She was standing in a field of short flowers and grass. The flowers grew on mounded plants that barely passed her ankle, golden-centred ruffles of white and red combined. Bees flew from flower to flower in a pattern that seemed to go with a tune she could hear in the back of her ear. Sometimes the flower stalks moved to the bee so as to keep the rhythm. The bees were important, but she didn’t remember why.
“You haven’t forgotten why bees are important,” said a whisper through the music, “you haven’t been told that yet.”
Wolf cubs, all of an age but not the one litter, rolled across the grass in a mock fight and tug-of-war. A breeze raced across their small bodies, ruffling their fur as if someone were tickling them, and then twisted itself around her head with a laugh that she half recognized before racing off across the field to-
Katinka woke with a start. It was still night, mid watch, but she was wide awake now in the aftermath of a god dream. Some priestesses had them often. Not Katinka. From what she remembered of the few she’d had, this one had been unusually light hearted.
Tarrascotti had the watch and she was vaguely disappointed to find Sofia, her Keviran co-wife, awake and sitting beside him. His third wife, Ellabetta, was still asleep in her bedroll. If she envied the other two anything, it was their ability to sit with their husband and immediately feel domestic. She hadn’t the knack of it herself and he always seemed more reserved with her, as if he were afraid she might bite.
She could, of course. Sharptooth’s warrior priestesses would use teeth to rend flesh if combat were needed and they had no other weapons.
“Can’t sleep?” Sofia smiled at her from the other side of the fire.
“Or did something wake you?” Their drui husband respected her wildcraft skills, his own were good enough to make her wonder how often the old man had lived rough, and now he was scanning their surrounds and testing the warding he’d put round their camp.
“I had a dream,” she confessed, “that’s all. A happy dream. With bees, flowers, wolf cubs and one of Sharptooth’s dream forms.”
“Bees,” said Sofia, leaning forward in interest, “are one of Kevira’s dream forms. If they’re feeding from flowers that’s a sign she’s pleased. Wolf cubs don’t mean anything I know of. Have you done something the rest of us should know about?”
“I don’t think so.”