Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  enemy they cannot overcome. That is the way of the world.”

  “And you will be forgotten!” Helve said spitefully. “If you will not

  help us for our sakes, will you not do so for yours?”

  “Forgotten?” The Goddess shook Her head. “Names change, but

  so long as warriors hate and women weep, I will be here.” Her voice

  deepened. “Do you not yet understand? In the face of danger life burns

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  most brightly, and the tomb is the womb of life that springs anew. I am

  the Good God’s Cauldron. The only true death is to stand still.”

  Helve paled, and in that place that was not a place Boudica went as

  still as a mouse that knows itself to lie beneath the falcon’s eye. For a few

  moments Coventa’s regular breathing was the only sound.

  Then someone called Helve’s name from outside. The priestess

  blinked, her face smoothing into its accustomed proud calm, and rose.

  “Great Queen, I thank you for your counsel, but the time has come

  for you to return to the Otherworld.”

  The Morrigan lifted an eyebrow and the sense of something too

  huge for human comprehension dimmed. “ Will you not even off er Me

  a drink?” She said wryly. “I came uninvited, but I am sure you would

  not wish Me to report you lax in hospitality . . .”

  With one eye still on her guest, Helve went to the door of the hut

  and spoke, and presently brought back an earthenware beaker fi lled

  with the foaming dark beer that was old Elin’s special brew. Boudica felt

  Cathubodva’s appreciation of the nutty, full-fl avored fizz as in one long

  swallow it went down. She had a moment to wonder that an immortal

  could enjoy such a simple pleasure, but whatever the delights of the

  Otherworld, she supposed that even the gods were dependent on human

  senses to enjoy the taste of beer.

  Then the mug slipped from a suddenly nerveless hand. Boudica col-

  lapsed like an emptied wineskin as the goddess flowed out of her, con-

  sciousness following in a dark rush as she crumpled to the fl oor.

  Boudica came to herself, gasping. Helve stood over her, a dripping

  water bucket in her hands. Coventa was sitting up on the bed, staring at

  her with wide eyes.

  “Boudica, what happened to you?”

  Boudica swallowed, tasting beer, and flinched at the cold calculation

  in Helve’s eyes. “Did I faint?” she asked weakly. “Why am I sitting here?”

  Coventa never seemed to remember what went on in her trances.

  Whether Boudica was meant to recall what had passed she was not sure,

  but it was clear that she would be better off if Helve did not realize what

  she knew.

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  Boudica sped across the ripening summer grass, swinging the cum-

  man stick to keep the ball in play. But no crowd cheered her, no oppo-

  nent tried to stop her. In the past weeks so many of the students had left

  the school to return to their tribes that there were no longer enough

  students to make up two hurley teams. But the activity eased some of

  the restlessness that for the past several days had made sleep well nigh

  impossible, even though she played alone.

  It helped to imagine it was a Roman head she sent hurtling across

  the grass. She understood why the boys who left had gone. She even

  understood why Helve had insisted on making Coventa speak all her

  vision. How else could they know what was going on, stuck here at the

  edge of the world? Lhiannon was out there somewhere. She and Arda-

  nos were in danger—Helve had probably sent them to help Caratac be-

  cause of the danger. Certainly, the new High Priestess had been happy to

  get rid of the two who were most likely to dispute her will while the

  Arch-Druid was also away, attempting to persuade wavering chieftains

  that the Romans could be opposed.

  No doubt Helve would like to see the last of me as well, she thought, aim-

  ing a vicious kick at the ball. Or maybe not. She watches me as if she’s not

  sure whether she hopes the Morrigan will pay another visit, or fears She will . . .

  Boudica had spent most of her recent meditations armoring her spirit

  against another such violation, but she rather enjoyed keeping Helve

  wondering.

  As she sent the ball hurtling past the goal she heard Coventa calling

  her name.

  “Boudica, you must come!” The girl stopped to catch her breath.

  “Lady Helve wants you. There’s a messenger!”

  Lhiannon’s been hurt! she thought, but news of the priestess would go

  first to the senior Druids. Had something happened to her father? Had

  he been in the battles? But she was already running, leaving Coventa to

  pant after her.

  The day was warm, and Boudica found Helve sitting beneath the

  oak tree whose branches embraced the conical roof of her dwelling. She

  slid to a halt and straightened, waiting.

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  “A messenger has come—a man called Leucu. Do you know him?”

  Boudica nodded. “He has served my father since before I was born.”

  Her heart had been pounding from exercise; now it raced with anxiety.

  But she refused to give Helve the satisfaction of seeing her beg for news.

  “Your father bids you return home.”

  Boudica nodded, giving nothing away. She supposed Leucu was the

  perfect escort—familiar with the whole island and too old to threaten a

  princess’s virtue. Too old to stand with the warriors, she thought grimly,

  holding Helve’s pale glance with her own. Surprisingly, it was the priest-

  ess who spoke fi rst.

  “He tells me that the Romans are marching on Camulodunon. It

  would appear that Coventa . . . saw true,” the priestess said tightly. “The

  Iceni have decided to make submission.”

  “Surely he does not need me for that!” Boudica burst out in spite of

  her resolution. Unless there was someone he wished her to marry. She

  took a deep breath. “Do I have a choice in this?”

  Helve sighed. “You do,” she responded a little reluctantly. “You

  would have had to decide soon in any case whether you wished to stay

  with us or return to your home. I will tell you now that I do not see in

  you the potential to make a priestess, but you have some talents that

  might be useful,” she added obliquely, and Boudica suppressed a smile.

  “If you wish to stay, we will welcome you.”

  “How long do I have to decide?”

  “You may decide to go home with Leucu now, but I have also an-

  other message,” Helve added reluctantly, “from Lhiannon.”

  She was safe! Boudica tried not to show her joy at that realization.

  “As you know, it is the custom to send our maidens on retreat to

  Avalon before they take their place as women in our community. Lhi-

  annon asks that you go to meet her in the Summer Country. Ordinarily

  you would be sent with a group of priestesses, but in these times I can

  spare no one. Lhiannon will know what must be done.”

  I will not complain— of you all Lhiannon is the one whom I would choose,

  Boudica thought then.

  “Afterward you
will go to Camulodunon. When you have seen

  both, with the eyes of the woman instead of a child, you shall decide

  where your path lies.”

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  As Helve spoke, her voice had grown more resonant—for a moment

  she sounded almost like Lady Mearan—and by that Boudica understood

  that Helve was speaking as High Priestess in truth, despite what she

  might personally feel. And it was to the priestess, not the woman, that

  she bowed.

  “Lady, I thank you. I will go to Avalon.”

  Instead of the tedious journey by horseback that Boudica had ex-

  pected, the Druids found a trading ship heading south whose captain

  was willing to take her and Leucu down the west coast of Britannia to

  the wide estuary where the Sabrina met the sea. Still, her physical misery

  muted the sorrow of leaving the place that for four years had been her

  home, and by the time she was accustomed to the boat’s motion, the

  places they were passing were all new and strange.

  Now the boat turned eastward along the coast, where the moun-

  tains protected them from northern gales. From there it was two days’

  sail across the channel of the Sabrina to a coast of reeds and mudflats

  through which placid brown waters wound toward the sea.

  Boudica drew a sharp breath as the land wind brought her the rank,

  fecund scent of the marshes beyond.

  “Aye, it does stink, mistress,” said the captain, misinterpreting her

  reaction. “I’ll be glad to turn back to the clean breezes from the sea.”

  Boudica laughed. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I come from the Iceni

  country. It reminds me of the fens near my home.”

  “That’s as well, as you must journey that way to reach the holy isle.”

  He pointed vaguely eastward. Between the marshland and the sea she

  saw a cluster of huts on poles. Mist hazed whatever lay beyond the tan-

  gled trees. “We’ll find you a boatman in yon village. They’re an odd

  folk hereabouts, little dark people who have been here since this land

  was made, but they know their way through the marshes, and they’re

  loyal to the holy ones of Avalon.”

  Boudica continued to watch as they eased slowly shoreward, trying

  to decide whether the pointed shape she thought she saw was really the

  Tor about which she had heard so much, and wondering what she would

  fi nd there.

  S E V E N

  T he child has grown! thought Lhiannon, watching Boudica make her

  way up the path, pausing to stare at the pointed cone of the Tor. At her

  back, reed and thicket laced the shining expanses of the fen, islanded

  with green hills and fading away to the silver shimmer of the sea.

  Or perhaps she had simply forgotten just how impressive Boudica’s

  long-limbed stride and flaming hair could be. She moved like a young

  goddess as she climbed the hill. The girl was a welcome sight after all

  the horrors Lhiannon had seen. She had hoped that the two weeks she

  had spent on the Tor would bring healing, but her nerves still twitched

  at any sudden sound. Maybe Boudica’s robust cheerfulness would be a

  medicine.

  Lhiannon stepped from the shade of the wild apple trees that made

  a natural orchard on the hillside. A wide smile brightened Boudica’s

  face, newly freckled from the sea voyage, as she saw the priestess waiting

  there.

  Lhiannon gave her a swift hug. “Come, after two days in the marshes

  you must be hungry—I hope the boatman fed you something better

  than pond- lily bulbs and smoked eel.”

  “We ate smoked something,” answered Boudica. “Just what, I didn’t

  really care to ask . . .”

  The priestess laughed. “Has the boatman taken your father’s man to

  the Lake Village? He will be their guest until we are fi nished, although

  I can’t answer for what they will feed him. We have greens and barley

  cakes and some roasted duck for your dinner. The huts where we sleep

  are simple, but in this weather we need little more.”

  “Lhiannon, you are babbling,” said Boudica, peering down at her.

  “And you don’t look well . . . I know you were at the battles. Did you

  take some wound?”

  “Only to my spirit . . .” Lhiannon felt her mouth twist with grief,

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  started to turn away, then looked back again. How could she teach

  Boudica self-knowledge if she hid her own pain?

  But it was not until after they had eaten that the time seemed right for

  talking. Lhiannon cooked their simple meal over a fire outside the cluster

  of houses near the sacred spring where the priestesses stayed when they

  visited Avalon. A gentle hill partially hid the Tor beyond, but one was

  always aware of its presence. The only permanent residents were a few old

  Druid priests who spent their time in contemplation in scattered huts on

  the northern side of the isle.

  Lulled by the chuckle of the water that welled continually from the

  Blood Spring, they sat and watched the eve ning deepen around them.

  Mist was rising on the marshlands, lapping the lower vale in mystery,

  but the sky above the Tor blazed with stars. As the fire dimmed, Lhian-

  non began to speak, and in reliving the blood and anguish, she found

  that she could release it at last.

  “So King Togodumnos is dead?” said Boudica when she had done.

  Lhiannon nodded. “It was a hero’s death. Now he feasts in the Blessed

  Isles. The flower of the Trinovantes dwell there with him, and far too

  many of the Catuvellauni and Cantiaci as well. Caratac means to seek out

  King Tancoric in the west country and try to build an alliance there.”

  “Did you and Ardanos bury the king at Camulodunon?” Boudica

  asked softly after a while.

  Lhiannon nodded. “Eventually. That first night was a terror, run-

  ning and hiding and running again, wondering when the Roman scouts

  would find us. It was not until the third day that we dared halt long

  enough to burn the body. We carried the ashes to the gravefi elds just

  outside the dikes of Camulodunon and buried them near those of his fa-

  ther. It was a poor funeral, with no grave goods, but we left him his spear

  and his shield.” She looked up with a sigh. “How did you know?”

  “Coventa saw you—” Boudica stopped short, as if there were more

  that she would not say. Somewhere an owl gave three hoots and then

  was still.

  “That poor child . . . Helve will use her without mercy, as I suppose

  I should myself, if the choice had fallen on me.” She leaned forward to

  stir the fire. “In the days to come we will need every advantage.”

  “And what are the Romans doing now?”

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  “Waiting.” Lhiannon gave a mirthless laugh. “The Roman general

  has built a bridge across the Tamesa, and they say he is waiting for his

  emperor to cross it and complete our conquest.”

  “Can he do so?” A stray gleam of firelight blazed in Boudica’s hair.

  “My dear, in the southeast there is no one left to oppose him. Whe
ther

  we will stay conquered is the question.”

  Julius Caesar, after all, had come, proclaimed himself a conqueror,

  and gone away, and Britannia had been left alone for a century thereaf-

  ter. Wind whispered through the treetops, but if it was trying to answer

  her, she could not understand the words.

  “It’s getting late.” Lhiannon stood up suddenly and started toward

  the roundhouse. “We should get some sleep. Tomorrow I will show you

  the isle, and when the moon is new on the day after, we will do your

  initiation at the Blood Spring.”

  In the gray hour before dawn the air held a chill that reached the

  bone. Boudica supposed she ought to have expected that, having be-

  come accustomed to sunrise ceremonies on the Druids’ Isle, but some-

  how she had assumed that being farther south, Avalon would not be so

  cold. In the afternoon sunlight the holy isle had seemed a place of beauty

  and power. But as she followed Lhiannon’s cloaked shape toward the

  fold between the orchard hill and the Tor where the Blood Spring emerged,

  the dim shapes of tree and rock shifted around her with a protean ambi-

  guity, and she could not tell whether their new forms would be won-

  drous or terrible.

  I suppose that is the first lesson . . . she thought as she picked her way

  along the path. We all have the potential for both good and evil, and knowing

  that, we must choose . . .

  They came to a halt before a yew hedge. In the dim light she could

  make out a gap at its base. She turned to ask if this was the entrance, but

  the other woman had disappeared.

  “Boudica, daughter of Anaveistl, why have you come here?” came a

  voice from the other side of the hedge. Boudica blinked. Always before,

  she had been known as the child of her father, but they were concerned

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  with women’s business here. For the first time, she wondered how her

  mother had felt about becoming a woman. She would not have had this

  ceremony, but the passage into womanhood was always honored in the

  tribes.

  “I have been a child—I would be a woman. I have been ignorant—

  I would seek wisdom.”

  “Remove your garments. Naked you came into the world. Naked

  you must make the passage to be reborn . . .”