THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR – SAMHAIN
A CANTICLE OF ORDRASS TALE
By Logan L. Masterson
Copyright © 2014 Logan L. Masterson
Published by Pro Se Press
CHAPTER ONE
Three girls approached a bridge on the first day of Janeia.
One came in the growing dawn, from the north. She waited alone, pulling her furs tighter against a half-frozen rain.
The second came from the south at noon, attended by servants and borne in a well-appointed carriage pulled by three white reindeer. The sky had cleared for her coming, but grew dark once she had arrived, and sent pelting hail down upon her carriage and driver.
The third had travelled by sea, and thence by a secret path through the ancient forest. She approached from the west in the afternoon, rangers by her side and an inquisition at her heels. She had left her family and island home behind to seek welcome in a distant land. A lance of white fire and a peal of thunder heralded her arrival.
***
Though Janeia, the month of last harvest, was a poor time to travel in the north, none of the girls set foot upon the bridge to hurry toward their destination. The hardship was part of the bargain, welcome or no, and in living memory not one girl had been unable to complete the journey.
The crossing would wait until dusk, when a priestess would come to lead them into a new life. On the other side, they would become goddesses for a time, to be worshipped even as they worshipped the trinity that upheld them.
Cold wind whipped the green and white flags above twin stone pillars anchoring the wooden bridge as they waited in silence, as their dreams had instructed.
The two outside eyed each other with suspicion, and the carriage with jealousy. The icy rain froze the better avatars of their natures.
Leaning against a pillar, the first girl wiped her intricately carved recurve bow with an oiled cloth. Her hair hung just to her shoulders, its autumnal red darkened by the rain. Big, bright green eyes peered from a lightly freckled face at passers-by, and none held the tall Ardanna’s gaze for long.
The other glanced often at her ranger guides, who stood in silence under an arbor by the empty market field. Always, the older of the two would nod.
Her midnight blue cloak hung as though dry, and the locks of black hair escaping the hood harbored no droplets. Eyes to match the cloak darted furtively about, and she often turned in her place by the road, or shifted her weight nervously.
As the sun descended behind the clouds, dipping away over the vast Western sea, the wind and rain faded. The carriage door opened and a servant in blue and green stepped out, placing a gilded step on the sodden grass. Finally the girl emerged, fresh as dawn. Curly golden hair spilled about her as she stepped down, the servant opening a rain shade. Her crimson dress hung perfectly. She nodded and smiled to those outside, opened her mouth as if to speak, and caught herself. Shrugging, she joined them in silence beside the bridge.
As day became night, the glow of a torch could be seen moving through the trees across the deep gully. Behind them, a few candles and lanterns lit windows in the village of Matharden. Soon, a priestess stood across the bridge, torch held high. Short and trim, in a green dress, she waited as the last hints of light faded from the sky. The girls watched intently.
The third had come so very far, and yet none who pursued had managed through guile or force to halt her flight.
***
The priestess stepped upon the bridge. The girls stepped forward, each taking one single step to set them upon the oaken planks.
Holding up her hand, the priestess spoke. “Who comes to Matharden?”
The second girl replied at once, as if striving to be first. “I am Iseabheal Donne of Matha, and I come to serve Morgaine.”
The other two leaned forward, looking across her at one another. The third shrugged, and the first-come spoke. “Mairi of Eilann Shire comes to serve.” She smiled at the last, and the last felt welcome in it.
“I am Davia Mollari of House Vonalatte, Daughter of Archania, and I too come to serve the Bright Lady.”
“Gather your hands,” said the priestess, “and come to me.”
Iseabheal extended her hands to the others, palms upright, with a shallow curtsy. They took them, and walked in her wake as she strode more theatrically than purposefully to the apex of the bridge.
“I am called Lilianna,” the priestess said more quietly, “and I welcome you to the Temple. Come, we shall walk together to your new home, where you will be fed and clothed as suits your station.”
“I have brought clothing and supplies, Sister of Aranda. They are in my trunk.”
“Our thanks, little sister,” the priestess replied. “They will be distributed to the community as want would have it.”
Iseabheal’s pale skin reddened, but she said nothing. Mairi squeezed her hand gently.
“You bring only what you carry,” Lilianna went on, “not that which carries you. I am sure all three of you will have many changes to understand in these coming days.
“And now, as you step from this bridge onto sacred soil, you commit yourself to a life of service. You will serve Maiden, Mother, Crone, Cauldron Sisters and Consorts. You will serve the sky and sea, the forest and the mountain. You will serve the free peoples and the last glimmer of hope. Join us,” and with the last, Lilianna turned to lead the three postulants across the bridge and along the short, winding path to the temple.
They passed three stone benches set before a statue of Cernu the Hunter God with a many-rayed sun upon his chest, a skull in one hand and a great longbow in the other. They passed a great elder tree on the other side, about which a small clearing glimmered with frost in the torchlight.
And then they came to the temple, a rising spire of white stone surrounded by a low wall of granite. Passing through the gate, the sigils carved about it responded to the torchlight, taking up a glow of their own.
Within the church yard, they were flanked by a yew to the left and an ash to the right. Between the gate and the temple rose a mighty oak. From its roots a well seemed to grow, ringed in the same white stone as the temple.
The postulants followed their guide around the tree and up onto a wide, curving balcony, where eight statues stood. They began at the leftmost statue, and each postulant was directed to kiss it.
No further instruction being offered, Iseabheal approached the life-sized depiction of the Younger Moon, Udah, and kissed her smiling lips. Mairi knelt before the marble goddess and kissed her feet. As she rose, she saw Iseabheal’s cheeks burning. Though Mairi had intended no slight, she knew it had been done. Davia approached and hesitated a moment before kissing the hands, gathered loosely over the icon’s breast.
They crossed the balcony then to the far side, where the Goddess of the Elder Moon, Selah, awaited their silent troth.
Lilianna stopped Iseabheal as she bent before the full-figured statue. “Continue as you have begun,” she said evenly.
And each kissed the goddess as they had kissed the first. The procession continued across to the Maiden Aranda and her young consort, Beleanus; then back to the right to Callag the Crone and Anor the Death God; before finally coming to the center where stood Ordra the World-Mother and her consort Cernu.
With each deity of Marien’s pantheon, the Church of Morgaine, so attended, the party went back down to the well, where each girl was given a draught of water from a long oaken spoon.
Finally, they were led into the temple proper, through the gathering hall and up into the tower, where they were told to wait before a massive door of dark
wood, carved with forest and mountain scenes. Moments later, Lilianna led them in to meet the other priestesses.
***
While Lilianna was young and beautiful with black hair and a slim figure, the priestess of the Mother was taller, with hair the color of wheat and ample hips and bosom. The third priestess of the High Church of Morgaine was a tiny figure, seated in a wheeled chair. Though shrunken and bony with thin gray hair, her eyes were a brilliant blue, sharp as a cat’s.
“I am Magda, children,” she said. “In Callag’s voice, I welcome you. Come, take my hand and tell me your names.”
At last, Iseabheal demurred, allowing Mairi to step forward. The girl took the old woman’s outstretched hand. It was warm and gentle.
“I am called Mairi,” she said in her thick northern accent. “I hail from Eilann.”
“Well met, daughter of sea and storms,” the old priestess replied. “Yes, that auburn hair gives you away. So does your height. I warrant those green eyes of yours will see much in need of revelation in coming times. Welcome, child.” With a squeeze, she released Mairi’s hand and reached for Iseabheal’s.
“You are a proud one, aren’t you, my beauty?”
“It is a flaw I hope to correct, Mother. I am Iseabheal Donne of Matha.”
“Yes,” the Priestess nodded. “Matha, indeed. Fear not, you need not correct your pride, only your assumptions. You are a wonder to behold, child!” Iseabheal blushed again. “Such hair, like sunlight on gold! We welcome you.”
Iseabheal stepped back and the Mother held her hand toward Davia. “Come, little stranger,” she said. Taking the girl’s hand as she had the others, she smiled sympathetically up at her.
“I am called Davia Mollari, of the House Vonalette.”
“Yes,” the Mother smiled. “You have journeyed long, haven’t you, child? Your skin is so beautiful! Like cinnamon! And your eyes, blue as a moonlit sky.” Magda took up her other hand, and pulled them close, turning them over inches before her face. “There is much ahead of you, much that will pain you, put so much at risk. Fear not, child. Here, we are safe. Here, we are holy.” She drew the last girl to her and kissed her forehead with wrinkled lips.
“Welcome,” she said. “Welcome to you all. This is Aelwynne, our Mother-Sister, who will show you now to your rooms where food and rest await you. In the morning, you shall gather by the well after breaking fast to await your duties.”
Aelwynne gathered them up, and led them away and down to a lower level of the temple, where each was ensconced in a simple room without windows. A cot, a stool, and a little desk all but filled the space. Upon each desk waited a tray of bread and cheese, with a little wooden bowl of dried berries. A clay pitcher held wine. Each girl set to her meal like a starving hound, even Iseabheal forgoing formalities. The hour was early, but the day had been long, as had many preceding it, and worse by far for Davia.
She outlasted the others by an hour, managing to brush her midnight black hair and offer a few silent prayers before succumbing to sleep. For the first night in memory, no nightmare woke her.
CHAPTER TWO
As she slept, a handful of men sat in the common room of the Ranger’s Rest. The inn was small, but prestigious, having served the church and its pilgrims for generations. Tuomas Ackerman had retired from the Royal Rangers some twenty years ago, keeping the inn quiet and tidy ever since. He was glad to have company on a cold and rainy night.
Torchael of Amhain sat with his apprentice, Kestyrn Grieve, near the fire. Their backs were to the wall and their eyes upon the door. The road from the docks at Matha had been a long one, and escorting a young girl while evading pursuit had taken a toll on them both. The older man bore the responsibility in his thick shoulders; the youth felt embarrassment and excitement in his chest.
At the next table sat the hired driver, guard, and attendant who had escorted Iseabheal from the capital. They too were tired, though their travails had been of another breed.
Soon, Torchael knew, they would retire. That would leave only three men awake and alert in little Matharden. But those three were rangers, and they would be enough.
They would have to be.
Kestyrn was less aware of the danger. His senses were keen, but the boy had not traveled so much as his master. He took in details that mattered less, like the decades-old carvings of runes and sigils over the door and along the bar, the shades of amber in the diamond-paned windows, the rows of dusty bottles over the bar. These his master had long known.
Every ranger visited the High Temple. Though the Guild paid homage and tribute to the Crown Prelate, its true allegiance lay with the Gods. The ties that bound Priestess, Ranger, and Druid were stronger than the tides. Without that allegiance, the Kingdom of Marien would have fallen to the Normen centuries before.
The elder ranger stood and stretched, reaching high enough to sweep a rafter with his fingertips before sinking onto his haunches by the fire. He checked the daggers in each boot before standing.
“Kestyrn,” he said, “why don’t you take a walk? You look tired.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied.
Watching him go, Torchael smiled. He knew of no other life like theirs. No other profession taught a boy of fourteen years to overtake a deer in a footrace or make an arrow turn in flight. No other duty came with this kind of freedom, or this kind of responsibility. His student was young and thin, with a shaggy mop of blond hair and chestnut eyes. Torchael did not worry for him. If the boy’s charm would not save him, blade and bow would do.
Torchael himself, Gwaelish by ancestry, was tall among his people, so stood to match most Mathaen folk. His gray eyes were sharp in a sun-darkened face, and his brown hair hung in a thick chieftain’s knot gathered just behind his crown and hanging down to his back.
Taking his seat, the ranger called for another ale. Tuomas brought it at once, and sat in the apprentice’s vacant seat with a mug of his own.
“Tell me, what is the news?”
Torchael appreciated the attention to protocol: he had waited for the apprentice to leave.
“We are hunted,” he said simply.
“What shall I watch for?” the veteran asked.
“There will be strangers from the south,” the ranger told him, leaning in across the table. “Archanians. They are chasing one of the postulants, a girl called Davia. Look for men with dark skin and a red band around the left arm.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Mercenaries, then.”
“Aye, and maybe many of them. There will be others, people of their church.”
“The Sun God. What say you, Ranger, is Kruss the Lord of Light, or King of Usurpers?”
“I cannot say,” Torchael said. “All I know is that anyone who would hunt and kill a girl-child is misguided at best.”
The innkeep nodded, drained his mug and stood. “You’re welcome here any time, Ranger. The rooms are on me.”
“Our thanks.”
***
When the boy returned drenched, Torchael checked his bow and ammunition.
“They need to be dried,” Kestyrn admitted. “I will do it now.”
“See that you do, boy, but keep your eyes and ears open. I will be upstairs, with mine closed to make a change. Give me three bells.”
“Yes, sir. Sleep well.”
Upstairs, Torchael stretched out on the hay mattress. His bow lay at his feet, quiver beside it. He gripped a dagger in his hand, and dozed with his boots on.
Below the lithe apprentice stripped his leather breastplate and grieves. Laying them by the fire, he took his empty mug to the bar.
“Not long on The Way, are you, lad?” the innkeep asked, drawing Kestyrn’s ale from a great keg.
“Not long, sir, but far enough for my days. You’re one of us, then?”
“Aye, such as I am.”
“No doubt you remain formidable, sir.”
The innkeep chuckled. “None o’ that respect for me, son. Tuomas will do.”
“As yo
u like, Tuomas.” Kestyrn offered a winsome smile and returned to his table. Retrieving an oil cloth from his pouch, he polished his arms and armor, sipping at his ale. By the time his short sword was clean, the clutch of servants retired, wishing them pleasant eve.
Kestyrn thought them kind enough, but soft.
“How long since my Master went up?” the boy asked across the now-empty room.
“Just a bell and a moment,” Tuomas replied, checking his Serhatian hourglass, which bore a minor enchantment to turn itself.
The apprentice ranger nodded. Leaning his chair back against the wall, he closed his eyes, concentrating on his ears. Many would think him asleep, but Tuomas knew he meditated, resting his body while his mind remained alert. The innkeep passed through a little door behind the bar. Just on the other side of the wall sat an old wingback chair, discarded from the Mayor’s house. Tuomas settled into it, intent on mimicking the boy’s meditation. In a dozen breaths, he began to snore softly.
CHAPTER THREE
The enemy would not come that night.
Instead, Nicoletta Kuldare had camped her band of seven mercenaries along the stream some six miles north and west. The men of the Crimson Band were efficient, if boorish, and had tents up in a tight cluster before nightfall. The smokeless fire burned quietly with five inch flames, fed on the bell. Two of the men sat up with her into the night.
She ignored them, polishing her longsword and maintaining its keen edge with an oil cloth and the finest Z’hadunian whetstone. She pondered her mission, and the delays it had suffered. Marien’s Rangers were not to be trifled with. She had learned the hard way when her band had nearly caught the girl a day’s hike beyond the capital. They had been sixteen then.
Now, she waited. Sheathing her blade, she reached into her pack and withdrew a finely-tooled leather scroll case. Nicoletta opened it, reached in with two fingers in search of a message, and closed it again, dissatisfied. She cast it back into the pack, and rose to stretch, not caring that the mercenaries watched. Her crimson leather armor, tightly fitted, reflected the firelight more dimly than the thick raven curls that fell to her waist, tied back behind her neck with a golden thread. Her breastplate bore the eight-pointed sun, symbol of Kruss, the One True Light of the World. Her soul had never felt his call.