invocation of Them not in Ysan or sacerdotal Punic but in the language of the Osismii, who were half Celtic and half descendants of the Old Folk. When she slew the bird she did so awkwardly; it flopped and cried until she, weeping, got a firm enough hold on it to hack off its head. But her hands never hesitated when she gashed herself and stooped to press blood from her breasts to mingle in the pool with the blood of her sacrifice.
—False dawn dulled the moon and hid most stars. A few lingered above western ridges and the unseen wreck of Ys.
Nemeta crossed the lawn toward the Nymphaeum. Her steps left uneven tracks in the dew. She startled a peacock which had been asleep by a hedge. Its screech seemed shatteringly loud.
A woman in a hooded cloak trod out of the portico, down the stairs, and strode to a meeting. The girl stopped and gaped. Runa took stance before her. Now it was Nemeta’s breathing that broke the silence. It puffed faint white.
“Follow me,” said the priestess. “Quickly. Others will be rousing. They must not see you like this.”
“Wh-wh-what?” mumbled the vestal.
“Worn out, disheveled, your garb muddy and torn and blood-stained,” Runa snapped. “Come, I say.” She took the other’s arm and steered her aside. They went behind the great linden by the sacred pond. Hoarfrost whitened the idol that it shaded.
“What has found you tonight?” Runa demanded.
Nemeta shook her dazed head. “I kn-know not what you mean.”
“Indeed you do, unless They stripped you of your wits for your recklessness.” When she got only a blind stare for reply, the priestess continued:
“I’ ve kept my heed on you. Had there been less call on me elsewhere—everywhere, in these days of woe—I’d have watched closer and wrung your scheme out of you erenow. It struck me strange that you never wailed aloudagainst fate, but locked your lips as none of the rest were able to. I misdoubted your tale that you snared a bird to be your pet; and tonight it was gone from your room together with yourself, nor have you brought it back. And you have crowned yourself with ladygift, the Herb of Belisama.
“I know you somewhat, Nemeta. I was nine years old when you were born; I have watched you grow. Well do I recall what blood is in you, your father’s willfulness, your mother’s witchiness. Each night after you went to bed, since the news came, I have looked in to be sure. … Ah, you were aware of that, nay, sly one? You waited. But I slept ill this night, and looked in again, and then you were gone.
“Where? And what answer did you get? Who came to you?”
The girl shuddered. “Who?” she said tonelessly. “Mayhap none. I cannot remember. I was out of myself.”
Runa peered long at her. Fifteen years of age, Nemeta was rangy, almost flat-chested. Her face bore high cheekbones, curved nose, big green eyes; the mane of hair grew straight and vividly red, the skin was fair and apt to freckle. Ordinarily she stood tall, but in this hour, drained of strength, she stooped.
“You sought the Gods,” Runa said at last, very low.
Nemeta raised her glance. Life kindled in it. “Aye.” Her voice, hoarse from shrieking, gained a measure of steadiness. “First just Ahes. I begged her to speak to Them for us. Not the Three of Ys, though I did make this wreath to—remind—The old Gods of the land. They might intercede or—or—When she held off—has she fled, has she died?—I summoned Them myself.”
“Did any come?”
“I know not, I told you.” Nemeta dropped her glance anew. Her fingers twisted and twined together. “It was as though I … blundered into dreams I can’t remember—Did I see Him, antlered and male, two snakes in His grasp? Were there thunders? I woke cold and full of pain, and made my way back hither.”
“Why did you do it?”
“What other hope have we?” Nemeta half screamed. “Yon pale Christ?”
“Our Gods have disowned us, child.”
“Have They?” Fingers plucked at
—False dawn dulled the moon and hid most stars. A few lingered above western ridges and the unseen wreck of Ys.
Nemeta crossed the lawn toward the Nymphaeum. Her steps left uneven tracks in the dew. She startled a peacock which had been asleep by a hedge. Its screech seemed shatteringly loud.
A woman in a hooded cloak trod out of the portico, down the stairs, and strode to a meeting. The girl stopped and gaped. Runa took stance before her. Now it was Nemeta’s breathing that broke the silence. It puffed faint white.
“Follow me,” said the priestess. “Quickly. Others will be rousing. They must not see you like this.”
“Wh-wh-what?” mumbled the vestal.
“Worn out, disheveled, your garb muddy and torn and blood-stained,” Runa snapped. “Come, I say.” She took the other’s arm and steered her aside. They went behind the great linden by the sacred pond. Hoarfrost whitened the idol that it shaded.
“What has found you tonight?” Runa demanded.
Nemeta shook her dazed head. “I kn-know not what you mean.”
“Indeed you do, unless They stripped you of your wits for your recklessness.” When she got only a blind stare for reply, the priestess continued:
“I’ ve kept my heed on you. Had there been less call on me elsewhere—everywhere, in these days of woe—I’d have watched closer and wrung your scheme out of you erenow. It struck me strange that you never wailed aloudagainst fate, but locked your lips as none of the rest were able to. I misdoubted your tale that you snared a bird to be your pet; and tonight it was gone from your room together with yourself, nor have you brought it back. And you have crowned yourself with ladygift, the Herb of Belisama.
“I know you somewhat, Nemeta. I was nine years old when you were born; I have watched you grow. Well do I recall what blood is in you, your father’s willfulness, your mother’s witchiness. Each night after you went to bed, since the news came, I have looked in to be sure. … Ah, you were aware of that, nay, sly one? You waited. But I slept ill this night, and looked in again, and then you were gone.
“Where? And what answer did you get? Who came to you?”
The girl shuddered. “Who?” she said tonelessly. “Mayhap none. I cannot remember. I was out of myself.”
Runa peered long at her. Fifteen years of age, Nemeta was rangy, almost flat-chested. Her face bore high cheekbones, curved nose, big green eyes; the mane of hair grew straight and vividly red, the skin was fair and apt to freckle. Ordinarily she stood tall, but in this hour, drained of strength, she stooped.
“You sought the Gods,” Runa said at last, very low.
Nemeta raised her glance. Life kindled in it. “Aye.” Her voice, hoarse from shrieking, gained a measure of steadiness. “First just Ahes. I begged her to speak to Them for us. Not the Three of Ys, though I did make this wreath to—remind—The old Gods of the land. They might intercede or—or—When she held off—has she fled, has she died?—I summoned Them myself.”
“Did any come?”
“I know not, I told you.” Nemeta dropped her glance anew. Her fingers twisted and twined together. “It was as though I … blundered into dreams I can’t remember—Did I see Him, antlered and male, two snakes in His grasp? Were there thunders? I woke cold and full of pain, and made my way back hither.”
“Why did you do it?”
“What other hope have we?” Nemeta half screamed. “Yon pale Christ?”
“Our Gods have disowned us, child.”
“Have They?” Fingers plucked at
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