LITMIR.BIZ

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you a vision, but not the one you think you want?”

      “Then I’ll swear to Her anyway. The time has come, my lady. I want to hear the secret name of the Goddess and make my vow.”

      In preparation for the ceremony, Gweniver fasted that evening. While the temple was at its dinner, she fetched water from the well and heated herself a bath by the kitchen hearth. As she was dressing afterward, she paused to look at her brother’s shirt, which she’d embroidered for him the year before. On each yoke, worked in red, was the striding wolf of the clan, surrounded by a band of interlacement. The pattern twined so cleverly around itself that it looked like a chain of knots made up of many strands, but in fact there was only one line to it, and each knot flowed inevitably into the next. My Wyrd’s just such a tangle, she told herself, all chained round.

      And with the thought came a cold feeling, as if she had spoken better than she could know. As she finished dressing, she was frightened. It was not that perhaps she might die in battle; she knew that she would be slain, maybe soon, maybe many years hence. It was the way of the Dark Goddess, to call upon her priestesses to make the last sacrifice when She decided the time had come. When Gweniver picked up the sword belt, she hesitated, half tempted to throw it to the floor; then she buckled it on and strode out of the room.

      The round wooden temple stood in the center of the compound. At either side of the door grew twisted, flame-like cypress trees, brought all the way from Bardek and nursed through many a cold winter. When Gweniver walked between them, she felt a surge of power as if she passed through a gate into another world. She knocked nine times on the oak door and waited until nine muffled knocks answered from inside. Then she opened it and went into the antechamber, dimly lit by a single candle. A priestess robed in black waited for her.

      “Wear those clothes in the temple. Take in your sword as well. The high priestess has so commanded.”

      In the inner shrine the polished wood walls gleamed in the light of nine oil lamps, and the floor lay spread with fresh rushes. By the far wall stood the altar, a boulder left rough except for the top, which had been smoothed into a table. Behind it hung a huge circular mirror, the only image of Her that the Goddess will have in Her temples. Dressed in black, Ardda stood to the left.

      “Unsheathe the sword and lay it on the altar.”

      Gweniver curtsied to the mirror, then did as the high priestess ordered. Through a side door three senior priestesses entered without a word and stood at the right, waiting to witness her vow.

      “We are assembled to instruct and receive one who would serve the Goddess of the Moon,” Ardda said. “Gweniver of the Wolf is known to us all. Are there any objections to her candidacy?”

      “None,” the three said in unison. “She is known to us as one blessed by Our Lady.”

      “Well and good, then.” The high priestess turned to Gweniver. “Will you swear to serve the Goddess all your days and nights?”

      “I will, my lady.”

      “Will you swear never to know a man?”

      “I will, my lady.”

      “Will you swear never to betray the secret of the holy name?”

      “I will, my lady.”

      Ardda raised her hands and clapped them together three times, then three more, and finally a third three, measuring out the holy number in its just proportion. Gweniver felt a solemn yet blissful peace, a sweetness like mead flowing through her body. At last the decision was made, and her vow given over.

      “Of all the goddesses,” Ardda went on, “only Our Lady has no name known to the common folk. We hear of Epona, we hear of Sirona, we hear of Aranrhodda, but always Our Lady is simply the Goddess of the Moon.” She turned to the three witnesses. “And why should such a thing be?”

      “The name is a secret.”

      “It is a mystery.”

      “It is a riddle.”

      “And yet,” Ardda said after the answers, “it is a riddle easy to solve. What is the name of the Goddess?”

      “Epona.”

      “Sirona.”

      “Aranrhodda.”

      “And,” this said in unison, “all the rest.”

      “You have spoken true.” Ardda turned to Gweniver. “Here, then, is the answer to the riddle. All goddesses are one goddess. She goes by all names and no name, for she is One.”

      Gweniver began to tremble in a fierce joy.

      “No matter what men or women call her, She is One,” Ardda went on. “There is but one priestesshood that serves Her. She is like the pure light of the sun when it strikes the rain-filled sky and turns into a rainbow, many colors, but all One at the source.”

      “Long have I thought so,” Gweniver whispered. “Now I know.”

      Again the high priestess clapped out the nine knocks, then turned to the witnesses.

      “There is a question of how Gweniver, no longer lady but new priestess, shall serve the Goddess. Let her kneel in petition at the altar.”

      Gweniver knelt in front of the sword. In the mirror she could see herself, a shadowy figure in the flickering light, but she barely recognized her face, the cropped hair, the mouth set grim, the eyes glowing with lust for vengeance. Help me, O Lady of the Heavens, she prayed, I want blood and vengeance, not tears and mourning.

      “Look into the mirror,” Ardda whispered. “Beg Her to come to you.”

      Gweniver spread her hands on the altar and took up her watch. At first she saw nothing but her face and the temple behind her. When Ardda began to chant a high wailing song in the old tongue, it seemed that the oil lamps flickered in time to the long-sprung rhythms. The chant rose and fell, winding through the temple like a cold north wind. In the mirror the light changed, dimmed, became a darkness, a trembling dark as cold as a starless sky. The chant sobbed on, wailing through ancient words. Gweniver felt the hair prickling on the back of her neck as in that mirror-darkness appeared the stars, the wheel and dance of the endless sky. Among them formed the image of Another.

      She towered through the stars, and her face was grim, blood besotted as she shook her head and spread a vast mane of black hair over the sky. Gweniver could hardly breath as the dark eyes looked her way. This was the Goddess of the Darktime, Whose own heart is pierced with swords and Who demands no less from those who would worship Her.

      “My lady,” Gweniver whispered, “take me as a sacrifice. I’ll serve you always.”

      The eyes considered her for a long moment, fierce, gleaming, utterly cold. Gweniver felt the presence all around her, as if the Goddess stood beside and behind as well as in front of her.

      “Take me,” she repeated. “I’ll be naught but a sword in your hand.”

      On the altar her sword flared and ran with bloody colored light, casting a glow upward that turned the mirror red. The chant stopped. Ardda had seen the omen.

      “Swear to Her.” The priestess’s voice shook. “That in Her service you’ll live”—her voice broke—“and die.”

      “So do I swear, from deep in my heart.”

      In the mirror the eyes of the Goddess radiated joy. The light on the sword danced up like fire, then fell back. As it faded, the mirror darkened to the turning stars, then only to blackness.

      “Done!” Ardda clapped her hands together, a boom and echo in the temple.

      The mirror reflected Gweniver’s pale, sweating face.

      “She has come to you,” the high priestess said. “She has given you the blessing that many would call a curse. You have chosen, and you have sworn. Serve Her well, or death will be the least of your troubles.”

      “Never

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