one of them now. I am a Divine
Counselor.
The
Osraed Bevol came forward to meet him and draw him into the half-circle and
seat him in a tall carved chair at its center. He accepted the elder man’s
embrace with delight and shared a glance which spoke volumes about their common
bond.
Seated,
Wyth watched Bevol return to his own chair at the Apex of the Council and
recalled an earlier time when he had stood, quaking here, while his mother’s
voice accused him of being bewitched by his fifteen year old student,
Meredydd-a-Lagan, labeling Meredydd a Wicke. He had been bewitched, he realized, and it was as pure and clean and
holy an inyx as had ever been woven. He was bewitched now, too. Possessed by
the Possessor of all things. In thrall to That. Fear was a memory, only.
Did
they, he wondered, gazing at the seven Osraed arrayed about him, feel as he now
felt? Or had the years between now and their Moment of Great Light dimmed the
flame of their faith? His eyes were drawn to the Kisses they wore, to a man,
between their brows—emerald to his rose-amber and seemingly dimmer. They
varied, he realized in bemusement. Some were a smudged-looking peridot,
others—like Calach’s and Tynedale’s and especially Bevol’s—were more vivid in
both hue and clarity.
“Welcome,
Osraed Wyth,” said Bevol, beginning the formal Pilgrim’s Greeting. “The Meri
has crowned you with Her Kiss—the culmination of your Journey. Speak to us,
Pilgrim, of that Journey.”
He
did speak—of spiritual trials and tests of wisdom and patience. Of being sent
by the Eibhilin Gwenwyvar, the White Wave, to be the easing of a child’s pain.
And at last, he spoke of reaching the Meri’s Shore.
“Indeed
you have reached the Shore of faith, Pilgrim,” said Bevol. “Indeed you have
found the end of the Path of steadfastness. Speak to us, Pilgrim, of your
Vigil. What dreams were you given? What visions, what gifts?”
Wyth
blushed. “It wasn’t much of a vigil,” he admitted, and wondered momentarily if
they would believe what he had to tell them. But, of course, they had to
believe him; he wore the Kiss of the Meri on his brow. “We reached the sands,
Prentice Killian and I, and he went to gather firewood. I sat and watched the
sun set and recalled a dream I had had once—a horrible, arrogant dream of
entering the Meri’s Ocean without getting wet. Meredydd told me I had missed
the point of my Pilgrimage. I thought of that as I sat there in the sand and
laughed at myself.”
He
smiled at the looks of disbelief that admission garnered. Wyth Arundel had
laughed little, once, least of all himself.
“I
suppose that is one gift I took from the Shore—the gift of laughter. I had no
visions.”
He
paused a moment, then continued. “The sun set and the moon rose over the
water—or so I thought. But the moon, I recalled, was behind me in the East and
this was the Light of the Eibhilin world—the Light of the Meri. Bright and
golden, it came, flooding the water with glory. The Sea was like a golden broth
or a cup of spring wine. I could see every pebble beneath the water—jewels, all
of them—and garlands of seaweed. And then, the waters began to froth and foam.
I thought I would faint, but I didn’t. I thought the brilliance would blind me,
but it didn’t. Then She slipped from the waves and stood before me.”
He
realized his hands were stretched out toward the Triumvirate—toward its Apex.
He lowered them and went on. “Her eyes were like jewels,” he said. “Like
garnets in the Sun.”
“Aaah,”
said one of the other Osraed, “indeed She has changed Aspect,” and others
nodded.
“I
felt,” said Wyth, “as if I knew Her. And of course, I did. I have spent my life
learning Her ways and singing her duans and longing for a day when She would
give me one of my own. Overwhelmed, I threw myself to the wet sand and ... She
laughed at me.” He smiled again, eyes watering. “It was music. And out of the
music came Her voice
Counselor.
The
Osraed Bevol came forward to meet him and draw him into the half-circle and
seat him in a tall carved chair at its center. He accepted the elder man’s
embrace with delight and shared a glance which spoke volumes about their common
bond.
Seated,
Wyth watched Bevol return to his own chair at the Apex of the Council and
recalled an earlier time when he had stood, quaking here, while his mother’s
voice accused him of being bewitched by his fifteen year old student,
Meredydd-a-Lagan, labeling Meredydd a Wicke. He had been bewitched, he realized, and it was as pure and clean and
holy an inyx as had ever been woven. He was bewitched now, too. Possessed by
the Possessor of all things. In thrall to That. Fear was a memory, only.
Did
they, he wondered, gazing at the seven Osraed arrayed about him, feel as he now
felt? Or had the years between now and their Moment of Great Light dimmed the
flame of their faith? His eyes were drawn to the Kisses they wore, to a man,
between their brows—emerald to his rose-amber and seemingly dimmer. They
varied, he realized in bemusement. Some were a smudged-looking peridot,
others—like Calach’s and Tynedale’s and especially Bevol’s—were more vivid in
both hue and clarity.
“Welcome,
Osraed Wyth,” said Bevol, beginning the formal Pilgrim’s Greeting. “The Meri
has crowned you with Her Kiss—the culmination of your Journey. Speak to us,
Pilgrim, of that Journey.”
He
did speak—of spiritual trials and tests of wisdom and patience. Of being sent
by the Eibhilin Gwenwyvar, the White Wave, to be the easing of a child’s pain.
And at last, he spoke of reaching the Meri’s Shore.
“Indeed
you have reached the Shore of faith, Pilgrim,” said Bevol. “Indeed you have
found the end of the Path of steadfastness. Speak to us, Pilgrim, of your
Vigil. What dreams were you given? What visions, what gifts?”
Wyth
blushed. “It wasn’t much of a vigil,” he admitted, and wondered momentarily if
they would believe what he had to tell them. But, of course, they had to
believe him; he wore the Kiss of the Meri on his brow. “We reached the sands,
Prentice Killian and I, and he went to gather firewood. I sat and watched the
sun set and recalled a dream I had had once—a horrible, arrogant dream of
entering the Meri’s Ocean without getting wet. Meredydd told me I had missed
the point of my Pilgrimage. I thought of that as I sat there in the sand and
laughed at myself.”
He
smiled at the looks of disbelief that admission garnered. Wyth Arundel had
laughed little, once, least of all himself.
“I
suppose that is one gift I took from the Shore—the gift of laughter. I had no
visions.”
He
paused a moment, then continued. “The sun set and the moon rose over the
water—or so I thought. But the moon, I recalled, was behind me in the East and
this was the Light of the Eibhilin world—the Light of the Meri. Bright and
golden, it came, flooding the water with glory. The Sea was like a golden broth
or a cup of spring wine. I could see every pebble beneath the water—jewels, all
of them—and garlands of seaweed. And then, the waters began to froth and foam.
I thought I would faint, but I didn’t. I thought the brilliance would blind me,
but it didn’t. Then She slipped from the waves and stood before me.”
He
realized his hands were stretched out toward the Triumvirate—toward its Apex.
He lowered them and went on. “Her eyes were like jewels,” he said. “Like
garnets in the Sun.”
“Aaah,”
said one of the other Osraed, “indeed She has changed Aspect,” and others
nodded.
“I
felt,” said Wyth, “as if I knew Her. And of course, I did. I have spent my life
learning Her ways and singing her duans and longing for a day when She would
give me one of my own. Overwhelmed, I threw myself to the wet sand and ... She
laughed at me.” He smiled again, eyes watering. “It was music. And out of the
music came Her voice
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