To lands where none shall sing for me.
Oh, far I go, yet leave behind
The greenest land that once was mine.
Fare thee well, my long green home
Far from rest, we farther roam
The earth I knew, my heart to thee,
Soft lay the fields where I was free
Oh, far I go, yet leave behind
The greenest land that once was mine.
Chapter thirty
The Moon
The druid’s bedchamber was a silent vigil.
The candles burned cool. A chill wafted in, smelling of fragrant oils; it whispered against his skin.
It was the second time he had been given into the hands of the Nytherim. The second time his body was prepared, and perhaps this time, a little death awaited him, again.
The priestesses circled, painting his body. It was dreamy and dizzying and he grew anxious as the hour drew near. At Rhyd-hal, time was both fleeting and slow so that the druid had difficulties keeping track of it. But it occurred to him with some quiet mourning that it had come the eve of Oestera, the celebration of spring and unity. What had once been a lovely and delicate thing was now mired in bitter grief.
As the sun sunk low in the sky, the door creaked open, and the druid turned to see a familiar face.
“Hirí!” Seeing her, a rush of need washed over him. “You’re back.”
“Tis your wedding night,” she exclaimed, setting her coffret on the table. “I would not miss it for the world.”
She shooed the other Nytherí out; their protests went unspoken.
“How is the Oracle?” he asked once they were alone.
Despite his qualms with her, the Oracle was the druid’s only hope for legitimacy. If she could relay what they had seen in the water… if she, too, could speak the coming of the pale ships, then the Vaich—then everyone—would listen.
“Unwell, I’m afraid,” answered Hirí. “Some think she will not last the season.”
A shiver rattled his spine. “Surely she has spoken?”
Thepriestess shook her head. “Only mutterings, but it is delirium. A sorry state, indeed. Little can be done now.”
“If I could go to her—”
“Our place is here,” said Hirí. “Tonight is very important.”
But the wedding was the furthest thing from his mind. “And if she does not last?”
Hirí gestured dismissively. “If the Oracle dies, another shall take her place. The conclave will decide from amongst the Nytherí. But the process will be tedious; not all are fit to be prophetess.”
If their initiation rituals were any indication, whatever selection process they performed would be just as miserable.
His hope ebbed.
