Nikander pushed through the crowd and stood with his back to the closed door.
“You may not take her,” he said. “She is dying. She would die before she reached the tripod.”
“She might not. You know very well, Nikander, that on the edge of death the Pythia often prophesies best.”
Timon took Nikander’s arm.
“I am sorry, cousin,” he said, “but you know that what Kobon says is true. This is no time for a man to think of his own household. She might save the very shrine.”
“She cannot save it,” said Nikander stubbornly. “She has not spoken for four days. She is beyond all speech. Aristonikè is not so ill as she.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to decide what he might and might not tell. “My daughter has no gift of ecstasy,” he ventured. “No oracles come to her at all.”
“Nikander, what lies! You know the very best of the oracles have been through her.”
“Aristonikè,” broke in another priest; “Aristonikè prophesies nothing but ill.”