Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  them. Temella could take care of them now.

  Boudica squinted at the sky, too accustomed to the bastions of gray

  cloud covering the heavens to notice their beauty. A little yellow edged

  them in the west. The light should last long enough for her to get home.

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  If not, she had been over this ground so often in the past few days she

  could hardly miss the way. She tucked the wooden bowl in which she

  had brought the soup under her arm and began to pick her way down

  the path.

  It was slow work, for the puddles had grown deeper. A change in

  the wind sent a fine mist into her eyes and she swore, but in the past

  weeks she had grown accustomed to the damp. A little more would do

  her no harm. This would have been easier, she thought as she slipped in

  the mud, if she had brought a staff. But on the way over she had needed

  both hands for the bowl. The ache in her back was increasing, which

  surprised her, since usually it was eased by exercise.

  Boudica blinked and pulled the cloak over her head as the rain got

  harder. Its oil-rich wool would repel most moisture, and even damp it

  was warm. Water sloshed around her ankles and she stumbled. The path

  here bordered what in normal times was a small stream. The water was

  edging across the pathway now. Perhaps she should have stayed in the

  cottage, but the ways back and forward were equally dangerous now.

  A new gust rocked her, she took another step, felt the ground give

  way, and sat down hard. When she levered herself up her skirts were

  sopping, and it was only gradually that she realized that the warm water

  soaking her shift was not from the rain. She stopped, wincing as her

  belly contracted with a sudden sharp pang. She was only seven months

  along—this was too soon!

  Boudica took a few steps further and stopped again. The rising wa-

  ter had obscured all trace of the path. Without light, she could easily be

  swept away by the stream. But higher ground loomed dimly ahead. She

  splashed toward it, halting when the pangs came, and clambered to the

  top on her hands and knees. As her heartbeat slowed she looked around

  her and realized where she was.

  Long ago the people who built the dun had buried one of their chief-

  tains here. Although his name was forgotten, the folk of Eponadunon

  brought him offerings on Samhain Eve. Surely the ancient spirit would

  not grudge her this refuge until Prasutagos came to rescue her. First

  babies always took a while—every old wife who had tried to frighten

  her with tales of bad birthings during her pregnancy had agreed. She still

  had time . . .

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  But as the birth pangs came more quickly Boudica remembered that

  the king had ridden out to one of the outlying farms that morning. In

  such weather he would no doubt stay the night where he was, and it was

  only too likely that Nessa and the rest would assume that she had done

  so as well. A moan burst through clenched teeth as she realized that

  nobody was going to come.

  And the old wives were wrong about how long it would take, at

  least when a baby came too soon. And she had been wrong to think she

  could walk in all weathers with no escort. It was all going wrong! She

  crouched on hands and knees as the contractions racked her body,

  screaming out her outrage and pain.

  I want Lhiannon, her spirit wailed, but each pain yanked her back

  into her body again. If I had stayed on Mona this would not be happening . . . If

  the Romans had not come . . . She fought for focus. “If ” would not help

  her. She would have to get through this alone.

  When the pains gave her a moment of respite Boudica cut two

  strips from her shift with her dagger and laid them ready. When she felt

  the contractions begin to change she got the bulk of the cloak under-

  neath her and squatted, weeping as her belly contorted again and again.

  She caught the red, wriggling thing that was expelled at last and man-

  aged to cut and tie the birth cord. It was a son, with hair as red as her

  own. At the touch of the cold air he let out a thin wail. Gasping, Boudica

  got the neck of her shift open enough to settle the babe between her

  breasts and tied her belt below to hold him there. Small as he was, he fi t

  easily.

  “Lie over my heart, little one, as you lay beneath it,” she stuttered,

  tensing as her womb clenched once more and the bloody mess of the

  afterbirth slid free. Shivering, she curled her body around the burden at

  her breast, curving her palm over the fragile arch of the skull, and the

  infant stilled. He was so tiny a mite to be the beginnings of a man, ten-

  der as a sprout that might one day become a mighty oak tree that would

  shelter them all.

  “When you are grown you will be a king and a warrior,” she mur-

  mured, “storm-born and fiery as Lugos himself, eh?” She smiled as the

  babe mewed and nuzzled her breast. But now that the birthing was over

  she realized that she was cold.

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  On the night of the full moon, Lhiannon stood on the rampart, gaz-

  ing across the tangle of marsh and mere. For the first time in weeks,

  there was nothing left to be done. Tomorrow, said the scouts, the Ro-

  mans would be here. The night was cool and clear, but to the west rain

  clouds were rolling in from the sea. How long, she wondered, before

  this moon also was stained red, this peace destroyed by the cries of dy-

  ing men? She started at a touch on her shoulder and turned to fi nd

  Rianor beside her.

  “Look—” He pointed to the northwest, where a pointed hilltop

  stood clear against the sunset clouds. “You can see the Tor, and on a

  very clear day in the morning, the pyramid knoll on the coast. The

  earth power flows from them through this hill and onward. Can you

  feel it here?”

  It was a measure of her preoccupation, or perhaps her desolation,

  thought Lhiannon, that it had not occurred to her to try. She closed her

  eyes, reaching out with senses too long unused, allowing awareness to

  sink to a depth that was not entirely physical until she felt a kind of vi-

  bration like the thrum of the current beneath the timbers of a boat on

  the sea, and with it came a vivid memory of the Otherworld into which

  she had fared on the Tor of Avalon. If she had stayed there, how much

  grief she could have forgone— and how much joy . . .

  The faerie woman had told her that all the worlds were connected.

  Rianor had just reminded her that power flowed from Avalon to this

  dun. Could that power be used? Was it the faerie woman or the Goddess

  who was filling her mind with images now?

  I am a priestess, she told herself, and subject to no man’s command. While

  I had Ardanos, I followed him, but I must make my own choices now.

  “Rianor . . . for the past weeks you and I have labored till our

  backs cracked and our hands bled, doing no more than any laborer

  could do, and in my case at least, not half so wel
l. We have forgotten

  who we are.”

  He blinked, and she knew that he had also been too focused on the

  next log and the next stone to think any further.

  “If the Romans attack us here, in the end they will take this place as

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  they took the Dun of Stones. Don’t you think it would be better if they

  never came here at all?”

  “It would be better, my lady, if they had never sailed across the Nar-

  row Sea.” He sobered as he saw she was not laughing. “What do you

  mean?”

  “We have cloud.” She pointed toward the billowing masses to the

  west. “Cloud and rain and the mist that so often covers the fens around

  Avalon. If we draw it down the line of power we can wrap it around this

  hill.”

  Now, she sensed, was the time to set the power in motion. With a

  dreamlike certainty she wrapped her cloak tightly around her and lay

  down next to the palisade, covering her face and closing her eyes to re-

  tain the image of the clouds she had seen.

  “Guard me. Let no one disturb me until I come back to you. Lend

  me what power you can . . .”

  It would have been easier if Ardanos had been beside her, balancing

  her energy with his own, but as Lhiannon sank deeper into trance she

  could feel Rianor’s young strength supporting her. She slowed her

  breathing, calling on disciplines long-mastered to detach mind from

  body and let it wing free. For a moment, she touched someone’s an-

  guish. But the pain was unlocking her nightmares of the war. She thrust

  the awareness away, turning desperately to the untouched west.

  And there, like a caress, she found another mind. “So, my sister, you

  have returned . . . in your world, has it been long? ”

  “But I haven’t! I am not on the Tor!” With a sense deeper than sight

  she recognized the Lady she had spoken to when she was in the Faerie

  realm, but how could she be here?

  “Nor am I,” came the answer. “We are between the worlds, where all

  worlds have their meeting and all powers join in the great dance. Sing the spell,

  sister, make the music that will serve your need . . .”

  Why had she never reached out to this power before? She had not

  been sufficiently desperate, she realized then, and she had believed in

  Ardanos’s wisdom and depended on him for direction. I must trust my

  own wisdom now . . .

  Mist and fog, cloud and rain . . . hear my calling, come again . . . Once

  more, it seemed to her that someone was calling, but she dared admit no

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  distraction. In the world of men she was silent, but she made a mighty

  music within. With inner vision she could see the layers of warm and

  cool air thronging with spirits. Heat and cold mix in the skies . . . where

  they meet, the mist will rise . . . Laughing, she beckoned to the air sprites,

  drawing them into the dance.

  In the far distant place where her flesh lay it was growing dark and

  cold, but time had a different meaning where she was now. Her inner

  senses rejoiced when the cloud sprites began to release a light cool rain;

  she called to the warm air and the rain turned to fog before it could

  fall.

  It was mist, not rain, that precipitated from the damp air, wraiths of

  mist that floated over hill and valley, thickening as night drew on. Fog

  covered Camadunon, jeweling the thick wool in which Lhiannon lay

  shrouded and beading on Rianor’s curling beard. Mist shimmered around

  the torches that lit the Roman marching camp and condensed on armor

  and spears.

  Sometime in the past hour it had stopped raining. The stream had

  begun to go down. A cold wind was whipping at the clouds, and a full

  moon struggled to break free. Its watery illumination showed Boudica

  the shape of the land. Her thighs were slick with blood. Too much? She

  could not tell. If she had been at home, she could rest now, her labor

  done, but it was not enough to bear her son alive.

  If I die, you die . . . she told the child at her breast. We must have shel-

  ter, and soon . . .

  For just a little longer Boudica lay where she was, but she was be-

  ginning to shiver now. With a fi nal effort of will she got herself upright,

  wrapped the cloak around her, and clambered down from the mound.

  Saplings grew at its base; as she grabbed for balance, one came loose

  in her hand. With the help of the stick she was able to feel her way for-

  ward and cross the stream. From there it was a little over a mile across

  the fi elds to the dun.

  “Not far . . . not far . . .” she whispered. “When I am old, you shall

  carry me. Shall we surprise your father, sweet child? How pleased he

  will be . . .”

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  Murmuring, she staggered onward. If it had not been for the child,

  she would have collapsed halfway there and made no effort to rise. As it

  was, after each fall she found the dun a little nearer when she levered

  herself upright once more.

  The gate, of course, was closed. Had the guard sought shelter inside

  as well? It would be a great irony, observed a small voice within, to ex-

  pire at her own gate after having come so far. With her last strength,

  Boudica drew breath as the Druids had taught her and in a great voice

  cried to be let in. And then it was all a confusion of voices and fi relight

  and blessed, blessed warmth.

  “Take him,” she murmured as they laid her on the bed. “Take care

  of my son . . .” Someone exclaimed, but she could not make out the

  words. There was only the heat and the comfort of the dark.

  At Camadunon, there was no sun to be seen at the next day’s

  dawning, only the thick gray blanket of the fog. The Roman army, set-

  ting out in its usual precise array, took the road that seemed most open,

  and came at nightfall to a hill where an old barrow was surrounded by

  eroded ramparts half choked by trees. Here were no screaming Celtic

  savages, only the ghosts of ancient wars. The rumors, decided the gen-

  eral, must have been mistaken. The next morning he gave the order to

  march southwestward toward the Dumnoni lands, never suspecting the

  existence of the dun that waited in mist-shrouded silence barely fi ve

  miles away.

  Boudica lifted her hand, surprised at how hard it was to move. Her

  memory was a confusion of alternating nightmare and oblivion. Pra-

  sutagos was a part of those memories, his usually calm features wracked

  by anguish. She could even remember the scalding touch of his tears.

  That must have been one of the times when she was cold.

  I have been ill, she thought. But I’m never sick. How odd . . .

  “She wakes!” said someone. She could hear all the familiar sounds

  of the dun—the complaint of a cow, someone whistling, clucking chick-

  ens at the door.

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  “Drink this, my lady.” A strong arm went around her shoulders,

  raising her. Obedientl
y she swallowed the liquid they held to her lips. It

  was warm milk, with an undertaste of white willow bark. She could

  vaguely remember having tasted it before.

  At the thought of milk her breasts began to throb. Her flaccid belly

  was sore; all her limbs ached with the sensitivity that comes after a fever.

  Her eyes flew open as she realized what she had not heard. There had

  been no baby’s cry.

  She tried to speak, swallowed, and tried again. “Where is my son?”

  The silence that followed lasted too long. Old Nessa’s face wavered

  above her, cheeks furrowed with tears.

  “He was too little, my darling, and too cold. He only lived one day.”

  “Praise be to Brigantia that you survived,” one of the maids added

  brightly. “We thought we were going to lose you as well.”

  “Prasutagos?” she asked weakly.

  “He named the child Cunomaglos after his brother. The babe lies in

  the grave-fi eld with his kin.”

  “Where is the king now?” she managed.

  This silence was not quite so long. “When we knew you would live,

  lady, he took two men and rode off to see who else needed help.”

  Leaving me in an even greater silence than usual, thought Boudica.

  But it no longer mattered. What could they have to say to one an-

  other now?

  My lady—for you—”

  Lhiannon turned in time to see a small hand offering a bunch of

  rather wilted asters. As she peered around the doorpost to smile at the

  bearer, the child blushed, dropped the bouquet, and darted away.

  “Why will they never stay and let me thank them?” she sighed,

  looking around her for some vessel in which she could put the fl owers.

  “Let me!” Rianor plucked the bouquet from her hand, took yesterday’s

  offering from the clay beaker, and settled the asters in their place. He

  was not meeting her eyes, either, she realized suddenly.

  After the magical working that had saved Camadunon she had

  roused only to eat before falling once more into a sleep without dreams.

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  By the time she was able to take notice once more, weeks had passed.

  But every morning since then the offerings had appeared, and perhaps

  before then, for all she knew. Yesterday, it had been a spray of bronze

  and ocher leaves. While she lay in what the farm-folk clearly considered