Chapter 81: Two Little Birds

Herrwn’s imagined exchange with Olyrrwd was still running through his mind as he finished dressing and walked with Caelym down the corridor and into the central courtyard, where the other priests and priestesses were assembling in preparation for the Sacred Sunrise Ritual.

Ossiam was standing off from the rest, a tall, thin silhouette barely distinguishable from the surrounding shadows.

Seeing the oracle as remote and inaccessible as if he were behind the curtain to the next world, Herrwn remembered how, just before Benyon interrupted his dream, Olyrrwd had started to say something, and he suddenly felt sure that it was going to be a repeat of his cousin’s dying admonition to “watch out for Ossie.”

Olyrrwd’s use of their cousin’s nearly forgotten pet name had touched Herrwn’s heart then, and the memory of it now almost moved him to whisper aloud to Olyrrwd’s ghost—which might be lingering nearby—that he had not just watched out but had reached out to Ossiam, only to be rebuffed time and time again.

In contrast with the cautious sense of optimism that had come over the shrine since Lliem’s birth, an impenetrable cloud of gloom seemed to have taken hold of Ossiam. Rarely emerging from his tower room except for rituals and council meetings, his visions, omens, and prophecies had grown darker and more ominous as their cult’s future brightened.

“But,” Herrwn said to himself, “how can we feel hopeless when the Goddess is still with us and the sun rises to her singing each morning?”

It was a particularly spectacular sunrise that morning, and their voices filled the valley as they sang their ancient round. Even Iddwran and Ogdwen, Ossiam’s assistant priests, who mostly mimed his grim attitude and melancholy mode of speaking, stepped lightheartedly down the stone stairs on their way to breakfast after the ritual ended.

In part, Herrwn supposed, they were all buoyed by the feeling of spring around them, and in part, he suspected, they’d all become so accustomed to their oracle’s unremitting gloom that they took his bleak foresights as a matter of course and no longer paid much attention to them.

Feeling uplifted himself, Herrwn enjoyed his porridge and was looking forward to starting his rehearsal of the always engrossing epic of Caerwyn and the Fairy Queen as soon as that morning’s High Council meeting was over—something he anticipated would not take very long at all, as there were no contentious matters to be debated.

Herrwn’s responsibilities for presiding over the High Council meeting included getting to the chamber ahead of time in order to greet the rest as they came in. That day, Ossiam was the last to enter, which was unusual, but not as unusual as the fact that the oracle’s expression, if not exactly joyful, was considerably less glum than in the past months.

After a nod from Feywn, Ossiam rose to deliver his portent. He stood, lifted the ritual chalice above his head, lowered it to take a sip, and began, “I dreamed a dream last night …”

There was something in the pensive, faraway tone of those six words that made Herrwn feel as though his blood had frozen in his veins. It was the same tone—and almost the same words—Ossiam had used the day he’d had the vision that the infant Arianna must be sent out of the valley to be fostered among English-speaking Celts in order to be ready to rule the outer world when the time came.

So long as Ossiam held the chalice, however, there was no interrupting him. Herrwn could only listen in dismay as he went on, “It was a dream I dreamed before. I saw our shrine transformed into a colossal boat in the center of a vast lake. The boat had decks that rose seven layers high, and in the top of the highest deck was a woman with the sun behind her, its light shining all around her and her flowing hair glittering like gold. White birds soared in the sky above her and schools of silver fish leaped out of the lake’s sparkling waters, swimming in circles around six smaller boats, each one laden with gifts and tribute, that were rowing toward the Goddess’s floating shrine.”

A chill ran up and down Herrwn’s spine. It was the same dream, almost word for word, but what could it mean? Surely not that Arianna must be sent out again! Surely Ossiam would not suggest that, and surely Feywn would never agree if he did!

Bracing himself to reach for the chalice as soon as Ossiam set it down, Herrwn planned to say exactly that, but Ossiam went on, “Then the dream changed: I saw the Goddess lift up Her snow-white hands and release two small birds—one with black feathers and one with red feathers—that went off soaring over the cliffs.”

Ossiam blinked as though he were just awakening, then looked at Feywn and said, as if there were no one else in the room, “I believe this means that the day is coming closer when the Goddess will again assume Her full powers, when once again all will worship Her—and that in order to prepare for that day, Her two mortally born sons must be sent out to be fostered among English-speaking Celts so as to be ready to lead Her armies and”—Ossiam paused and waited for the gasps around him to subside before finishing in a voice that sounded like the hiss of a deadly snake—“wreak Her vengeance!”

It was time for the oracle to sit down, relinquish the chalice, and let someone else speak. When he remained standing—gripping the vessel so Herrwn thought it might be crushed between his fingers—Caelym rose and pulled it out of his hands. As the wine sloshed and spilled over the top, he declared, “We cannot send Arddwn and Lliem to live among our enemies. It is too dangerous! If they must learn English, then Arianna, who is their sister—or someone else who speaks it—will teach them!”

The council was divided as if by a cleaver, with only Ossiam on one side and Caelym, Rhonnon, Aolfe, and Lunedd on the other—each of them taking the chalice in turn and adding their opposition. There was no question where the majority lay, and had this been some ordinary dispute, Herrwn would have been more than ready to use the power of his position to declare the matter settled. Ossiam, however, had not proposed this as an issue to be debated but as a prophetic vision. And what’s more, Feywn, who was of all of them the most qualified to determine the meaning of the oracle’s vision, remained silent as the dispute deteriorated into an unrestrained row.

When Ossiam snatched the chalice away from Rhonnon and, sneering, declared that a midwife’s work was to deliver babies and she should stick to what she knew, not attempt to ordain their future, Herrwn decided enough was enough—he was still the chief priest, and he was still responsible for the conduct of the High Council. Standing up, he rapped on the floor with his staff, and when that had no effect, he leaned over and grasped the chalice by the handle.

At first, it felt like Ossiam would not relinquish his hold. Herrwn kept his own grip steady, matching the oracle’s, until Ossiam gritted his teeth and let go.

Setting the chalice down squarely in front of him, Herrwn began, in his sternest chief-priest-and-head-of-the-High-Council voice, “We have heard our oracle’s vision, and as we all know this vision is an omen and so, as all omens, may have more than one interpretation. Even more than most, however, the consequences of this omen are grave and perilous! Indeed, it has already led to such heated and unthoughtful dispute among us that I am disbanding this council. It is my expectation that we each will give due and serious consideration to the many meanings of this vision and that, when we come together at the next High Council, we will listen to each other, reach the right interpretation, and work together to determine the right actions to take.”

Finishing, “With your gracious consent,” he made a deep bow to Feywn and, upon receiving her almost imperceptible nod, left the chamber—and was relieved, as he went, to hear the scraping of chairs and shuffle of footsteps behind him.