Disclaimers: as before.

Thanks for those reviews. This website seems to dislike me at the moment as no alert went out on the first chapter of this story. So if you've just got an alert, and are wondering what the earth this is about, sorry about that. There's a big explanation on the previous chapter ;)

Warning: lots of angst!

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CHAPTER TWO

Claudia paused before she entered the chamber, and peeped in curiously between the heavily embroidered drapes.

Her flawless brow creased with confusion, and with a hint of ambiguous jealousy. Sydney was still there, holding vigil by Nigel's bed. She had hardly left his side for the whole day since he'd burst, so unceremoniously, into their lives. Now she had one of his hands clasped between hers; her head was bowed and her eyes tightly shut, as if she was in silent communion with the goddess. The Sybil's mask lay, discarded, on the floor at her feet.

Claudia had never before seen her mistress – also her best friend - so adamant that anybody must live. Yes, Sydney would always go to the sanatorium to visit the sick, and share her energy and inspiration with all who would listen - and a few who would not. But while she knew the name of everybody in the temple, she'd never become quite so intimately involved with any individual before, supplicant or patient - and nobody but Claudia ever saw her face! The blonde assistant could not help wonder whether Sydney's passion had anything to do with the fact that this newcomer was disarmingly good looking.

'So much for look and don't touch,' she thought to herself. 'And when he wakes up he will see her face, and fall in love - and she with him, if she hasn't already done so! And then what will become of everything? And what will become of me? I wish I'd run away with that 'to-die-for' goatherd!'

As these unhappy thoughts whirled around her head, she crept silently into the room; even Sydney did not appear to sense her presence until she was nearly to the bed - something which further alarmed Claudia. Then the Sybil looked up suddenly and smiled warmly.

'Did you bring those for Nigel?' asked Sydney, her voice affectionate but tired, as she motioned at a flimsy bunch of pink flowers that were clutched in Claudia's hand.

'Uh, yes,' replied Claudia, who had completely forgot she was carrying the flowers. 'I'll get a vase.'

She was already leaving the room again when Sydney asked: 'And the herbs? Did you find what I needed?'

Claudia chewed her bottom lip as she turned back slowly: 'I couldn't find the right ones! The names were too long to remember, and they all look the same at twilight… so I got the flowers instead. They are so much prettier than those boring, smelly green things. They'd make me feel much better…'

'Claudia! Flowers are nice, but they won't make him well!' Sydney tried her best not to snap; she knew that Claudia always did her best, in her own fashion - and it was hard, after her indulged childhood, to learn the strange ways of the temple. 'Look… I'll draw some pictures this time, rather than writing down the names. Will you try again?'

Claudia pouted sulkily: 'But it's getting cold out there and it's so quiet in the garden. I kept on thinking that horrid Kafka was going to creep up behind and slit my throat with his nasty hook… can't you go? I'll look after…him…'

'No, I'm sorry,' replied Sydney resolutely. 'If you're scared, maybe you could get one of the temple guards to go with you? I can't leave Nigel's side in case he starts talking again.'

'Why do you need to hear him talking?' whined Claudia, scrunching her nose objectionably. 'Surely he's just raving deliriously?'

A little smile – and a hint of excitement - glimmered across Sydney's face as she glanced back down at Nigel. 'I thought so myself at first. But then, when I listened, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He's been reciting a perfect hexameter - the language of Homer, of Phemonoe herself - handed down by the Gods!'

'You mean that funny versey stuff?'

'Yes, Claudia,' laughed Sydney softly. 'That 'funny versey stuff!' Look, I've written it down. I think it must be his aunt's message. The first two lines run like this:

'The tide will rise over cliffs and the land;

and sun-blessed yields will crumble to dust and dry sand.'

'What does it all mean?' asked Claudia, bewildered.

'I'm not sure yet,' replied Sydney. 'But the prophecy I know regarding the messenger from the Winter Goddess is a very powerful one - he may hold the key to the future of this island, maybe even of the whole world.'

'It's quite, uh, big, then?'

'Yes, big!'

Sydney's attention was snatched away as Nigel stirred. His head shifted slightly on the pillow and he murmured something, but too weakly now for her to hear.

'Ssshhh, everything will be all right,' soothed Sydney, stroking his hair. 'Tell me later, tell me when you're well.'

Nigel squirmed restlessly, rolling towards her onto his side; his lips parted as he muttered inaudibly and Claudia could not help but stare at his perfect profile, silhouetted against the pillow. Sydney was otherwise preoccupied: his skin was damp with perspiration and she could feel the heat radiating from him.

'Claudia,' she hissed. 'Bring me the sponge. His fever still burns and I must try to cool him down.'

Claudia handed it to her, but did not rip away her eyes from beautiful, suffering young man. The Sybil wrung out the sponge and stripped down the coverlet so the whole of his upper body was exposed. She then began bathing his forehead, chest and his arms, all the while leaning close over him, whispering words of reassurance.

The blonde assistant was enthralled. While Nigel was not as explicitly muscular as her coveted goatherd, his torso was smooth, toned and just as appealing. His flesh seemed to glisten in the dusky glow of the oil lamps. She tried not to notice the ugly, purple bruise at the bottom of his ribs, the grazing around his wrists, and the barely-healed red welts that scarred his back and shoulders - tell-tale signs of a recent, cruel beating. To her, he was a gentle, artistic, vulnerable Apollo – but an Apollo nevertheless! Despite his desperate condition, her desire to touch him was irrepressible and she sidled to Sydney's shoulder.

'May I help?'

'It's not necessary. Look, he's calmer now.' The cooling water had, indeed, had a positive effect, and Nigel was now sleeping peacefully. In the corner of her eye, Sydney discerned Claudia purse her glossy, painted lips with irritation, and mentally noted the reaction. She handed the sponge back to the girl, then picked up Nigel's hand again.

'Look,' she whispered, running her fingertips over a soft, unblemished palm. 'This is proof enough that he is not a slave. These hands have never performed hard-labour, apart from…' She paused as she located a rough patch of skin on the inside of one of his middle fingers. 'Apart from this, a mark that I share. He writes – he's a prince and a scholar.'

Claudia shrugged stroppily: 'We don't know that he's a prince! Even you said you've never heard of the kingdom he hails from… and, just because he writes, doesn't mean that he's a scholar. We don't even know he understands our language. I mean, yes, he's been saying all those clever wordy things, but I haven't got a clue what any of those boring lines you make me learn and recite mean…oh!'

Claudia raised her finger to her lips and swiftly regretted her unguarded confession, but Sydney sighed indulgently. 'Oh Claudia, never mind about that now! He does understand what he says - I just know it - and a lot more besides. He is going to be a great help to me.' Jealous eyes followed her movements as she placed Nigel's hand back down, pulled up the coverlet, and then pressed on the veins of his wrists, checking the pulse.

'I know it's hard,' she hushed. 'And I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. I have no interest in him, apart from as an important supplicant who must get well - and, of course, that he is very young and does not deserve to die. But even if things were different, he is not the sort of man that I usually, well… we'll chat about this later. What matters now is that he hasn't turned the corner in his illness yet, and I can't leave his side.'

'I'm sorry…you know I'm always here for you, Syd,' came the meek, almost guilty reply. Deep in their hearts, neither woman was quite convinced by Sydney's argument.

The Sybil rose, and this time it was her blonde friend's hand that she took and squeezed: 'So, how about you go to speak to one of the guards nicely, and go find me those herbs?'

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Shining scarlet drapes hung from the ceiling, undulating serenely in the air like waves on a fair-weather sea. On the walls, cavorting nymphs wove their way between the sturdy legs of muscular warriors, winged horses, and chariots of gold. But it was not any of these wonders, or the green marble pillars, which caused Nigel to inhale sharply and squeeze shut his eyes the instant after he had opened them. It was not even the sheer size and opulence of the bed on which he lay.

It was the woman - or the apparition of one.

Dressed in the briefest of fine, silk chitons, she was lying beside him, her chest brushing up against his shoulder. One svelte, bronzed arm was draped lightly across his middle. The woman was apparently fast asleep - steady, warm breath escaped from full, moist lips. Her small, rounded nose was of such charm that he felt a sudden urge - one that he dare not obey - to kiss it.

One glimpse, then, was enough for Nigel to close his eyes and resign himself to the matter that death had claimed him and carried him away to the Summerlands.

His mind was swimming and confused, but he tried to think rationally: had he succeeded in his mission or had he failed? He had no recollection of succeeding, so why would the gods accept him into their heavens? Maybe it was all a mirage…

Very cautiously, he pried one eye open again and tried to lift his hand to touch her hair. This was more difficult than he expected - his arm felt as if it was weighed down by lead. He suddenly became very aware of just how weak and shivery he felt and of bruises and welts that stung his back, shoulders and ribs. Somehow, though, he found the strength to touch her hair, lightly stroking the silky, dark spirals that embellished the pillow between them.

One word escaped his lips: 'Goddess…'

Long dark lashes flicked open like a whip, and her eyes, shimmering ebony pools, bored into his foggy consciousness. One of her hands pinned his effortlessly to the pillow, and the other raised as if to strike him. Nigel gasped – what wrath had he awoken?

Then she laughed. 'Nigel! I'm so sorry - I didn't know you were awake and you startled me. How are you?' She propped herself up on one elbow and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. 'The fever is still gone, that's good.'

'Goddess?' repeated Nigel, this time less certainly. He could not recall why this paragon of loveliness knew his name, but events at the door of the temple were beginning to trickle back into his brain. Nevertheless, he felt utterly drained, devoid of the energy to even sit up.

'You're not dead, if that's what you're wondering,' laughed Sydney kindly. 'This isn't the Summerlands or wherever it was you were chattering about earlier. Incidentally, where exactly is the Summerlands? I'm guessing it might be the same place as our Elysian Fields?'

Nigel just stared at her.

She ruffled his hair fondly: 'You're a lot quieter when you're awake and when you're asleep, you know? But there will be plenty of time for talking when you're feeling stronger. For now, I think it would be a good idea if you had something to drink.'

Sydney rose and fetched a silver wine goblet from the top of a green marble cabinet. Concentrated puzzlement was etched into Nigel's expression as he tried to piece everything together.

'What do you remember?' she asked as she perched back down on the edge of the bed.

Nigel frowned and raised an unsteady hand to touch the bridge of his nose. 'I…I… remember being captured by that brute in Neapolis…and believing that I would surely die and never make it to the temple. And then…then… we set to sea, it was…unspeakable…but then I realised where we were going I couldn't believe it. I knew I had to escape, to speak to the Sybil…and then…then…'

His arm flopped back down onto the bed as his eyes widened with realisation: 'You! You're the Sybil! I…I saw you… but its impossible…'

'Yes, that's right, I'm the Sybil.' Nigel continued to look awestruck, so she laughed airily. 'I am the Sybil, the prophetess, the representative of the Goddess Gaia on earth - but that's just my day job. I'm also a woman of flesh and blood. Try to forget about all that for now, and drink this.'

She cupped her hand around the back of his neck, easing him forward and then pressed the goblet to his mouth. Nigel duly took a sip, wondering which prospect terrified him more: being attended to by the Sybil herself, or by such a beautiful woman of flesh and blood!

He was distracted, however, by the thick and tinglingly sweet liquid that oozed down his throat like warm honey. He took two more enthusiastic gulps before she withdrew the remainder.

Nigel licked his lips, surprised by his appetite: 'Mmmm. What was that?'

Sydney beamed: 'Nectar! Food of the gods… well, not quite. Its little secret recipe I make myself - in fact, it's the only beverage I make myself - and I thought it would perk you up a bit.' She slipped her hand over his, but he tautened and looked at her questioningly, suspiciously even. It was a stark reminder that, whatever uncommon bond she already felt with this young man, they were little more than strangers. She moved her hand away and he looked up at her nervously, finding there was one question that really burnt him:

'Why were you asleep here? Don't you have less important people to run the sanatorium and, uh, I know everything here is amazing, but isn't this room a little bit grand for the purpose?'

Sydney laughed out loud: 'This is my bedroom!'

'Oh!' Nigel wriggled awkwardly. 'So, this is your, err, bed?'

'Yes, nice isn't it?'

'Lovely.' Nigel would also dearly have liked to know quite what he was doing there, and why she wasn't wearing her sacred mask, but was nevertheless grateful when she changed the subject:

'Now I have a little question for you: do you feel ready to tell me about the prophecy? About the Winter Goddess?'

Nigel nodded slowly. 'Yes. That is the reason I'm here and I wish to return to my people with the answer as soon as I can. My aunt is the high-priestess of the temple of the Goddess Moreana - although our prophets, like our temples and even our Gods, are far humbler than yours! At the last midwinter solstice, my aunt received a message, a prophecy from Moreana herself. Yet nobody, not even our greatest scholars, could make any sense of it other than as a harbinger of doom and of the destruction of our people. Many spoke against my aunt, and it was felt the power of the temple should be taken from her. But she believed it meant something even greater, something we could not understand alone…and so did I.'

'So you traveled all this way, for little old me to interpret it?' Sydney's eyes danced playfully, confusing Nigel further.

'Uh, yes. For the Earth Goddess, Gaia, the mother of the season's to explain – via her prophetess.' He averted his gaze from Sydney's flirtatiousness and tried to focus on the beauties of the lavish bedchamber.

Sydney checked herself: 'Of course. And was it your aunt who wrote the hexameter?'

Nigel sat bolt upright in alarm: 'Of course - the hexameter – he took it! Did you get it back off Kafka, please tell me that you did!'

'Whoa there, be careful - you've been very sick!' She eased him back down onto the pillows as he stared at her, pleadingly.

'You know about it, so you must have it, right?'

'No, I don't have it,' she said plainly. 'I didn't even know it existed. But I don't think it's necessary, Nigel. You had it all in your head.'

'Yes, but… excuse me? How did you know that?'

She laughed, familiarly again: 'As I said, you're a lot more vocal when you're asleep than when you're awake! Although I'm starting to realise you have a lot to say for yourself in both states of being…'

'You mean I was reciting it when I was asleep?' A tiny motion of her sparkling eyes confirmed his suspicions, and Nigel groaned. 'Oh, how embarrassing!'

'Not at all,' soothed Sydney, pulling the coverlet back up over his chest but resisting the urge to touch him again. 'It is very impressive that you remembered it at all. Did you copy it out yourself?'

'Actually, although the meanings are my aunt's prophecy, it was I who translated it into your language and into hexameter form.' For the first time, there was a touch of pride in Nigel's voice. 'I did it so you would take me seriously as a supplicant. And because I, err, enjoyed it.'

'That's very impressive,' gushed Sydney. 'You could teach my assistant a few things about learning…'

Reaching under the bed, she retrieved three sheets of papyrus, scrawled in her own, rather messy hand, and showed them excitedly to him. 'Look, this is what you were saying. I've already had a chance to start interpreting. Your prophecy tells of a change in the prevailing wind; a turning of the tides; a catastrophic shift in the climate that lays waste to crops, and sickens the animals. It also speaks of the offering that must be made to Gaia for her guidance on what must be done – a rafter from the shelter of the Hesperides. Do you know what this is?'

Nigel winced regretfully: 'No. My people are not well versed in the many gods of the southern peoples. We worship only the earth goddess and her daughters, the seasons. But my aunt is a great scholar, who has learned all she could from traders and travelers. She paid a great price for manuscripts - so that my brother and I could learn the languages and knowledge of your glorious people. But… I'm afraid there is still much I must learn.'

'Not even my priests know much of the Hesperides,' smiled Sydney. 'I would not call your lack of knowledge there a sign of ignorance! They are the nymphs that guard the tree of life and their rafters are its golden branches. But - here is the most valuable part of your prophecy of all – it tells where the tree of life is hidden! It describes seven small hills beyond mountains, a little valley between, a river, a spring and a winding path… it provides all but a map!'

She handed the scroll to Nigel who cast his eyes over the three pages. 'Is this all you remember?' she asked.

'Yes, this is it all. I've forgotten nothing, I promise. But, as I said, I had it written down before, on a scroll and Kafka took everything I had.' Another of Nigel's memories flooded back, bringing with it a desolate fear did his best to conceal: 'I know it interested him, I heard him say something about a treasure map. Now he will be after the golden branch!'

'I'll get it first. He doesn't scare me!'

'Well, he does me!' replied Nigel bitterly. 'I'd hate to be responsible for him lurking somewhere where you have to go. He's…he's… despicable!'

Guilt stabbed Sydney that she had dismissed Kafka so lightly. Instinctively, she laid a hand on his shoulder: 'I'm sorry. I know he hurt you yesterday. Was it he that treated you badly before?'

'Yes…' began Nigel, but then wriggled irritably to free his shoulder. 'No…no, it wasn't him but that hardly matters now, does it? All that concerns me that when you go to retrieve the relic, that beast will be waiting there with his army!'

'His army?'

'Yes…err, didn't you know? He has many thousands of men under his command, camped outside the city of Neapolis. They only arrived two days ago, I believe…'

Sydney was silent as she processed the information. Kafka had an army! She knew he was a former General, but had truly believed he was now just a rogue trader, a pirate - a pest, but no real threat. Nigel read her consternation, and sighed.

'I had better go back empty-handed, then. I can't ask you to take such a risk for me, for my people.'

Sydney shook her head adamantly, and mustered a smile: 'No. I can handle him!'

'You'd face him for me?' queried Nigel, more incredulous than grateful.

'I might,' she replied enigmatically. 'But I'm afraid this prophecy is not just about a little kingdom that nobody has heard of on the edge of the known world - no offence.'

'None taken,' sniffed Nigel, ever so slightly affronted.

'Good, because there is another, greater prophecy, passed down from Gaia herself to the first of the Sybils on this island, that speaks of the messenger of Winter goddess - who, it seems, is you! And I'm afraid it tells that you and I hold in our palms the fates not of only your kingdom, but of this island and every dominion under the sun.'

Nigel stared at her. 'I…uh…oh!'

She grinned and rose, unable to resist brushing the side of his cheek with her thumb: 'Maybe that's enough for now, eh? You need to rest while you can, Nigel, because you and I are going on a little adventure…'

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