Chapter 31: The War Council

“You know that joining in the Sacred Sunrise Ritual is a rare privilege to be granted to one so young?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You will recite the chant exactly as ordained?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You will follow the prescribed ritual precisely as I have instructed?”

“Yes, Master!”

“You understand that even the slightest misstep will shame us both in the eyes of our chief priestess, who is the living embodiment of the Great Mother Goddess?”

“Yes, Master!”

“Very well, it is time we go.”

Ordinarily Herrwn would not have given in to a pupil’s sulks. Following a prolonged period of silence, however, Caelym had emerged from his sleeping chamber looking unbearably contrite. In answer to the question, “Have you anything you wish to say to me?” he’d collapsed to his knees, sobbed out a plea for forgiveness, and sworn never to be so bad ever again.

“You were not bad, you were angry,” Herrwn had responded, “but in that moment of anger you had a choice—to regain control of yourself or to throw a rock. Was the choice you made one that you are proud of?”

Caelym’s choked “No, Master, I am ashamed” was muffled as he buried his face in the hem of Herrwn’s robe.

“And when you feel that anger rising up to overtake you again, will you allow it to do so?”

“No, Master, I will not!”

“How will you conquer it?”

“I’ll … I, I don’t know!”

Herrwn waited for the new outbreak of despairing sobs to ebb away before kneeling down and patting the boy’s quivering back.

“That, my most esteemed pupil, is the correct answer! All wisdom begins in understanding what it is that you do not know—so now I believe that you are ready to begin the next steps in the long and difficult quest to become a Druid.”

Besides the philosophically astute reason Herrwn had given Caelym for allowing him to attend the day’s sunrise ritual, there was the practical consideration that with Olyrrwd ensconced in the healing chamber and Labhruinn still missing, it was safer to take Caelym along than to leave him to his own devices.

Later, in spite of everything, Herrwn was glad he did. That morning’s sunrise was among the most beautiful in his memory, and all the more poignant for what was to come.

After returning to the classroom and sharing a sustaining breakfast of boiled oats mixed with goat’s milk and blood sausage, Herrwn sent Caelym off to the healing chamber, took a final, fortifying sip of hot mead, picked up his staff, and left for the day’s meeting of the Low Council.

When he’d declared that the question of what to do about the Saxon’s attack on Asof’s village must be brought before the shrine’s council, Herrwn had meant the High Council—both because it was the proper venue for so serious a matter and because it would not be held for another three weeks, by which time tempers would have cooled and Asof would be recovered enough to give a full account for them to consider before deciding on the best course of action.

Meanwhile, knowing that Rhedwyn had redoubled his “training exercises,” there was no doubt in Herrwn’s mind that the morning’s Low Council would be entirely taken up with the village delegation’s renewed complaints about the riders wreaking havoc in their fields.

Herrwn left for the council on time, expecting that, except for the village delegation, he would be the first to arrive. Prepared as always for the awkwardness of sitting with them in the near-empty hall and waiting for enough of the other priests and priestesses to straggle in that they could begin, he was surprised that instead of being among the first to enter the main hall, he was close to the last. Every bench, chair, and stool except his own was filled. Neither Olyrrwd nor Labhruinn was there but Ossiam and Rhedwyn were and—for the first time since her ascendance—Feywn was seated at the center of the high table, with Rhedwyn on her left and all the ranking priestesses to her right, while Llwdd and the rest of the village delegation were crowded off to the side of the room by Rhedwyn’s followers.

A veteran of contentious disputes in both the High and Low Councils, Herrwn guessed that Rhedwyn must have taken his case directly to Feywn and she was there to make a pronouncement in his favor regarding his use of the fields. It wasn’t fair, but at least once she did the matter would be settled, and they could move on to other issues.

It was with this thought in mind that Herrwn bowed to Feywn and welcomed her with the formal greeting she no doubt expected.

“Most revered Chief Priestess, You who are the living embodiment of the Great Mother Goddess Herself, we thank You for so graciously honoring us with your sacred presence and await your words with wonder and awe.”

Taking his seat, he was not surprised to see her nod to Rhedwyn—and to see him step into the speaker’s place between the hearth and the high table, where he stuck a pose worthy of Elderond, the first and favorite of the Great Mother Goddess’s mortal lovers, at the moment that hero swore his oath to go forth and defeat the hordes of one-eyed giants who’d declared war on Her and all Her divine and human descendants.

Instead of making his case for practicing his war maneuvers without restrictions, however, Rhedwyn repeated the charge that the foul king of the despicable Saxons had, without provocation, sent his warriors to attack a village loyal to the Goddess, and ended his speech with the declaration, “Their king has sent a score of his lowly minions against us! Now I will take our army to answer that challenge, returning with their heads and leaving their bodies to feed the crows!” and turned his fierce gaze on Llwdd. “It is for this we have trained and armed ourselves! Are there any of you that will join us?”

Caught off guard, Llwdd was saved from answering—first by the sound of pounding footsteps and then by the rustling and bulging of the entry curtains as someone struggled to get through.

Finally finding the gap in the draperies, Labhruinn stumbled into the chamber. Disheveled and unwashed, twigs and briers tangled in his hair, mud caked on his boots, he staggered between the crowded benches and across the space left open for speakers to grip the rim of the high table with both hands.

“Rhedwyn,” he gasped, “I found their camp last night!” Reaching over to the table for the closest flask of wine and gulping it down like water, he forged ahead. “It’s no pack of thugs! It’s an army with a leader who might be the king himself!”

“Might be? You did not venture close enough to say for sure?” The first words Ossiam interjected were bathed in contempt.

“If there are three of their troops to every one of ours,” Labhruinn snapped, “it doesn’t matter who leads them!”

“And how do you know how many of them there were if it was dark?” the oracle demanded.

“I counted their fires.” Making no apology for his brusque tone of voice, Labhruinn turned to Rhedwyn. “It’s a trap.”

For a moment, Rhedwyn seemed unsure, then, appearing to remember that the eyes of the room were on him, he bristled, “So you counsel that we shrink from battle? Hide from our foes like cowering hares?”

“Hares have the sense not to go to war with wolves!” Labhruinn’s retort was not particularly noble or valiant, but in spite of that several of the priestesses, along with most of the village contingent, were swayed. Llwdd, who’d come to the council prepared to oppose Rhedwyn on any topic, nodded in approval, as did Rhonnon. Then Ossiam, who’d risen to his feet, presumably with the intention of making a caustic rebuttal, lurched forward, staggered back, and lurched forward again. Gripping his staff, he struggled to stay upright. His mouth went slack and his eyes rolled upwards so only the white showed—indications that Sarahrana, his inner spirit from the other world, was about to speak.

“Craven Coward!” he (or more properly, “she”) screeched. “Cast him out before his perfidy infects others!”

Even for an oracular spirit, that was going too far! While Labhruinn’s pronouncement merited criticism for its awkward and poorly ordered presentation, he was entitled to speak and to be heard—and Herrwn would have stood up to say so, but Rhedwyn moved first, stepping between Labhruinn and the possessed oracle and declaring, “No one calls my brother a coward!”

Holding up his shield in his left hand, he reached out with his right, gripped Labhruinn’s shoulder, and spoke as if the two of them were alone. “You have counted Saxons by stealth at night—now let us count them openly in the daylight. Ride with me, and together we will tally their heads on our pikes!”

Then his eyes swept the room, seeming to take the measure of every man in it, and he demanded, “Who will join us?”

“We will!” The village delegation rose up as one with Rhedwyn’s men.

Herrwn would always wonder whether, if he’d acted at once—stood up to say that he had not dismissed the council and declared that no final judgment had been rendered, nor would it be that day, and decreed that the decision to go to war or not was a matter for the High Council to decide following thorough deliberation—it would have changed the course of their history.

Before speaking, however, he’d looked to Feywn, expecting her to forbid this rash and reckless adventure, only to see her gazing at Rhedwyn with the besotted look of an ordinary girl in the throes of her first love.

By the time he did stand up, it was too late. His voice was lost in the uproar—heard by no one except for Labhruinn, who cast a long, despairing look back at Herrwn before he was swept along with the crowd that surged out of the chamber after Rhedwyn.