Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [13]
Finally, the trio found themselves standing before the white linen tent of Friar Nolan. The stout cleric rushed from the entrance and fastened on Tristan. “The shame! The debauchery!” Friar Nolan’s bald head glistened with sweat, and his eyes were wide. In emphasis, he bobbed his head excitedly at the dancers and drunks thronging through the festival.
“The gods are forgiving, and will overlook much, but I fear for many souls tonight,” the cleric continued in a breathless rush. Although the clerics of the new gods had been preaching on the Moonshae Islands for a century or more, many of the Ffolk still clung to their traditional worship of the earthmother. The Ffolk accepted, and even appreciated, the clerics, for their powers were beneficial, and their practices benign.
Still, old traditions carried great weight among the Ffolk, and the presence of the druids served as a strong counter to the clerics of the new gods.
The source of the druids’ might came from the wild places of the Moonshae Islands – particularly the Moonwells. Mostly solitary, living in secluded groves, the druids gathered at the communities of the Ffolk for occasions such as the festival, or emergencies such as floods, earthquakes, or war.
“And there, as if the rest of this wretchedness is not enough, the final blow is struck.” Friar Nolan’s pudgy finger, quivering with indignation, pointed across the aisle.
Tristan suppressed a smile as he understood the reason for the cleric’s distress. Friar Nolan’s tent, dedicated to the greater glory of the new gods, stood directly across the walkway from the central grove of the druids. The large stone arch draped with mistletoe, which provided entrance to the grove, could not have been more of an affront to the easily affronted cleric.
“An unfortunate placement,” commiserated the prince, but already he saw that Robyn was getting away again. “Excuse me, but, you understand,” he apologized as he raced on.
Robyn passed through the arch and entered the druids’ grove, with Daryth and Tristan right behind.
The grove was quiet, and very dark. Although central to the festival grounds, the grove seemed a world removed from the madness and noise of the revelry.
Robyn moved slowly, almost reverently, into the grove. She paused briefly under the arch, bowing her head and whispering something softly. Then she stepped forward, seeming to glide across the soft grass toward the heart of the grove.
“What is this place?” Daryth asked, instinctively lowering his voice to a whisper.
“This is the Corwell grove – of the druids,” the prince explained. “At the center of the grove is a Moonwell – a magical pool of water. The grove itself is sacred – the trees cannot be cut, and no animal entering here may be harmed.”
“Your religion sounds like an important part of your lives,” remarked the Calishite.
“Perhaps. Robyn spends a lot of time here. She says it calms her. Sometimes she studies with the druids, I guess.”
“Oh?” Daryth raised his eyebrows and peered into the shadows before them. “No wonder she appears to know where she’s going, while I can’t even see my nose in front of me!”
“Follow me,” the prince said. He stepped forward confidently, and tripped over a root. Only Daryth’s quick grasp of his cloak prevented him from sprawling headlong.
“Can’t you be careful?” Robyn’s voice was sharp but hushed, as she returned to the men. “Come with me, carefully.”
They advanced slowly until their eyes adjusted and they saw that the scene, in fact, was illuminated.
The source of the light, Daryth saw, was a milky pool of water. Surrounding the pool was a ring of tall, broad oak trees. The branches were so thick that they blocked out the light of the full moon.
“Tomorrow, the druids will celebrate the spring equinox here,” explained Robyn.
Suddenly, Tristan saw a shadow of movement among the trees around them. Whirling, he saw several hooded shapes emerge into the faint illumination of the Moonwell. The