I’m getting very close to finishing the third book in the Purification Trilogy (104,000 words). Until 29 April you can get either (or both) of the first two books of the trilogy Fionúir’s Mural, and Ailchú’s Prophecy, as e books from Smashwords.com for $5 off the regular price. Just go to Smashwords.com and enter the following codes:
Fionúir’s Mural: EC36N
Ailchú’s Prophecy: AN25Y
Regards, Charles
I am now 72,000 words into the final book of the Purification Trilogy, Cathals’ Seer. Hoping to have it done by the end of April.
Also, I have an artist sending me sketches of the mural from the first book, Fionuir’s Mural. Very excited about having this turned into an actual painting.
When I wrote Fionúir’s Mural, the first book in my sword and sorcery fantasy trilogy, in 2012, I didn’t realize what impact it was about to have on my autistic son, Trey. Trey is quite the prodigy when it comes to computer gaming. We do a lot of stuff like cooking and martial arts together, but at that time Trey didn’t read books. He could read, slowly, and had a small collection of Japanese style comic books and cook books, but he apparently hadn’t found anything to capture his interest in the world of fiction yet. He’d started a few books, like the first book in the Harry Potter series, but he’d put them all down after reading only a few pages. Since what I was writing certainly resembled some of the worlds that formed the background of the games he played, I dedicated it to him as follows:
This book is dedicated to Trey, who lives in worlds like this.
Since I had dedicated it to him, I presented him with a signed copy.
The next thing I knew, he was reading it. Every time I met him, he’d tell me where in the story he’d reached. He started giving up some of his gaming time each day to read. Last week he finished Fionúir’s Mural, and last night I gave him the second book in the series, Ailchu’s Prophecy. The first thing he did was sit down and start to read it.
Words cannot describe how this makes me feel. No matter what else I may accomplish with my fiction writing, I am most proud of this.
I’m now 54,000 words into writing the final book of the trilogy, Cathal’s Seer.
The latest book in the Purification Trilogy is now here! You can obtain an e book from Smashwords at: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/250783 The print version is available from Createspace at: https://www.createspace.com/4045624
In the beginning, there was a blacksmith…
…and all Ruarí ever wanted was to become an armourer and inherit his father’s forge. His mentor, the master armourer Oillill, talked him into studying swordplay. Suddenly Ruarí found himself fighting off foreigners who coveted his star iron sword with magic he didn’t even realize he possessed. Emperor Ambustus launches a Purification Crusade resulting in the death of Ruarí’s parents and the capture of this mentor. In seeking revenge Ruarí discovers he is named in a generations old prophecy as the possible saviour of the western nations. All he has to do is ride the roads of the dead, stop time, and unite the nobles of three nations. How on Eilir did things get this complicated?
The Legend of Somhairle the Valorous begins…
Sample Chapter:
Sword Season, 18 Méan Earraigh, Cavan, Guoidel
Never wait for your dreams to come true. Lift up your hammer and beat them into being. Forge your reality.
Somhairle the Valorous, The Gwalchmai Codex.
The day before the stars fell from the sky was in most ways unremarkable. Two decades later the Silvandii historian Waléran would write that the hero of the First Purification rode into Cavan amidst a rain of stars, but in truth it was an ordinary, brisk spring day as Ruarí Mac Dryw rode up the steep, winding road along the roaring Lywchwr River, swollen with spring snow melt. Deep within Guoideli territory, his excitement grew with every passing league. People would take this strapping, ruddy haired youth as being in his twenties, but this was his fifteenth year and his first major journey away from home, every dawn the start of a new adventure. Ruarí’s father reckoned his journey to Cavan would take three hands, having made the trip himself several times. Thus the Fire Mountain, Mynydd Tân, loomed over the other jagged, snow capped peaks hemming in the valley on this fifteenth finger since leaving home, a banner of steam trailing from its peak, warning of the incendiary violence contained within. Its nearness indicated Ruarí’s destination could not be far off.
Ruarí had never been in Guoidel before, a land well beyond the world known to him. People said that if you dared to make the summit of Mynydd Tân you could look down across the fields and vales of Guoidel and Pictavia all the way to Innisdanu in the west, down into the forests and plains of Midgardr stretching to the icy northern sea, and east into Suðrgauthiuda and the tribal lands running east to the steppes where the Hunnoi khans ruled.
The sun rose to its apex, flooding the valley with light. Wild raspberries and elderberries bloomed pink and white, alders filled the mountain air with their sweet scent. Ruarí’s marsh hawk Aillén circled above, seeking prey. Ruarí considered stopping for a midday meal but quickly rejected the idea. He judged that he should arrive at the forge of his father’s friend Oillill in Cavan within a glass or two. Keen to finally reach his destination and begin his training, Ruarí used a trick that he’d discovered a few years ago when he first got Aillén: The ability to see the world through Aillén’s eyes.
Dryw presented Ruarí’s first falcon Aillén to his young son when he was twelve summers old. As he placed Aillén on Ruarí’s leather gauntlet, Ruarí had the unusual experience of suddenly seeming to look at himself from the perspective of Aillén. The briefest of visions, which he initially dismissed as idle fancy. However, over the next few days as he learned to use the hawk for hunting, he got brief visions of looking down from great heights as if he himself was flying. Eventually he’d shared these experiences with his mother Idella. Naturally he felt comfortable speaking of his psychic abilities to Idella because of a previous discovery he shared with her: Since old enough to speak, Ruarí had been able to speak mind to mind with his mother. The two could carry on a conversation without a spoken word. Ruarí thought that these visions might somehow be related to that gift. Idella listened with great interest and took him to see Scoth, the local priestess of the Fanes and Garráins. Scoth, equally excited, suggested that perhaps Ruarí was fated to become a wicce of the Fanes like her.
When Idella made Scoth’s observations and her own feelings known to her husband Dryw, he was surprised and hurt. He’d hoped his son Ruarí to inherit the forge, not pursue a career in the Fanes and Garráins. As things turned out he needn’t have been concerned: Since Ruarí began to walk all his desire revolved around pouring and beating and shaping his dreams into iron shapes like his father. He’d absorbed everything his father Dryw could teach him of the smith’s craft. Oillill and his father had trained together as apprentices many seasons ago, but where Ruarí’s father Dryw had turned to the manufacture of metal for agricultural pursuits and the creation of jewellery, his friend Oillill had studied the art of making arms, travelling as far east as the steppes of Hunnoi to study and master his craft. Men spoke of Oillill as the premier weapons maker in the Ceilteach lands. When Ruarí’s interest turned to the manufacture of arms, Dryw sent him to Cavan to study with his old schoolmate.
And so Ruarí reined in his horse, closed his eyes, and suddenly found himself looking down at the mountainous landscape from high above. About a league ahead as Aillén flew he saw where the Lywchwr descended a precipitous slope in a series of thunderous waterfalls. The track wound up a switchback alongside the rushing river, eventually levelling off to a wider valley with a small lake, which had to be Llyn Haearn. And there, nestled against the southern shores of the lake was Cavan, his destination.
Ruarí opened his eyes, nodded with satisfaction, tightened his belt, shook the reins, and urged his mount onwards.
News travelling west from the distant Jovaian Empire told of Ambustus, the Archbishop of the Temples, calling for missionaries to convert the peoples of the west. Rumours drifting west from the Empire raised suspicions that these missionaries were actually spies or provocateurs, seeking a pretext for war. Many miles and several lands lay between the Jovaian Empire and Ruarí’s home in Pictavia, but if the rumours of war circulating had any substance, then smiths skilled in weapons manufacture would be in demand soon. Governments would seek horses and arms from Tarhlund to equip their cavalry and infantry units. Pictavian adventurers heading east to seek their fortunes on the field of battle would require mounts and weapons. Ruarí intended to make his fortune equipping them. Hopefully by the time the wheel of the year had turned once more Ruarí would ride back down the Lywchwr valley, returning to Pictavia’s horse trading centre at Tarhlund to help arm his countrymen. This time next year he’d return a qualified armourer and receive his adult name from his father. The Gods willing he would have time to complete his training before the tides of war reached them.
A short time later Ruarí guided his mount and his pack horse up the steep switchback alongside the roaring waterfall he’d seen, drawing his cloak close against the cool mists. He topped the rise and the land fell away to reveal Cavan spread out along the shores of Llyn Haearn. Ruarí sighed with relief and urged his mount forward at a trot. A Fane stood beside a circle of standing stones on a hill outside the gates, indicating a good sized population. Another building which appeared to be a Temple of Jova stood on a lesser hill nearby, and yet another hill had a pillar decorated with colourful Hunnoi prayer flags. The appearance of Hunnoi warriors in Cavan didn’t surprise Ruarí, since he knew peoples of many cultures met in the marketplace of this town seeking the weapons and armour or iron from the ore mined in the surrounding mountains. Eastern travellers used these sacred sites when they arrived seeking arms.
Moments later Ruarí rode through the iron bound oak gates of Cavan. Prosperity showed in the smart shops, crowded thoroughfares, and cobblestones rutted from wagon traffic. Men of many nations strode through the marketplace checking out the many arms dealers: Flaxen haired Gautar with axes in their belts, ginger haired Eriu, their arms tattooed in Ceilteach knot work from wrist to shoulder, swarthy Lugerians with braided beards, hard faced Hunnoi with their fur lined helmets and faces lined with tribal scars. Savoury scents drifting from various eateries tempted Ruarí, reminding him that he’d missed the noon meal. A carillon of ringing hammers from the many forges surrounding him witnessed to the source of Cavan’s wealth.
Oillill’s smithy stood near the eastern gates of Cavan at the mouth of the valley where the rushing Lywchwr descended from the peaks beyond. Ruarí found Oillill’s wrought iron gates bearing the design of an Elven smith, indicating that Ruarí had found his destination. The road beyond became a track winding up the side of the river to the slopes of the mountains where the iron mines lay. Smoke drifted from the forge chimney, mirroring the banner of spume drifting from the peak of Mynydd Tân looming above. Although Ruarí had never laid eyes on Oillill’s smithy before, the charcoal smoke and incandescent iron made Oillill’s forge look and smell as familiar as his father’s forge. Ruarí took a deep breath to calm himself. Ruarí’s father Dryw had told him so many stories of his former fellow apprentice: Now Ruarí was finally going to see Oillill for himself.
Ruarí rode through Oillill’s gate, finding himself in a yard bounded on the left by the forge and on the right by mews with stables below and stable hands quarters above. A two story stone dwelling with a slate roof enclosed the far end of the yard between the forge and the mews. Ruarí dismounted, looked around curiously and adjusted his kilt. Aillén dove from the sky, landing on Ruarí’s vacated saddle.
A burly, bearded man about his father’s age wearing a scorched leather apron came out of the forge to investigate. His full auburn hair, frosted with silver, hung in braids to either side, framing his ruddy countenance. His muscular frame seemed forged from the iron he worked. A smile immediately blossomed on the smith’s craggy face.
“May the Gods bless the holder and the holdin’,” Ruarí greeted him with a grin, “Me da sends his blessings.”
“May the Gods smooth yer road.” Oillill placed his square, calloused hands on Ruarí’s shoulders. “Welcome to my forge. Let’s have a gander at ye a bhalaich. Ye’ve yer father’s frame and hair, but ye’ve yer mother’s eyes. How are yer parents?”
“They are well, I thank ye.”
“Is everythin’ well back in Tarhlund?”
“Aye. Father’s forge is thrivin’.”
“Glad I am to hear it. Let’s get yer horses stabled, laddie.”
Ruarí took Aillén on his gauntleted fist and led his mount into the stables as Oillill led his pack horse. Aillén was given a roost to perch on and Ruarí’s mount unsaddled and groomed. Oillill gave Ruarí a tour of the stables, making him familiar with the location of the feed bins and watering trough.
“Fine horses you’ve got here,” Oillill said, stroking one horse’s neck as Ruarí fed him.
“Da’s got connections with the best breeders.”
“That’s why he returned to Tarhlund of course. Come away laddie. I’ll show ye to yer room. Let me help ye with yer things.”
Ruarí and Oillill shouldered the saddlebags and Ruarí followed Oillill through the massive oaken front door and down a passageway into an enclosed courtyard at the rear. He found himself in a garden enclosed on four sides by the stone and timber dwelling. Oillill led him down the flagstone path around the neatly tended garden, coming alive with spring shoots of vegetables and herbs. Passing through a smaller door he led Ruarí up some polished oak stairs and down a corridor to a small room in the back of the house. A shuttered window in the stone wall gave Ruarí a view of the river and of Mynydd Tân looming amidst lesser peaks. A serviceable pine slat bed with a straw stuffed mattress and down duvet stood against one wall with an iron bound oak chest on the polished plank floor at its foot. A wool carpet with Guoideli designs brought a bit of colour to the room. A pine weapon rack stood empty in the corner. A Tuam, the three legged chair common to the cottages of Eriu, stood in front of a simple trestle table with an ink well and quill to one side of the window. An iron brazier on a stand would warm him during the icy mountain winters.
“I deem ye’ll be comfortable,” Oillill said, turning to face his new apprentice.
“You may take it as sure I shall,” Ruarí said, looking around to where Oillill leaned against the door frame, “I appreciate ye takin’ me on as an apprentice. Me da… well—”
“—Dryw is a skilled smith, none better. Our teacher, Trahaearne, may he be blessed in Tir Nan Og, was justly proud of him. But yer da was ne’er keen on the idea of makin’ arms.”
Ruarí guffawed as he set his saddlebags down on the floor by the bed. “Implements for farming and animal husbandry are more da’s style. Da said if I had an interest in arms then I’d best learn from the best.
Oillill snorted. “High praise indeed comin’ from your da.”
“Da said ye’d studied under the Hunnoi master, Oktar.”
“Aye. When your father returned to Tarhlund to open his forge, I travelled east and studied under Oktar in his armoury in Darkhan. Twa years I studied there. Twa memorable years… So ye’ve a mind to make weapons, have ye?”
“I deem there will be a need of them soon. Rumours of war have reached us in Tarhlund.”
“Aye, ye’re probably right. Rumours of unrest have been trickling in over the passes from the east for several ochtú.”
“We’ve heard of the new Jovaian Archbishop preaching about some sort of crusade.”
“Aye, ‘Purification’ he calls it. Word has it he’s purged the ranks of the Temples, replacin’ key officials with his own. And he’s been sendin’ out missionaries to take the word of the Temple of Jova west. A year ago a Jovaian priest showed up with a small party and started building a Temple of Jova on the hill near the Fane. That Temple they completed an ochtú ago.”
“Aye, I saw it when I arrived.”
“I’m told Archbishop Ambustus has been aey vocal in his condemnation of the Fanes and Garráins, preachin’ sermons about purifyin’ the west with fire. That hard neck priest in that Temple outside our gates has been acting the maggot, parrotin’ the same nonsense in the market square.”
“Do many attend the Temple?”
“Verra few. Some travellers from the east, no one local.”
“Have they caused troubles?”
“Apart from preachin’ and spinnin’ tales? No, not yet. They seem to keep to themselves so far.”
“Think ye Ambustus will start a war?”
“Time will tell laddie, time will tell. Mark me: What Ambustus truly desires is the Emperor’s throne. The Purification is his excuse. If he does launch a crusade, armourers will be in demand, that’s as certain as sunset.”
“Aye, that’s what me da said.”
“A wise man is Dryw. We’ll get ye started bright and early tomorrow lad. Have ye had yer dinner?”
Ruarí shook his head.
“That can soon be remedied. Travellin’ is thirsty work. Come away now, take yer rest and tell me news of yer family. Come into the kitchen, and I’ll draw us some ale. My good wife Esa will be glad of you.”
Ruarí collected some items from one of his saddle bags and followed Oillill back across the courtyard to the entrance way and then right into the wing containing the kitchen and pantries. A door from the forge led to the kitchen in the corner of the ground floor of the dwelling. One wall was dominated by a vast stone hearth with spits and a cauldron on its crane, with a large bay below for firewood. A massive trestle table with sturdy benches below an iron candle wheel took up the middle of the room. To one side was a smaller table with a wooden fidchell board, its pieces lined up ready for a game. As Oillill’s wife Esa bustled over to welcome her visitor, Oillill drew ale from a large barrel on a stand in the corner.
“Ahh, its yerself, is it?” Esa greeted him, giving him a hug, “Sit yerself down laddie.”
Soon they seated themselves on benches at the huge trestle table. Oillill’s ten year old daughter Gweirvyll brought a steaming bowl of water and a towel and laid them at Ruarí’s feet. Ruarí had been told of this Guoideli custom: The host offered water to wash the guest’s feet. Accepting the offer indicated your intention to stay the night. Ruarí nodded and Gweirvyll dutifully slipped off his boots and laved his feet while Oillill’s wife Esa set out rye bread and cheese.
“How’s Idella?” Esa asked him.
“Ma is well enough. She sends ye gifts.”
Ruarí brought forth crocks of honey from his mother’s hives and silver broaches with Ceilteach knot work designs, one for Esa in the form of intertwined hounds, and one with intertwined stags for Oillill. Ruarí had a gold necklace with a pendant garnet for Esa as well. Gweirvyll blushed with pleasure as Ruarí presented her a silver necklace with a bird pendant his father had crafted.
“Braw work laddie,” Oillill exclaimed, examining his friend’s work, “I’d heard yer da started makin’ jewellery, but this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of seein’ his work.”
After a pleasant glass or so trading family histories, Oillill stood up from his bench.
“Let’s show ye where ye’ll work for the next few ochtú.”
Oillill took Ruarí to the forge to familiarize him with the workplace and introduce him to his fellow apprentices. He found these apprentices hard at work forging swords.
“This is me son Ciarán.”
“Pleased to meet ye.” Ciarán’s grip was solid from swinging a hammer, but Ruarí noted that he had a pronounced limp from a childhood injury. His full head of auburn hair was braided like his father’s. Ruarí presented Ciarán with a silver torque bracelet from his father which he received with obvious pleasure.
“This is Niall Mac Fearchar, from Aberdour. We call him Niall Crobdub.” Niall, peaking through stringy locks of raven hair, smiled shyly and grasped Ruarí’s wrist.
Niall black hand, Ruarí thought, an apt name for a blacksmith.
“This is Donnchad O’ Tuathal. His father Jankyn runs an inn called The Cantering Cob off the town square.”
“We call him Donn,” Crobdub said with a grin.
Brown. That’s apt too, Ruarí thought, looking at his mop of nut brown hair and swarthy complexion.
After these introductions Oillill set Ruarí some tasks to determine the extent of his training and abilities. He seemed pleased with what he saw in his new student. The shadows in the forge yard had lengthened and the sunset had painted the peaks tangerine when Esa appeared in the kitchen doorway to call them in to supper.
Family, forge hands, and servants all sat down together at the big table. Gweirvyll gave thanks to the Gods and Esa brought out a pigeon pie, a large steaming pot of pease pottage, and platters of rye bread and fresh churned butter. Oillill brought out an amphorae of white Silvandii wine from the cellar. Gweirvyll received applause for the Belfinn bannocks she brought out for afters. After supper Oillill asked if Ruarí played fidchell.
“Sure he’s lookin’ forward to seein’ if ye’re as keen to play the game as yer da,” Esa giggled.
“I’m not as canny as me da, but I’ll play ye with pleasure.”
Fidchell, a game of strategy, required each player to get his king to the opposite edge of the board, the one achieving this first being the winner. Ruarí sat down in front of the white pieces across from Oillill’s black. They played several games, Gweirvyll periodically refilling their cups. Ruarí enjoyed the game his da had taught him and even at a young age was a skilled fidchell player, but Oillill was a master, and beat Ruarí every time.
“Me da warned me of ye,” Ruarí yawned, replete and content.
“Ye play well, lad. I thank ye for humourin’ an old man. It’s a big day tomorrow,” Oillill said, clapping one hand on Ruarí’s shoulder, “Away with ye now. Do ye go now to yer rest lad.”
I’m about 82,000 words into writing the second book of the Purification Trilogy, Eluned’s Apprentice. As a result of this experience my knowledge of the world of Eilir has expanded, so I’ve just updated the Purification Trilogy page that describes that world with expanded information and new maps, including a map of Dunscathach at the time of the Third Purification. We’ve pretty much finalized the cover artwork for the second book, which I hope to finish by the end of this month. Here’s a peek at what Dunscathach looked like in Ruari’s time as the First Purification loomed:
Dunscathach at the time of the First Purification
I’m 70,000 words into the second book in the trilogy, Eluned’s Apprentice. It is looking like it will be done by the end of September. We’ll be working on the cover soon and I’ll be updating information on the world of Eilir in this blog in the next few days.
I’m hard at work on the second book in the Purification Trilogy, Eluned’s Apprentice. I’ve got 41,000+ words written so far, and I’m hoping to have it done by the end of August. Stay tuned!
Fionuir’s Mural is now out as a print on demand book on Amazon’s Createspace.
Got the proof copy back from Createspace and was unhappy with how the cover turned out. It needed a bit of adjustment, so I’ve uploaded a revised cover today and resubmitted it. I should have a new proof copy in my hands in two weeks and will then be in a position to publish the print on demand version. In the meantime, the e book version is out there right now. Click here to order the e book version. Click here for the print version of Fionúir’s Mural: https://www.createspace.com/3774326
Click on the Image to purchase the e book
Sword Season, Year 498, Schola of Balbius, Nahe, Federation of Silvand.
Time and patience are the strongest of all warriors.
Druce de Triens, “The Book of Five Companions”.
Abbott Iraneus’ voice, strained with anger and urgency, reverberated in the cloister of the Schola of Balbius two turns of the hour glass before Lauds:
“I want that insolent wretch brought before me the instant that he is found, do you hear?”
Ghert heard the echoes of the Abbott’s shout blend into the echoes of cantors furiously baying zetetic cants as they hunted through the courts and rooms of the Schola, their werelights floating past the windows, weaving patterns of light over the frescoed walls of the Temple of Jova where he hid. Statues of the Saints stared down at him as if in disapproval of his presence here. Hearing footsteps approaching the entrance, he braced himself to spring into action. He could get out the same way that he had got past the guards coming in, slipping between time. As long as he remained in motion in that state, he’d remain effectively invisible. Ghert tensed, waiting and listening.
“Have you seen the novice, Ghert?”
“Here?” a guard’s voice rumbled in amusement, “Seen naught since our watch started. Would he come here, think you? Be the last place you’d expect to find him I’d think, Holiness.”
Ghert heard the cantor mutter something about piety and obedience before ordering the guards to assist him in searching the stables. Footsteps receded and Ghert heaved a sigh of relief. He’d bought himself some time.
Rushing to accomplish what he’d come for, Ghert suppressed his anger, making himself relax and drift into the light trance that would take him into his mother’s thoughts and allow them to speak mind to mind as he’d done countless times before. However, try as he might, nothing but an ominous empty silence filled his mind. Alarmed and disheartened, Ghert sank back against the chill stone of the wall. A sense of anxiety had been growing within him over the past few days. Now it seemed that his mother might be the source.
Ghert heaved a great sigh. Who had discovered his absence from the dormitory? He’d chosen the hour when most were likely to be asleep and a day when both moons were new. Had that damned Father Achatius conducted a spot bed check? That was his style. Had someone finally discovered what they’d been up to? Had the king and his hired Jovaian cantors and priests done something to his mother? Was that the cause of the uproar? Abbott Iraneus would wax furious if he knew that Ghert regularly communicated with his mother the queen mind to mind. The king would too: King Clevis had forbidden any contact between Ghert and his mother.
But how could anyone have known? Ghert had yet to encounter cantors or wicce who could communicate telepathically without casting a circle and sending a simulacrum to appear before the recipient to pass a psychic message. Ghert had communicated secretly and directly with his mother in their minds since he was a toddler without having to resort to such methods. No visible sign indicated that they spoke. Anyone discovering him would only see him sitting in a trance state. His regular contact with his mother Bathild was one of the things which allowed him to endure his imprisonment. He took comfort reminding himself, as his mother had many times, that these hardships and the isolation had taught him patience and endurance. He needed to be steadfast now.
He heard a pair of cantors pass under the adjacent Temple windows, cursing Ghert’s lack of magickal trace, as they usually did when they searched for him. He clenched his fists in frustration. As he couldn’t vent his frustrations to his mother, he found himself thinking of what he’d have told her if he could.
They constantly berate me for not having any magickal trace. When they can’t track me down, they curse the lack. I’ll warrant some of them are jealous of my ability. They’re wishing they could hide like me, I doubt not. They’re all so proud of their magickal trace, the bruise their magick leaves on the world. The wicce of my mother’s Fanes are no different in this; Easy to find them. Their trace is like a flag they’ve planted to be seen by wicce and cantor alike. What have I done to deserve this? I don’t know why I don’t have a magickal trace. They tell me those who don’t exhibit a magickal trace can’t do magick, but I haven’t a trace and I’m able to perform every “miracle” they require. No matter how hard I try, I cannot please them. My efforts mean nothing to these arrogant priests, so proud of their magickal trace. They think me inept, retarded, a mental cripple, call me a ‘difficult student’. Do they think I’m deliberately hiding my magickal trace just to spite them? Brigu wept! If it hadn’t been for me being the king’s son, I would not even have been admitted to this Schola. My lack of magickal trace would have disqualified me.
Ghert closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Of course this official disapproval made motivating himself to continue his studies even harder, leading to a vicious spiral of dejection. The possibility of retaliatory measures against his mother kept him going. The king had sent him to the Schola to break him, and her, to bend them to his will. Thus Ghert swallowed his anger and frustration and pressed on. What would mother say to him?
She’d tell me to study hard and master their magick, their ‘miracles.’ Once I do, I’ll use that power for myself, not for the king. I’ll use this magick to free my mother and me some day. I’ll hold my tongue for her sake and speak to my mother about it when I can.
Hugging his knees, he listened to the commotion of Abbott Iraneus and his cantors furiously turning everything upside down outside. He remembered his mother laughing with delight when he’d first slipped between and out of sight, the day that he discovered that he could communicate with her telepathically. He’d been at her knee then. He remembered her pride showing through her stern admonition never to reveal these abilities to anyone. Even then Ghert and his mother secretly held to the Gnosis of the Fanes and Garráins. He’d heeded her warning, as he realized even at that tender age that the court in Triens was a hostile place. No one else that he knew of had such abilities, save his grandmother Waltrude, though some legends spoke of a great hero named Somhairle the Valorous who’d had such powers long ago.
Ghert winced as the harsh voice of a cantor singing a cant de battue below the window brought him back to the Temple where he sat hugging his knees. They definitely didn’t find his abilities amusing. Of a certainty they’d take their frustrations out on him once they found him. They always found him and there were always painful consequences: fasting, solitary confinement and floggings. Not for the first time he considered slipping out of the Schola and risking the swim across the icy Ádiar River to Hovuð in Gauthiuda. Impracticable: His father had made enemies of the Gautar. He’d likely end up a prisoner. Even if he managed to elude capture, such an act would infuriate the King and his mother would likely be blamed. That wouldn’t do.
Not only had he been unable to vent his frustrations to his mother, he’d seemingly added to them. Nothing for it then: Ghert had to leave the chapel and seek for news to try to figure out what had happened. Not an easy task with contact forbidden and his mother twenty five leagues off. There was no way that he could risk asking anyone at the Schola for news. The hunt was on, and he must think of some way to explain how he got past the guards and into the chapel.
Ghert cast his mind out to a companion who was the last of his magickal secrets: His familiar Bidelia, presently sitting on the top of the north gate overlooking the courtyard. Bidelia was another that he could communicate with mind to mind. Through her eyes, Ghert could see the search parties wandering through the grounds of the Schola. They’d pay her no mind: She would be too hard to see at this hour, and even in broad daylight she was simply one of many ravens hanging around the courtyard. Ghert had been extremely careful not to be seen around Bidelia: A familiar was another thing the priests and cantors of the Temples would find heretical. Familiars were uncommon amongst the people of the Fanes these days and unheard of amongst those of the Temples. They hadn’t noticed when Bidelia had shadowed his escort from Triens when Ghert had first been brought to this isolated centennae of Silvand in Nahe a season ago.
Should he slip between again and show up elsewhere on the grounds or back in the dormitory? He’d still have to explain how he’d got there when they’d been searching there all along. He elected to walk boldly out of the chapel instead: Perhaps he could convince them that he had stayed after matins to meditate and pray? Since no one had come into the temple seeking him as yet, and since the guards had left with the cantors a short time earlier, it was worth a try.
Putting his most pious expression on his face, Ghert bowed his head, folded his hands into the sleeves of his plain yellow novice’s cassock as if in prayer, and strode out of the Temple into the cloister. One of the cantors spotted him immediately and shouted to his companions. In an instant they’d grabbed him and dragged him to the Abbott’s study in the south tower.
“Miserable malapert! If it weren’t for your father the King summoning you back to Triens this instant you’d already be feeling the lash. What were you doing in the chapel at this hour?”
So that was it; My bad fortune that the king’s summons came as I’d slipped away to contact my mother.
“I stayed after matins to pray, Saintly Father. I must have nodded off.”
Iraneus’ expression indicated that he considered this extremely unlikely.
“Have him caned. Take him to his cell. See that a guard is put on the door. I want him packed and ready to leave at dawn.”
They took to the road out of Nahe at first light. White caps charged the shore of Lake Verdon like waves of cavalry, lashing the shores, wind ruffling the herons sheltering on the beach and fluttering the early leaves of the willows and alders. Bidelia soared above on the air currents, unnoticed, indistinguishable from the hopeful handful of ravens and gulls that followed scrounging for scraps. Ghert and his escort were the only humans on this lonely stretch of road. He drew his cloak closely around him against the icy gusts as they made their way north along the shore.
Members of the King’s elite personal guard, the Truste, had arrived last night with the summons. The Truste escorted Ghert back, accompanied by some senior cantors from his Schola, including Abbott Iraneus himself. The urgency of the king’s summons meant that they went mounted; unfortunate, since his behind was still raw from the caning. Six pueri of the Truste rode close around him, two archers behind him with bows strung, their attention seemed equally divided between their charge and the surrounding countryside. Expecting bandits, rebels or an escape attempt? Clearly they’d watch him closely, taking no chances on him disappearing again. Ghert pondered his situation, trying to distract himself from the discomfort and scrutiny.
What in the name of Brigu did the King want with him? Just over two and a half ochtú ago he’d sent Ghert to this awful place. Ghert had marked all one hundred and sixteen days on the wall of his comfortless cell in the Schola. Sterile and stillborn, the only living things within the scabrous walls in the sterile Schola its staff and students, stifling inspiration, inspiring sanctimoniousness; the antithesis of the atmosphere of the Fanes and Garráins that he and his mother were accustomed to. Ghert took heart knowing that he’d be away from this foul place and out in nature, despite the chill.
The king had not likely relented to bring him home to the capital of Silvand for good. Ghert had years of training ahead of him in this godsforsaken end of Silvand. The king had plans and Ghert was simply a game piece, sent to a Schola of the Temples of Jovaia to become a cantor of war magick and thus become a foothold of magickal power to be used. What he wanted meant nothing to the king.
The head of the Temples of Jova himself suggested placing him at the Schola in Nahe shortly after his arrival in Triens, no doubt to keep Ghert out of the way of the Archbishop’s machinations. Curse the day that Archbishop Norgonus had showed up in Triens! That a man of Norgonus’ stature had shown up in his country’s capital boded ill for his people. He was sure that evil man wasn’t there out of any intentions of charity or assistance. Exile got Ghert out of the way of the Archbishop’s designs, and prevented him from warning the King. Norgonus’ designs would certainly be to the benefit of the Jovaian Empire, not the Federation of Silvand. Mildly amusing, since the only reason Ghert would ever warn the king would be because Norgonus’ plans threatened his people; he was indifferent to threats to his father. Not that the king would credit anything that Ghert suggested even if he was inclined to warn him. The king sent him to the Schola of Balbius because Ghert always sided with his mother. The king and the Archbishop both wanted to remove him from his mother’s pagan influence.
Was this summons an indication that the Archbishop had left Triens to return to the Jovaian capital, Rovaenna? Ghert could not imagine Archbishop Norgonus agreeing to have him return to Triens for any length of time if he was still in residence there. Nor did he see any way that he could convince the Archbishop to reverse his stand. He had once seen the Archbishop blind one of his young acolytes for a minor error in the service in the Temple of Jova with an amaurosis cant: Impossible light had flashed from his eyes and mouth and the child who had erred fell to his plump knees on the tiles, his face and body half frozen, blood pouring from his ruined eyes. No, he could seek no support from that quarter. The Archbishop was not a person to cross.
He shivered and drew his cloak tighter around him, glancing aside at his escort, wondering if he could expect support from any of them, not seeing any faces that he knew. The few children of the court his age had either been kept from him or had avoided his company, knowing the king’s view of Ghert’s mother. To compensate, he had found adult friends within the ranks of the Truste before the king sent him away. Members of the Truste had trained and mentored him in the arts of war, and his aptitude and dedication had won him some friendships and close connections. A return to Triens where he could practice his martial arts and see these few friends would be a great relief. At the Schola he’d been denied the ability to practice martial arts. Cantors fought with magick, not swords. Ghert suspected the king intended to isolate him from his supporters within the Truste in order to prevent him using that martial ability to aid his mother. His escort today gave Ghert a clear indication of how the king feared what he would do with his martial ability and connections once he came of age in a few hands. Was the king’s summons an indication that he had reconsidered?
Was this summons somehow connected to his inability to communicate with his mother? At least he’d have a better chance of discovering what happened to his mother back in Triens. While he dreamed of leaving this purgatory, he stayed because of his fears of what trouble leaving might cause for his mother. The King might decide to send Bathild away, or worse. Once the king got the sons he wanted, he had given up trying to convert the queen to the faith of the Temples and had all but discarded her, giving his attentions instead to several mistresses. Ghert had noticed that of late the King’s neglect had turned to hatred. The King wanted his mother out of the way. He did not intend to be used as an excuse for his mother’s dismissal from the court. The king would have to find some other way, a way that didn’t infuriate her father Comite Sigebert.
Low clouds, drizzle, and a steady frigid wind off the lake made a comfortless camp on the shores of lake Verdon for Ghert and his escort that evening. Weary from worry and sore from the saddle, sleep eluded him at first. When he finally fell asleep in the early morning hours, he found himself in an old and familiar dreamscape; an old castle by another lake. He’d often thought that this comforting dreamscape might have been some form of wishful thinking: How his home in Triens ought to have been. The familiarity of this dreamscape was pleasant, where the familiarity of Triens was anything but. And, as always in this pleasing dreamscape, he found ruddy old Ruarí the fénnid, another of his companions in isolation, even if he was only a dream companion. The grizzled fénnid had been in Ghert’s dreams for as long as he could remember: His invisible childhood friend. He thought of him as an ancient warrior of Pictavia, a fénnid of the Ceilteach peoples of the West, because he spoke to him in Gàidhlig with a Pictavian accent. As a toddler his mother had told him that as a prince he should make himself familiar with the languages of the peoples bordering his land: Like his mother, Ghert had always had a gift for languages and had learned Gàidhlig from his mother quickly. Ruarí was the father he’d never had, the father he should have had: Always attentive, full of humour, a bear of a man in a kilt, a mane of red hair like his mother’s.
This time Ghert found himself on the cobblestones of the dream castle’s outer court, flooded with the moonslight of the full mating moons, making the snow capped peaks around the castle glow. He practiced sword play with Ruarí, armed with wasters and bucklers: More than once over the years before he had been sent to the Schola, he had startled his daytime sword instructor Bergr of the Truste with moves he’d learned in sleep from Ruarí.
“When yer blade binds wi’ your opponent’s like that, go soft, like this. That allows ye to disengage yer blade frae the bind an’ then ye can stab, like this, or hew to t’other side, like this.”
“That’s a neat trick.”
“The Gautar call it ‘draga’, which means pullin’. Ye use weakness against strength.”
“Weakness against strength?”
“Think o’ it this way, lad: When they pull, ye push. When they push, ye pull. Ye use their momentum against them. Try that move again an’ I’ll show ye.”
Ghert made another lunge with his sword. Ruarí caught his sword in a bind, then went soft, dragging Ghert towards him.
“See lad, reach ye out an’ grab the opponent’s hilt or arm, so. Trap their forearms wi’ tother arm, so. Then ye can use a rake, slicin’ yer blade across their forearm, ye see? Or strike wi’ yer pommel or guard, so, an’ then rake the blade against or between their forearms, so.”
“Is raking with the blade what the Gautar call a sneid?”
“A ‘slice’, aye! Good lad. The Gautar call this ‘wrestlin’ at the sword’”. Ruarí stepped back. “Take ye a rest an’ let’s ha’e a wee chat lad.”
Ruarí led him into the guard room and they set their wooden swords and shields aside. Ruarí put a couple of logs on the fire before seating himself comfortably on a bench beside Ghert. Ruarí turned a serious face towards him.
“Ye’re ridin’ into trouble, lad.”
“I sense that Ruarí, I only wish I knew what is going to happen.”
“A day long awaited has finally come, a day foreseen by the White Ghost. An old conflict will be renewed, an old rivalry. Ambustus is back.”
“I don’t take your meaning. Who is the White Ghost? And what has this to do with Ambustus? He died five hundred years ago, did he not?”
“The White Ghost is Fionúir,” Ruarí said, turning to stare into the fire, “Ye’re about to awaken to reality, to yerself, like I did so many, many years ago. I was your age when I awakened.”
“And Ambustus, wasn’t he Somhairle’s enemy?”
“Aye, that’s right. Ye’re about to meet him, a new incarnation o’ him.”
“And Fionúir, wasn’t she a prophetess who painted a mural? It’s at Dunscáthach, isn’t it?”
“Aye, that’s right. Ye must ask Aoife about that when ye see her.”
“Lady Aoife? She was my mother’s teacher, and my grandmother’s classmate too, wasn’t she?”
“Aye, that’s right lad. An’ a bonny teacher she is too.”
“So… You’re saying that the High Priestess of Dunscáthach is going to be in Triens when I arrive?”
“Nae there lad, but meet her ye will, an’ soon. The cycle is beginnin’ again. I only wish that I could save yer mother. But the thing must take its course.”
“Save my mother?” Ghert leapt to his feet. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”
Ruarí stood and placed his hands on Ghert’s shoulders, shaking him.
“You’re gonna need yer ability to ‘slip between’ when ye get there, an’ some other skills that we’ve practiced, but we’ll speak o’ that later. Wake up Ghert. Wake up!”
Ghert sat up abruptly and found himself tangled in his blankets at the side of another lake, no castle in sight, looking into the annoyed eyes of Father Achatius, who cuffed him on the ear.
Get up, imp. We’re leaving in a half a turn of the glass.”
