Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 4

  The collective amnesia of the people seemed to diminish the former glory of the sacred day. He wondered if they had ever even seen the spectacle of someone being named to the order on the final eve of the festival of Litha. Or if the joining still occurred as it did at the end of the last age. He recalled the rebellion, the fall of the Old Empire, and the exodus of the progenitors. It was then he and the four other generals of the Golden Fist were victorious in battle. They were the instruments of her will and had won the war in Her name. After the bloodshed had ceased, they became the Order of the Derwyddon, the druids of the Grove. Their sacred duty to hold vigil over her children, protecting the Fair Folk and Mankind alike.

  He approached the hallowed ground where the Goddess had made her promise. The hills surrounding the shrine on the outskirts of the ancient city of Tara, still gleamed with the essence of that magical day. Yet he knew none who surrounded him grasped the gravitas. He still remembered with perfect clarity the day when the Goddess bestowed her plan for a new Eden. It was here in this sacred land that her power was in full force. Here all manner of creature, Fae or banal communed with her. This was where he should feel her presence the most where he would find the answer to why he had woken. Still, he felt disconnected, apart from her grace. Alone amongst a sea of naïve children.

  His hope sunk until a glimmer of light shone over the Shimmering Peaks striking a white river stone. The wanderer bent over to lay a hand upon the stone and in an instant felt a tremor within its memory. It sang a tragic tale, its vibrations emanating with a power that shook Falbanach to his core. The stones had memorized the destiny of one soul in particular and they sang it as loud as any song he had ever heard. It was an omen, a sign of foreboding on the horizon that the balance that existed for over six thousand years would shift dramatically.

  This seized his attention, for amongst the pilgrims might be redemption. He had always believed the mark of redemption would present itself in a more profound way. Not the voice of a stone.

  Could she or he be here?

  Falbanach had heard the call as clear as day. The voice of the Goddess was irrefutable, and she had called him forth to Tara. The stone was a messenger of her will.

  Could it be? he thought.

  He had dismissed such premonitions before, by disregarding the importance of the common folk. Where he once sought his answers among the elite, he’d learned that the simpler path often wielded greater results. This time he would do things differently. He heeded the omen. When a stone committed a destiny to memory, it was irrefutable evidence of a power that should not be ignored. Whether this individual was the one he had sought was irrelevant. This stone sang of a being with such fantastic potential. With such power it could bring forth a future wrought with tribulation if left to its own devices. Falbanach had never come across it's like. The prophecies of the Oracle Pythia spoke of this being, a redeemer and Falbanach had been charged by the Goddess herself to find this child. He or she could be on the road to Tara right now.

  He wouldn’t be able to find this child through his power alone. He could head to the Ancient Heights and employ the stone-singers of Bizaram to aid him, but that may take too long. Even with the help of a stone singer, he would still need the High Priestess. Pythia had called him forth from the dreaming, there would be a meeting of the Nemeton in the caves beneath Tara. He wondered if she intended him to take part in those talks. His presence was long forgotten, and among the other groves he had never been well received.

  Perhaps it would better to engage with her face to face, he thought.

  The wandering beggar stood feeling the weight of his yoke grow lighter. Centuries upon centuries of endless wandering felt as though it could draw to a close. Even if liberation came at the attempt of He was tired, he was weary, but he must continue on. He sat in the middle of the pilgrim road and closed his eyes waiting for the answer to come to him.

  He stopped closed his eyes and felt the vibration within the stone, it pulsed hot and cold, dark and light. He stroked the stone, and he peered into its mind. Somewhere else, somewhere near another stone called to him. For a moment he saw it, another hand caressed the corresponding stone. A hint of sea salt on the air, and a black feather crossed his inner vision. Then he heard it, “Fal.” it whispered.

  “The stone of Fal,” he murmured.

  His eyes shot open.

  Atum’s corruption had spread throughout this realm, diminishing his connection to the ancient power of the order. Where once he had felt no sign of a darkening, he now saw it within everything. It attached itself to the life force of beings like a parasite. Something or someone in this realm had torn the veil between the shadow and the physical world. If the hallowed veil had been exposed, then that which lied beyond could also influence this world. Falbanach knew that there were more insidious things in the realm of shadow than man. Twisted, abused and terrible things that could never again walk this earth, or so it was believed. He had no time to deliberate. He must act.

  Chapter Three

  Samsara, the initiate Keeper of the Seræphym

  Youthful eyes, and youthful zeal,

  Doth uncover and reveal,

  Primal plans to break the wheel.

  Samsara leafed through page after dusty page within the Archives of the Acropolis. The breeze carried the smell of sea into the stacks of scrolls. The wind ruffled her jet black feathered wings folded behind her back. Sam brushed her sable hair out of her versicolored eyes and voraciously consumed the words upon the parchment.

  Sam scratched notes onto the parchment. Her quill snapped.

  “Godsdamnit,” she hissed.

  She pulled a feather from her wings and winced.

  If all the other tribes showed signs of the curse by the end of the eighth century. How could they have missed this? It's right there. She conjectured. Immunity has never been proven, but how else do they explain the problem of apostates, without logical study and analysis?

  Samsara meandered through her thoughts. She noticed another student approaching her, and she pulled her journal towards her chest. Her research had reached a critical phase, and she was closer than ever to realizing a groundbreaking new thesis. Sam had become possessed by her quest to explain one simple question. She wanted to discern why some men maintained a connection to magic.

  The centennial census claimed less than a hundred men and women had been born immune to the curse. She noted in her journal. The numbers were limited, proving just how effective the Fae-forged curse had been.

  “Incarceration reports verify that all twelve tribes attempted to hasten an immunity by way of breeding cults. Those born with an immunity were forced to procreate with each other, often leading to deformities and further instances of abomination,” She hypothesized aloud. “These cults must still be active and in hiding. It would explain the emergence of the Fir Bolg and the Penitent movement.”

  Sam had extrapolated that only a fraction of the population were apostates that amounted to anything. To prove her case she’d need a sample of their blood, dusty records would not be enough. The problem was apostates were well hidden, and thus they were well out of her reach. If she was ever to solve the enigma, she’d have to find the answer within the pages of the Archives.

  She looked up at the massive towers of shelving that housed what Sam estimated to be millions of scrolls, journals, memoirs, histories, and poems. The entire history of the world was her fingertips, it should have been satisfying, but she felt a longing for more.

  Will we ever be masters of our fate? She wondered.

  With her commencement ceremony just weeks away Samsara worked around the clock, stalking the deep recesses of the Archives. Her green and blue eyes were bloodshot. She’d spent countless hours combing through the ancient manuscripts that chronicled the exodus of mankind. She’d gone through hundreds of genealogical records to see if there was a pattern.

  What day is it? Torsday? Wotansday? She puzzled.

  Samsara looked around the Archi
ves ensuring no one could discover her research. She’d found a cozy corner buried behind volumes of census records. There the archivists would not see her reading unauthorized studies of counter magic. Her current obsession was the fabled curse called the Bane of the Fallen. Study of this spell and it's magic was prohibited.

  Though her people were used by the Nemeton to locate, apprehend, and interrogate apostates. There were specific rules. The Keepers were supposed to research and prepare counter curses for the Watchers who would apprehend the apostates. Since Samsara was a Keeper her mandate ended at research. Sam had a knack for practicing counter magic, which she had put to good use training Watchers how to defend themselves against the dark arts of the apostates.

  What did the apostates look like? She wondered. She had never seen one in person, she’d only over heard the reports of the Watchers. The curiosity burned within her, fueling her desire to test the boundaries.

  Sam had fixed her focus on the magic of the exodus era. It was a fascinating period of history, one that delved deep into the mythic history of her own people. In the old tomes of the student archive she hoped she could find methods to defend against a magic that was exceedingly old. She absorbed every word, every phrase, cataloging the knowledge within the steel trap of her uncanny memory.

  Her passion for knowledge was eclipsed only by the love she held for her home and its people. For the past ten years she had been training as a Keeper of the ashen feather. Keepers maintained the most extensive repository of knowledge and mystical artifacts in the world. The sole focus of a Keeper was to chronicle the history, the knowledge, and the wisdom of the children of the Great Goddess. It was a position was of particular note for her people, the Seræphym. Thousands of cherubym dreamed of ascending to their storied ranks. Though Samsara valued the position she had been born into, a part of her always felt that the she belonged outside the alabaster walls. If she had been born a Watcher, she could have already solved the enigma she couldn’t seem to let go.

  The Keepers though glorified librarians were gifted individuals. It was a gift that Sam felt was wasted. Seræphym society was divided into four orders, the Guardians, the Watchers, the Scribes, and the Keepers. Only two of them could ever leave the towering island they called their home. This created a culture of isolation.

  Samsara recalled how her father had spun the description of her duty, “Samsara you will soon receive her own commission and become a leader among our people. Though your wings will not carry her across the dominions of the mythical lands. You will experience adventure within the colorful pages of historical research. You will protect the weak by ensuring our people are well equipped to do their work. Do this and you will lead her people to freedom.”

  I’ll just have to do it from a desk in a dusty archive. Wow, what adventure? She quipped.

  The thought brought forth many contradicting feelings within Samsara. She had grown to accept her place as a future Keeper. Even though the position made her a leader amongst the Seræphym; Sam still wondered what it would have been like to be a Watcher. To be present while the epics of the next generation unfolded before her eyes. To experience the tales instead of reading the accounts of those who lived them. The lifeless abstraction of words on dull parchment seemed a poor replacement for the exhilarating adventures they portrayed.

  Imagine the wonder of discovering a long-forgotten relic that predates the Acropolis itself. she thought. 'What magic she could see, what stories she’d witness.' Sam sighed. If only the law allowed a for a different way if only her father was a Keeper.

  Her father, she thought. Something about her father called to her. Though her father held no love for the Nemeton, and their iron rule, he still blindly followed their orders. As the leader of the Seræphym, his beliefs reinforced the ideology that they were incapable of ruling themselves. They had never been given the chance to prove differently.

  She was frustrated by the status quo. The more she knew about the past, the more elevated the frustration. She wished the laws her people were forced to abide by allowed for more freedom. The caste system enforced by the Nemeton had castrated her people’s freedom. They were once a proud race, a race of virtue. Now they were the servants of the hallowed Grove. A part of Sam had always resented the control though she realized why her people were indentured. Sam ground her teeth. Sam gripped the shimmering black stone that hung from her neck. The stone helped to calm her wandering mind. She rubbed it between her fingers, exploring the hole in its center. She could feel it calming her, breath after breath she came back to focus. The epiphany struck her, she clenched the stone.

  “The student Archives are incomplete,” she rejoiced.

  Every single piece of information in the Archives, must first be approved by the Sopher before public release. The Sopher just happened to be her father. There were hundreds if not thousands of records, treatises, and histories in his personal archive. His personal work on the Lost Tribe was unparalleled. In his office she’d be sure to find the information she needed to formulate a defense against their magic.

  Sam scooped up the papers and stuffed them in her leather bound journal and bolted for the Archives exit. Papers flew behind her as she raced towards her father’s study. She scrambled down the labyrinthine aisles of the Archives. She’d not been paying attention as she rounded a corner and she slammed into another student. Parchment flew and ink ran from his well.

  “Watch it Black Wing!” the student complained.

  “I’m sorry,” she yelled back to him in haste. She had no time to waste. If she was right about this, it would change everything. The curse itself was unyielding, breaking the hex would take formidable effort.

  But immunity, if they showed signs of immunity that was inherited by the next generation. That would be a whole different problem. Someone had to know about this, she couldn’t be the only one to know. She thought. Sam was sure she’d find the missing pieces of the puzzle in her father’s care. The head Keeper of the student archive called out to her in angst, “You must return all scrolls to their proper place. Samsara!”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t the time!” she called out.

  His cries drew the attention of her fellow students who eyed her with disdain. She was an outsider to them, the spoiled, eccentric daughter of the Sopher. Sam rolled her eyes at their parochial attitudes.

  In her youthful exuberance Sam had forgotten to return two of the scrolls she had requested from the archivist. “I’ll bring them back I promise!” she cried before taking flight.

  Her black wings unfurled and lifted her off the ground in front of the pillared entrance to the archive. The Acropolis glimmered in the midday sun. Sam felt her wings heat up as the celestial rays bore down upon the ancient city.

  Sam reached the citadel in the city’s center and hurried up the spiral staircase towards her father’s study in the tower. She hoped that he had not yet returned from his daily meeting with the assembly. The door would be locked, but she had picked it before.

  Samsara had what was commonly called the affliction of the Night Mare. Though it had plagued her younger years with strange visions and sleepless nights, it had afforded her the time to become a remarkable student. It was during one such sleepless night that Sam had divined the idea for her research into ancient magic.

  Samsara looked down the hall in front of her father’s study to make sure no one was around. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a torsion wrench and a rake and went to work on the lock. Her hands were nimble, within moments the lock surrendered to her. Sam slunk into the study and locked the door behind her.

  The room was covered in half finished transcriptions scattered across every visible surface. Candle light danced across the faded parchment that filled the air with a musty scent of vanilla and almonds. Sam hurried towards her father’s desk and placed her satchel down upon it. She turned towards his shelf that contained the complete records of Hyperborean lore and searched for a specific title.

  “Where does
he keep Bataivah’s work on breaking hexes?” she mumbled. Her fingers flew across the spines of the archaic tomes. She recalled hundreds of times she had been caught either playing or reading in the room. Locked doors and ancient laws were not enough to keep her from quenching her lust for knowledge.

  “Ah, next to Enoch’s prophecies, makes sense,” she said as she pulled it from the shelf.

  Sam brushed a large cluster of papers out of her way and plopped the heavy grimoire on the desk. She cracked the book and her nose filled with fragrance of old ink. Her finger searched the pages as her mind cataloged its contents, filing everything away in its proper place.

  “Fascinating,” she exclaimed. “So there was a belief among the men of the ninth century that an end to the Bane would come. They believed in atonement.”

  “What I find fascinating is how you find a way in here, no matter how many times I change the lock,” said the voice of her father Madan.

  She smiled. “Perhaps you should ward the door against unwanted intruders. A simple memory hex should suffice. Anyone who tried to enter will forget the reason they wanted to enter the room. I believe there is one that will work in the scroll of Animotix.”

  Sam pointed to the shelves without breaking her focus on the text in front of her.

  Madan chuckled. “I had hoped that my willfulness would have skipped a generation, but seems that you are just as stubborn as your Father,” he stepped closer peering over her shoulder. “Bataivah’s work on hexes, what are you hoping to gain from a forbidden book.”

  “Father, you yourself have told me a thousand times, there is no such thing as forbidden knowledge, what was it you say again? The suppression of knowledge…”

  “Is a sin against a freed mind,” He finished.

  “That’s the one.” He paused. “Still doesn’t answer my question though. What hex does Sariel have you researching?”