“Oh, Eëtíon, no, no!” she interrupted him in low voice. “Not my Lycophron! Not my Dryas!”
“Yes, it is true. I saw them start: Lycophron toward Thermopylæ and Dryas toward Athens. If it become known in Delphi it will mean the ruin of Nikander’s house. But your father will have to know in order to stop them. He would not believe me. But you he will believe because you are Pythia. Send for him at once, Theria, tell him to dispatch swift horsemen to save the oracle for Greece. I go now on instant business.”
He paused for a moment, gazing into her face. “Hera be thanked that I have seen thee. O thou peer of gods, thou sister of the dawn.”
He bent and kissed the edge of her sleeve. He dared no more. She was priestess of Apollo.
Then he was gone. Before she could answer or think of answer he was gone. He knew that to linger might likely be her death.
Theria’s thoughts whirled like a falling star.
She must send for her father. Yet her father could not have speech with her. Eëtíon did not know this, not being Delphian.
And even if Nikander could have speech, would Tuchè send for him? Tuchè refused regularly her every request. And Theria could not give reason for this request without betraying her brothers.
Meanwhile, Lycophron and Dryas were hastening to their doom and to the doom of Hellas. For Theria ardently believed now that the prayer to the winds would avail.