerous, even if their mastery remains infantile. Their tributes will fall short in the trials, of that I am certain. So long as we prepare the Princess for what she faces.”

  Dagda stroked his chin and fiddled with the cylinder the declaration had come in.

  “You’ve held onto the orders?” asked the Morrighan.

  “It’s silly isn’t it?” he said.

  “No, it is natural. No father would want to subject his daughter to such evil, no matter how necessary.”

  He turned to her. “It has been centuries since I have felt so tested. For the other dominions it will be an honor to submit their own blood. If they only understood what the oath entails. They have not seen what lies beneath, within, and above.”

  “Nor the cosmic necessity for its brutality.” she said mirroring his concern.

  “Even in success, does the victory compensate for the sacrifice needed?” he asked.

  “You of all people understand our sacrifice pales compared to what She endured.” she said. “Sometimes I believe you forget how much I care for her too. She may carry disdain for me, but it has never stifled my love.” she caressed his cheek. “You know I would undergo them again if it meant sparing her. But I believe she is our best chance, contingency or not.”

  Dagda nodded.

  “She is not ready.”

  The Morrighan sneered, “She is more capable than any of them.”

  She took his hand and whispered into his ear, “She will be fine my love. I promise you.”

  From across the throne room, the herald shouted.

  “The Princess Arabella, Master of Shadows, Commander of the StarBolt Brigade, and heir to the throne of Hyperborea. She is escorted by Trog of the Long Arm, Warrior of the Ironwood, and personal manservant to the Princess.”

  The court was silent in the wake of their entrance though Dagda’s keen ears picked up on a few indiscreet whispers. He’d take great care to uphold her appearance at court. Though he despised using her as a diplomatic tool, it was unavoidable. Her appearance before the court with a male escort of such ignoble reputation would leave the gossips frothing for weeks. Dagda mere smiled at his daughter’s audacity.

  “A hero of the Ironwood,” Morrighan exclaimed. “I’ve heard much of this Trog. Not the courtly sort. A capable man, for a half-blood.”

  “She always was a stubborn one,” he said under his breath, thinking nothing of it. His daughter was young and ever impetuous.

  Dagda and the Morrighan observed as the Oakwatch cleared a path for her through the great hall. The members of the court flocked to glimpse the fabled man.

  “He hides something, I smell deception pouring off of the man,” the Morrighan whispered as she shook the hand of the King discreetly.

  “You believe he harbors ill-intentions?”

  “It is difficult to say, I do not detect anger or malice. Simply something buried deep within him.”

  He watched as the pair walked through the court greeting and mingling. The man servant’s hair was blond, yet only Dagda would’ve noticed it was still tangled from the braids he had been forced to undo. He walked with control, but it was clear he had not lived among courts. His body language spoke volumes. His gait was strong like a warrior, yet as controlled as a noble. Beneath the facade of grace and refinery Dagda detected a ruffian. This Trog was more than he said. His daughter approached the high table and she and her companion bowed formally.

  “Good Father, may I present to you Trog of the Long Arm.” said Arabella.

  “I have heard many tales both good and ill of Trog son of Glan.” He examined man. “Please have a seat at our table,” he asked the pair. “I was unaware that Glan had taken a Fomorian woman.”

  “I am humbled that my meager feats have reached so high as to grace your most noble ears,” said Trog as he bowed deeper. “It is true that my father did lay with one of the Fomorii. My mother hailed from the Honorstone Gap.”

  “Intriguing,” exclaimed the Morrighan. “Securing a place in the Princess’ entourage is a great feat. To be chosen to escort her to a feast, however, is singular honor. I wonder what you could have done to fly so high. You must be ever so skilled.”

  Dagda watched as the man responded, “A great honor indeed. I am skilled in every art, from warfare to smithing. But in truth I owe my life to the Princess. The common folk here in Formene don’t think kindly about the Ironfolk.”

  “As they should not, the Ironwood clans are known brigands and vagabonds,” the Morrighan retorted.

  “We are a hard and ornery bunch my Lady,” said Trog. “Though are recent past may speak differently, I can assure his majesty and the court that the Ironwood stands with the crown.”

  Trog raised his glass in a toast.

  “Long live High King Dagda!” he bellowed.

  The crowd followed suit.

  He refused to make eye contact with the Morrighan. To Dagda few things were more telling.

  “Might you grace us with a tale?” asked Dagda. “Regale us with one of your adventures.”

  Dagda stood garnering the attention of the court. “Would you like to hear a tale from our esteemed guest of the Ironwood?”

  “Aye,” the guests cried. Dagda sensed Trog’s mood shift. It was a slight change, hardly noticeable to the untrained eye. Dagda knew he may not determine the truth himself, but if he forced Trog to speak, to act the Morrighan would find the chink in his armor.

  “Majesty, I could not. I am afraid the tales have been quite overstated.” said Trog.

  “Don’t be foolish. My father asks for a tale, and you will do as he commands,” said the Princess Arabella as she gripped his robe. “Go on then, amaze the court, give them a good spectacle.”

  Trog capitulated and stood before the court. “So you’d like to hear a tale, would you?” he called out. “Perhaps how I slew the devilish beast of Loch Morrow?”

  The crowd responded in cheer.

  Dagda was amused. The man had a gift for spinning tales.

  “The beast had laid three whole villages to waste, breathing fire and devouring its prey. It had the head of snake, the body of a leopard, the haunches of a lion, and the feet and antlers of a deer. I knew only a blade of silver would end this horror. Unfortunately the region was desperately poor. I had but one piece of silverware to battle with the gargantuan brute of the wood. It fought bravely, gnashing its teeth as I gripped its throat in my left hand. I took the small knife and drove it into its heart. My hand itself entered the wound. I gripped its heart tightly. It wailed with the barking sound of thirty hounds. It thrashed and howled as I wrested its heart from its body. The horrid monster fell to the floor stinking of death and fear. I stamped its chest with the heel of my boot and gripped its antlers, rending its head from its body. The skull yet hangs upon the longhouse of the Quiet Lake clan. To this day none in the Ironwood know whence the beast came, nor what it was.”

  The court was in awe of the feat of the heroic man.

  “The death of the Beast Glatisant is no meager feat,” said Dagda as he stood clapping. “A marvelous feat Trog. I have known of only two other men to have stood against such a monster and lived to tell the tale.”

  “Who Great King?” shouted a noble.

  “Two stand before you,” he paused. “The other was Cian of Ironwood.”
>
  The crowd hushed and Dagda watched Trog’s reaction.

  He knew the young man was willy, it was in his blood. The Ironwood clans had long been wild. Dagda assumed it was the nature of their region. This youth had deceived his daughter’s keen eyes. As his Master of Shadows, she was charged with gathering intelligence, but this man had slipped right past her. He suspected by the look in her eye that attraction or infatuation was to blame. He knew it would not be long before the Morrighan determined what was true and what was false. Dagda wrestled over whether to call his bluff or watch how things played out.

  “Did you know Cian,” asked the Morrighan.

  “I am afraid that Cian died before I was born. Though all in the Ironwood know the name my Lady,” said Trog.

  “I was under the impression that Trog was nearly of age to stand as a warrior when Cian marched with Glan. Perhaps Glan had two sons named Trog? A son he kept in secret?” inquired the Morrighan. “After all traitorous leches like Glan had many secrets.”

  Trog turned towards the table. “My father was a traitor. As were many fathers from the Ironwood. But you will find we do not share the same values. We of the Ironwood have long adopted our allegiance to the Tuatha, not of the Fomorii. We strive to be more like you Great King.”

  Trog kneeled before Dagda.

  Dagda extended his hand to Trog, “Will you swear your allegiance here in front of this court? Will you kiss my ring and swear an oath to my house and abandon your ties with the Ironwood, Trog son of Glan?”

  Trog gripped the hand of Dagda. “By my solemn oath I swear to serve House Starlight and rescind all allegiance to the Ironwood clans.” he kissed Dagda’s ring. As he did Dagda glimpsed the ring upon Trog’s finger. The symbol was familiar, the stone setting was one he had seen before.

  He looked at the Morrighan. She had seen it too.

  “Father, if you would permit me. I should like to show Trog here to a tour of the court. If he behaves perhaps, I’ll instruct him how to dance,” said Arabella.

  Dagda nodded, “Be my guest honored daughter.”

  Arabella whisked the half-blood away from the table. He watched as she wound her way through the guests. She spun him about as the minstrels played a peppy tune for the guests. Dagda watched as his daughter smiled and enjoyed the company of the man who had deceived her. The Morrighan moved closer to him.

  “She does not know,” said the Morrighan.

  “You must agree the boy is clever, and capable.” said Dagda as a smile crept its way into the corner of his lips.

  “He is as deceitful as his father,” she countered.

  “Dagda, is it possible? Could he truly be Cian’s son?” asked the Morrighan. “You tossed him into the sea yourself. I saw it with mine own eyes.”

  Dagda watched. Arabella smiled and laughed as she danced with the man. “He makes her happy.”

  “A happiness that will crumble when she finds the truth,” said the Morrighan.

  “Perhaps, he owes her a life debt.” he paused. “It is a lie that may prove useful.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lugh, the half-blood Vagabond

  Across the waves to paradise,

  Like solar king,

  Must yee sacrifice.

  Watery steeds galloped along the waves pulling the ships across the channel from the mainland to the sacred isle. They’d burst from the water conjured by the mere folk who granted the masses passage to Eíre. Lugh could taste the salt on the air as the sea’s waves crashed against the bow. He’d accompanied the Princess Arabella on board the King’s private sail. They’d set sail a day ago for the city of Tara, and he was informed that they would arrive in the harbor by the afternoon. It was a whirlwind of chance and a bit of clever deceit that had landed him in such noble company. Though he had not wanted to join Dagda’s house, the unexpected friendship with the Princess was beginning to intrigue him. There was something about her. At first he speculated she was a haughty and abrasive little sheFae, but over the past few days he had grown to understand her better. They had danced in the great hall of Dagda’s keep in Formene. In that evening something had changed within Lugh, he had grown to admire her. Though Lugh wasn’t sure his feelings fell beyond the bounds of mere admiration.

  The morning sun broke over the waves casting a host of colored rays across the sparkling surface of the waves. The air was different here. Lugh had traveled hundreds of leagues in his years as a faceless wanderer. He had seen many cities in that time. Though something about the air told him the land, they sailed to was older and remained untainted by the foul odor of hate. He had only been given pieces of information before boarding the ship. He had heard the bards declare the Conclave was to be held at Tara, but he was not sure he understood the gravity of the ritual.

  “Were only a few hours away from seeing the coast,” said Arabella.

  She had snuck up behind him, a feat she had now accomplished twice.

  “I’m not sure I will ever get used to how gently your feet carry you,” said Lugh.

  “I wouldn't be a Master of Shadows if I plodded around like a dragon now would I?

  Lugh laughed. “It appears your skill is matched only by your wit Princess.”

  “I would say it is rather well met when compared to your mastery Trog,” she countered.

  “I may have mastered a few things here or there in my travels, but few compares to your elegant mastery of grace Princess,” said Lugh.

  “Please Trog, call me Arabella. It appears that we will spend a great deal more time together in the coming months. Father has suggested that I use you to be my personal master at arms for the trials of the Conclave. I am inclined to agree with him.”

  The weight of his deceit fell upon him. “Arabella, I don’t believe I am equipped nor schooled to give such lessons. I’ve no knowledge of the inner workings of the ritual. Gods, I don’t know a thing about the land itself. What sort of land is this Eíre? I’ve only heard legends.”

  “I don’t require lessons on the history of the Conclave of Eíre Lugh, I need someone who can help me hone my senses, someone who can discipline me in the art of resolve. Who could be better in teaching me how to perfect my craft with a blade, spear, or bow?”

  Lugh felt the sharp nip of Birog’s teeth in his leg. She was urging him to respond but Lugh was tired of being her puppet. He jerked about kicking and the mouse flew out of his pant leg.

  “A rat!” said Arabella who stamped her feet at the fleeing mouse. Lugh raced to stay her aggression and grabbed her shoulders pulling her away from the fleeing mouse.

  “Hey, hey it’s just a mouse.” he said. “I mean, I am sorry your majesty. I should not have lain my hands upon you like that.” Lugh kneeled in front of her. He hung his head. “If you would have me, I would do the task you require of me.”

  She was silent for a moment as Lugh hung his head. What few seconds passed, felt like an eternity to Lugh. Then he heard her laugh. “Get up you big buffoon!”

  “Majesty I don’t understand. I thought the common folk could never touch the Princess,” said Lugh. It was an ancient custom, one that held true in lands ruled by man and Fae. Lugh had seen the consequences of laying a hand upon royalty when not commanded to do so.

  “Trog, how are you going to train me without laying a hand on me?” she jested. “If I am to be the champion of House Starlight, you will need to get your hands dirty. That includes roughing up the Princess.”

  Lugh looked at her puzzled.

  “Trog let me explain to you what I am facing. Do you remember the giantess who attended the court the other night?”

  Lugh nodded. He had seen her. The sight was enough to take the wind from his chest.

  “I face not only her, but the most well trained, well bred, most dangerous people in the world in this trial. If I am not prepared to defend myself or another champion, I will not survive.”

  “Princess,” she scowled at him. “Arabella, I am confident that even the giantess would be no match for yo
u. I saw how you threw that spear in the marketplace. I have been across the world, fought many men, and none I have ever faced could have done that. What you face from the other champions is well within your ability to handle.”

  Arabella sighed. “I don’t simply face the champions. The Trial of Calas will require us to descend into the bowels of the Dragon Lord. The others will not grasp this, so I have an advantage in knowing we face a journey through Arawn’s kingdom. In the depths there are horrors that no living being should have to see.”

  “The underworld? How is it you came to this? I heard the survivors of the trial swear an oath of secrecy. Will Arawn not sense you have knowledge of this? You’ll be disqualified.”

  “The rules are clear, none may enter if they are not pure of heart. It does not say you can’t enter if you’ve done your due diligence in preparing for what you face. I’ve read the accounts of the ancient sages who communed with Arawn. Their poetry is dedicated to his sovereignty. He is the gatekeeper to the other side, the void where the Goddess caged Atum and his demonic kings. The epics tell of his hounds, his army of twisted beasts that keep the dead from returning to the land of the living. If I am careless for even a split second, I won’t return. My father will not have an heir to the throne…”

  Lugh watched her as she contemplated the fear. It ate at her, he could tell that although she had embraced the trial she was battling herself. She was an incredible person. She had barely reached her eighteenth name day and yet she had reached maturity that exceeded his tenfold. Though they were only separated by a few years in age, he sensed she was the wiser party. He watched her as she looked out on the waves.