Chapter 92: Ossiam’s Tribute

Whether by chance, as Olyrrwd would certainly have insisted, or by the Goddess exerting Her will to hold off the storm’s onslaught long enough for Caelym to be well away, the dark, roiling clouds gathering behind the western ridge didn’t spill over until the next night—but when they did, it was terrible.

Winds tore at the shrine’s walls and shutters, and rain hammered its roof. Except for Feywn, who remained secluded in her private chambers, Madheran and his guards, who remained on watch at the lower gate, and Ossiam, who circled restlessly around the hearth in the center of the main hall muttering about evil signs and ominous portents, the rest of the refugees-to-be huddled together at their designated tables in their assigned corners.

At a momentary lull in the sounds outside, Ossiam abruptly stopped his pacing and cried out, “What is the meaning of this storm, and why does it come over us now?”

No one had an answer to that. Even Rhonnon remained silent, though she did move closer to Aolfe and put an arm around her waist as a sudden blast of wind seemed to shake the shrine on its foundation.

“The gods are angry!” Ossiam called out above the howling wind. He stopped next to the table where the last of their ritual implements were stacked, picked up the golden chalice that held wine at their highest rituals and blood at their most important sacrifices, and, raising it over his head, shouted, “They must be appeased! I must take them the tribute they demand!”

Horrified at the thought of Ossiam doing what this declaration implied―taking a boat out on the lake, which must be churning and heaving in the winds of the storm—Herrwn grasped his cousin’s arm and pleaded with him not to go, but Ossiam shook him off and swept out of the hall.

Herrwn started after him, calling, “Wait, I will go with you,” but Darbin stepped into the doorway, blocking his way, and said with unexpected force, “No, Master, you are needed here!”

Gwenydd came up on one side of Herrwn and Cyri on the other, and each took hold of one of his elbows and held him back, repeating Darbin’s words. Feeling his strength draining away, he let them guide him to a bench by the wall, where they sat with their arms around him while the winds and rain continued to batter the shrine.

The storm subsided overnight.

They hadn’t celebrated the Sacred Sunrise Ritual since the night of what they now referred to only as “The Betrayal,” but they did that morning. Feywn’s voice was strong and bell-like as ever. The rest of them did their best. Afterwards, those who could be spared from other duties set out with heavy hearts to look for Ossiam.

They found the priests’ ceremonial boat drifting upside down at the far end of the lake.

Lunedd, Gwenydd, the twins, and Cyri went back inside to finish the final packing, leaving Herrwn, Darbin, Moelwyn, Iddwran, and Ogdwen to continue searching up and down the lakeshore. One by one, the others gave up, but Herrwn kept on, unable to bear the thought of his cousin, who’d been so concerned with ceremonial observance, lying unburied.

Hours later, having all but given up any hope of seeing Ossiam alive, his heart stopped at the sound of footsteps on the path behind him.

Turning, he saw it was Rhonnon.

Answering the question he assumed she’d come to ask, he shook his head. “There is no sign of him, but I will continue searching …”

She, too, shook her head. “I have come to tell you that Madheran has sent Barddwel and Gofannon to find out if it is safe to leave. We will need to be ready to go when they return.”

“I see,” he said. “Then I have a little more time?”

“No, really you must come back. With Ossiam gone, we will need to move someone into his place. I have spoken with Aolfe, and it is agreed that you may go with us and Ogdwen may take your place in Gwenydd’s group.”

“Oh, I see.” And he did. While it had never occurred to him before that Aolfe had taken his meetings with Rhonnon as anything other than discussions of matters concerned with Cyri and the other young priestesses, he now understood she’d come to see him as a rival for her closest friend’s affections.

What had passed between the two either to change Aolfe’s mind or to overcome her objections, however, was something he had no need to ask. His presence in their group would be a source of ongoing friction—the last thing any of them needed. And even if that were not so, what would Gwenydd and Darbin think if he left them now?

Drawing himself up and making a formal bow, he spoke in a tone as firm as the one Rhonnon had used, saying, “That is most kind of you, but I must decline the honor, as I am well satisfied with the sorting as it is. I will remain where I was placed.”

“If that is your choice.” While her words and tone were formal, Herrwn flattered himself there was a flickering of regret mingled with the more obvious look of relief on her face. In all the years they’d known each other, Herrwn had only touched Rhonnon once—the time they’d danced the ritual dance in the Summer Solstice Ritual six and a half years earlier. He hesitated to do so now but tentatively put out a hand. Before he could touch her shoulder, however, she’d turned and was striding back toward the shrine.

Herrwn followed, his feet dragging and his face turned toward the lake, scanning the surface for the thing he most dreaded seeing―Ossiam’s drowned body with its robes swirling around it. Reaching the place where the path turned toward the shrine, he stopped and stared at the now mirror-smooth lake, trying to imagine that he might see Ossiam emerge from the reeds, his expression smug as it had been any time he’d triumphed over Herrwn and Olyrrwd in their boyhood games.

The cries of the birds overhead seemed to echo out of the long-ago days when they played here on the banks of the lake, laughing and shouting with each other.

Now only he was left.

This time he didn’t turn at the sound of approaching footsteps, knowing that it would not be Ossiam and that whoever it was would break the spell he was weaving, calling him back from a joy- and hope-filled past to a lonely, desolate present.

The footsteps stopped at his side. A callused hand touched his elbow.

“We have to go now.”

Darbin had his large pack on his back and Herrwn’s smaller one in one hand. He held two plain staffs in his other hand. Herrwn was momentarily puzzled when the smith set down the pack and held out one of the two ordinary poles for him to take.

“The Priestess Rhonnon said that all the ceremonial staffs have to be left in hiding with the other ritual things and you must have one that will not give you away.” Darbin’s words were apologetic, but he didn’t lower his hand until Herrwn took the staff. Then, with the sigh of a man with one task done and more ahead of him, he helped Herrwn get his pack onto his back.

The pack was heavier than Herrwn expected, but there was nothing in it he was willing to leave behind. Gripping his new staff, he thanked Darbin for his assistance and started along the path out of Llwddawanden.