Eilan dreamed that she walked beside a lake in a half-light that could have been either dusk or dawn. A light mist hung above the waters, obscuring the further shore; the mists were silver, and a silver sheen was on the waters; wavelets lapped softly against the shore. It seemed that across the water drifted singing, and out of the mists came swimming nine white swans, as fair as the maidens of the Forest House when they saluted the moon.
Eilan had never heard anything so beautiful. She moved down to the edge of the lake, stretching out her hands, and the swans circled slowly.
“Let me come to you, let me swim with you!” she cried, but from the swans came the answer, “You cannot come with us; your robes and ornaments weigh you down . . .” They began to swim away, and Eilan’s heart was torn with loss.
Eilan stripped off her heavy gown, her veils and mantle, and cast the golden torque and armlets of the High Priestess aside. As her shadow glimmered in the water, it was the shape of a swan. She cast herself into the lake . . .
As the silver waters closed over her head she woke to the familiar timbers of the Forest House in the dim light of dawn. For a few moments Eilan sat still, rubbing her eyes. This was not the first time she had dreamed of the lake and the swans. Each time, it seemed harder to return. She had told no one of her trouble. She was High Priestess of Vernemeton, not some silly girl to be frightened by an odd dream. But each time it happened the dream was more vivid, and the role she played while waking more and more unreal.
Someone was pounding on a door. Oddly, it was the gateway to her garden. Faintly she could hear the voice of the young priestess who guarded it raised in protest.
“Who the mischief do you think you are? You cannot simply walk in from nowhere and ask to see the High Priestess, certainly not at this hour.”
“Forgive me,” answered a deep voice. “I think of her still as my foster sister, not the High Priestess. Ask her, please, if she will speak to me!”
Eilan threw on a shawl and hurried out on to the porch. “Cynric!” she exclaimed. “I thought you in the North somewhere!” She stopped short. Clinging around his neck was a small, dark-haired child of two or three; another girl, perhaps five years old, hid behind his cloak. “Are they yours?”
He shook his head. “They belong to an unfortunate woman, and I have come to beg you to give them shelter in the name of the Goddess.”
“To give them shelter?” Eilan repeated stupidly. “But why?”
“Because they stand in need of it,” Cynric returned, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“What I meant was, why here? Have they no kindred to care for them? If they are not yours, why have they become your responsibility?”
“Their mother is Brigitta, Queen of the Demetae,” said Cynric uneasily. “She tried to claim the kingdom when her husband died and is now a prisoner of Rome. We feared her daughters would be held as hostages, or worse, if they fell into Roman hands.”
Eilan looked at the children and thought of her own son. She pitied their mother with all her heart, but what would Ardanos say? This was one of those times when she could have used Caillean’s counsel, but the older woman had gone down to the Summer Country to visit the Sacred Well.
“You know they are too young to claim for the Goddess.”
“All I am asking is that you keep them safe and secure!” Cynric began, but before he could say anything else there was more noise outside.
“My lady, you cannot see the Priestess now; she is with a guest.”
“All the more reason I should be with her,” a voice said, and Dieda came into the garden. At the sight of Cynric she cried out, and he turned hastily to see her. She had been told about his activities when she returned from Eriu, but this was the first time she had seen him.