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have had much time to prepare. For the first time it occurred to her that Helve’s natural talent for autocracy must make it especially difficult to surrender her will even to the gentle direction of Lugovalos.
    It would be easier for me, she thought bitterly. I cannot even assert myself enough to stand up for Coventa. But she could at least keep an eye on the child during the ritual.
    Above the hearth a small cauldron was bubbling. Elin cast in a pinch of ground poppy seed to simmer with the mistletoe berries and mushrooms and other herbs, then stood stirring the mixture, chanting softly. Helve continued to chatter as they dressed her in the flowing robes of the Oracle. When Lhiannon approached with the garland of columbine twined with spring flowers, she saw triumph in the other woman’s pale eyes.
    Helve will never allow me to sit as Oracle. Why have I denied myself so long? Lhiannon wondered then. Mastering a surge of hatred, she set the garland upon Helve’s brow, and the other woman fell silent at last. Elin ladled some of the potion into the ancient jet bowl and set it to cool. Presently the door curtain rustled and the Arch-Druid entered, leaning on his staff. His silver beard glistened against the creamy wool of his robe.
    “It is time, my daughter,” Lugovalos said softly, and Elin set the jet bowl in Helve’s hands. She took a deep breath and drank, shuddered once, and swallowed it down. Elin and Belina took her elbows and escorted her to the litter that was waiting outside. As Lhiannon fell in behind them she could feel the vibration of the drums through the soles of her feet, as if earth’s heart were beating out the rhythm of the festival.
    In the west, the sky was a translucent blue, deepening overhead to the same midnight shade the priestesses wore. A great crowd had assembled before the sacred grove. Helve swayed when she was seated upon the t hree-legged stool, and for a moment Lhiannon feared she would fall, but before anyone could touch her she straightened, seeming to grow taller. Lhiannon felt a breath of warm wind, scented with flowers no mortal garden could boast, and knew that the Goddess was here.
    Relieved, she drew Coventa back to stand with the others and relaxed as they settled into the familiar rhythms of the ritual. She had to admit that Helve was a powerful seeress. From her place behind the high seat she could feel the woman’s aura expand as she sank deeper into trance, and brought up her own barriers to shield against it.
    The first question came from Lugovalos, and was, as expected, about the prospects for a good harvest. There was a murmur of satisfaction as the seeress spoke of sunny skies and fields golden with ripe grain. Now the air around her was beginning to glow. Lhiannon smiled. Mona was one of the breadbaskets of Britannia—it would take an evil fate indeed to threaten that harvest. Coventa swayed beside her, humming softly, and Lhiannon gave her hand a sharp squeeze.
    “Fasten yourself to the earth, child,” she whispered sharply. “Only the seeress is supposed to go through the gate of prophecy.” Coventa hiccupped and then grew still, but she remained unsteady as Lugovalos spoke once more.
    “In Gallia, the Legions of Rome have placed an iron yoke upon our people, and now their emperor has banished the Druid Order from their lands. Say then, seeress, what the future holds for us here in Britannia?”
    There was a silence, as if not only the Arch-Druid but all Britannia was waiting to hear.
    The blossoms in Helve’s garland began to tremble, and Lhiannon felt Coventa shake as if in sympathy. Once more she damned Helve’s pride. The child was being caught up in the vision and had no defense against it.
    “I see oars that lift and dip like wings on the water …” muttered Helve. “As the geese flock north in the spring they come—three great flocks of winged vessels stroking across the sea …”
    “When will they come, wise one?” Lugovalos asked urgently.