It took a moment for Fionn’s eyes to adjust to the darkness inside, but when they did, he found himself in a wide, circular room, barely illuminated by tiny candles lining the stone wall, twinkling like stars in a night’s sky. Stone etchings marked the floor in crooked circles.
Fionn clicked his fingers, illuminating his immediate surroundings. To his surprise, several more robed men stood along the wall, motionless in the dark. They chanted softly in low whispers, but Fionn couldn’t make out their words. He pressed onwards, squinting at a nearby worshipper. This one had his grey hood pulled over his head, grey lips moving rapidly as the rest of his face remained perfectly still. When Fionn stepped forward for a closer look, he jumped back, yelling with fright.
The worshipper had no eyes.
Where they should have been, a pale scar upon thin skin lay stretched above his gaunt cheekbones. In the flames of Fionn’s torch, the scarring almost seemed translucent, like hide stretched thin.
“We are the ones who have seen too much,” said one voice, louder than the rest. Another robed man stood at the far end of the chamber. Both hands stretched upwards. “The minds you’ve reached, the souls you’ve touched. The One, most true…”
“Lord Seletoth,” answered the others, in unison.
“Who are you?” cried Fionn, stepping towards the one who spoke. Fire raged in the mage’s hands.
“We are your Sons, born to no Mother,” he continued, ignoring Fionn’s words. “We are your seed, One God, no other. No Lady, no King.”
“Just Seletoth,” came the refrain.
Realisation dawned on Fionn as he stood there, staring up at the eyeless face of the speaker. Older than the rest, this one wore no hood, but an oddly shaped headpiece, asymmetrical in its design. Crooked shapes curved upwards over another, entangled around his forehead. The reflection of Fionn’s flames danced upon its steel.
“I’ve heard this prayer before,” said Fionn. “You’re Sons of Seletoth, aren’t you?”
For the first time, the one who led the prayers responded.
“The Lord has graced many with His infinite wisdom, though most caught but a glimpse. We are those who have seen the Truth in its fullest form, and have come here, to Seletoth’s resting place, to tend to Him directly.”
“I need to see Him,” said Fionn.
The old man chuckled. “None may see Him,” he said, gesturing to the scars on his face. “And we make accommodations for those who must be in His presence.”
Fionn took a step back. “Why? Why can no one see Him?”
A terrified cry rang out from somewhere outside, followed by a loud crash.
“Farris!” cried Padraig. Two metal clangs told Fionn that both his companions had armed themselves. But the red mage ignored the commotion outside.
“Where is He?” demanded Fionn, taking a defiant step towards the Sons’ leader. “I’m the son of King Diarmuid, Third and Nineteenth, and I demand you bring me to Him.”
Again, the old man smiled. “He is just beyond here, but even King Diarmuid himself would not be allowed gaze upon the Lord’s face.”
Another loud crash echoed through the walls, followed by a torrent of screams and shouts.
“Don’t you know what’s happening?!” roared Fionn. “Diarmuid is dead! Meadhbh is dead! Seletoth is our last hope in stopping Morrígan!”
Fionn caught a glimpse of a great iron door directly behind the old man. The same iron door that he had seen in his dream. In the chapel with Morrígan.
There must be a way in.
“We are aware of what has been destined to come,” said the old man. “For Seletoth has shown us all. The Beginning, and the End. For even He is powerless to prevent the End.”
“No!” cried Fionn, his voice rising over the commotion outside. “The Lord brought me here! I am to see Him, and I won’t let you stand in my way!”
“I told you,” said the priest, “none are permitted to enter. For one glance at the Lord is enough to—”
Suddenly, the large canvass at the chamber’s entrance was torn open, spilling blinding light from outside over them all. Fionn turned to see Farris Silvertongue, clad in blood-soaked armour, standing before the chaos that was once a quiet settlement. The Simian wore no helm and limped as he strode into the chamber.
“You!” cried the priest. “You—”
With a crack, the old men fell backwards abruptly, a bloody round wound in his forehead. The Simian held a smoking firearm in one hand. The other worshippers cowered in fear, but with a terrifying cry, Farris fired at each one in turn.
“No!” roared Padraig, bolting towards the Simian. “Farris, stop!”
But something else had caught Fionn’s attention. Hung around the priest’s bloodied neck, a thin chain held a thick, metallic key. Fionn darted forward, pulling the key from it. He glanced back to see Farris collapse to the ground. He clutched his waist with one hand, as blood poured from a wound behind a crack in his armour. In his other hand, he lowered a satchel to the ground. It spilled open, and tiny black balls poured out from it, followed by one large round object of black stone. It rolled to a stop on the floor nearby. Padraig and Aislinn ran to the Simian.
Fionn, instead, sprinted towards the great iron doors. The key quickly found the lock, and as Farris’s cries of protest echoed through the chamber, Fionn pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Chapter 19:
Heresy
As we forged through the Glenn, fighting against the beasts of the valley, morale among my men grew low. A reasonable response, for why would we be risking our lives to travel through such a terrible place that no native, or no sane animal would dare stray?
But what we found there challenged their faith far more than anything else we had come upon. The horror of that valley, we swore to never speak of again. A Truth so terrible that few living should ever be made to bare it. But a Truth so important that it should not be forgotten.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
The main hall of the Basilica was crowded, far more than usual. Dozens of Churchguards stood in silent attention against the back wall. Ahead of them, two rows of priests in white robes and druids in grey stood face to face, either side of a red carpet that stretched the length of the chamber. At its end, cardinals and high-cardinals sat upon an altar. The former wore silver robes, the latter the same, augmented with golden ornamentation around the chest and shoulders.
