Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

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Ravens of Avalon: Avalon Page 6

by Marion Zimmer Bradley


  royal household, was an obvious choice to bear around the drinking

  bowl. She was not sure whether or not to consider it a privilege, but at

  least her duties were clear.

  “If doom was certain do you think I would have called you here?”

  34

  D i ana L . Pax s on

  the Arch-Druid replied. “What we foresee is what might be if matters

  continue as they have begun. But fate is like a river, constantly chang-

  ing. The addition of a new stream can turn it to a flood; a pebble—or

  six—” he surveyed the men before him with a wry smile, “—can alter

  the flow. We are not foredoomed, but forewarned.”

  “The easiest way to avoid bloodshed would be to welcome the

  Romans when they come,” observed Tancoric of the Durotriges. His

  lands, Boudica recalled, included the Summer Country and the Isle of

  Avalon.

  “If we make treaties,” he went on, “they will not need to conquer

  us. Let the emperor call us client- kings. He will be in Rome and we

  will be here, enjoying the benefi ts of Roman trade.”

  “And paying Roman taxes, and sending our warriors to the ends of

  the earth to fi ght his wars,” snapped Caratac.

  “Roman trade may be as great a danger as Roman armies,” King

  Togodumnos said slowly. “My father kept his freedom, but by the time

  he died he was more Roman than Catuvellauni. I, too, have grown ac-

  customed to their luxuries, but I am beginning to fear them. If we con-

  tinue to trade with them we will still change, but slowly. If they rule us,

  the next generation of Britons will be speaking Latin and making their

  off erings to the Roman gods.”

  And the Druids and their wisdom will be gone from this land . . . thought

  Boudica.

  “If we do choose to fight, do you truly think that we can win?”

  King Maglorios of the Belgae said then. He was an older man, going

  bald now but still strong, whose lands lay between those of the Du-

  rotriges and the Atrebates. He gestured and Boudica came forward to

  offer him the drinking bowl with the elegance she had learned in Cu-

  nobelin’s hall. He gave her an appreciative look, and she dodged a more-

  than-appreciative pat as she took the bowl back to fill it again.

  “If you join together,” answered the High Priestess, “I believe you

  can make them retreat, just as Caesar, despite his boasts of conquest, did

  a hundred years ago.” She looked tired. Boudica had heard that when

  the Druids had performed a second, private ritual, Mearan had seen

  even more bloodshed than Helve.

  “I will gladly clasp hands with all those who are here,” said Tancoric,

  M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N

  35

  “but what about those who are not? I notice that the Regni refused your

  invitation.”

  “There may be more than one reason for that,” said Mearan.

  “Perhaps they heard that the sons of Cunobelin were going to be

  here,” said Maglorios, and the others laughed. The Regni lands were

  bordered on the north by the territory ruled by Togodumnos and on the

  east by the Cantiaci country, where Caratac was now king.

  “And perhaps the Atrebates heard that you would be here!” retorted

  Togodumnos. “They are your neighbors, after all.”

  The Arch-Druid shook his head. “I did not invite them. King Veric

  has a treaty with the Romans. He sent his grandson Cogidumnus to be

  fostered by the emperor, and would not dare to turn against them even

  if he desired.”

  “The Isle of Vectis has a tempting harbor. The Romans could march

  straight up the middle of Britannia through the Atrebate lands. We will

  have to do something about Veric . . .” Caratac said slowly. He looked at

  his brother and Boudica shivered. Cunobelin’s sons had inherited his

  ambition to unite Britannia. The threat of Roman conquest might be

  what they needed in order to succeed.

  “And will the men of art fight with us?” came a new voice. The

  others turned as Prince Prasutagos leaned forward. He had not spoken

  often in this council, but when he did, men listened to his words.

  “Indeed,” said the Arch-Druid with a wintry smile. “The Ro-

  mans will not give us the option of surrender. Our magic is perhaps

  not all that legend makes it, but we have some power over wind and

  weather, and the reading of omens. We shall send our most talented

  priests and priestesses to march with you when the time for battle

  comes.”

  The prince nodded, and Boudica came forward to offer him the

  drinking bowl. When he looked up to take it, there was sadness behind

  his smile. The servants said that the prince had recently lost his wife in

  childbirth. It was too bad. He had a good face, and she thought he

  would have made a kindly father to little ones.

  “Then I hope your seers can tell us when the invasion will come. It

  will be hard to gather an army, and even harder to keep it together,” said

  King Maglorios.

  36 D i ana L . Pax s on

  Boudica carried the drinking bowl around the circle, and the dis-

  cussion of warriors and supplies and strategies went on.

  Much as Lhiannon loved Lys Deru, at times its atmosphere of fo-

  cused dedication could become constricting, especially now, when the

  presence of the royal strangers reminded them so forcibly that there was

  another world beyond the Druids’ Isle. She had been honored to accom-

  pany the kings to make their offerings at the Lake of Little Stones, although

  she was still not certain whether Mearan wanted her assistance as a priestess

  or as a chaperone for Boudica, who was striding along ahead of her.

  They had started that morning, passing through patches of wood-

  land and shorn fields where crows seeking fallen grains amid the stubble

  flew up in raucous alarm. It had been a bounteous harvest indeed, and in

  coming seasons the grain that filled the storage pits might be needed to

  feed people whose fi elds were trampled by war.

  But Mona’s fields, though rich, did not cover the whole island. A

  few miles inland, the fertile ground on the eastern side gave way to a

  swath of marshland that ran from the southern shore halfway across the

  island. As Lhiannon took a deep breath of air rich with the scent of veg-

  etation and a hint of the sea, the swoop of a gull drew her gaze across

  the marshes. Something was moving among the reedbeds. She recog-

  nized the stately stalk of a heron, gray feathers sheened with blue in the

  sun. A flotilla of ducks and terns moved into view on the open water

  that gleamed beyond, feathered rumps pointing skyward as they dove.

  Humans were not the only ones to find a good harvest here. The wind

  tugged at her veil and she unpinned it, letting her fine hair fly free as

  Boudica’s. Tonight both would have a mass of tangles, but they could

  help each other with the snarls.

  From ahead came the deep rumbling of male laughter where the

  kings marched together. After them came the Arch-Druid, flanked by

  Ardanos and Cunitor, with young Bendeigid leading the gentle mare

  that carried Mearan.
The High Priestess was the only one of them who

  was riding. These days the pain in her hip made walking diffi

  cult. Lhi-

  annon suspected other ills that the older woman hid, but none of them

  dared to question her.

  M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N

  37

  As Lhiannon watched, Ardanos dropped back to speak to Mearan.

  She shook her head and he looked up with a worried frown that

  wrenched Lhiannon’s heart. Oh my dear, of course she is in pain, but she will

  never admit it to you . . . But she loved him for trying. Since the aborted

  tryst at the Beltane fires there had been a constraint between them. He

  said he understood why she had not come, but she saw the hurt in his

  eyes and did not dare try to heal it until she was certain she understood

  what the Goddess wanted of her.

  From behind she could hear an irregular clop of hooves and a jin-

  gling of harness from the ponies that carried the offerings. The island

  had few roads fit for wagons, and there were places where even laden

  horses could not go. It was a roundabout way that would take them to

  the sacrificial pool, but on such a fine, sunny day, Lhiannon found it

  hard to care.

  Just past noon they crossed the stream that fed the marsh and turned

  westward. Thick woodlands shrank to tangles of gorse that clung to

  scattered outcrops of gray stone, and reed-edged rivulets drained the

  land. As the day drew on, Lhiannon began to wish that she had spent

  more time in physical activity and less in meditation. She glared at

  Boudica, envying the girl’s limber, easy stride. Her back ached and her

  feet were sore.

  They halted at last in a hollow where a standing stone marked a nar-

  row path turning off from the road. The sun was disappearing behind

  the gray mass of the holy mountain ahead of them, but to their left the

  ground fell away toward the sea. Nearer still a small lake refl ected a

  translucent sky.

  “Sit, child,” said Lhiannon, waving at Boudica, who had climbed

  the outcrop to get a better view. “It makes me tired to watch you.” Lhi-

  annon eased back against a boulder and stretched out her legs with a sigh

  as the girl slid down again.

  “Is that the sacred pool?” she asked, pointing down the hill.

  “That is the pool we call the Mother,” answered Lhiannon. “The

  Daughter lies farther along, protected from casual view. We will seek

  her fasting, at dawn.”

  “But we’ll eat tonight, won’t we?” asked Bendeigid, who had wan-

  dered over to join them. Ardanos and Cunitor were helping Mearan off

  38 D i ana L . Pax s on

  the horse and leading her to a seat covered with folded cloaks. Though

  she smiled in thanks, she looked pale.

  “If it were up to Lugovalos, we would not,” Lhiannon answered,

  “but even the Arch-Druid will not require such self-denial of kings.

  Console yourself with the thought of the meat we’ll feast on tomorrow.

  If we are to get any dinner at all this eve ning we had best get busy now.”

  She levered herself to her feet and hobbled over to the fi repit.

  Some of the men had already set up tall fi re-dogs of wrought iron to

  suspend the riveted bronze cauldron and gotten a fire going beneath it.

  Lhiannon stood over the cauldron, waiting for curls of steam to rise

  from the water. When she saw them, she dropped in the bag of barley.

  Boudica balanced a board across two stones and began to chop greens.

  The long summer day was fading to twilight in ever more delicate

  shades of rose and gold. The bubbling of the cauldron blended into an

  eve ning hush that muted even the voices of the men. Three ravens came

  flying from the direction of the holy island, their elegant shapes sharply

  defined against the luminous sky.

  “Sorry, brothers—we’ve nothing for you this time,” called King

  Tancoric. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll feed you well.”

  “And when the Romans come, we’ll make you a truly worthy of-

  fering,” added Caratac. A burst of laughter echoed his words.

  The ravens circled the campsite as if they were listening. Lhiannon

  shivered as with a last harsh cry they sped away.

  “Are you cold? I could fetch a cloak,” said Boudica.

  The priestess shook her head and gave another stir to the cauldron.

  “It was the birds,” she explained. “We call the gods for blessings, but

  they can be terrible, especially Cathubodva the Battle Raven, whose

  birds those are . . .”

  “What did he mean by a worthy off ering?” asked Bendi.

  “He means corpses,” said Ardanos, joining them. “After a battle, the

  wolves and the ravens feast on the dead. You know what the oakwood

  looks like in the fall when acorns cover the ground? The acorns are the

  mast that the pigs eat, but they say that on a battlefield the severed heads

  of the fallen lie like acorns, and they call them the ‘mast of the Morri-

  gan,’ the Great Queen whom we also call Cathubodva . . .”

  M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N

  39

  He turned to Lhiannon. “The High Priestess is chilled. Is there

  anything I can give her?”

  “Hand me that cup—the barley is not yet tender, but enough of its

  essence has gone into the water to do her some good.” Lhiannon ladled

  broth into the cup and dropped in a pinch of salt. “Here, Bendi.” She

  turned to the boy. “You are learning to be a healer. Sometimes food is

  medicine, too. Take that to the Lady, and when she has finished it, ask if

  she wants more.”

  “Does the Morrigan enjoy the bloodshed?” asked Boudica when he

  had gone.

  “She weeps . . .” Lhiannon said softly. “The night before a battle she

  walks the field and shrieks in despair. She waits at the ford and washes

  the bloody clothing of the doomed. She begs them to turn back, but

  they never do.”

  “And then, when battle is joined,” Ardanos added grimly, “she

  grants the madness that gives the warriors the strength of heroes, and

  allows them to do deeds that no man could face in cold blood. And so

  kings sacrifi ce to her for victory.”

  “Is she good or evil?” asked Boudica.

  “Both,” Lhiannon said with an attempt at a smile. “When she makes

  love with the Good God at the river she brings life to the land. He bal-

  ances her destruction and makes her smile once more.”

  “Look at it this way,” said Ardanos. “Is a storm good or ill?”

  “I suppose it is good when it brings the rain we need and bad when

  a flood washes away our homes.”

  “We do not always know why the rain falls,” added Ardanos, “or why

  the gods do what they do. Folk call the Druids wise, but you must realize

  by now that we should be called the people who seek wisdom. We study

  the visible world around us and we reach out to the invisible world within.

  When we truly understand them we become like the gods, able to com-

  mand their powers because we move within their harmony.”

  This is what I love in him, thought Lhiannon, not only the touch of his

 
hand but the touch of his soul.

  And as if he had felt her thought, Ardanos looked back at her, and

  the breach between them was healed.

  40 D i ana L . Pax s on

  It was the gray hour just before the dawning. They rose in silence,

  the white robes of the Druids ghostly in the gloom. Even the kings

  moved quietly as they loaded the offerings onto the horses. Boudica

  rubbed sleep from her eyes and wrapped her cloak more tightly around

  her shoulders, wincing as the movement jarred muscles she had not

  known were sore. Then, with the others, she followed the Arch-Druid

  down the path. In the dim light, the shape of his goosefeather headdress

  and the stiff folds of his horsehide cape loomed as contorted as the stone

  outcrops that crouched like monstrous guardians against the brighten-

  ing sky. A torch flamed in his hand.

  Behind him came the High Priestess, supported by Ardanos and

  Lhiannon, her frail form swathed in dark draperies from which an oc-

  casional glint of silver gleamed. With each movement came a faint

  shimmer of sound from the silver bells tied to the branch in her

  hand.

  As they left the campsite, a harsh call split the silence. The ravens

  were back again, wheeling above like shards of night.

  They remember the feast the kings promised them, thought Boudica. Sud-

  denly the shapes of rock and tree seemed insubstantial, as if they were

  only a veil that at any moment might be drawn aside to reveal some

  more luminous reality, and she understood why the sacrifice had to take

  place at this liminal hour between night and day.

  Halfway down the slope the ground leveled. She could not see what

  lay beyond it. The kings unloaded the horses, then took them back up

  the hill, except for the last one, a white stallion that had borne no burden

  but its own gleaming hide. Him, they tethered to the thorn tree that

  grew at the edge of the overhang. In the gloom she could just make out

  three dark shapes among the branches. The ravens. Waiting . . .

  The High Priestess and Lhiannon stepped forward to face the Arch-

  Druid at the edge of the cliff. Below it, the waters gleamed black and so

  still that the surface was etched with smooth spirals by the passage of the

  gulls that fl oated there.

  “By heaven that gives us life and breath,” sang Mearan. “By the wa-

  ters in whose movement all things grow and change; by the solid earth

 

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