Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

an enchanted sleep, the summer had passed away.

  She herself diagnosed her collapse as the cumulative effect of the hun-

  ger and fear she had experienced at the Dun of Stones. And sorrow . . . she

  had not known that grief could become an illness that sapped strength

  from body and soul. The pain of losing Ardanos was still there, but if she

  was careful she could go for as much as half a day without tears.

  “Tell the children that I am grateful.” As she gained strength, she

  found herself focusing on simple pleasures—the taste of new milk, the

  colors of the turning leaves. “If they wish to visit me, they will be wel-

  come.”

  “They respect you too greatly, lady . . .” he said softly. “To them,

  you are the white lady who turned herself into a cloud to save us from

  the Romans, and they are afraid.”

  “Well, you should reassure them,” she said tartly. “We Druids are

  servants, not gods!”

  “Of course, Lady Lhiannon,” he replied, flushing as he met her eyes.

  In his, she caught the same look of awe with which they had regarded

  the High Priestess when she bore the power of the Goddess in ritual at

  Lys Deru.

  Oh dear. She had assumed there would be rumors about the magical

  mist that had saved the dun, but she had not realized that her long re-

  covery would allow them to become so well rooted here.

  “The farmers hereabouts have come to me,” he said then. “They

  wish to build you a house on the slopes of the dun, near Cama’s spring.

  They would be honored if you would make your home here . . .”

  As their local goddess and tutelary spirit, Lhiannon thought wryly, with

  Rianor as chief priest of my cult!

  She shook her head. She needed peace, not worship. To stay here

  would be ludicrous. But even the thought of returning to Mona, where

  she would be reminded of Ardanos at every turning of the way, made

  her spirit bleed anew.

  “I cannot stay here,” she said gently. “We send those in need of

  154

  D i ana L . Pax s on

  healing to the Tor. I would like to spend the winter in retreat on Ava-

  lon, and then we shall see . . .”

  “We will need to gather provisions. The house will need repair. But it

  is not so far.” His face brightened. “I will arrange it, lady, in your name.”

  The days passed, and Boudica’s strength returned to her, though her

  breasts continued to leak and her tears to fall. Had the mound-spirit

  stolen the life of her baby? Or had it simply been an evil chance? As ev-

  eryone was so eager to remind her, in any family more children died

  than lived to bear children of their own. To be told that she was young

  and would have others hurt even more. She would rather have blamed

  someone, or something, than accept that the loss of her child had no

  meaning at all.

  She thought of sending for Lhiannon, but somehow it seemed to her

  that she had called, and the priestess had failed her, and in any case, to

  call would have required her to abandon her lethargy. Her husband

  coped by staying at the dun he was building near the shore, as if, having

  lost his son, earthen banks would be his immortality.

  Perhaps the child had been taken as a sacrifice, she thought grimly,

  for as the season progressed, it seemed as if the spirits of the sky had been

  appeased. The clouds moved onward and the muddy ground dried. On

  a few fortunate hilltops there was even a little grain. Boudica’s spirits,

  however, did not improve, and Nessa began to suggest that she should

  pay a visit to the sacred spring.

  Her first reaction was revulsion. To return as she was now to that

  place where her marriage had truly begun, where she had felt such hope

  and known such peace, would seem a sacrilege. But as she thought

  about it, she began to realize that the lady of the holy well had wronged

  her by promising her so much and betraying it all. She should go, she

  thought grimly. She had a few things to say to the spirit of the spring.

  They rode south from the dun on a smiling day when the fi rst hint

  of autumn touched the air. Boudica made no attempt to discourage at-

  tendants. These days other people appeared to her as ghosts and shadows.

  If such wished to follow her, she could not summon the energy to dis-

  courage them.

  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

  155

  A half- day’s journey brought them to the shrine. The place was full of

  pilgrims, some of whom were unceremoniously evicted from their shel-

  ters when the entourage of the queen of the Northern Iceni arrived.

  Boudica cared little where she slept, so long as it was not in the shelter she

  and Prasutagos had shared before. While the others arranged their bed-

  ding she walked among the trees. She ate the food they cooked for her,

  but it was not until the next morning that she went to the spring.

  Morning was for hope, she thought as the path curved and she

  crossed the stepping stones through the marshy area below the spring.

  But to her the sunlight seemed thin and the gurgle of water a mockery.

  Bits of fabric, some old, some new, still fluttered from the branches of

  the hazel tree. She reached up and untied the riband she had put there

  almost a year before.

  The cool breath of the water had not changed, and the water itself

  continued to well upward from unknown depths, sweet and clear.

  “I would rather have come here to thank you for a safe delivery,”

  she said quietly. “If there is anything here to thank—” Her voice

  cracked. “If you even care whether I give you a riband or take it back,

  whether I give thanks or spit into your pool!”

  But even in her anger Boudica could not bring herself to go that far.

  This might be no more than water, but it was no less, an element to be

  respected even now, when they had had so much of it. The Druids

  would have taken this as the cue for some mystic sermon, but at the mo-

  ment their wisdom seemed worthless as well. All they had accomplished

  with their magic was to bring the Romans more quickly to Britannia’s

  shores. In fact, just now she could not think of anything in which she

  did believe. As if with hope she had also lost the power of motion, she

  sank down on a piece of log that had been set as a bench nearby.

  “I would hate you, if I had the energy,” she addressed the pool.

  “They say your waters are bountiful as the Mother’s breasts. My breasts

  are dry. They say your pool is the womb of life. My womb is empty!” It

  was also said that the tears of the Goddess filled the spring. As she leaned

  over the dark water, her own tears fell into the pool.

  When Boudica was here before, she had thought the Lady of the

  Well spoke to her. She would have resisted any such fancy now. But she

  could not resist the one thing the waters offered her . . . a place to at last

  156

  D i ana L . Pax s on

  be still. This was neither comfort nor forgiveness nor peace, but a place

  beyond them all. The sun moved inexorably westward; water continu-

  ally welled upward and then trickled down the hill;
reeds and grass and

  trees continued to grow. She lived.

  For a time she sat without thinking, but presently she became aware

  of a sound that did not belong to this woodland harmony—an intermit-

  tent whimper, coming from a patch of reeds. With the first twitch of

  curiosity she had felt since the baby died she got up to see. A twist of

  dirty linen was moving, half in and half out of the water. She peeled the

  cloth back to reveal what looked like a drowned rat, if there had ever

  been a rat that was white with one red ear and absurdly large paws.

  A puppy—someone had tried to drown a puppy in the sacred spring.

  Now that was surely a blasphemy! She felt her guts clench as the tiny

  thing wriggled in her hands. She wanted to be sick, and she wanted to

  kill whoever would do such a thing. But already she was stripping away

  the soggy linen, rubbing at the sodden fur with her shawl. She cradled

  the shivering creature against her breast and the small head turned and a

  very pink tongue licked her hand.

  Boudica wrapped the puppy in her shawl and took a step down the

  path. Then she stopped, picked up her riband from the ground, and

  draped it back over a branch of the hazel tree.

  When she returned to the shelter the relief on the faces of her ser-

  vants made her wonder how long she had been gone. If any of them

  were curious about what she had wrapped so carefully in her shawl none

  dared to ask.

  “Do you wish to stay here tonight, my lady?” asked Calgac. “If we

  left now we could be back at the dun before darkness falls . . .”

  She stared at him. Go back to Eponadunon, where every sight

  would remind her of what she had lost? She could not do it. She wanted

  space, and light, and a bed where she had never lain in the deceptive

  shelter of her husband’s arms. There was a farm to the west of here that

  she had visited once with Prasutagos, when he was introducing her to

  his people and his land. According to the wedding settlements, it be-

  longed to her.

  “I will do neither . . .” she said slowly. “We will pack the wagon and

  take the road west to Danatobrigos. Go back to Eponadunon.” She nod-

  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

  157

  ded to the warriors. “You may tell my husband where I have gone, and

  that it is now safe for him to return to his dun. I will not be there to

  reproach him—” or to be reproached in turn . . .

  She did not expect to find happiness, but perhaps in time some heal-

  ing would come. But first, she thought as the puppy burrowed against

  her breast, she would have to find some milk for the little dog.

  T H I RT E E N

  Snow fountained as the puppy hit the bank, his pale form disappear-

  ing and then bursting free like some winter spirit manifesting in canine

  form. He slid a few feet, then leaped again, leaving a series of splash

  marks down the hill.

  “How he loves the snow!“ said Temella. With a shawl wrapped

  around her head, only the girl’s big gray eyes and the tip of a red nose

  could be seen.

  “Bogle loves everything,” Boudica replied in amusement. When

  they had settled into the farmstead at Danatobrigos the previous au-

  tumn, bags and baskets and anything else within reach of his tiny teeth

  had become a plaything. As the puppy grew into the promise of his big

  paws he had found immense sport in the drifted autumn leaves. From

  his coloring they guessed him to be part hunting hound, but the other

  parent must have been something much larger. And now, as high as her

  knee and still growing, he had discovered snow.

  The red mare stamped and snorted as the puppy slid under her

  hooves, barked, and was off again. But Roud was accustomed to his an-

  tics, since riding or walking, where Boudica went, the dog was never

  more than a whistle away. Temella was almost as constant a companion.

  The girl was the oldest of the children to whom Boudica had taken the

  soup the day she gave birth to her baby. She had appeared at the farm

  about a month after Boudica moved there and attached herself as maid,

  messenger, and shadow.

  Boudica took a deep breath of crisp air. Some snow was to expected

  at this season, but a blizzard of the size that had kept them indoors for

  the past three days was unusual. Field and pasture had been transformed

  by the snowfall, all irregularities smoothed to an expanse of pristine

  white. Even the leafless branches of the ash tree that shaded the ritual

  hearth were mantled in white, and the ancient trackway that ran toward

  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

  159

  the coast was no more than a depression in the snow. Beneath that white

  blanket many things lay sleeping, from the body of her child to the seeds

  of next year’s grain.

  In the months since she had come to Danatobrigos, there had been

  times when she wanted to lie down beneath just such an obliterating

  coverlet, without thought or movement, until all feeling also disap-

  peared. Even her husband’s rare visits had not disturbed her lethargy. It

  was Bogle, thrusting his shaggy head beneath her palm to be petted, or

  dropping some amorphous slobbered object in her lap to be thrown,

  who had kept her connected to the world of the living. Sometimes, she

  even laughed.

  She watched, smiling, as he dashed past a stand of leafless oaks down

  the road, barking furiously.

  “Someone is coming,” said Temella as the dog bounced back toward

  them.

  “Bogle! Be still!” Boudica reined in and whistled, and the dog

  slowed, a low growl vibrating from his throat, plumed tail waving gen-

  tly. He was uncertain, not alarmed, though at his age, she wondered,

  how would he tell the difference between what was dangerous and what

  was merely new? Still, it was unlikely any enemy would be abroad in

  this weather, especially now, when they were safe beneath the protect-

  ing hand of Rome.

  On the heels of her thought came the strangers themselves, Romans

  by their gear, moving in good order past the trees. As they drew closer

  she recognized Pollio with his escort, all mounted on native ponies whose

  shaggy coats shrugged off snow.

  “Well met, my lady!” he called, his breath making white puff s in

  the chill air. “But I did not expect to meet you so soon! I was on my

  way to the ferry—I have a mission to the Brigante lands—and regretted

  not being able to break my journey at Eponadunon. Are you and your

  husband visiting hereabouts?” He drew up beside Boudica.

  “The king is at Eponadunon,” she said flatly. “I live here.”

  His dark gaze grew more intent. “Truly? Then fortune is with me.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, wondering what he could possibly wish to

  say to her rather than to the king. “Temella, ride to the steading and tell

  them we will have guests.” The girl nodded and urged her pony into a

  160

  D i ana L . Pax s on

  trot. Bogle lurched after her, circled her pony, and then skidded back

  to Boudica.
>
  “Will you ride with me a little up the road?” Pollio asked, moving

  his mount closer to hers. “Our horses should not stand in this cold.”

  That was true. She loosened the rein and let Roud fall into step be-

  side his gray.

  “Winter agrees with you, lady.”

  “You do not seem to be suffering, either,” she observed. The cold

  had brought an unaccustomed color to his sallow cheeks and brightened

  his eyes, though she noticed that even Romans grew out their beards

  in this cold. “I suppose this is very diff erent from your home.”

  “Not as much as you might think—I was born in Dacia, and the

  winters there can be bitter indeed.”

  “That would explain how you come to be traveling in this weather.

  I thought you Romans spent Britannic winters stoking the furnaces of

  your hypocausts and cursing the cold.”

  This time he laughed out loud, a surprisingly pleasant sound. “No

  doubt they are doing so in Camulodunum, but even your dog knows

  there is sport to be had in the wintertime . . .”

  Her gaze followed Bogle, who had flushed a hare from the woods

  and was pursuing it through the snow, barking ecstatically, though it

  was not clear whether he was trying to hunt or to play.

  “My mother was a noblewoman in Dacia.” Pollio’s eyes flicked to

  her face and then away. “My father married her when he was stationed

  there. This is how the new provinces become part of the Empire.”

  I already have a husband— why is he saying this to me? But she herself

  had told him that she and Prasutagos were living separately. She had

  heard that divorce was easy among the Romans. Perhaps he did not

  consider her married state an impediment. She glanced at him, seeing

  him for the first time as a not ill-looking man who clearly enjoyed her

  company. As if he had felt her gaze he turned to her once more, and she

  looked away.

  As they passed through the wood, the horses, sensing their riders’

  inattention, had slowed. Pollio reached out and took her hand.

  “Boudica, you are like a flame, burning in the midst of the snow.

  I thought so when I first saw you, glowing like a torch in the imperial

  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

  161

  purple gloom, but you were still a child. You are a woman now, and you

  are magnifi cent!”

  Since that day she had borne and lost a child. If that was the qualifi -