used when she spoke the miraculous god-given truths of real prophecy.
Now he took up his stance before her, legs planted firmly astride and clenched fists on his hips. With the arrogance of royalty heightened by his temper he asked the question.
Tanith hated these sessions with the Gry-Lion. He awed and frightened her. It was like being caged with some beautiful but savage predator, with its restless energy and unpredictable moods. The pale steely blue of his eyes had a predator’s cold killing lust, his features were chiselled, perfect but cold also with the same relentless passion.
Usually she had the comfort of Huy’s presence behind the curtains to carry her through, but this morning she was alone - and sick.
The night had been hot and airless, and the child in her womb as heavy as a stone. She had risen listless and pale from her couch, her skin damp with night sweat and she had forced down the light morning meal Aina had prepared for her, only to vomit it up again in a dizzy attack of nausea.
The taste of acid-bitter bile was in the back of her throat now, and sweat poured down beneath her cloak, tickling as it slid over her flanks and fruitful belly. She felt herself stifling, her breathing hunting raggedly for air, her body limp and weak, while the king growled his questions.
She was unprepared, her answers were empty words given without conviction, and she struggled to concentrate, to remember what Huy had told her.
The king was becoming restless, he strode back and forth before her, wearying her with his energy. She felt sweat break out beneath her mask of cosmetics. Her skin felt itchy and swollen, the pores blocked with paints and she longed to wipe it away. She had a sudden wondrous image of cool water falling over moss-covered rocks, of plunging her naked body into the green water, of sinking into it with her hair spreading on the surface, like the tendrils of a water plant.
‘Come, witch! Come, oh seer of the future. It is a simple question. Answer it!’
The king was stopped before her, one foot on the throne steps, shoulders drawn back and hips thrust forward in masculine hauteur, a sneer on his handsome face and mockery in his voice.
Tanith had not heard the question, she floundered for words, and another wave of nausea washed over her. She felt sweat break through the film of paint on her upper lip, and the nausea changed to dizziness.
Lannon’s face receded, and blackness closed about her. Her vision narrowed, and she looked down a long shaft of darkness at the end of which Lannon’s face burned like a golden star. There was a roaring in her ears, the sound of the storm wind through the trees of the forest. Then the sound of the wind died away into silence, and a voice spoke. The voice was husky and low-pitched, even and monotonous, the voice of a deaf woman or one drugged by the smoke of the bhang pipe. With mild surprise Tanith realized that the voice issued from her own throat, and the words shocked her.
‘Lannon Hycanus, last Gry-Lion of Opet, question not the future. The future for you is darkness and death.’
She saw her own shock repeated upon Lannon’s face, saw the colour fly from his cheeks, and his lips turn to lines of pale marble.
‘Lannon Hycanus, prisoner of time, pacing behind the bars of your cage. Blackness waits for you.’
Lannon was shaking his head trying to deny the words. The golden locks of his hair, still damp from the ritual bath, danced upon his shoulders, and he held up both hands in the sun sign, trying to avert the words which struck his soul like war arrows flighted from the bow.
‘Lannon Hycanus, your gods are passing, they fly upwards, and leave you to blackness.’
Lannon retreated from the throne, hands raised to shield his face, but the words sought him out relentlessly.
‘Lannon Hycanus, you who seek to know the future, know then that it lies in wait for you as the lion awaits the unwary traveller.’
Lannon cried out. and his terror exploded into violence.
‘Evil!’ he screamed, and rushed at the oracle, bounding up the steps of the throne. ‘Witchcraft!’ He struck Tanith in the face with his open hands, knocking her head across and back with heavy blows. The hood of her cloak fell back and her dark hair tumbled loose. The blows rang loudly against her flesh, but Tanith made no sound. Her silence drove Lannon on to further violence.
He caught the front of her cloak and dragged her from the throne.
‘Sorceress!’ he screamed, and flung her down the steps. She fell heavily and rolled, trying to come to her feet, but Lannon’s first kick caught her in the belly and she doubled up, clutching at her middle and groaning as his sandalled feet smashed into her.
Lannon was bellowing as he pursued her about the chamber, between kicks he was looking wildly about for a weapon, something to destroy the woman and the words she had spoken.
Then suddenly the chamber was filled with priestesses, and Lannon drew back panting heavily, the pale eyes bright with madness.
‘Majesty!’ The Reverend Mother came forward, and Lannon’s madness faded, but he was still shaking and his lips were white and quivering.
He turned and strode from the chamber, leaving Tanith whimpering upon the flagged floor.
The Divine Council of Astarte met in the Reverend Mother’s chamber, and when she read the Gry-Lion’s demand to them they listened quietly thinking their own thoughts. The Council consisted of the High Priestess and two advisers, both of them senior priestesses who stood in the direct line of succession to the Reverend Mother.
‘How can we deliver one of the sisterhood to the temporal body of the Gry-Lion. What precedent would we set by doing so?’ Sister Alma asked. She was small and wrinkled with a face like an inquisitive monkey. ‘What crime is the child accused of? If she has erred then it is for us to judge and punish. We must protect our own, even if it means defying the king.’
‘Can the sisterhood afford such a grand gesture?’ asked Sister Haka; dark-skinned and pock-marked, with long raven hair streaked with iron grey, her face was strong-jawed and her voice deep as a man’s. She was not yet forty
