And the sound of many voices rose like a tide and carried her to a place where she could watch the body she had left behind move and speak with wonder, but with no fear.
As the cheering subsided, the High Priestess sank back on to the seat once more; the identity that filled her waiting in a timeless patience for the response of humankind.
“There are the questions the people bring to you,” the Arch-Druid said, and because he spoke to her in the old speech of the Wise Ones, it was in that language that the Goddess answered him.
After each question the priest turned to the people and said something in the common language. From that far-off realm from which Eilan was listening it seemed to her odd that his statements, if they were translations, had so little to do with what the Goddess replied. That did not seem right, but perhaps she had not heard him clearly, and in this place in which she had found refuge it was hard to care.
The questioning went on, but as time passed, she found her perceptions becoming more and more disjointed. It seemed to her that Ardanos frowned then and leaned close to her.
“Lady, we thank you for your words. It is time to leave this body through which you have spoken. Hail now, and farewell!” He plucked the sprig of mistletoe from the golden bowl and shook droplets of water over her.
For a moment Eilan was blinded, then her body convulsed. Pain stabbed through her and she fell into darkness on a shimmer of silver bells.
When awareness began to return Eilan realized that the priestesses were singing. She knew the song; it seemed to her that once she had sung it but, aching and dizzied as she was, she could not sing now. They had removed the constricting garlands from her head, and someone was bathing her brow and hands. Someone gave her water to drink and a voice murmured in her ear. Caillean .. . She felt herself lifted and settled into the carrying chair.
“Hail unto Thee,” the women sang.
“Jewel of the night!” the Druids replied.
“Beauty of the heavens . . .Mother of the stars . . .Fosterling of the Sun . . .” The priestesses held up their white arms to the silver moon.
“Majesty of the stars . . .” they sang, and with each chorus, Jewel of the night!” the deep voices of the men replied.
A long time later, it seemed, Eilan found herself back in her own bed in the House of the High Priestess. The light of the torches was no longer assaulting her eyes, and the effects of the sacred drink must be wearing off at last, for she found that she could think clearly once more. For some reason a fragment of an ancient ballad was floating in her mind.
“After they stripped her ornaments away, and burned her sacred flowers . . .” She could not remember where it had come from, but she knew that her garlands had been thrown on the fire; the sweet scent of their burning had filled the air. Now other things came back to her – the singing of the priestesses, the silver moon.
But though she knew there had been questions, Eilan found she could not remember a word of her replies. Whatever they had been, the populace had seemed to find them satisfactory.
And the Goddess, she thought then. She did not strike me dead after all! At least not yet, though she might yet come to wish She had done so. Eilan’s stomach was still unsettled; she felt as if she had been beaten with sticks and would no doubt feel even worse tomorrow. But it was her belly, not her womb, that was aching. She had faced her ordeal and survived.
“Good night, Lady,” said Eilidh from the doorway. “May you rest well.”
Lady . . .thought Eilan. It was true, then. She was Lady of Vernemeton now.
A few days later Caillean summoned Dieda to the High Priestess’s rooms. Eilan sat by the fire, looking pale and strained.
“The time has come for you to keep your word. Eilan is well enough to travel now, and we are sending her into hiding to bear her child.”