From time to time in the past the Forest House had sheltered women or children like Senara who had need of care. It was therefore unusual, but not unheard of, to take in the young woman called Lia and the infant the Arch-Druid had brought to her to wet-nurse and install them in the roundhouse next to the herb sheds where visitors usually stayed. Nor was it even so surprising that Caillean should take the baby to the High Priestess, saying that she might be cheered by holding a young child.
After that first joyful reunion, Eilan wept copiously; for it seemed to her that Gawen, being nursed by Lia, had somehow become almost more Lia’s child than hers. Nevertheless it seemed a miracle to her that Ardanos, even under duress, had kept his word. She wondered sometimes how Caillean had persuaded him, but did not dare to ask.
Naturally her partiality for the child caused gossip. But Caillean took the precaution of confiding to old Latis—in strictest confidence—that the child belonged to Eilan’s sister Mairi, born of a father unknown, and had been sent here because Mairi was thinking of marrying again. “Within a week the story was all over Vernemeton, as they had expected. But although there were some who believed the baby was Dieda’s, no one appeared to suspect he was Eilan’s. And with most of the women the boy soon became a pet.
Eilan felt guilt for the damage to the reputations of her sister and the girl who had been like a sister to her. But after all they had assented, however reluctantly. Worse was the torment of not being able to acknowledge her child. But she must not—she would not—and, as week followed week, confession became less and less possible.
It seemed to Eilan that time went by very slowly under this uneasy reprieve; Ardanos had returned from Deva, and, almost gloating, reported that Macellius’s son was married to the daughter of the Procurator in Londinium. She had known this must happen, but she could hardly keep from weeping, though she resolved not to in the sight of Ardanos.
She had to believe that both she and Gaius had made the right decision, but she could not help wondering about the woman whom she could not keep from thinking of as her rival. Was she beautiful? Did he speak words of love to her, from time to time? Eilan was the mother of his first son; did that not count for something? Or was she forgotten? And if she were, how would she ever know?
But time went on—as it always does, no matter what shifts are taken to ignore its passing—and the festival of Beltane came upon her, when she must serve again as the Voice of the Oracle.
Eilan had thought that she had resolved her doubts when she became High Priestess. Perhaps they were returning now because of the child. In the dark hours of the night she wondered if this time she would be punished for her blasphemy, though by daylight she reasoned that if she had lived through the first time, the Goddess was unlikely to be insulted now. If the Power she had felt during her initiation was a delusion, then she had given up Gaius for nothing. But if Ardanos did not truly believe in the Goddess he served, then it was he not she, who was committing the blasphemy. If she meant to continue in this role, it was essential to learn whether it was the Arch-Druid’s interpretation or the Goddess Herself that was the lie.
As Eilan was preparing and purifying herself, it occurred to her that drinking from the golden bowl would be more dramatic done in the sight of the people, and resolved to speak of this to Ardanos when she saw him again. He readily agreed to the change, as if surprised that she should have thought upon the matter at all.
This time, Eilan herself mixed the herbs she would be drinking, and made certain substitutions, retaining those that would increase vision and leaving out the ones that detached the senses from the will. As a result she was vividly aware of the vast hush that descended over the assembled gathering. She could feel their reverence and expectation. From a purely public point of view she could understand it. She knew that the people responded to her beauty as they had never responded to Lhiannon’s faded charm. But there must have been a time when Lhiannon too had been young and very beautiful. Had it never been any more than this—a drama staged by the priests of whom her grandfather was foremost? Surely the first time she sat in the Oracle’s chair the Power that spoke through her had been real.