Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  again his voice was intense, but low.

  “We should welcome them, make treaties. They will have to treat

  us fairly if we are protected by their law.”

  “Like Veric,” said Boudica. Cloto shrugged. Everyone knew he was

  a cousin of the Atrebate king. Of course he would agree with him.

  “And when we are all as tame as the tribes of Gallia, what then?”

  whispered Rianor. “Our children will grow up speaking Latin and for-

  get our gods.”

  “I don’t think that is quite fair,” Albi said slowly. “I’ve heard that all

  the peoples of the Empire are free to worship their own gods so long as

  they also honor the gods of Rome.”

  “All except the Druids . . .” Coventa said suddenly. Her eyes had

  gone unfocused and she was trembling. “The Druids of Gallia who did

  not fl ee were killed.”

  Boudica gripped her arms and gave her a little shake, willing her to

  focus on the here and now. If she went into one of her fits they would

  have the priests down on them for sure. For a moment the younger girl

  sat rigid beneath her hands, then she relaxed with a sigh.

  “It’s true,” Rianor said then. “We Druids don’t have a choice. If the

  Romans rule Britannia, the people may survive, but they will no longer

  be Atrebates or Brigantes or Regni.” His voice rose. “By the gods, we of

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  the tribes love our freedom so much we will not even join together as

  Britons beneath one king! How can you think it would be better to be

  swallowed up by Rome?” He glared at Cloto and the other boy leaped

  to his feet, fists balled and ready.

  As Rianor surged upright to face him Ardanos appeared suddenly

  behind them, gripping each boy’s shoulder in a strong hand.

  “What are you thinking?” he hissed, his ginger hair appearing to

  stand on end. “Your quarrel profanes the festival! Thank the Goddess,

  the High Priestess and the Arch-Druid have departed already.”

  They gaped at him. How much had Ardanos overheard? Boudica

  knew that the Druids were having the same arguments as the young

  people they trained. But not, she had to admit, in front of the whole

  community at a festival.

  Ardanos let the boys go. “If you can fight, you can work! The feast

  is over. Get busy cleaning up the hall.”

  Are the gods many, or are there only two, or one?” Lugovalos

  leaned forward, his white beard glistening in the light of the spring day.

  Boudica rubbed her eyes and tried to pay attention. She had recently

  passed her sixteenth birthday, and her long limbs were finding a new

  harmony. She would so much rather have been chasing sheep or gather-

  ing spring greens for the pot, or any kind of labor if it let her move.

  “Lhiannon teaches us that all of those are true,” said Brenna with a

  grin for their mentor. “All the goddesses, all that we see as womanly and

  divine, we call the Goddess. But when we pray, She wears one face or

  another—Maiden or Mother or Wisewoman, or Brigantia or Cathu-

  bodva.”

  And none of them, thought Boudica, seem to want to talk to me.

  “All that is divine and male we call the God. We call on them as

  Lord and Lady at Beltane . . .” Brenna blushed. She had just returned

  from her womanhood ceremonies on the Isle of Avalon and was making

  sure everyone knew that she planned to seek a lover at the Beltane

  fi res.

  “Your teacher has taught you well,” said the Arch-Druid. Lhiannon

  bowed her head, but she did not look as if the praise had made her very

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  happy. Or perhaps it was the reference to Beltane. Would she go to meet

  Ardanos this year?

  “So,” said Lugovalos, “you understand that the gods are both one

  and many. We honor the One, but there are few indeed who can bear

  the touch of that power.” For a moment he paused, his upturned face

  illuminated, and Boudica was abruptly certain that he was one who had

  been in the presence of the Source of All. Then he smiled and turned to

  them again.

  “Perhaps we know more while we are between lives, but as long as

  we are in human bodies with human senses, it is to the many that we

  make our prayers and our off erings.”

  Rianor raised his hand. “My lord, which god should we be praying

  to now, when we face war?”

  “How do you name that power in your own land?”

  “The Trinovantes offer to Camulos,” came the proud answer.

  “Camulodunon is the war god’s dun.”

  Boudica nodded, remembering the stately circle of oaks in the meadow

  to the north of the dun. It housed a slab of stone where the god had been

  carved standing between two trees, wearing an oak-leaf crown.

  Other students were offering additional names—red Cocidios in the

  north, Teutates among the Catuvellauni, and Lenos of the Silures. The

  Belgae sacrificed to Olloudios and the Brigantes to Belutacadros. Among

  her own people, Coroticos was the name they called when they went to

  war, but like many among the tribes, it was a goddess, Andraste, to

  whom they prayed for the battle fervor that would bring victory.

  “When the tribes join together, which god or goddess should lead

  them?” Bendeigid asked.

  “I will ask you a question,” the Arch-Druid replied. “What is the

  diff erence between an army and a warrior?”

  “A warrior is one man and an army is many,” the boy replied. He

  was not the only one to look confused.

  “But the army is more than a collection of fighters. When you say

  ‘a Druid,’ you could mean me, or Cunitor, or Mearan. But when you

  say ‘the Druids,’ you are talking about a greater entity that includes all

  of our powers and our traditions.”

  “People are like that, too,” said Coventa suddenly. “A woman can

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  be a daughter, and a mother, and a priestess, but people talk to you as

  only one of those things at a time.”

  The Arch-Druid nodded. “An army is also more than the sum of its

  warriors. It has a spirit, a mind of its own. And so it is with the gods.

  When the fighters in an army call the war god by different names they

  call into being a greater power that includes them all.”

  “Not all of them . . .” someone said quietly. Ardanos was standing at

  the edge of the circle, looking grave. “The god of the Atrebates will not

  fi ght with us. Caratac has driven Veric from his land.”

  For a moment silence held them all. The news was not unexpected,

  but to hear it suddenly, and in this context, was startling, as if by talking

  about the god of war they had summoned him. In the faces around her

  Boudica could see the shock of that awareness.

  “Curse you all!” Cloto jumped to his feet, glaring around him.

  “And you most of all!” He spat at the Arch-Druid’s feet. “The Catuvel-

  launi have always lusted after our lands, but without your support they

  would not have dared to take them!”

  Cunitor laid a hand on th
e boy’s arm. “Come, Cloto, here we are no

  longer Atrebate or Trinovante, but Druids. Lugovalos has done what he

  thought best for the whole of Britannia.”

  “He has brought doom on our people!” Cloto wrenched his arm

  from Cunitor’s grasp and stood with clenched fists, defying them all.

  Lugovalos could have immobilized him with a word, but the Arch-

  Druid only gazed at the boy, sorrow in his eyes.

  “You think you are so wise!” Cloto spat. “Do you not see that you

  will bring upon us the very thing you fear? Caratac has driven Veric

  into the arms of the Romans. Their treaty requires them to help him,

  and this will be all the excuse they need!”

  “But Helve saw them invading,” said Coventa, holding out her

  hands in appeal. “Don’t you understand that to unite against them is our

  only chance to survive?”

  For a moment they stared with locked gaze, the furious boy and the

  fey girl. Who had the right of it? Was fate fixed, as it had been in the

  stories Cunobelin’s old Greek slave used to tell?

  “Curse you! I curse you all!” Cloto screamed. “When this island

  runs with blood you will remember, and wish you had lis—”

  52 D i ana L . Pax s on

  And now, at last, Lugovalos lifted his hand, and though the boy’s

  lips continued to move, no sound came. In the sudden silence someone

  giggled nervously, then gulped and was still.

  “Enough,” the Arch-Druid said. “If you will not stand with us, you

  are no longer one of our company. You will gather your things and go

  to the landing. A boat will be waiting for you there.”

  Speechless, they watched Cloto stalk away. Lugovalos had silenced

  him, but even the Arch-Druid could not wipe those words from every-

  one’s memory. What if Cloto was right? Was it better to fi ght for the

  right reason, even if you failed, or to surrender for the sake of safety?

  The Druids had no choice. And if they were doomed, at least the bards

  could sing about how valiantly they had tried.

  That summer brought rumors of war on every wind. Some said that

  King Veric had been killed, others, that he had fled across the sea to

  hold the emperor to their treaty and would return with a Roman army

  to win back his land. If so, thought Lhiannon grimly, Lugovalos’s eff orts

  to create a defensive alliance were creating an excuse for the attack the

  Britons feared. But as spring gave way to summer, she found it hard to

  care, for Lady Mearan was dying.

  As Lhiannon came up the path to the roundhouse where the High

  Priestess lived she saw Boudica push through the cloth that hung across

  the door, a wooden basin in her arms.

  “How is she?”

  “The Lady has kept nothing down today,” Boudica exclaimed. “She

  has grown so thin, Lhiannon! I think that only the strength of her spirit

  is keeping her alive!”

  “She always had courage,” murmured the priestess.

  “I saw King Cunobelin die. He drifted between sleep and waking

  until finally he woke no more. But Mearan is awake. Is there nothing

  you can do for her, Lhiannon?”

  “If she cannot take the infusions, we cannot help her with medicines,

  but I may be able to help her detach her mind from the body’s pain.”

  Boudica nodded and carried the bowl off to empty it. Lhiannon

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  took a last breath of the hay-scented air and went inside. As she noted

  the waxy pallor of Mearan’s skin, she had a sinking feeling that the

  battle being waged here was one that they were going to lose.

  “My lady, how fare you? Are you in pain?” she asked softly, kneel-

  ing beside Coventa at Mearan’s side.

  Slowly the bruised eyelids opened. “Not now. I feel . . . light . . .”

  And well she might, thought Lhiannon. It seemed to her that the

  strong bones of the older woman’s face poked through the skin even

  more sharply than they had the day before.

  “I think that soon I will float away.” Mearan paused, then drew

  breath again. “It is not by my will that I leave you, but some good may

  come from this. Between the worlds, I can see . . .”

  “You must not tire yourself.” Lhiannon heard herself say the deny-

  ing words even as she realized that Mearan was right. It was said that the

  final vision of an adept had great power.

  “You must not delude yourself . . .” The High Priestess echoed wryly.

  “I know that I am dying.”

  Lhiannon sat back on her heels as Boudica came in with the emptied

  bowl and a pitcher.

  “My lady, here is cool water from the sacred spring,” said the girl. “It

  will ease you.” Lhiannon helped the sick woman to sit upright so that she

  could drink and then laid her back upon the pillows once more.

  “Thank you . . .” Mearan closed her eyes. For a few moments her

  labored breathing was the only sound. “Hear me. This morning I lay in

  a waking dream . . .” she said. Lhiannon straightened, attention nar-

  rowing to the focus in which all she heard would be remembered, as she

  had been trained to do.

  “I saw you, Lhiannon—only you were old. Older, I think, than I

  will ever be.”

  “Is that who it was!” exclaimed Coventa. She flushed as she caught

  Lhiannon’s disapproving glare. “I know I should not, mistress, but truly

  I could not help it. I was half asleep, and sitting right beside her, so I

  saw . . .”

  Lhiannon sighed. If the child picked up the visions of a seeress in the

  chair, it was no surprise that she should share Mearan’s visions now. For

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  her own good, Coventa should be given other duties, but if Lhiannon

  suggested it, Helve would no doubt disagree.

  “Never mind, child,” she murmured. “Lady—what else did you see?

  “You were in a house surrounded by forest, some place I have never

  been. You wore the ornaments of a high priestess.” Eyes still closed, she

  smiled.

  Lhiannon stiffened in shock, looking at the two girls to see if they

  had heard. “Mearan,” she whispered, “what do you mean? Am I to be

  High Priestess after you?” It was the privilege of the High Priestess to

  choose her successor, though the Druids could decide whether to accept

  that choice. And Helve had been so sure . . .

  “High Priestess . . .” the sick woman’s voice strengthened. “Yes . . . that

  you will be, but not now, my daughter. And not here . . .” She coughed.

  “Between that time and this there is a void. There is something there—

  fire—blood . . .” Her head rolled fretfully on the pillow. “I cannot

  see . . .” she moaned. “I have to see!” The words were cut off as she

  retched into the bowl that Boudica held.

  “Mearan! Drink this! Don’t try to talk,

  dear—I don’t need to

  know!”

  “To know . . .” The sick woman gasped. For a few moments her

  labored breathing was the only sound in the room. “Not here . . .” she

  whispered at last. “Take me to the Sacred Grove. There . . . I will see.”

  Lhianno
n eased the priestess back on the pillow where she lay with eyes

  closed, breathing carefully. She did not speak again.

  Mearan died just after the Feast of Lughnasa, having delivered

  with her dying breath a prophecy whose details only the senior priest-

  hood knew. But when her body was released to the fire, it was Helve

  who presided as High Priestess, not Lhiannon. Boudica recalled only

  too clearly Mearan’s hoarse whisper when she spoke of seeing Lhiannon

  with the ornaments of the High Priestess on her brow. None of the stu-

  dents had been present at Mearan’s final ritual, but through the autumn

  and winter that followed, the school had been full of wild rumors about

  what the dying woman had said. Had she changed her mind, or had the

  se nior Druids refused her selection for some reason of their own?

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  Tonight those questions seemed trivial. Winter had given way to a

  stormy spring, and across the narrow sea Roman armies were gathering.

  Caratac and the Cantiaci were preparing to resist their landing, but Helve

  had sworn that they should not come at all and summoned Druids and

  students alike to join their powers in ritual.

  As darkness fell the wind that whipped the flames of the torches felt

  as if had come directly from the peaks of the mountains across the

  strait, where snow clung still. Helve stood as High Priestess before the

  altar, dark robes falling away like black wings as she lifted her arms. On

  her wrists golden bracelets gleamed in the torchlight; a golden torque

  weighted her neck. Had those ornaments belonged to Mearan? Boudica

  could not remember if she had seen the old High Priestess wear them.

  When Mearan led the rites you remembered what she was, not what she

  wore . . .

  The new High Priestess had settled into her role with less disturbance

  than some might have expected, or perhaps it was only that she spent

  much of her time with the senior Druids in conference and they saw little

  of her. But she was like a high-bred mare that Boudica’s father had once

  owned, strong and beautiful and as likely to bite as to bear you.

  Lhiannon had been given the title of Mistress of the House of Maid-

  ens, and now, as if even that much recognition was a threat to her, Helve

  had assigned her rival to go with Ardanos and the other Druids who