Servant of the Bone Tree

Angharad crouched deeper into the dark corners of the Ancestral Hall. The druids had begun their rituals, lighting bundles of sage. Angharad held back her cough, even as the rich, choking smoke filled the chamber. She couldn’t be seen. She was a trespasser. Worse, she was a woman. Women were expressly forbidden from attending any death rituals, where druids spoke prayers that led spirits to the great beyond. But the body on the slab at the center of the room was her father. It had been three days since anyone had been allowed to see his body. The druids were dragging out the rituals for far longer than they needed, and being even more secretive than they usually were. Her father had never trusted the druids. And he was the wisest man that Angharad had ever known. She pressed her back against the cool stone walls and listened. “We are close now,” said Morgan, the eldest of the druids, to the others gathered there. “Things are falling into motion.” “How much longer can we wait? My axe-bearers have been on edge, waiting for the call. People have commented on the strange tension in our halls.” It was Osian who spoke up. He was a dark man. When he carried out rituals, he wore a bear’s skull over his head. Angharad had many nightmares about that skull when she was a child. She was sure Osian only wore it because he enjoyed frightening people into reverence. Morgan’s voice took on a bitter edge. “My brother had many friends. He might be dead, but many are still loyal to him.” “Better to act quickly, then to not act at all.” “Better to keep your tongue to yourself, Os. A King is dead, and these are tense times. Certainly, I would refrain from making any new enemies.” “Is that a threat, Morgan?” “A warning.” There was a tense silence. Angharad held her breath. “At the very least, we can invite my son into the fold. Behold, elders, the future of Cwm. The great heir, Prince Gwern.” Gwern stepped forward. The sour faced boy was wearing a smirk, reveling in the attention. The druids bowed their robed heads in reverence. Angharad couldn’t stop herself. Not with such blatant lies filling her ears. She took a step forward, to the stunned shock of the druids. “Why?” she said. “Grab that girl,” Gwern hissed. Two druids were either side of her in a second, holding knives carved from bone against her throat. But Angharad’s fury didn’t relent. Even the threat of death could stop her from expressing her rage at the betrayal. “So, this is your great secret,” she said. “You look to depose my brother as heir apparent, whilst he risks his life for Cwm in battle. Have you any shame?” “Trespassers in this hall face penalty of death.” “Then kill me. My brother will avenge me.” The blades at her neck were still. Gwern did not give the order to murder her. Instead, he stepped forwards, until he was close enough for Angharad to smell the wine on his breath. “It looks like Os is right father,” Gwern said. “We’ll have to act now and put this little wretch in a prison cell.” “You’re a serpent, Gwern.” Gwern raised the back of his hand and struck her across the face. Angharad’s neck recoiled sharply. She tasted blood. “Get your hands away from my sister.” Everyone turned their heads to the entrance of the hall. A young man was stood there, a silver battleaxe in his hands. He had a mop of blonde hair, and a face like thunder. Angharad had tears in her eyes. Her brother had been little more than a boy when he left for war. Now he was a man, battle hardened, and with a dangerous scowl on his face. “Kill him!” Gwern screamed. Prince Emrys was charging before the druids could even think to react. He swung his axe in a wild arc, and it shone like evening sun as it reflected the torches on the walls. A druid fell, cut down, with a deep wound on his abdomen. Emrys paused, eyes widening at what he had done. Angharad understood his fear. To kill a man was one thing. To kill a druid was a crime that was unheard of. The other druids took advantage of his moment of stunned panic. They grabbed Emrys’s arms and wrestled the axe from him. He was forced to his knees, and Gwern’s smirk returned. He took a knife from one of the druids and moved in to kill. “Halt,” said Morgan. “He has to die, father,” said Gwern. “This is an act of pure evil. Killing a druid is an insult on the spirits of the Dark World, and the very Fae themselves.” “His father has allies. They will want to know why Emrys was moved to fight against us. Imprison him.” “I will not stand for crimes in my realm to be unpunished.” “This is not your realm. Not until you come of age.” Emrys laughed, darkly. Angharad shivered. The laugh was not the one she remembered. It was a dark, humorless laugh. It was a laugh that was thick with threat, which promised mayhem. “I see I have been deposed,” he said. “What makes you all believe that my green, dear, cowardly little cousin is more fit to rule Cwm than I?” “Our decisions were unanimous,” said Morgan. “I’m sure they were. Men will agree to anything when they have a knife in their back.” “No, Emrys,” said Os. “This is different. Gwern is the chosen one. The warrior of prophecy, who will bring peace and order to Cwm.” Angharad gasped. It was a story that every child in Cwm had heard, that was told by the druids during every ceremony they held. Back in the ancient days, when fairies lived amongst men in Cwm, they gave prophecies of a future where Cwm would be at war for a hundred years. Those prophecies had come true: the Sax, from the great neighboring Kingdom of Saxia, had invaded. They had slain druids without thought, cursing the old ways and insisting upon the people of Cwm worshipping their own, supposedly all-powerful god. The dark times had gone on all her life. For as long as she remembered, young axe-bearers had been sent to fight against the Sax. She had seen them leave and die in droves. The Chosen One was the hope that had kept them fighting. The fae had promised the Chosen One would be the greatest of warriors, and a bearer of ancient magic. Angharad now hesitated. It had felt like betrayal, seeing her brother’s title scrapped. But who was she- who was anyone- to argue with the Chosen One? “Bullshit,” said Emrys. “You think you know better than the fae?” said Morgan. “I know that no sniveling wimp would be named the Chosen One.” “We are druids, boy. We speak to the Dark World. You are a fresh axe-bearer. You know nothing of spirits, or the prophecies they hold.” Emrys roared and wriggled free from the arms that bound him. Angharad screamed as her brother ran towards Gwern, teeth and fists clenched. Gwern ducked past his attack. Then he reached up and punched Emrys in the stomach. Emrys grunted but remained on his feet. Emrys swung a leg out under Gwern’s legs, knocking him to the ground. But Gwern grabbed hold of Emrys’s waist, dragging him down alongside him. The two men wrestled on the floor, both trying to get the other in a choke hold. Emrys was stronger now than Angharad could have ever believed, but he was wrong about Gwern. Their cousin had been training himself. He was quick and sharp, where Emrys was heavy and punishing. “Stop, Emrys,” she said. “Stop. If he is the Chosen One, who are we to intervene?” “Don’t listen to them sister. They’re all liars.” “If they kill you, who will be there to protect me?” Emrys stopped fighting at that. He bowed his head in grim acceptance and allowed two druids to pull him off Gwern. He was dragged up to his feet, a knife held to his throat. Gwern dragged himself up from the floor, panting. His brow was heady with sweat, his cloak torn. “He’s too dangerous to live,” he said. “And now he attacks the heir apparent? I insist he dies.” “You are not in a position to insist upon anything. Not until you come of age,” said Morgan sternly. “You’re foolish enough to ignore this.” Morgan gritted his teeth at that. He looked furious and frustrated, and no wonder why. Whatever his scheme had been to announce Gwern as the true heir, it had clearly been ruined by Angharad and Emrys’s appearance. “Very well,” said Morgan, eventually. “We move tonight and present this affair as a mad attack on the druids. Kill Emrys.” “No!” Angharad screamed. There were hands at her arms again, holding her back. She bucked and squirmed, but she was already feeling faint. But Emrys wasn’t panicking. Even as the blade was pressed tighter towards his throat, he maintained his glare towards Gwern. Towards the cousin that had always been his biggest rival. “I challenge you, cousin,” he said. “Let the stone circle decide our fate.” “Don’t listen to him,” said Morgan. “A match in the stone circle is too much of a risk. You are the heir apparent, Gwern. You do not have to bend to the will of anyone.” “I accept,” said Gwern. The druids all howled in despair. Angharad felt a ray of hope. Her brother would not die today, not when a blood match had been declared in the view of the spirits of the dead. He would face Gwern during the winter solstice, when the light died, and the Dark World became closer to the mortal realm. But if Gwern was the chosen one, then surely Emrys could have no power to defeat him. Moreover, should he defeat him? Emrys said that Gwern was not chosen, but how could, he be sure? She had been told to distrust the druids all her life. But she knew nothing of the fae and how they passed on their messages. “I will return here when the nights grow dark,” said Emrys. “You think you can just leave? After you have killed a druid?” said Gwern. “Arrest him. And his sister.” The druids moved, wielding their bone knives once again. This time, neither Emrys nor Angharad resisted. # Emrys was marched at knife point down into the mausoleum. The dark place allowed no sunlight, received no visitors. It was icy cold, and smelt of earth, rot and roots. It was not the usual place for prisoners, but Morgan would not risk taking him to the castle cells, where others would see him. The door was blocked. Emrys huddled next to his sister as she wept next to him. “Do your bruises hurt, dear sister?” he said. It took a while for her to control her sobbing. Even when she was ready to talk, her voice was strained and shaky. “My bruises will heal,” she said. “But what you’ve done Emrys, will never be forgotten. You killed a druid. You challenged them in their own halls. How could you be so stupid?” “They were hurting you. I had to react.” “It didn’t help.” Emrys sighed. Angharad began weeping again, more heavily this time. Emrys knew that no one would hear her. They were held deep under the earth, in hallowed ground. The air was icy, and Angharad’s shivering grew intense. Emrys put an arm around her shoulder and held her close, willing some warmth into her body. The girl had always been sickly. Cursed, some said. Their father, King Ryland, had been protective of Angharad. The best healers were brought to her side, keeping her warm and safe. But Ryland was gone. As was their mother, Eimear, who had passed away when Emrys had been small. Eimear had passed away from a strange illness as well. That was what Ryland had said. But Ryland never liked talking about their mother, and Emrys was not sure if her sickness was the same as the weakness that plagued Angharad, keeping her brittle and quick to exhaustion. “I vowed I would find a cure for your disease, one day,” said Emrys. “When I am King, I will make sure of it.” “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Emrys. We’ll both die here. Or you will die in three moon’s time, in the stone circle.” “Not if I beat Gwern to death. He can’t fight like a man.” “You cannot train in here or grow stronger.” Emrys didn’t respond to that. Of course, Angharad was right. She had always been the more level-headed one. Emrys was quick to rage, and his soul was aflame with passion. He had acted without thinking, and now he was facing the consequences. He ran his hand up the side of his body, hoping that his scar was invisible in the darkness. There was a reason that Gwern had been able to resist his attacks. He had been stabbed whilst fighting the Sax. One of their assassins had stabbed a fire-iron blade into his flesh, and he had been lucky to live. Ever since then, he hadn’t been a true axe-bearer. His axe had felt heavy in his hands, and his scar would flare with pain whenever he fought for too long. He had returned to court to recover, to try and build his strength up, and learn some more of his royal duties besides. He had been just a few nights ride away from the City of the Day when he heard of his father’s death, and he had charged straight to the ancestral hall to see his body. He hadn’t expected to see Gwern there, or his sister. Now everything was ruined. Angharad fell silent. She was not asleep, but she wasn’t quite awake either. After periods of strenuous activity, her body would simply give out on her, and she would remain unconscious for a long time before she could move again. But those periods of unconsciousness were getting longer and longer. Whatever sickness, or curse, that she had, it didn’t seem to be going away. It was growing stronger. Emrys, in his frustration, pounded his fist against the stone cairns that housed his ancestors remains. It was an insult to the spirits, but he didn’t care. He had rage to get out, and he kept on smacking rocks until his fists became torn and bloody. Then he sat with his back to the wall, holding onto the bone charm necklace that his father had given him. That had once belonged to his mother, long ago. It was the only piece of her that Emrys had left, and he clutched it in times of stress. But something strange happened. As the blood ran from his cut knuckles, it seemed to vanish into the bone necklace. For a moment, the white exterior would be stained red. But then the stain would shrink, vanishing, as though the necklace was drinking it. “Am I going mad?” he murmured to himself. But as he spoke, the world responded, seeming to confirm his fears. The walls of the mausoleum vanished completely, taking the tombs, and Angharad with them. One moment they were there, and they were replaced by fog. The fog was warm and tasted like breath. The world became lit by a dull green light. When Emrys looked up, he could see a stormy, open sky. Hot, thick rain covered his battered again his body. Then the fog dissipated. He realized he was looking at the base of a large tree. It had no leaves, and its trunk stretched up fifty feet above him. Around the tree were the ruins of a castle turret. Mossy, crumbling stone surrounded Emrys, wherever he turned. Emrys observed all these unnatural changes with silent reverence. Was he having a vision? That was not possible, surely. He was not trained as a druid. He had not been given the appropriate blessings required to be welcomed by the fairy-folk in the Dark World. “Am I going mad?” he said. “What am I doing here? And where is my sister?” There was no spoken reply, but he could have sworn that the tree in front of him started to swell slightly, before shrinking again. Swelling, then shrinking. As though it was breathing. That was more than enough for Emrys to lose his nerve. Like all warriors, and reckless men, he was terrified of anything relating to fairies and spirits. He turned as though to run, but he found himself face to face with a man in a black, outfit, wearing a tall, buckled hat with a flat top. The man’s skin was grey, as though his flesh were going putrid. But his eyes were green. Not a natural green, either. They were not emerald, but the dark, gloomy, wild green of the forests. “What the devil are you doing here?” the man asked. Emrys could only open and close his mouth in reply, frightened to his core. He had never seen one for himself, but Emrys had heard enough about them in legends. The mottled skin. The strange, sinister edge to their voice. The deep eyes that could entrap the souls of mortals. The man had to be a fairy.