Chapter 7: The Third Death

Caelendra was a tall woman with erect posture but an otherwise undistinguished appearance. Unless required to don ceremonial vestments for rituals, she wore plain, unadorned robes and kept her hair, which had turned from drab brown to gray soon after her ascent to power, in a single long braid. Her eyes, certainly her best feature, were dark, serious, and thoughtful—two deep pools of care and wisdom set in a face so aged by the burdens of her office that even her most devoted admirers, and Herrwn was one of those, spoke of her inner beauty rather than her outward appearance. But that night, as she stepped through the space between the two frontmost of the tall standing stones, her face and form lit only by the flames of the single torch held up by the golden priest, Caelendra was resplendent.

Herrwn was standing close at hand, waiting for his part in the ceremony, so he could see for himself that she’d not resorted to any artifice—but with her hair released from its tight braid and flowing down in a shimmering silver cascade about her shoulders, it was as if, for once, her inner beauty shone through, and they were seeing for the first time the Goddess within her.

She stood there, radiant, her eyes for once not serious and thoughtful but bright with anticipation, her ordinarily sallow skin blushed a rosy pink, as her consort for the night—moving with the power and grace of a god—stepped up and reached out his torch to set the oil in her bowl on fire. She held the vessel cupped in both hands, her face aglow in its flames for a long moment before she gave it to Herrwn and stepped down from the altar.

As Caelendra’s feet touched the ground, the shrine’s musicians struck the opening chords of the song reserved for the sacrosanct dance of the Sun-God and the Earth-Goddess. The priest acting as the Sun-God handed off his torch to Ossiam and put his hands on Caelendra’s waist. She put her hands on his shoulders, and, turning rhythmically in swaying circles, they danced their way down the path between the line of worshipful onlookers and off into the darkness, leaving the other priests and priestesses to pass out toy flutes and harps and drums to the drowsy children.

In the eulogy he gave for Caelendra nine months later, Herrwn spoke from his heart when he said, “She governed well and wisely, weaving the wisdom of the past into the actions of the present and carefully weighing the demands of the present against the needs of the future, but above all, she found the time to listen to those who came to her with their troubles, whether they were the highest priest or the lowest servant and whether that matter was of monumental importance or no more than petty gossip. Putting aside all else, she would take the worries and woes they brought to her up in her hands, as though they were a precious harvest of golden wheat, and then she would blow softly and gently on them with her warm, sweet breath, sending off the chaff of confusion and selfishness and keeping the best and the most worthy grains of truth to hand back, so the priest, priestess, laborer, or servant might know that within himself or herself was all the wisdom of the ancients, all the courage of any warrior, and all the glory of a god or a goddess.”

Caelendra had, in truth, been a singularly skilled and judicious leader whose keen political acumen was balanced by her compassion and an innate sense of fairness. As their chief priestess and the living embodiment of the Great Mother Goddess, she could have named the virile young priest with whom she’d danced so perfectly on the night of the summer solstice to be her consort, but she’d never again favored him with more than an occasional pensive look.

Perhaps that was because overseeing the complex sequence of rituals that cycled through both the lunar and solar years, managing their shrinking treasury, and settling disputes took all of Caelendra’s time and energy, or perhaps it was because her fair-mindedness kept her from favoring one of her subjects over the rest, or perhaps it was because she had enough problems without having a consort to cope with. Whatever the reason, however many others carried their desires and their cares to Caelendra, she did not speak of her own feelings—not even to Rhonnon, who was both her closest cousin and chief advisor—so no one ever knew whether the choice she made at the end of her childbearing years was an act of courage or loneliness.

There was, however, never any doubt in Herrwn’s mind that Caelendra’s decision to enact the first mating between the Earth-Goddess and the Sun-God was a selfless one, intended to be the start of a new generation, the conception of an infant desperately needed for its own sake and also the setting of an example to the childless priestesses still young enough to follow suit, whether they chose to take consorts or not. That was what he believed, and that was what he said whenever Olyrrwd muttered about the coincidence that, of all the available priests, she chose Rhedwyn.

Looking back, the risks of pregnancy so late in life should have been obvious. Caelendra, however, was a strong and resolute woman. Through the worst of her active labor, she did not curse, cry out, or groan but simply pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, as if the pain were only a problem brought to her for consideration at a meeting of the High Council—so even the most experienced of the midwives hovering around her did not expect the tragedy when it happened.

The birth was over. As chief priest, Herrwn had been admitted to the chamber to convey his blessing and had entered it to see Caelendra looking exhausted but otherwise well. Rhonnon, the chief midwife, had acknowledged his presence with a nod as she finished cleaning the fussing baby and placed it into Caelendra’s arms. But instead of quieting with the chance to latch on to its mother’s breast, the infant wailed louder—and instead of responding to its cries, Caelendra slumped back against the pillows, not just dead tired but actually dead.

The transition from life to death is always momentous, but for Caelendra to exit so abruptly, with no parting message about who was to be the next chief priestess, took them all by surprise, and for a time there was no sound in the room except for the plaintive wails of the dark-haired infant.

“She expected a girl and was going to name her Caelymna,” Rhonnon said in a dull voice. Picking up the squalling baby, she sighed. “It’s a boy and, I suppose, must be called Caelym.” As she handed him to the wet nurse who’d been rushed into the room, she looked back at Herrwn, sighed again, and said, “You will tell the council.”

“Of course.” Too numb to say anything else, he turned away, leaving Rhonnon and her assistants to begin their final care of the woman who had shown so much foresight in every other way and yet never anticipated dying.

It was the third death that they had all been dreading, and it left them stunned. Caelendra’s decision to risk childbirth so late in life was the first injudicious decision that she had ever made. Dying so suddenly, without warning or preparation, was the second.

With no sign from Caelendra about who was to take her place, the shrine’s leaders turned to their oracle.