Eian, and the taoiseach before him, and Marg, and the taoiseach before her, and all for more than six hundred years had honored that pledge. They’d given the Pious who had no part in the persecutions, and those after them who put on the robes, this place in the south to worship in peace.
And he, Keegan thought, would be the one to end that peace.
He climbed, windily, up the steps in the hill even as his eyes—sharp behind the clouds of great age he’d added to them—scanned robed figures who worked gardens or walked with hands clasped under the sleeves of their robes.
He thought of the girl sleeping, and the family who must even now be searching for her. He thought of the tokens and gifts of thanks left on the doorstep of the Prayer House every day.
And the deceit that lived in hearts hiding behind benevolence and piety.
When he stepped inside the nave, he felt the cold, sharp finger of dread scrape down his spine. He’d felt that, and the tightening in his chest, when he’d stepped into the ruins in the valley.
So here, too, he thought, spirits walked among the living. Here, too, blood had been spilled in secret and for dark purpose. The honored dead lay under carved stone slabs on the floor or entombed in chests. Niches held jars of sacred oils, blessed water, holy herbs. Though sunlight streamed through the stained-glass images in the arched windows, candles flickered. Some to bring the light, some for penance or blessings.
Their scent and the thin smoke of incense drifted through the air like the chanting song of the Pious who walked the colonnade in prayer.
He moved slowly, as an old man would, into the altar room where a few robed figures knelt in private, silent prayer.
The carving on the polished stone offered welcome to any in need.
And there, he heard as clearly as he heard the melodious voices chanting for peace, pledging their lives to good works, the cries of the sacrificed.
The goat, the lamb, the fawn, the child.
And through the scent of sweet oils and candles, he caught the stench of black magicks.
Inside, his blood burned as he kept his head bowed as if in reverence. The hand that gripped the cane longed to break the illusion and strike.
“I have waited too long to make this pilgrimage.”
“You’re here now, Old Father.”
Nodding, Keegan turned, started toward an archway. Through it, a passageway opened to a library where three sat at a long table busily writing histories, prayers, songs. Another, as old as Keegan’s illusion, dozed by the fire, his soft snores and the scratching of quills the only sounds in the room.
He passed other rooms where men and boys wove baskets and blankets, and others for the carving of wood, the polishing of stone.
The kitchens and eating areas, he recalled, spread on the other side, with some small chambers for those assigned to work in them.
He paused by the stone stairs circling up. Contemplation rooms and chambers, he recalled. He’d like a look at them now, to see how Toric and the other hierarchy lived since he’d visited last.
A full year, he remembered. Aye, he’d waited too long.
A boy of perhaps fourteen hurried down those steps, a basket of dirty linens in his arms. His hair had yet to be shorn close as ordained while taking full vows, and his robe stopped just past his knobby knees.
A novice, and a servant, Keegan thought.
His eyes widened in alarm.
“Blessings on you, pure of heart.”
Keegan smiled, returned the traditional Pious greeting. “And on you and yours.”
“You may not pass here, good sir. Only the Pious and those who tend their earthly needs may go up.”
“Merely resting my old bones a moment. They are many, many years beyond the spry of yours, lad.”
“Will I fetch you a chair, or a cup of water?”
“You are kind.” Keegan laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He didn’t have what Harken did, but trusted when he felt only innocence.
“You’re blessed by a holy man, boy, of great age and wisdom.” Mahon kept his tone stern, but not sharp. “Fetch Toric so he can give the pilgrim a proper welcome.”
“My thanks, Old Father, for the blessing.” The boy raced off without another word.
Satisfied, Keegan continued down the passageway, through a room of small altars and ancient icons, and into the sun-washed colonnade.
In the center stood a dolmen with a ring of stone around it. The grass that spread from there shined green to the stone walls and columns. Pious in their white robes, their hair cropped close to the skull, slowly circled the stone pathway while they sang.
They would do so, he knew, for two hours when the sun broke, two more at midday, and yet two more at eventide.
While archways and doors ringed the area, it spread open to the elements.
Now the sun fell kindly, but when it burned and glared, with the rains and winds swept, they would still walk and sing in prayers for peace and pure hearts.
How many, he wondered, who walked with their hands humbly tucked in their sleeves would take part in the human sacrifice, in the slaughter? How many more who knew or suspected held their silence?
The slap of sandals on stone had Keegan turning slowly.
He recognized Toric, and noted the Pious leader had added a few pounds to his round body. His head, round as well, was topped with the skullcap of his rank.
Over his pale blue eyes his gray eyebrows formed sharp vees. He wore no beard, as such things constituted the vanity the cult eschewed, and his double chins wobbled.
Keegan doubted he observed the weekly day of fasting.
“Mahon. I wasn’t informed you’d graced us with another visit. Old Father, you are both welcome. Blessings on you, pure of heart.”
“And on you and yours.” Keegan laid a hand on his heart and leaned on his cane. “My thanks, brother, for making me welcome.”
“Old Father is a friend to my family. A holy man who has made pilgrimage while spreading good works and good words across Talamh.”
“Please, please, come and sit.” Gesturing, Toric led them through another archway and to stone benches, a quiet fire. There he rang a small bell.
Another boy—females weren’t permitted inside the Prayer House, even as servants—scurried in.
“Fruit and wine for our visitors. Do you seek our refuge, Old Father?”
“How kind.” Keegan sat, let out a deep and weary breath. “Ah, the old bones do creak! The young one here”—he patted Mahon’s knee—“has offered me a cot for the night.”
“I will see you safely housed, Old Father,” Mahon promised.
“My needs are few.” Keegan held up a hand. “But I fear my days of making my home in a cave in the hills are done.”
“How many years have you, Old Father?”
“I count one hundred and sixty, and am coming to the end of this cycle. I journey here for the sea air and the nearness of those of you who live your lives in faith and prayer.”
The boy came back with a jug of water and cups, a bowl of fruit.
“Oranges!” Keegan filled his voice with pleasure. “You have Sidhe among your faithful.”
“A few. And more who bring offerings from below.” Toric studied Keegan closely as the boy poured water in the cups. “One hundred and sixty is a ripe age, but I trust you’ll have many more years.”
“It is not to be. My thanks.” Keegan accepted the cup, drank slowly. “Death is creeping close now, and I have seen my last summer. I do not fear it, as I have lived, always, in faith that what we end here only begins another plane. One of brighter light and deeper faith. I am ready when the gods call me.”
“Until that day, you are welcome here, Old Father. I know Mahon returns to his homeplace tomorrow. You would honor us by spending the time left to you on this plane in faith and prayer with us. I will arrange a chamber for you.”