He did not reply.
“You should take care not to press yourself needlessly. The trial will exact a greater toll.”
“If you are my friend, as you say that you are, you will tell me what awaits in this test."
Her eyes twinkled and she said, “Not to worry.”
If Hirí wanted to be coy, then he would get his answers from someone else.
She escorted him to a darkened chamber. The air within was thick with myrrh. Smoke curled lazily from blackened censers and silken drapes cascaded between pillars. The alcoves were gathered with a smattering of candles and chalices—rims dripped with the dregs of anointing oil.
The High Nytherí knelt praying amidst a circle etched in white chalk, wherein animal bones and dried herbs were arranged precisely. Her face was smeared with blood. The druid was brought to the edge of the circle and made to kneel before her.
An attending maid carried cups of wine and placed them between. The druid waited. Then, the Oracle said, “Drink.”
He eyed the cup, and her low chuckle followed as she raised her head to meet him. “We have not brought you here to poison, woodsingr.”
Slowly, he lifted the cup to his lips. The wine smelled of bilberry and yarrow. Both were common flora, advantageous in healing. Still, he was skeptical. He drank carefully, though nothing came about but a small tingling in his fingers.
“It will fill your belly. Prepare it for the days to come.”
“Tell me,” he said. “What is this trial?”
Her pale eyes considered him a moment. “The test involves a period of cleansing. You shall fast three days and then you will descend to the bottom of the mere. If you are judged pure, She will bring you under her embrace. If elsewise…”
She need not have spoken that.
“The Luin Cáronach will be our path to understanding. Many see visions in the water. I believe the same will come to you.” She nodded to the maids, and more wine was poured into his cup. “Whether you believe it or not, you must admit it is uncanny. Or did you not wonder why you carry the Mark?”
“I wondered,” he confessed.
“And I suppose you devised your answer. You simply did not like its sound.”
“You claim I am gotten by some ill-fated woman, one thousand years ago?”
The Oracle chuckled. “You are more clever than that. Aye, true Nytherí are descended from a divine bloodline, though not all of us are gifted with sight. I wondered very much about you… Was I wrong to assume? If you were, indeed, a seir, then perhaps that is why She called you.”
His brows furrowed. “Meaning…?”
The woman tapped her fingers against the chalk. “To have my place, that is.”
A burst of air escaped his lips. “Become Oracle? What madness.”
“So it would seem!” She laughed heartily. “Now drink.”
The druid felt his skin tighten. He reluctantly tipped the cup to his lips. Between being queen or prophetess, his destiny was a gilded cage.
“I am no one from nowhere and to that I wish to return.”
“Perhaps you are,” the Oracle said. “That remains to be seen. The trial may reveal what knowing we seek. Or it may eliminate our worries entirely.”
The way she spoke the last words made his chin tense. There was a hint of delight in her voice. These women were all the same. They took great pleasure in their game.
It seemed to him that two forces were vying for his fate. One that was certain of his demise; the other, certain of his victory. Either way, the answers he sought were at the bottom of that lake.
“Very well,” he said. “I accept this trial. But not for you and not forhim. If there are greater forces at work, then I will give them their chance to show themselves. And whatever is to be revealed—it is for me, alone.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “How bold.”
