Chapter 1: The Manner of a Man’s Death

Herrwn had left the relative warmth of the wayside shelter where Gwenydd and Darbin were bickering over which route to take in the morning—having nothing of any substance to add to the debate and knowing better than to take sides in a quarrel between a priestess and her consort. Instead of finding a spot out of the wind to practice his recitations, as he’d first intended, he’d been drawn by an irresistible urge to the brink of the cliff. There, after laying aside his staff and taking hold of a branch of a scrawny bush, he leaned out as far as he dared and stared down into the valley below, wishing that Olyrrwd was there to see it with him.

Thinking of Olyrrwd, Herrwn was reminded of a time they had discussed whether the manner of a person’s death was a part of the pattern of the way that person had lived their life.

Olyrrwd had thought so, and, as their shrine’s chief physician, he had watched a great many people die. And when Olyrrwd himself was dying, he had spent his final hours intent on seeing that his life’s work would be carried on rather than wasting time in grief, anger, or regret. His had been a determined, purposeful death, just as he had been a determined, purposeful man.

The wind whipping across the valley cut through Herrwn’s cloak and his robe underneath, reminding him of how chilled he’d felt—in spite of the fire blazing in their bedchamber’s hearth—as Olyrrwd discussed the ebbing of his life with his young disciple as though it was only a matter of theoretical interest.

By then Herrwn had been an elder on the shrine’s High Council for over two decades, but he only began to feel old when Caelym—himself suddenly aged beyond his nineteen years—with a now full-fledged physician’s authority, firmly told him, “It’s over,” and “Olyrrwd is gone” (as if Herrwn were too dim to know death when he saw it). Sighing sadly, Caelym helped Herrwn to his feet, guided him to his bed (as if Herrwn would have become lost trying to find his way across the room), and sat next to him, patting his back (as if Herrwn were a colicky infant who needed to be burped instead of a wise and philosophical man weeping wise and philosophical tears).

Seven years later, Herrwn still felt the pain of Olyrrwd’s absence every day, missing him as he would have missed a part of his own body. It was a familiar ache he welcomed, bringing with it memories so sharp and clear that it seemed he could reach out and touch them. What he regretted was his lack of grief for Ossiam, their fellow elder and the shrine’s chief oracle and master of divination.

A theatrical and enigmatic man in life, Ossiam had departed in a dramatic display which, like his double-edged prophesies, had left behind more questions than answers—a fact that Olyrrwd would certainly claim as another proof of his assertion about the pattern of mortal existence.

Ossiam had only been gone for a matter of—here Herrwn needed to stop and glance up at the moon—five weeks, but already he seemed to have receded into the distant past, Herrwn’s memory of him so shifting and elusive that he could not even recall his final words.

Of course, with everything that had happened since the dread night of the last winter solstice, one inexplicable catastrophe following on the heels of another, it might be expected that this final blow would overwhelm the senses of a man of Herrwn’s advanced years—even one with the trained memory of a master bard. Feeling the loose gravel shift underneath him, he absentmindedly dug in his heels and pushed himself back a bit, still trying to bring those last days at Llwddawanden into focus.

Caelym had left on his mission to find the boys that Herrwn expected would be his last two disciples, assuming he managed to live long enough to pass his vast store of knowledge on to another generation of young Druids—as he very much hoped he would, having serious concerns about Caelym’s ability to set his indulgence of his sons aside and maintain the firmness required of a teacher.

That was a tangential thought and Herrwn resolutely brought his mind back to task, recalling how, in the wake of the events now referred to obliquely as “The Betrayal,” Ossiam had withdrawn to the oracle’s tower, appearing only to share whatever omens he divined with their chief priestess in the privacy of her bedchamber.

There’d been no reason to think that the dark clouds gathering in the west presaged anything hopeful, and it had seemed almost inevitable that a massive storm would sweep in, toppling trees and whipping the lake into a froth of whitecaps.

While the rest of them huddled together in the shrine’s main chamber or kept a tense watch for the impending enemy invasion, Ossiam had circled restlessly around the central hearth, muttering about evil signs and ominous portents. At a momentary lull in the sounds of the storm outside, he had abruptly stopped his pacing, raised his fists over his head, and cried out, “What is the meaning of this storm, and why does it come over us now?”

If Olyrrwd had still been there, no doubt he would have spoken up in the wry, sardonic voice he’d reserved for challenging whatever Ossiam said to point out that it was the season that storms happened, and that to be truly portentous, the clouds should be pouring toads or vipers down on them. As it was, Herrwn and the others had just shuddered as the oracle’s next words—“The gods are angry and must be appeased! I hear their wrathful cries and will take them the tribute they demand”—echoed through the chamber.

Herrwn had tried to hold Ossiam back, protesting that it was too great a risk to take tribute out in the middle of the storm with the lake churning and heaving as if a vast swarm of sea monsters were at war with each other, but the oracle had repeated that the gods were angry and needed to be appeased and swept out of the room, taking with him a golden chalice that would have been a king’s ransom in the days when they still had kings.

It was only now that Herrwn realized what had bothered him at the time—Ossiam had said the gods were angry. He had not mentioned the goddesses.

Still, the storm had subsided overnight and the lake was peaceful again in the morning, so when a boat had been found drifting upside down at the far end of the lake it was agreed that he’d been right and must be honored for the courage of his sacrifice. But for Herrwn, Ossiam’s death had an empty and unfinished quality to it, leaving room for hope that he might return. His hope had lasted for most of the day, and he could not have said exactly when it turned into suspicion that Ossiam had taken the shrine’s most cherished treasure and left to be a Christian.

With no way to know whether Ossiam was a hero or a traitor, Herrwn had not been able to settle on a single emotion, either grief or anger, about the oracle’s disappearance. Now, without warning, the realization came over him that—in his heart of hearts—he wished that Olyrrwd was alive and hoped that Ossiam was dead.

The thought startled him, and it disturbed him deeply.