Many of the rooms were empty, though he made notes of their purpose. There were meditation chambers and an infirmary, a dining hall and two sleeping quarters. The library was grandest of all, with rows of dusty books, their pages yellowed with age. Maps and charts covered the walls.
But above was the strangest thing of all—a mosaic of silky blue broken by opaque crystals. It stretched across the vaulted ceiling and emitted a faint mist. The longer one looked, the more it appeared to ebb and flow. The blue undulated like the night sky, and within it, those pale crystalswinked. He recognized the image they formed. He had seen them a thousand times growing up in the Fáoth—tapestries of constellations written in smoke.
What he was looking at now was indeed the glittering cosmos over Cúil Cullach, studied for hundreds of years by his folk. The druids had mapped the stars and the sky’s turning, and knew of the comings and goings of celestial things. Did these women study the same maps? Had they carried forth his people’s teachings?
The druid stood still, but the conjured sky above him shifted steadily, mirroring the heavens’ natural rotation. His gaze danced across silver stepping stones, identifying the three great stars.
The Thae.
As children, all druids were taken out on a summer night and left in a great green field. He could still remember the warmth of arms carrying him to the glen. He was sat amongst the cool grass and left to fend for himself. He remained in that quiet field for hours, busy with the bugs and the weeds. After a while, he grew tired and wished to return. But he was alone there. Alone with the wind and the dark and the cry of wolves. But a story hung in his mind.
North to sea, and west to fire; east to the ice and stone. South to dark and a thousand pyres; by maiden’s light we roam.
The star of the North glowed gently blue, and the East like falling snow. The South star was faintest of all, and the West star was the sun. If one could find the Thae in the sky, so too could they find their way home. And so, the children would meander back. At least, most of them.
Upon the celestial map, the Thae inched closer, signaling the coming summer. For one night every year, the three would converge so near in the sky that their light would burn together. That day was called Belthín, and the druids would gather in celebration. This year would be no different. And as usual, he would not be amongst them—but for entirely different reasons.
He watched the moon, drifting slowly across the mosaic.
The Thae converged every year… but on rare occasions, in a grand display, the moon would join at their center. The druid recalled the farmer’s wife from the village; her joyous song echoed in his mind.
All beware and care the Ísthmhach.
The Ísthmhach came once every thousand years, and if the map was to be believed, it would be soon upon them.
The thought was chased by the sensation of lips pressed against the back of his neck. His hand flew up, brushing the skin, and he spun to see the space behind him was empty.
His mouth opened, but another voice spoke, whispering his name.
“Cerys.”
He looked side to side.
He was alone.
Shivers rolled through him.
The druid crept from the library into the empty hall. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with candelabra. The stone looked back at him as his blurred reflection moved within the glossy walls. When the whisper pinched his skin again, he spun, seeing a hundred variations of himself doing the same.
But there was no one.
“H-Hirí?” he called out. No answer. The flames dancing upon their wicks bent sharply and extinguished, as if guttered by a thrust of wind.
“Cerys.”
His exhale clouded before him.
One by one, the candles lit, guiding him down a winding stair. That voice, haunting and smooth, beckoning in his ear.
Gossamer webs laced overhead and ancient dust rose beneath his feet. The air was heavy and stuck in his throat. Reaching the last step, he found himself in a dark, damp cavern and was greeted by carved faces draped in veils. They lay with their hands rested against earthen chests. All women… all beautiful.
All forever entombed.
The druid stepped down into the crypt, pausing as his slipper touched the floor. Carefully, he bent and removed his left shoe, then his right, letting his bare skin press cool against the stone. Silently, he moved between their sculpted shrouds, their smooth faces, pale as they had been in life.
The cold sank deep into his bones.
He trained his eyes in the dark. Upon the walls were murals—ancient scenes telling stories of ages past. None was more decadent than a triptych near the center, each illuminated panel depicting the story of a woman in white.
