Chapter 35: Banished

The shrine’s great chamber was packed. Priests and priestesses pressed together with servants, all muttering and murmuring until, just as Herrwn was struggling to get through, Ossiam’s voice rose from somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

“Silence!”

The crowd fell quiet, and Ossiam’s harangue went on.

“You! You craven coward! You dare ask for mercy! You who hid like some slinking vermin while he who was the bravest and most valiant of heroes fought for his life!”

Labhruinn must have said something in his own defense because Ossiam shrieked louder, “Silence, I say! Do not dare speak his name again! You are not worthy to call him your brother!”

Finally managing to get to the center of the throng, Herrwn found Labhruinn kneeling like a condemned man before Feywn, while Ossiam, just off to one side, pointed his finger, crying, “How often have we heard of lesser brothers ill-wishing greater ones? How much venom did he store inside him for the brother who was as far above him as the sun is above a slithering swamp creature? Were we not warned to cast him out when he called on our brave warriors to act like hares—speaking of their defeat—dooming them with his words!”

That was wrong! The words Labhruinn had spoken at the council had been a warning, not a curse! He had not spoken to call for their defeat but to prevent the battle.

It was Herrwn’s duty to refute this false charge, and he only hesitated to think of a way to phrase his rebuttal without suggesting that Feywn should have listened to Labhruinn instead of Rhedwyn. That would require some delicacy, and even as skilled with words as Herrwn was, he found it hard to concentrate with Ossiam ranting on, “And then this craven coward you see before you pretends to follow the brother he claims to love into battle only to betray him, fleeing like the despicable cur he is, abandoning that most noble and godlike of men to fall under the swords of the Saxon butchers.”

Then, just as Herrwn was about to insist that Labhruinn be given the chance to come before the High Council and to speak in his own defense, Ossiam turned to Feywn and hissed, “It is he who is to blame for Rhedwyn’s death! Cast him out! Banish him!”

Herrwn was stunned.

Without hearing what justification Labhruinn had to give for not fighting and dying with his brother, Herrwn could not say whether it was sufficient. If it was not—and this was a matter for the High Council to decide—Herrwn would do his duty as the shrine’s chief priest and pronounce the decree stripping his disciple of his rank and sending him into exile with only the clothes on his back. But to be cast out by the chief priestess who was the embodiment of the Goddess was to revoke Labhruinn’s very existence. Surely, even as consumed with grief as Feywn must be, she would not condemn Rhedwyn’s brother to wander forever nameless and formless, neither living nor dead, not a part of this world and never to cross into the next.

To Herrwn’s dismay, Feywn drew a breath and began in a voice that was all the more chilling for its ethereal beauty, “You who were once one of us are no more—”

It was a dire and dreadful spell, and once begun there was no stopping it—even to try was to risk being cast out as well.

Herrwn was not afraid of dying, and had the consequence of speaking out been only death he would not have hesitated. But to be cast out—to lose the hope of ever being reunited with Lothwen, Lillywen, his parents, his brother …

His vision blurred as Feywn’s evocation ran on, “I who am mother to all never gave birth to you …”

He gripped his staff, focusing on the engraving by his thumb, which, by chance, happened to be a rearing bear pierced with lances. It was Cydderewn, a semi-divine hero who’d been changed into a beast by a jealous rival and slaughtered by the companions he’d run to for help.

Herrwn’s vision—and his mind—cleared. He drew in what he assumed would be his last breath, bid a mental farewell to everything and everyone he cared about, and looked up, ready to speak in Labhruinn’s defense.

But Labhruinn was already gone.

The low murmuring around him seemed only to be of grief and shock at the news of Rhedwyn’s death.

Still, Herrwn knew he had to speak out, and he would have—only he felt a trembling hand clutch his arm. It was Annwr. She was standing beside him, looking to him for guidance.

Looking down into her searching eyes, he realized that if he were to speak, she would too—that she, in fact, was already on the verge of throwing herself into oblivion after her lover.

It was a terrible choice. If he did not speak out, he would carry the burden of his silence forever, and yet if he did—and if Feywn, in her boundless pain and rage, were to turn on her own sister …

He could not let that happen. Closing his eyes and willing Annwr to keep silent along with him, Herrwn was startled when Feywn called his name in a voice that no one could doubt came from the Goddess Herself, saying, “You, my chief priest, take what servants you need. Bring Rhedwyn’s body back to me. The boy will show you where to find him.”

Her command issued, she walked out of the courtyard with graceful, swaying strides.