Senara’s eyes widened. “What should we do?”
“There is something you can do,” Eilan said thoughtfully. “Take the new lengths of linen over to the house of the Druids – you are not under vows yet, and they will not think it odd. Ask, in all innocence, if they have heard the news, and let me know what they say.”
Senara gave her a conspiratorial grin and jumped to her feet. In another moment she was gone, leaving Eilan to envy her energy.
“What indeed should I do? she wondered then. Perhaps she ought to have taken Gaius up on his offer, but from the sound of it, he must have problems of his own by now. The existence of Gawen had been Ardanos’s weapon against her. She had thought that with her grandfather dead, she would be free, but though her father did not know her secret, Dieda did. How long, she wondered, before Dieda’s hatred gave the new Arch-Druid a power over her he would not hesitate to use? Unless, of course, he killed her out of hand?
She rested her head in her hands, feeling the beginnings of the headache that had troubled her increasingly during the past few days. How can I deal with this? Goddess help me now!
One day, when they all knew why she had done what she had -when all this land was at peace and there was neither Roman nor Briton – ah, then she might be forgiven! She shook her head in anguish, seeing nowhere to turn.
And at that moment, pain like a bolt from heaven lanced through her temple. From what seemed a very great distance, the thought came, But I shall be long dead by then . . . Then consciousness fled.
When Eilan came to herself she was slumped over her table. She felt curiously drained and at peace, but with an inner certainty she knew that something had changed. She had always been aware that some of the herbs in the sacred drink she used before giving the Oracle could dangerously thin the blood, and sometimes cause a weakness in the brain. Perhaps that was what was happening now.
“When it comes to you,” Caillean had told her once, “you will know.” A lingering death like Lhiannon’s was unusual. Old Latis had said once that most of the High Priestesses died suddenly. But not, Eilan suspected now, without warning.
Is this my warning? she wondered. But my work will not be finished.
“It is finished.” Awareness came once more, as in trance when the Goddess spoke to her.
But who should succeed her at her work, declare the Oracles in her stead? She must not leave matters in confusion as Ardanos had done.
“It does not matter.” With the words came calm. The Goddess had spoken. What was to come was in Her hands, and not Eilan’s concern any more. If she died, it would be a bolt of mercy, not of vengeance, that would strike her down. Caillean had been correct. The Druids had no right to declare how the priestesses should live. What mattered was that she try her best to do the Lady’s will.
In autumn the mists rose thick above the marshes of the Summer Country and wreathed around the Tor. On such mornings, when Caillean made the climb to the standing stones that crowned it for her morning meditation, it seemed as if the Tor were an island indeed and she was gazing out over a rolling grey sea. But as the year drew on toward Samaine, she found herself thinking quite obsessively of Eilan.
At first, she dismissed these thoughts, knowing it was not good for Eilan to cling to her; nor for herself to be distracted. But as the days darkened, the other woman’s face appeared in her visions with a frequency she could not dismiss. Eilan had grave need of her, and it was perilous to ignore such messages.
At last came a morning when she woke with words ringing in her ears: “Here where we stand in darkness and under the shadow of death we call on Thee, O Mother, Sisters and more than Sisters . . .”