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

by Christopher Lee

  “I am the ArchMagus!”

  The Morrighan and the others knew well what Falbanach and his eccentricities meant for this dorcha. If he had been woken, that had been the reason Pythia had called this meeting, to exposing the agendas of those present. As they all sat mystified by what had happened, the Morrighan had fixed her gaze upon their hearts. It would only be a matter of time before she discovered whom among them was the traitor.

  Dagda stood. “None will leave this cavern until the return of the High Priestess, or until we determine who among our Order has committed this offense.” His tone was as serious as it had ever been. Each of the members of the Circle sat in their chairs and remained silent. Their inclusion made them all secretive. It was in their nature to guard the secrets they held, and they were all masters of it. The Morrighan knew they would not resolve the issue here and now, but she and the others could eliminate some of the options. The inquisition of in the Hidden Circle had begun.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pythia, the High Priestess of the Great Goddess

  Sacred power crumble,

  To hellish, profane rumble,

  Making privileged humble.

  They had vanished from the chamber. It had been many centuries since Pythia traveled in such a manner. As they forced their way through time and space, she sensed his auric pull. She’d forgotten how his nature felt. Falbanach had fallen into distant memory and many had forgotten his power, herself included. He was as capable as they all were, but something about his robust understanding of the infinite language made him somewhat more dynamic. Falbanach wasn't physically gifted as Dagda; he did not command the elements as the Morrighan; he didn’t have the raw power of Pythia. Even Myrddin for all his gifts did not compare to the transcendental essence that Falbanach exuded.

  One moment she was in the caverns beneath the Grand Temple and the next the wanderer had taken them to a blustering mountain peak. Pythia could not identify the lands that lay before them, even the sky was different. It was as though the color of the land was washed away.

  “Goddess,” she gasped.

  All within the Order knew of the realms outside of Eíre and Hyperborea, the realms of man were ever on their mind. But this land, the place he’d taken her existed outside of their own time. The ancient laws of conduct in the Order forbade them to interfere in the affairs of time. This was heresy.

  “Falbanach, where have taken me?" Pythia said. “If this is...this is heresy Dian Cecht. What have you done?”

  Falbanach did not say a word, he merely pointed.

  In the distance, she watched as the cities below made war. City after city fell. They were rebuilt and fell again. There was no doubt in her mind where Falbanach had taken her.

  “Tír na Beo..." she said with disbelief. “Why do they?” she paused. “Goddess have mercy, they murder Her creation!”

  The land was darkened, the soil soaked in blood, famine, and suffering. From lands far and wide the false gods, the lords anointed by Atum warred against each other, leaving the bodies of countless human slaves in their wake.

  “Not where, but when,” he said. “This is the land of toil, of the exiled,” his voice was as grim as the scene before them. “Outside the precious eden of Hyperborea the children of Atum enslave, murder, and deceive one another.”

  “They found a way,” she said. “A way to…” Falbanach turned to her. “To break the power of the Grove.”

  “Here is where the current course takes us. To the destruction of all, we hold sacred.”

  Pythia stepped backward and covered her face.

  “This is where you have been all these years, among the exiled? The dreaming was meant to prevent you from accessing your power. You know why the Mother ordered your sleep.”

  She realized why he’d aged. She looked down at her hands. They were covered in wrinkles and age spots. Pythia backed away in horror and in an instant, they were back in the Grand Temple of the Goddess. Her youth had been returned to her.

  “So you now see,” he said.

  She stood still trying to get her bearings.

  “Have you all become so dulled by the ages?” he said.

  Pythia did not like the insinuation of the ancient wanderer. “I am the High Priestess, the Oracle of the Goddess. I…”

  “You are a mouthpiece.” he paused. She assumed he was embarrassed by his curt tone. “I am sorry my time away has left me devoid of manners, High Priestess. What you’ve seen is the future for our people if we do not act. A deceiver, an abused soul has emerged amongst us. If we are to discover its name I must have access to the inner sanctum.”

  “Are you mad?” she said.

  His arrogance displayed how long he’d been away from civilization, from the Mother's Grace. He’d forgotten customs, pleasantries, and tradition. He had become a mindless tool.

  “Has your time away from the Mother’s Grace left you so devoid of your old self?”

  He said nothing. He paced, muttering to himself. “Why now, what does it mean?”

  “Falbanach!” Pythia’s raised voice shook the Temple. She too had power and will. She would have to shake him from singular focus. As the walls ceased shaking, she noticed she had gotten through to him.

  “My apologies Oracle,” he paused. “Pythia. My time away has left me…”

  What must he require so? She wondered.

  “I must speak with Mother,” he said.

  “Falbanach you know I cannot grant you entrance into the inner sanctum. The Fand... Only I may enter.”

  “The Fand have grown blind, they did not warn you of the awakening. Nor did they foresee the ripples in the web of fate. The ripples made by the soul I must seek.”

  She reached back into her memory. A bygone time when her host looked upon the then younger Falbanach with more than just respect. Deep within, through the cracks of time, she recalled his words to her before he left this world. Those words had broken a piece of her, a piece that had never been repaired.

  Pythia knew of what he spoke, “You still believe men can be saved?”

  Falbanach nodded. Pythia now understood why the old one had awakened and joined the rest of the Fist. He returned to find the mark of redemption. To the other members of the old born, the quest was foolhardy. Only Dagda still believed as Falbanach did.

  “Am I really as unaware as a fly?” she asked.

  He smiled, “None understand the grand design, priestess. We may be gifted with abilities far beyond others, but we are little better than children lying in the wake of her creation and destruction.”

  “I am so sick of puzzles, cryptic messages, and prophecies. Can we not afford a moment of respite?” she cried.

  “You’ve had six thousand years,” said Falbanach. “You didn’t believe Atum would lay dormant forever did you? The inner sanctum is our only chance to uncover who is behind this.”

  She looked away from him.

  “Pythia I beg you, the more time we waste, the more children will suffer.”

  Pythia knew Falbanach would find a way into the inner sanctum, by sheer will.

  “What you ask of me threatens everything we’ve worked for,” she implored. “You ask me to allow you to break her laws. Do you not see that war will happen if you do this?”

  “War is already upon us, only the Nemeton is blind to it. Every mouth along the road to Tara whispers of the coming darkness, the bad blood between man and Fae. That blood is on your hands, not mine.”

  “You must allow me to accompany you,” she demanded. “I may be able to convince the Fand to overlook your madness.”

  Falbanach was still pacing in front of her, muttering something to himself. Pythia reached out and grabbed his hand. She could tell that something about her touch still held sway over the obstinate nature within him. He looked into her eyes, she saw such longing, such pain.

  “If we do this, you will be considered a traitor. They will give you the mark of the Blackthorn,” Pythia said. “You will never sit in the Circle a
gain.”

  “I know,” said Falbanach. “By her mercy, may I be forgiven.”

  She stared at him. His resolve was as formidable as any she’d seen.

  Was it resolve or madness? She thought.

  “Goddess, forgive us both,” she responded.

  She led him through the Temple towards the inner sanctum. Pythia watched as he studied the transformation of the numinous holy place. She sensed him recall what this place looked like after the Great Celestial War. The outer wall to the east had fallen into the eastern atrium. The starlight dome had been punctured by iron projectiles lit with hellfire. All the halls reeked of brimstone. The blood of the temple's servants was caked upon the cobwebbed walls. Atum had destroyed the sanctuary and left the carnage. It served as a poignant reminder to those who would question his reign.

  In that time, Falbanach and Pythia had been the first followers of the Goddess to enter the Temple in over a thousand years. Even though he had torn down walls, shattered stained glass windows, and desecrated the altar, the Mother's Grace was evident. In every unkempt corner, from the rafters in the ceiling, there were vines, shrubs, and trees. The symbols of the Goddess had endured as she did.

  Now that all had been restored, the Temple was a beacon of her grace, and Pythia noticed that from underneath his shadowed cloak, a tear fell from his eye. Pythia stopped in front of the mystical doorway that led to the inner sanctum. She turned to Falbanach, wiped the tear from his face.

  “This will not sit well with the Fand,” Pythia reminded him. “The Crone will resist.”

  “Let me deal with the Crone,” his voice was sure and gruff.

  Pythia took his hand, and the two sang. They had done this once before, long ago. It was by their union that the way to the inner sanctum was opened after the war. Their words were saturated with primeval magic, they crossed the boundaries of space and time. The wall to the inner sanctum was not only impermeable rock, but it was also warded against intruders. Though Pythia possessed the proper incantation to enter the holiest of holies, bringing Falbanach through with her was another matter. She knew with their combined power would be enough to open the way. Her only worry was that they would be too drained to tend to the Fand. She could hear him in her innermost thoughts.

  “Fear not, your part is done.”

  The wards buzzed and hummed as their magic worked to unlock the way. Electric sparks flew and stone sizzled as the incantation disabled the ancient magic. Pythia could see the archway open in a glorious blue arc of light. Pythia could not believe what they had just done.

  Falbanach walked through with her, hand in hand. As they stepped over the threshold, she wondered what he meant by that. She could already see the Fand standing before the Well of Annwn. The Crone’s eyes were filled with fury as she drew incredible amounts of energy from the mother and the maiden. The three furies combined were a force that had kept even the darkest forces at bay. Pythia did not understand Falbanach’s calm, he too knew their power, their purpose.

  Had he lost all sense?! She thought.

  The Crone approached her hands brimming with righteous fury directed towards the interloping druid. Her mouth muttered the dark and infinite language, preparing a curse.

  “This is the holy sanctum of the Goddess, by her will I will smite thee!” Her voice was overflowing with the energy she drew from the other two. She pulled her arm back and prepared to strike Falbanach.

  Pythia shouted, “Stop in the name of the Goddess!”

  She attempted to step in front of the Crone and grab her arms, in defense of Falbanach. To her surprise, she slipped right through the body of the Crone and fell to the cold floor. It was as though the Crone and the other members of the Fand had no clue of her presence. Pythia watched as the Crone closed in on Falbanach.

  Why did he stand before such danger?

  It was then that his design was revealed. He unfurled his cloak, unveiling his spirit. His face retreated as did every feature of his corporeal form. He stood before the Fand, a being composed of the fabric of time and space itself. It was wonderful and terrifying. The Crone was as perplexed as Pythia at the revelation.

  Falbanach spoke, “Kleuso!”

  “This is not possible! Heretic…” the Crone cried out.

  The influence of the ancient word was evident in its effect. The Crone, the Mother, and the Maiden were frozen in time and space. Pythia had no knowledge of the word before now. It was a word of the first age, much older than her. She doubted that her own abilities could force the word into reaching its potential as Falbanach had done. The wandering druid had overcome their will with a single word.

  Pythia climbed to her feet, beholding the marvel. Falbanach did not return to his form, he floated towards her. Pythia’s wonder turned to fear. She was not sure of this power, from where it came. They all had their secrets, their own part of the cipher, but this was different. Falbanach had come across this power outside of the realm and it defied the natural order that had stood for over six thousand years.

  “Falbanach, what... what have you done?” Pythia shrunk from his advance.

  He did not answer her, nor did he explain himself. He gestured towards the Well of Annwn. Pythia felt a divine presence pulling her towards the well. It was a familiar presence. She knew it well, but it had changed. The Goddess had not come forth into her realm, she was lying somewhere in between. Pythia looked upon the well. At first, it appeared as it did on any normal day, shimmering and hissing. The well stirred with the power of the souls. Each of them was glorious, beautiful and unique. Falbanach approached the well. Pythia was still wary of him, despite the calming feeling of the Goddess that lingered in the air. Pythia somehow knew in the back of her mind this was her will.

  “Dhwosos, lenghmi werjo meinom,?” Falbanach spoke into the Well of Annwn. Pythia recognized the words. He demanded the force behind the machinations reveal itself. Pythia joined in his chant. The two stood before the Well and commanded the spirit to come forth. The water stirred and revealed a vision. Flashing images appeared, crashing waves, a dense canopy of trees, black feathered wings, and a fox. Nothing made sense to Pythia, she hoped that Falbanach could decipher what they saw.

  As they chanted, a soul blackened by corruption surfaced from within the well. There had not been a soul of this nature within the well since Atum’s reign. When it ended and man had fallen, the souls of the abused were cast back into the void beyond the gates of Arawn. This soul was of an evil far greater than any dorcha. It resisted their demands, it had revealed itself as one of immense power, more powerful than either one of them. However, its name and purpose remained unknown. It fought them tooth and nail, desperately hiding its identity.

  “You will reveal yourself. Nothing can stay hidden from her light. Unveil your hidden face demon!” cried Falbanach.

  The soul cursed and cried in the old tongue of Elohim, nothing was clear except two words.

  “Fal, Amaros.” it spoke.

  Pythia turned to Falbanach, her eyes glossed over. The words of the abused soul took hold of them both. Pythia could feel the power of the evil swimming in her thoughts. Images of gnashing teeth and bleeding flesh plagued her mind. Pythia seized and jolted trying to break away from the power of the dark soul. Falbanach broke the connection and ran to her aid. Pythia could see it all within the influence of the dark spirit. The blackness dissipated back into the depths of the cauldron’s waters. As it retreated, they heard the gentle voice of the Goddess.

  “Shadow and void claim me, you must find the black wing…”

  She wondered if he had heard the Goddess.

  “What do we do? What did she mean, the black wing?” she said. “Where is the Goddess?”

  “She is trapped somewhere in between the worlds. It is why I could not feel her when I woke from the Druid. It must be a product of the curse that has been cast upon the Nemeton why we cannot see the traitor. The Goddess has begun her descent into the Abyss.” He paused. “She cannot help us.”


  “Falbanach Midsummer is two months away. If she fails to return by then, we will be without an incarnation. A dorcha without an incarnation of her will would be…”

  “Then we must make haste and find the soul who will right this wrong.”

  Pythia was in shock.

  “I have been gone far too long Pythia,” said Falbanach. “Have there been any signs that might have led you to believe the Redeemer has incarnated?”

  Pythia could not bring herself to speak.

  “Pythia!” Falbanach shook her.

  “NO, NO there were no signs!” Pythia cried aloud. “Goddess what is happening?!”

  “The stone,” he said. “When did the Mal’akim unearth the stone of Fal?”

  Pythia’s mind raced, “I… I believe they uncovered it a century ago. The ArchMagus deemed the connection void of danger. It is being kept at the Acropolis.”

  Falbanach paced back and forth. Nothing was making sense. The Lost Tribe, the Mal’akim insurrection, mankind being invited to submit tribute to the Conclave, and now a broken blood oath.

  “All Amaros needs to be reborn is the stone and the pure blood of an enchantress. He must have been awoken when the stone was found. Its connection to the shadow must still be active. You must find out if the enchantress yet lives. Amyrannii says he keeps them captive. You must send one you trust to examine the survivors. Whom do you trust?”

  Pythia wracked her brain, “The Morrighan is the only one who I know despises men. She would be the only one who would not have conspired to lift the Bane of the Fallen.”

  “Or she seeks to have reason to destroy them,” he stated.

  “It must be someone else,” she said.

  “The curse was a blood curse,” he muttered to himself. “If there was enough purity in their blood, any alchemist in the dominions would be able to reverse the curse. Why then has it not been done?”

  As he paced, Pythia remembered something. “One-hundred-forty-three, he said there were one-hundred and forty three apostates in the sanctuary.” Pythia said underneath her breath, something about the number had bugged her.