Jaelle, High Priestess of the Goddess in Fionavar

Maidaladan. Midsummer’s Eve. And they are come to Gwen Ystrat, and there is no denying the power of Dana, of the Mother, not here, not now, the night before that night.

The company follows the High Priestess through Morvan, riding through a blowing snow. (The winter, unnaturally long and cold, holds even here.) There are people in the streets and they bow, but they do not cheer. It is not a day for cheering.

Beyond the town, they come to the precincts of the Temple, and there the Mormae wait, robed in red, all nine of them. In front of everyone else stands a woman well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and grey-haired, with her back straight and her head imperiously high. She, too, is clad in red. Audiart, Second of Dana.

“Bright the hour of your return, First of the Mother,” she says with cool formality. Her voice is deep, for a woman. Jaelle regards her with even cooler eyes. There’s a slight enmity here, an old struggle for power. Even in the overcast afternoon, the silver circlet on Jaelle’s head gleams.

There is no circlet on Audiart’s.

For a moment, there is a tense stillness, a silence so loud it can be heard, there in the courtyard.

And then Jaelle delicately withdraws a booted foot from the stirrup of her saddle and extends it toward Audiart.

It pleases Jaelle that the other woman pales, that there is a murmuring from the Mormae. This is a reminder of exactly which of them has authority over the other. It is also a challenge, a gauntlet thrown. Jaelle wants to know if Audiart would dare defy her, here, in front of the Mormae and these men.

It will not go well for Audiart if she would.

For a long instant, Audiart is motionless, her eyes on Jaelle’s face, and then she steps forward with two long strides, cups her hand behind the horse of the High Priestess and helps her dismount.

“Continue,” Jaelle murmurs, and turns her back to walk through the gates of Temple to the Mormae. One by one, they kneel for her blessing.

None one of them is less than twice her age.

Audiart is speaking again. “Be welcome, Warrior,” she says to Arthur. “There is a welcome in Gwen Ystrat for one who was rowed by three Queens to Avalon.”

Gravely, and in silence, Arthur nods.

Audiart hesitates a moment, as if she is hoping for something more, and then turns without hurrying, to Aileron. “You are here, and it is well. Long years have passed since last a King of Brennin came to Gwen Ystrat for Midsummer’s Eve.”

Audiart has pitched her voice to carry, and Jaelle, in spite of herself, turns. It is clear, immediately and unmistakably, that most of the horsemen have not realized what day it is, and that Aileron is no exception.

And then Loren Silvercloak, meddling mage, steps in to save Aileron. “I have no doubts the rites of the Goddess will proceed as they always do,” he says, moving to stand next to the King. “We are not concerned with them. You requested aid of the High King, and he as come to give that aid. There will be a wolf hunt in Leinanwood tomorrow.” He pauses, staring Audiart down. “We are here for a second reason as well, with the countenance and support of the High Priestess. I want it understood that the rituals of Maidaladan are not to interfere with either of the to things we have come to do.”

“Is a mage to give commands in Gwen Ystrat?” Audiart demands, and if her voice is meant to chill, it falls short of its goal.

“The High King does.” With time to recover, even Jaelle will admit that Aileron is bluntly compelling. “And as Warden of my province of Gwen Ystrat, you are charged by me now to ensure that things come to pass as my First Mage has commanded you.”

Audiart, Jaelle knows, will want revenge for that. Her authority has been undercut twice now, completely, and in a place she is used to wielding power. And yet this is a game she started, when she dispatched Aline rather than linking. If she does not like the rules, she should not have decided to play.

Jaelle has far more to worry about.

It is the day before Maidaladan, and she is the First of the Mother.

She cannot sleep.

Of late she has been uneasy, inside her sanctuary and out of it. Given the situation, given the dangers and what’s at stake, Dana knows, only a fool could be at ease about anything. But there is a difference in not being at ease, and in being ill at ease. And she cannot remember a time she was ill at ease inside her own sanctuary, not in all the time she has worn the white robes of the High Priestess.

When she grew tired of lying awake and staring at nothing in particular, she rose and came here, to the beach, to stare at the sea.

Jaelle is unmistakably, undeniably one of the most powerful mortal women in Fionavar. She would say she was the most powerful, and true or not, it would take a great fool or a brave man (or Diarmuid) to contradict her. And yet, sitting her, she can see the limits of that power, things she cannot control or influence. Dana holds no sway at sea, nor does her Priestess. All her power and influence end there at the edge of the surf, as dazzlingly white in the moonlight as the robes she wears to mark that power and influence.

It is good, she thinks, to know her limits, if not to admit them aloud, especially now. But she is also afraid, staring out at that sea, that too much will be asked of her. In the end, reluctantly or not, there is very little she would not do or give for this fight, but there is great deal she could not do or give, no matter how much she wanted to.

Snow swirls down the street, blows up against the arched doorway of the domed Temple of the Mother. Pauls pulls the chain beside the doorway and a bell rings deep within the temple; then there is silence again.

He stands in the snow for a long time before the doors swing open and the glow of candlelight spins out into the snow-bound night.

"No farther," says a woman, as he moves sideways and forward to see and be seen. "I have a blade."

Test. Test test test.