Hi everyone,
As we count down to the release of Rage of the Raven Queen on November 12, I’m excited to share with you all this sneak peek at Chapter One. In this chapter, we return to Bridunum as Gaillag the Thunder Goddess pursues vengeance against Athewain.
Happy reading!
Chapter One
Flames danced atop the altar, devouring the bundled kindling, licking at the sizzling fat of the slaughtered ram.
Before the altar, the high priest stood. Segar, druid and king of Bridunum. In a weathered old hand, he gripped his ibar staff, lifting it above his hoary head. From his lips poured incantations, songs for all the deathless gods above. And one name above the rest, he invoked.
“Gaillag!” Segar cried above the crackling of the eerie flame. His long white beard swayed with his movements, like a sapling bent beneath the tempest. “Come, mighty Thunderess! Come, Kindler of Storms! O you who rides upon the tempest, who spurs the frothing Dealan to war. Gaillag, who wields the lightning spear. O Gaillag, fiercest of all Uir’s children. Gaillag, goddess of victory—come to me!”
Elath watched from along the perimeter of standing stones, cloaked by the darkness that enveloped the small circle of light. He closed his eyes, resting his back against the rock, enjoying the refreshing coolness of its smooth face. The night was warm here upon Bridunum’s highest hill, where the judgment circle and royal hall stood towering over the sprawling city.
Elath’s eyes blinked open again as he stifled a yawn. Half an hour had passed already, and still Segar chanted the same rote words invoking Gaillag. He shifted his weight again, fidgeting as Segar continued to pray. The high priest’s voice grew hoarse, his words nearly inaudible, yet Elath did not dare draw closer. Only the arch druid might pass within the inner circle at such a time, this private invocation of the gods made in the darkest hour of the night.
And Elath was but a novitiate, privy only to secrets within the First and Second Rings. He was to stand and watch, to observe patiently the high priest’s every movement, every word that passed from his sacred lips. Later would come the more daunting task: the shaping of a life into metered lines. He would polish away the dull and the mundane, excising all events that might put his patron in a bad light, making him seem less glorious than the heroes of song must be. Elath was a poet, a singer and shaper of songs, tasked with committing Segar’s life to verse.
He sighed, leaning his tall, thin frame against his wooden staff, its end nestled in the gap between flagstones. He brushed back the long black hair from his face. The day had been long and tedious already. Over the course of the morning, he had observed Segar hold court. Then, in the afternoon, he had endured the druid’s long-winded account of his early days, in which he had described in painstaking detail the uncommon greatness he had evinced even from the cradle.
Elath straightened suddenly. Something was happening.
The wind blew, cold despite the summer, bringing the fire low. The flames trembled and turned an eerie green, dancing before the timbered royal hall, which loomed black and ominous like a thundercloud.
Elath shivered, pulled his robe tight as he craned his neck for a closer look. This was by no means his first ritual. At Innistwyl, he had attended hundreds of ceremonies in the company of the other young acolytes and the older druids. And as Segar’s poet, he had shadowed the priest-king through a litany of holy services. But this was the first time he had been given access to one of the druid’s private nighttime rituals.
The wind grew stronger, howling like a pack of ravenous wolves. It whipped Segar’s robes and snow-white beard, lashed at the emerald flames.
The fire sputtered and went out.
Darkness fell. Slowly, Elath’s eyes adjusted to the night, illuminated by the light of the full moon, which hovered just above and behind the altar.
Against Luannaig’s pallid face emerged a figure, standing atop the altar, towering where once the flames and sacrificial offering had been heaped. Hooded and robed, it hid its face. Yet by its preternatural size, by the prickling of his skin, Elath knew it was no mortal. Gaillag, the goddess invoked by Segar’s ritual, had surely come.
A thrill surged through Elath’s spirit. He had experienced the blessing of the gods before, had felt Griannan’s presence as he sat before his lyre, letting his calloused fingers dance along the sheep-gut strings, the voice of the sun god carrying through his own. Elath had sung often of the Sutathar, greatest of all divinities, makers and rulers of men. But never before had he seen one, an immortal cloaked in mortal flesh.
“Goddess,” Segar said reverently, bowing his ancient head. “I welcome you. You bless me with your presence.”
“Silence!” The voice of the goddess was strained, yet even so, it filled Elath’s soul with terror. His grip tightened on his staff, his back pressing against the smooth surface of the standing stone. He remembered suddenly that Gaillag was no friend to Bridunum. Her son, Saorlach, had, after all, tried to conquer the city.
“I have not come to bless you, Priest!” Gaillag bellowed. “You think your slaughtered ram and pious words have summoned me?”
With crushing steps, she descended the altar, pushing back her hood to reveal her golden tresses. She towered above Segar, looking down into his haggard face.
Then she thrust forth her hand, taking the old king by the throat.
“Wretched, covetous man! You thought to deceive a goddess? Am I a temple whore to be used and cast aside?”
Choking, spluttering, Segar gasped for breath.
“Lord!” Elath shouted before he could register what he did. Instinct bid him come to the aid of his patron and king. He took a step towards them, entering the forbidden circle. And Gaillag turned her terrible face upon him, scowled with golden eyes afire. Elath stopped short, feeling his knees weaken and wobble.
Segar’s staff clattered against the flagstones. And Gaillag turned to the priest again, her long white fingers tightening around his throat. Her face was close to his.
“You are false, Segar. False! I gave you all. I raised you to the highest place among the druids. I led you to the court of Bridunum’s king. And you have played me for a fool! Was this always your plan? Conspire with the ancient god, weaken Meardan’s line, then take the throne for yourself?”
Segar said nothing, his only reply gurgling and wheezing.
Gaillag shook him, flapping his body like a child’s doll. “Answer!” Her vise-like grip loosened just enough to let him speak.
Segar choked, coughed, and spluttered out an answer. “No, my queen! Never! I am loyal to you always—until my dying breath!”
Gaillag squeezed his throat again, then tossed him aside. Segar hit the altar shoulder-first and groaned.
“Dying breath?” she scoffed. “Your dying breath comes soon unless you answer me. Who is he—the man who killed my Saorlach?”
Segar trembled, winced as he tried to rise to a seated position. “I … I do not know.” The words came halting between heaving breaths. “He said he was a shepherd. A peasant. From the village of Nanbych, razed by raiders from Centiros.”
Gaillag huffed. “A peasant? Meardan let a peasant face my son?!”
“No,” Segar wheezed. “He refused. But when Mathlann fell, and Mangan also, the king lost all resolve. I took the reins before he died. And…” His voice rose. “And I forbade Athewain!”
“You forbade him? How then did he come to challenge my son? To lead the host of Bridunum to battle?”
“He went behind my back, my queen. Conspired with a captain of the guard. Ylian. There was nothing more I could do. I did my best!”
“Nothing more?!” Thunder rippled from her, booming across the circle of standing stones. It shook the ground, making Elath’s whole body tremble. “You should have warned me!”
“But my queen!” Segar implored, straightening himself slightly. “Warn you of what? He is a common shepherd! How was I to know he posed any danger to your son?”
The goddess’s eyes blazed, casting a terrible glow over Segar’s trembling frame.
“He spoke for the Maker, Segar! Wielded his name like an iron sword. The god breathes power into him. You should have told me!”
Segar blinked, staring at her in confusion. “‘Maker’? Forgive me, Goddess, but I do not know this name. How was I to warn you?”
Gaillag paused, glaring at Segar. Then slowly, she shook her head. When she spoke again, it was as if she talked to herself alone, voicing her thoughts aloud. “I forget… Even the chief of druids is but a simple child. Your kind have forgotten all but what we taught you. The ancient one we buried with your ancestors.”
Segar stared, and Elath also. The young poet remained rooted where he was, too scared and confused to speak. But the goddess’s words stirred up a memory. He had been there the day they burned Prince Mangan’s corpse, weeping with the rest. And he had heard the insolent shepherd insult both Segar and the gods.
“There are gods you know nothing of,” Athewain had said. “More powerful even than your beloved Gaillag.”
Elath had assumed that Athewain was mad, a blasphemer set on a course of ruin, a fool to challenge the gods themselves. But now, hearing what Gaillag said, he realized there must have been some truth to Athewain’s words, however twisted. The shepherd must have found the favor of some long-forgotten god. There were many such beings, dwelling in fetid swamps and on craggy peaks, vile old deities cast aside like a moldy loaf or rotten leg of lamb. Only the priests remembered such antique names—and the poets, though they were unlikely to sing of those gods in the halls of kings. Not without specific prompting and a generous purse.
Elath approached again on trembling legs, threw himself at Gaillag’s knees as he let his staff fall with a clatter at his side. He knew he must appease her great and terrible wrath. “Please, my goddess,” he began. “We did not know. We thought the shepherd was nothing more than a mere boaster.”
Gaillag turned her fiery eyes upon him again. He felt his stomach lurch. “And who are you?”
“Elath,” Segar croaked. “A novice druid. And my bard.” He shot Elath an angry look, clearly resenting the intrusion. Segar came slowly to his knees, grunting as he did. “I am deeply sorry, Goddess. I abase myself before you. Forgive my ignorance, my oversight. I—”
“Shut your mouth!” Gaillag snapped. “I haven’t the time for your slavish whinging. Where is he now? Where is Athewain?”
“Gone,” Segar said, his voice pained. “He and his brother stayed for several weeks after the battle. The people looked to them as heroes. The ignorant masses, they thought nothing of the gods. They showered the villains with meat and wine. And I … I did my best to cool the ardor of the vulgar. But I deemed it unwise to set myself against the mob while their fickle favor held with the shepherd.”
Elath held his breath as his patron spoke, willing his words to appease the goddess. It was true, what Segar said. For a while, the city had been at a standstill. All knew the king would not last for long. Yet Segar could not violate the will of the people while Meardan lived.
But then Meardan’s health had degraded. The old king could not endure the pain of both sons’ deaths. Bedridden, at last he had slipped beyond the world of flesh and made his way to Ifryn’s halls.
“By the time I grasped the golden circlet,” Segar went on, “and could command the loyalty of the great host of Bridunum’s fighting men, I found the shepherds gone. Fled.”
Gaillag stared, impassive and unmoving. “Where did they go?”
“My spies followed them to the western edge of the Goednial.”
“The forest? Why?”
Segar shrugged. “I cannot say. But the wild wood is suitable for such scum. They have no place among us. They are base men and common.”
Gaillag scowled.
And Elath realized what she must be thinking, if one could dare surmise the thoughts of a goddess. The Goednial was a vast and murky place. One might sooner find a drop of water hiding in the sea than an outlaw living in those woods.
“This is all you have to offer me?” The threat of violence had returned to Gaillag’s voice. “After all the favors I have lavished on you? Tell me why I should not snuff out your miserable life!”
“My queen!” Segar croaked. “Please… The whole of Bridunum—it is yours! Do not cast aside your servant now, when I have so much to offer you!”
“Do you think I could not raise up another? A druid from within your ranks? One whose loyalty has not been clouded by success?”
Segar gulped and bowed his head. His breaths were loud and ragged.
But as his patron succumbed to despair, Elath’s spirit stirred with sudden inspiration. “Goddess,” he said, “I believe I have a clue.”
She turned to him again, regarding him with smoldering eyes. “Go on.”
“The shepherd, Athewain—he mentioned a woman. A warrior. His trainer.”
Elath had been in Meardan’s hall as the warriors feasted after the battle, full of mead and meat and glory. He had sat and listened, absorbing every bit of conversation he overheard. Perhaps, he had thought, King Meardan will commission a song to commemorate this day, a celebration of Saorlach’s defeat. And if so, he would do well to observe as much of Athewain and his brother as possible.
Gaillag’s golden eyes narrowed on him. “Who? Was there a name?”
“Briana.”
“Briana.” The goddess frowned. And Elath feared he had misjudged, that the information he had thought would be valuable to her only furthered her implacable rage.
But Gaillag clapped her hands. The stones resounded with thunder. A smile overtook her lips, more terrible even than her frown.
“What is your name, poet?”
Segar had already mentioned it, but it seemed the goddess had not cared to remember.
“E-Elath,” he stuttered.
“You are observant, Elath. That is good.”
Elath bowed, overwhelmed by the compliment. The blood rushed to his cheeks.
“And you.” Gaillag turned again to Segar. “You are fortunate that I have yet some use for you. Rise.”
Segar sniffled, wiped a trembling hand across his nose. “Goddess?”
“Rise!” she snapped. “Your blood will not be spilled upon this altar, Segar. Not today. Rise and do my bidding.”
Segar threw himself upon his face. His body shook with weeping.
“O, merciful Gaillag!” he canted between heaving sobs. “Noblest of the Sutathar! I thank you—”
“Silence, you imbecile! Do not fool yourself. It is not for mercy nor for hollow praise I spare you. I do not forgive the sins of mortal men, nor do I let them pass from my remembrance. Fear me and obey. That is all I require.”
“Yes, my goddess.” Segar lifted his head. Tears stained his old, wrinkled cheeks.
“Now listen. Centiros is in disarray. King Clubhar’s strength is broken. But Bridunum has passed into my hand—not by battle, as I had planned, but by intrigue. You must rule in my name. Prepare the city for my glory.”
“Of course, Goddess. What would you have me do?”
“Root out the traitors. Cut out the rot that spreads. This Ylian, the captain who defied you—he must be burned before your hall. A warning to all who would resist our rule.”
Elath saw the beads of perspiration gather on Segar’s brow. He could feel the sweat running down his own back. The wind had died down again, and the summer night was warm and humid.
“My … my queen,” Segar stammered. “If I move against Ylian, it will lead to unrest. To civil war. He holds the loyalty of many men—perhaps a third of Bridunum’s warriors.”
“Deal with him, then! Use your famous wits, the cunning that saw you take the crown. Create some pretense to send him away, then woo his followers to your side. Or take his head. I care not, so long as this city holds for Gaillag.”
Segar nodded, looking somewhat composed for the first time since the goddess’s intrusion. “I will send him to Cêldinas,” he said. “Or perhaps Bryngoch. Maybe Mwinog?”
“I told you I care not!” Gaillag snapped. “Just send him away.”
“Of course, my queen.”
“That is not all!” she added. “I will need men. Soldiers, loyal to your command. Horsemen. And hunters, skilled in woodcraft. Have them ready by the morrow.”
“It is done, my queen.”
“Good.” She turned away and ascended the altar, step by measured step. “And one more thing.” She looked back. “Your bard. He comes with me.”
Elath looked up, saw her golden eyes upon him, measuring him. He shivered despite the heat.
“Goddess?” Segar’s voice quivered.
“It pleases me to keep a poet in my company. Surely, he is wasted here, singing of your deeds. He travels with me on the morrow. Let him compose a song for Gaillag.”
Elath shivered. His legs gave way, and he fell shaking to the flagstones. This … this was too great an honor—so great it turned his very blood to water.
“G-goddess,” he stammered. “It would be my g-greatest p-pleasure…”
“Let us hope you possess greater eloquence than this.” Gaillag turned from him and began ascending the steps.
She paused at the altar’s top, stretching out her arms beside her. She spoke without turning, her back to them both. “And remember, Druid. If you fail me again, I will destroy you. Piece by piece, I shall consume your flesh. Remember and obey.”
A sudden rush of wind, and the fires sprang to life again, raging as if to make up for lost time. The circle of stones flooded with blinding light, and Elath jerked up his robed arm to shield his eyes. At last, he lowered it, blinking to adjust. The altar stood empty.
Gaillag was gone.
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