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“And where?”
    “Where the white cliffs rise and the white sands gleam,” came the answer. “When the hawthorn is in white bloom.”
    Time was notoriously difficult to fix in prophecy, thought Lhiannon as a murmur of unease swept through the crowd. But at the earliest, it could not be until next year. To collect so great an army would take time, and though the Druids might be banned from Gallia, the Order had agents in plenty on the other side of the sea. Surely when an invasion was planned they would know. She put her arm around Coventa, holding her close and praying that Helve would finish soon. But the Arch-Druid wanted more.
    “And what then? Where are our armies?” he demanded.
    “The Red Crests march westward and none oppose them. I see a river …” Helve’s moan was echoed faintly by Coventa. The glow around her deepened to a fiery hue. Lhiannon shook her head as vision teased at her awareness, armies locked in combat and corpses floating downstream.
    “The river runs red … red … it becomes a river of blood that covers the land!” Coventa’s thin scream joined Helve’s shriek in eerie harmony. Focused on Helve, the priests did not appear to notice, but the other priestesses turned in alarm.
    “Get her out of here!” hissed Belina in Lhiannon’s ear.
    Coventa’s limbs were twitching now. With the strength of desperation Lhiannon lifted the girl and stumbled backward into the trees. Behind her she could hear Helve’s wail and the murmur as Lugovalos strove to stem the torrent of visions. The Druids would have more questions about the Romans, but Lhiannon did not need to be in trance to predict they would not be asking them at a public festival.
    Panting, she leaned against a tree. She tensed as a shadow appeared beside her and then relaxed, recognizing Boudica. Coventa had gone limp, still muttering. Together they carried her through the trees and back to the House of the Healers.
    ill she be all right?” Boudica looked from her friend’s still face to the strained features of the priestess, alternately lit and shadowed by the flickering of the little fire. Coventa had quieted as soon as they got her away from the grove, and now she lay as one in a deep sleep. She leaned forward, wondering in what dream Coventa wandered now. “Should we try to wake her up?”
    “Best not,” answered Lhiannon. “People often fear being lost in trance, but if one cannot return consciously, it is better to simply pass into normal sleep. Coventa’s mind will reorder itself before waking again. All we can do is to guard her. If she wakes too suddenly some part of her spirit may be dream-lost, and it will be difficult to fetch it back again.”
    “But you would do it, wouldn’t you.” It was not quite a question. “Would Helve?” The sound of the festival was like distant waves on the shore—they might have been alone in the world.
    Lhiannon looked at her in surprise, and Boudica held her gaze. Except for Coventa, for a year she had refused all offers of friendship, especially Lhiannon’s, suspecting condescension, or worse still, pity. Lhiannon was so beautiful, what use could she have for a gawky, head-blind girl? But tonight they were united by a common need and a common fear. Boudica was the one who had noticed that Coventa was in trouble. Tonight she could face her teacher as an equal and dare to wonder what lay behind the serene face the priestess showed the world.
    “Oh yes. You must not underestimate her skills. It is likely that she will be High Priestess after Mearan.” From outside they heard the joyful shout that hailed the lighting of the Beltane fire.
    “I find it hard to like her,” said Boudica. Lhiannon said nothing, but her lips tightened, and Boudica understood what the priestess was too loyal to say. “She flirts with every male she sees, but she gives her love to none.”
    “She must keep pure to serve as Oracle,” Lhiannon said evenly. “When Mearan fell ill it was a good