Ravens of Avalon: Avalon
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on which we stand . . . O spirits who dwell in this place, we ask your
blessing.”
“By the fire of life that illuminates the spirit; by the pool from
which we draw power, by the tree that links earth and heaven . . .”
Lugovalos held his torch high, “we call the Shining Ones to witness.”
Lhiannon moved forward. “By all the hopes borne on the wind; by
all the memories that lie within the pool; by present knowledge in the
fields we know; we call on the wisdom of our fathers and mothers who
have gone before.”
“Hear us! Bless us! Be with us now!” they cried as one. The stallion
pulled nervously at its tether and the startled gulls burst yammering into
the air.
The sky had brightened to a translucent pale blue. The sun was still
hidden behind the mountains on the mainland, but its coming was pro-
claimed by a growing radiance. Togodumnos picked up a long sword
and the light gleamed on its blade. The Druids taught that there were
two kinds of sacrifice: those that were shared to bind men and gods in
one community, and those that were broken and put beyond use by hu-
mankind. It was the second they meant to off er now.
“These weapons we won from our foes in battles between the tribes.
As I destroy this blade—” he set his heel upon the point of the sword
and leaned, and the metal groaned and gave, “—I end the enmity that
was between us. Gods of our people, accept this sacrifi ce!” The sword
wheeled outward as he released it, the distorted curve carving the pale
sky, and disappeared with a splash into the dark waters below.
Caratac snapped the shaft of a spear, then broke off the tip against a
stone. “Never more shall this spear drink Celtic blood! May the Lady of
Ravens accept the sacrifi ce!”
If only, thought Boudica, the hatreds between the tribes could be drowned
so easily! But perhaps the Roman threat would frighten them into setting
old enmities aside. One by one the kings came forward with swords and
spears, shields with bosses of bronze sculpted in graceful triple spirals,
pieces of horse harness, and fittings for the wicker chariots that were the
tribes’ most terrifying weapon in war. These were works of art as well as
use, a treasure that could have bought support from followers, but there
might be no followers if they did not have the favor of the gods. As the
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pile dwindled, Boudica fingered her dagger, wondering if she ought to
throw it in. But though she was of the blood of kings, she herself had
neither position nor power. What business did she have bothering the
gods, especially at this ritual?
Holy Ones, she thought then, if you will tell me what would please you, I
will do my best to make the sacrifice. She had a sudden sense of vertigo as if
the earth had shifted beneath her. For a moment she found it hard to
breathe. Boudica had always believed that the gods were listening, but
suddenly she knew that she had been heard, and shivered, wondering if
it had been wise to make so unconstrained an off ering.
And now the ripples from the last dented shield had stilled. A breath
of wind brought the scent of the fire that Bendigeid was tending. The
sky was bright now, and the jagged edges of the eastern horizon edged
in gold. Ardanos and Cunitor stripped off their white robes and laid
them aside, then went to the thorn tree and untied the stallion’s halter.
The Iceni were great lovers of horses. Boudica had missed not being
around them. This was a fine animal, whose shining coat and bright eye
proclaimed its good condition. But as she looked at the horse she sensed
something more. She had seen beasts in plenty slain for the table or as
offerings, but at this moment everything—the animal, the humans, the
dark waters beneath the cliff, seemed suddenly more real. No, she thought
then, the sacrifice makes everything more holy . . .
The beast skittered nervously as one of the ravens gave a hoarse cry.
This time no one made a joke about it. They could all feel that not only
the birds but the gods themselves were eager for the off ering.
As the two younger Druids held the horse, Mearan paced slowly
around him, shaping the air around his body with the branch of silver
bells. The stallion’s ears fl icked nervously, following the sound.
“The head of this horse is the dawn! His eye is the sun and his
breath is the wind,” Lugovalos sang. “His back is as broad as the bowl of
the sky. The sun rises in his forehead and sets in the crease between his
quarters.”
The deep rumble of the Arch-Druid’s voice seemed to vibrate in the
very earth. Was it his words or the blessing of the bells that made the air
around him glow? It was a song of transformation, the part becoming
the whole, the world of the fl esh off ered to the world of the spirit.
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The stallion jerked as a breath of wind made the torch flare. “This
horse is the earth and the stars of heaven. This horse is the steed that
journeys between the worlds. This horse is the off ering.”
Bendigeid offered Ardanos the sacrifical blade. Steel caught the
light as he reached to draw it across the animal’s throat and the stallion
neighed and surged upward, striking at the air. A flailing forefoot
caught Ardanos in the ribs and the knife flew glittering from his hand
and splashed into the pool. Lhiannon cried out and ran to Ardanos as
he fell.
The kings leaped aside as the horse dragged Cunitor across the
ground, but Prasutagos dodged the hooves and leaped forward, grab-
bing the halter and using his greater weight to hold the animal still.
“He’s had the wind knocked out of him,” said Lhiannon as Ardanos
gasped. She began to probe his torso with gentle fingers, but when she felt
down his ribs he screamed. “And broken some ribs,” she added. “Be still,
my dear. We must bind you up before you try to move.”
The stallion ceased to struggle as Prasutagos spoke to him, his voice
a gentle unceasing murmur like the wind. Only then, looking at the
others, did Boudica realize what a disastrous omen this must be.
She drew her knife and ripped at the bottom of her tunica, gritting
her teeth until the strong linen gave way and she could tear a strip from
the hem. “Use this,” she said, off ering it to Lhiannon.
“Cunitor, bring the horse back,” said Lugovalos. “We must com-
plete the ritual.”
“I will bring him,” said Prasutagos. “He senses your Druid’s fear.”
Well, that was no wonder, thought Boudica, seeing what had hap-
pened to Ardanos. But she could not help feeling a spurt of pride. The
Iceni were known for the training as well as the breeding of horses, and
Prasutagos was clearly a master.
The prince led the animal back to the edge. He stroked the satiny
neck, whispering into the pricked ear until the noble head drooped and
touched the animal’s knees until the horse knelt and rocked and lay
down.
Lugovalos took off the feathered headdress and rustling hide cloak
and laid them aside.
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“Take my dagger.” Caratac held out a shining blade. “It is newly
sharpened.”
“This horse is the offering . . .” the Arch-Druid said in a low voice.
Moving slowly, he came up on the animal’s other side and crouched,
holding the knife at his side until the last moment, and then, in a swift,
smooth motion, drawing it across the throat.
Blood gushed out in a shining stream. For a moment the horse did
not seem to realize what had happened. Then he jerked, but Prasutagos
had his weight on the animal’s neck, still murmuring, and presently the
great head drooped and the prince lowered it gently to the ground.
In the sudden light of the risen sun the world seemed turned to scar-
let as blood pooled beneath the white body and flowed in a red river
toward the edge of the cliff. Boudica blinked, seeing the shimmer of
energy that had surrounded the stallion move with it into the pool. But
it seemed to take a long time until the life force left entirely and there
was only a carcass lying there.
In silence Cunitor and the other men butchered the animal, taking
the heart and liver and carving off great chunks of flesh from the hind-
quarters. Boudica helped to work pieces of meat onto iron skewers and
suspend them above the fire. The head and legs were left attached to the
hide, which was dragged down to the waterside and suspended from a
post that had clearly been used for that purpose before. When they were
done, the guts were heaped beside the thorn tree and the rest of the car-
cass tipped into the pool.
The morning stillness was shattered by the triumphant cawing of
the ravens as they descended on their share of the feast. The hem of the
Arch-Druid’s gown was bloody and the front of Prasutagos’s tunic crim-
son where he had cradled the head of the horse as it died. Nausea warred
with hunger as the scent of roasting horsemeat filled the air.
Everything is food for something . . . thought Boudica. May my death be
as worthy when the time comes for me. But she was acutely aware that all those
who shared the feast not only off ered, but were part of the sacrifi ce.
F O U R
Helve did not want me to sit with you,” said Coventa. The folds of
Boudica’s fur-lined cloak were still sufficient to wrap both of them as
they waited for the midwinter feast to arrive. “But I don’t mind if she
blisters my ears tomorrow if this eve ning you will keep me warm!”
When the kings left Mona they had taken the summer with them,
and the winter that followed was turning out to be colder and wetter
than any since Boudica had come here, or perhaps it only seemed that
way because for every tribe that had agreed to join the alliance there
was one that refused the Arch-Druid’s call.
A ripple of music brought Boudica’s head around. At the end of the
fire pit, screens of laced hides kept drafts from the dining couches and
side tables where the senior Druids reigned. That new man, Brangenos,
had come in and was adjusting the strings on his crescent-shaped harp.
A bard of the Druid Order from Gallia, he had only recently reached
the haven of the isle. He was tall, and thin almost to the point of ema-
ciation, with a streak of white through his black hair. He was also a
much better harper than Ardanos, who had been the chief of their bards
until now. But even when he smiled one could see sorrow in his eyes.
As he finished tuning, there was a stir at the door. The Arch-Druid
was entering. In honor of the festival, over his white robe he wore a
thick fringed mantle woven of seven colors. After him came the senior
Druids, followed by Ardanos and Cunitor and the other younger priests.
Where, she wondered as they took their places at the head of the fi re pit,
were the priestesses?
At a nod from Lugovalos, Brangenos rose, the harp cradled in the
crook of his arm, and began to sing:
“The people cheered for the leader of war-bands
The king of the marching men called the tribes to war
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Now all the shouting is silent and the wind plays a harp of
bone.”
The harp gave forth a shimmer of sound as the Druid drew his fi n-
gers across the strings. He comes from the land of Vercingetorix, remembered
Boudica. At least the only Gaul who bested Caesar in battle is remembered
there.
Everywhere in the Celtic lands they knew the story of how
Vercingetorix had united the Gaulish tribes, using the hillforts and
the hills themselves as bases from which to attack Caesar’s legions.
But in the end the Roman imperator penned him up in Alesia and
starved him out.
“The high king came to the lord of the eagles
Laid down his arms to save his warriors
Nameless is his grave, and the wind plays a harp of bone.”
Once more sound sighed from the strings. Then the harp was still.
The Gaulish king had been dragged through the streets of Rome in
Caesar’s triumph and imprisoned for years in a hole in the ground before
the Romans killed him. This was certainly no very cheerful music for
the solstice. Why was it always the defeated who got the best songs?
While the bard was playing, Mearan had appeared. For a moment
Boudica was disappointed to have missed her entrance, for the High
Priestess usually took her meals in her own house, and her appearance at
the high festivals was attended by some ceremony. But even the ruddy
firelight could not disguise the fact that she was pale. Perhaps she had
taken advantage of the distraction to keep them from noticing that she
had to be assisted into her chair.
Helve, on the other hand, was blooming. The priestess had always
been pleasant to Boudica, but that was more because she knew that
Boudica was highborn than from any personal feeling. The girl had
seen that look on sons of kings who were eager to inherit their fathers’
honors. And she had seen them afterward, sometimes, when the choice
of the chieftains fell upon another man of the royal kin. She did not
think that Helve would deal well with disappointment, but she wondered
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how the rest of them were going to deal with Helve if her expectations
were fulfi lled.
The hides that covered the doorway were drawn aside once more
and the marvelous scent of roast boar fi lled the hall. Crowned with ivy
in honor of the season, old Elin led the pro cession. There were bowls of
porridge with dried fruit, platters of root vegetables, and baskets of sau-
sages and cheese. Two of the older boys bore between them a plank
from which chunks of pork sent white curls of steam into the air. Mouths
watered as the Arch-Druid lifted his hands and began to intone a bless-
> ing over the food.
Boudica drained her wooden ale cup and sat back with a sigh.
“That was good. This is the first time in days I have felt warm inside
and out.”
“Your cheeks are flushed from the ale,” observed Coventa. “Or is it
because Rianor is staring at you?”
“He is not—” Boudica looked up and saw that the boy had taken
her glance as an invitation and was coming toward them with two of his
friends.
“I think he likes you . . .” Coventa grinned, and squealed as Boudica
pinched her.
Rianor was no longer a boy, she realized suddenly. He had shot up
during the past months, and his chin bore a trace of dark beard. It was
just that compared to warriors such as those who had visited them last
summer he still seemed a child.
“Move over, maidens,” he grinned. “Or did you eat so much there’s
no room on the bench? It’s not fair that you should block all the heat
of that fi re.”
“Are you saying I’ve grown fat?” protested Boudica, but she was
already sliding over so that Rianor could squeeze in. She flushed a little
as he put his arm around her shoulders. His friend Albi tried to do the
same and missed, landing in the straw at their feet, where he was joined
by the other boys, playfully cuffing each other as her father’s hunting
dogs used to scuffle before they stretched out before the fi re.
In the pack there was an order—in the boy pack, too. Rianor was a
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leader. So was Cloto, but since the visit of the kings many of his former
followers were avoiding him.
“What did you think of our new bard?” Rianor asked.
“He has such sad eyes,” observed Coventa with a sigh.
“Well, his song was sad enough,” Albi agreed.
“Then we should learn from it,” Cloto said harshly. “You can’t fi ght
Rome. Vercingetorix tried, and died, and all those proud kings who
came here will die, too.”
“Caesar conquered Vercingetorix and Caesar is dead,” objected Ri-
anor. “This emperor they have now is not a warrior.”
“He does not have to be,” Cloto said grimly. “He has generals who
will do the work for him.”
“And so you think we should just lie down and let them?” exclaimed
Albi. As they grew louder, others began to turn. Boudica made a hush-
ing motion and for a moment everyone was still. When Cloto spoke