“I suppose there are those who think you are doing this so that I will make you my heir . . .Women cooped up together can be very petty, and it is true, you are a greater priestess than all of them put together . . .but you know better, do you not?”
“I know.” Caillean managed a smile. “I am destined to live for ever in the shadows, but I will support whoever rules. Please the Goddess, it will not be for yet a while.”
And who knows how long I will live after you? she thought then. Her strange bleeding had ceased at last, but fatigue dragged at her limbs as if they had been cast of lead from the Mendip mines.
“Perhaps . . .Do not be so sure you know everything, my child. Despite what people think, my Sight comes not always at the Druids’ bidding. And I have seen you with the ornaments of a High Priestess and a mist that is not of this world blowing around you. A life path may have strange twists and turnings, and we do not always end up where we intend to go . . .”
Boiling water hissed in the little cauldron, and Caillean spooned • in the mixture of yarrow and chamomile and white willow, and set it to steep beside the flame.
“Goddess knows I have not done so!” Lhiannon burst out suddenly. “We had such dreams when we were young, Ardanos and I – but he grew greedy for power . . .and I had none!”
You could have stood against him, thought Caillean. You were the Voice of the Goddess, and for twenty years the people have lived by your words. And you don’t even know what you have been saying! If you had ever allowed yourself to know, you would have had to act, for then it would have been real. . .
But she bit back the words, for Lhiannon had given more hope to the people unknowing than Caillean with all her conscious wisdom, and that outweighed all her failings, whatever cynics like Dieda might say.
With a little honey to take away the bitterness, the tea was ready. Caillean slid her arm around Lhiannon’s fragile shoulders and held the spoon to her lips. The sick woman’s head turned fretfully, and her cheeks glistened with tears. “I am tired, Caillean . . .” she whispered, “so very tired, and afraid . . .”
“There, there, my dear; you are surrounded by those who love you,” she whispered. “Drink this now, it will give you ease.” Lhiannon swallowed a little of the bittersweet brew, and sighed.
“I promised Ardanos I would choose my successor . . . to serve his plan. He is waiting . . .” She grimaced. “Like a crow watching a sick ewe. It was to be Eilan, but she . . .must be sent away soon. Now he says I must choose Dieda, but I will not, and she would not, unless the Goddess —” a fit of coughing took her and Caillean hastily set the tea down, holding Lhiannon upright and patting her back until she was still.
“Until the Goddess shows you Her will,” Caillean finished for her, and the High Priestess of Vernemeton smiled.
Lhiannon was dying. It was obvious to everyone – everyone except perhaps Caillean, who nursed her so devotedly and with a despairing tenderness, night and day, seldom stepping beyond the room where the sick woman lay. Even those of the priestesses who had always been suspicious of Caillean as an outlander had to admire her dedication now. Both Dieda and Eilan guessed what was coming — but it would have taken a braver woman than either one of them to name it to Caillean.
“But she is so skilled in healing,” Dieda said as they carried Lhiannon’s soiled bedding down to the river. “She must know.”
“I suppose she does,” said Eilan, “but admitting it would make it real.” She looked at her kinswoman curiously. Apart from commenting sarcastically that the dirty laundry of a High Priestess smelled no different from anyone else’s, and she could not see why a sworn priestess was required to wash it, Dieda had done her share of the work uncomplainingly.