Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

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by Marion Zimmer Bradley

taught at the school?”

  Lhiannon lowered her eyes. “We have not discussed it.”

  Of late, Boudica and Prasutagos had seemed easier in one another’s

  company, but she still did not sleep with him, even though the child was

  weaned. If Boudica did not share his power, could Prasutagos truly

  reign? Did that matter, now that the true power lay with Rome? And

  what was left here for Lhiannon, if Boudica did take her place at her

  husband’s side?

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  “What other commands have you brought from Lys Deru?” she

  asked.

  Belina shrugged. “From Helve, you mean. Lugovalos is failing, and

  she gives the orders now. I was told to raise what support I might for

  Caratac. The governor is sending his legions too close to the north and

  west for comfort.”

  “Do they threaten Mona?” Lhiannon asked in alarm.

  “He knows it is the Druid stronghold,” answered Belina. “He knows

  that Mona has some of the richest land in Britannia, and that with grain

  or with magic we will support anyone who is willing to fight. He would

  have to be stupid not to know that while we stand, his hold on Britannia

  will never be secure.”

  “The Romans are not stupid,” Lhiannon said slowly. “But this is a

  big island. If we keep worrying at them, they may decide it would be

  foolish to keep on wasting resources and men . . .”

  “You’ve lost none of your wits.” Belina gave her an approving hug.

  “Whether it is I or Boudica who does the honors, you should leave with

  me when the inauguration is done.” Both women looked up as a sudden

  commotion rose from the direction of the council fire before the High

  King’s hall.

  “After the king-making . . .” Lhiannon said slowly, “I will give you

  my answer then.”

  People were beginning to hurry past as the noise grew louder.

  “Prasutagos son of the hazel, Prasutagos son of the sun, Prasutagos

  son of the plow, Prasutagos Ricon, Iceni king!” came the cry.

  S I X T E E N

  Turn, my lady, and lift your arm—”

  Boudica complied, controlling a twitch at the feather-touch of the

  brush with which the old woman was painting a series of spirals along

  her side. Her breathing was slow and steady. Her pulse throbbed to the

  vibration beneath her feet, the heartbeat of the Beltane drums.

  Rays of setting sun filtered through the roughly woven curtains

  with which they had walled and roofed the women’s enclosure, scatter-

  ing flickers of ruddy light across the grass. The mask of the White Mare

  hung from the center post, waiting to play its role in her transformation.

  Through the cloth walls the noise of the festival came oddly muted, as if

  this space were separated from the world.

  As I am from my former self . . . she thought slowly. Waiting to learn

  what I will be . . . To endure the tedium of the body painting she had

  drawn on the disciplines she had learned at Mona; she sat as motionless

  as the image into which the painting was transforming her. Her naked

  back and belly already bore the running figures of the Hare and the

  Boar, the Wolf and the Eagle, Ram and Bull and Bear, with a wealth of

  horses twining among them, totems that the incoming Celts had inher-

  ited from the peoples whom they had conquered.

  In the Earth-ring, Prasutagos would be receiving the blessings of

  the Druids who had witnessed the oaths of the chieftains. When Ro-

  mans were present the priests went disguised. As long as they did not

  bring themselves to the attention of the conquerors, the current policy

  seemed to be to ignore them.

  But the Horse Queen who blessed the Beltane rites was the priestess of

  an older magic. The Druids consecrated the king to the tribe. The God-

  dess linked him to the land on which they lived. Boudica did not yet know

  if she could submit to so overwhelming an energy. Belina was prepared to

  step in, but if Boudica failed she suspected it would mean the end of her

  marriage.

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  193

  A part of her mind lay immobilized within her body, its panicked

  yammerings suppressed by the same discipline that held her limbs. This

  time, she thought, she could not ride the red mare to freedom. This

  time, the White Mare would be riding her.

  “All done,” said the old woman. Slowly she lowered her arm.

  “Come back, my darling.” Lhiannon’s face appeared before her.

  “You can rule your limbs now. Breathe in and out and in and out again.

  That is right—you are here with me and soon the ritual will begin. Re-

  turn!”

  Boudica blinked as sensation rippled through her, aware of the stiff

  paint on her skin, the women’s chatter suddenly loud in her ears. The

  sun had set; she was surrounded by shadows. She shivered. The king’s

  procession would be coming soon.

  “No!” Nessa was saying to someone at the entrance. “You may not

  see her. This space is forbidden to men, especially you! Go away before

  I call the warriors to throw you in the midden—for that they will need

  no swords!”

  “Who is it?” Boudica called.

  “No one you need to care about,” muttered the old woman, sighing

  as she met Boudica’s glare. “It’s that Pollio . . . he says he must speak

  with you.”

  Her first annoyance gave way to alarm. “I’ll talk to him,” she said in

  a low voice. “Lhiannon, keep these others out of earshot until I am

  done.” She stepped to the curtain.

  “What is it? You must speak quickly,” she murmured through the

  cloth.

  “Let me see your face, Boudica,” came the familiar Atrebate ac-

  cent.

  “Goddess, no!” She flushed with sudden awareness of her naked

  body. “In the old days they would have staked you out for the wolves for

  coming even this close to the women’s sanctuary.”

  “You don’t have to do this!” Pollio’s words came in a rush. “It’s

  known that you refuse your husband your bed—you don’t have to let

  him lie with you now. It will make no difference. Prasutagos is king

  because Rome supports him, not because of some barbarous ritual.”

  “What are you talking about?” Since that day in the snow when he

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  had tried to kiss her she had scarcely seen the man, and never alone.

  Had he been building up some fantasy in which she loved him all this

  time?

  “Leave your husband! Come away with me!” he hissed. “You are a

  princess of the royal house—I could make you a ruling queen like Car-

  timandua!”

  “You are mad!” she said with conviction. “And this is sacrilege!”

  “I love you, Boudica! I know that you are not indiff erent to me!”

  “Indeed not,” she answered with leashed fury. “A man who would

  tempt the wife of an ally to betray her marriage can only be despised! Is

  this the honor they teach in Rome?”

  No matter that she had been tempted to fl ee herself—she wou
ld

  never have gone with this pig of a Roman! And in that moment Boudica

  realized that her ambivalence had disappeared.

  “But my lady—” His words were cut off as the golden blare of the

  carynx horn reverberated through the eve ning air.

  “They are coming! They will kill you if they fi nd you here. Be gone

  and be damned to you, Roman! This warning is the last word you will

  have from me!”

  She heard a rustle of retreating footsteps as the horns called again

  and stepped back, breathing quickly.

  “What did he want?” asked Lhiannon.

  “Nothing that matters,” Boudica muttered, glad that the dim light

  hid the blush that was warming her cheeks. Lhiannon was the last per-

  son to whom she wanted to reveal the shameful proposition the Roman

  had made.

  Outside, drums boomed, commanding attention. The deep voices

  of the Druids rose and fell, closer and closer, then passing as the king

  was escorted to his place of honor near the fire. There was more at stake

  here than a ceremony. If Belina acted as priestess tonight, she would be

  linked to the king only while the Goddess was present. But for Boudica

  to take that role would admit Prasutagos as well as Epona into her heart.

  Boudica felt an anticipatory shiver pebble her skin. Lhiannon brought a

  white cloak and draped it over her shoulders against the cooling air. The

  door curtain moved and she saw her mother there.

  “Oh my daughter, you are so beautiful—even more than on your

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  wedding day,” Anaveistl said with a tremulous smile. “I just wanted to

  see you, and now I will be getting back to the house and our darling

  little girl—”

  Boudica patted the older woman’s hand. Upon meeting her grand-

  daughter, Anaveistl had become instantly besotted. Rigana could ask for

  no more devoted guardian.

  “What is happening now?” she asked as her mother departed.

  “The king has been seated,” answered Belina. “I think it is dark

  enough now to open the curtain a little. If you sit here, you can see—”

  One of the Druids knelt to set the fire he had carried from the

  Earth-ring to the stacked wood in the center; a great shout went up as it

  burst into flame. The drummers let loose with a thunder of sound as a

  line of young men came dancing around it, armed with staves.

  There should have been more of them, thought Boudica sadly. These

  were the younger brothers of men who had died at the battle in the fens.

  But they twirled and struck valiantly. Was Prasutagos thinking the same

  thing? He looked tired, but his features displayed his usual calm control.

  As they must, she realized, if he was to rule. Gold rings gleamed from his

  strong arms, a golden torque circled his neck. They had garbed him in a

  kilt and cloak in the ancient style. She had never noticed that his legs

  were as muscular and well shaped as his arms.

  Well, when would I have had the chance? she thought with a fl ush of

  shame, and something more. A flicker of excitement warmed her at the

  realization that she was free to look at him all she pleased, and he could

  not see.

  Now some of the girls slipped out of the women’s enclosure to join

  the line of maidens who were tracing sinuous patterns around the fi re.

  They were crowned with hawthorn, and as they grew heated by the

  dancing, first one and then another undid the pins that held her garment

  at the shoulders so that it was held up only by her woven belt, leaving

  white breasts bare.

  Someone brought Boudica a cup of wine; she felt the warmth in her

  limbs, and in her head a regular pulsing that matched that of the drums.

  The young men returned to circle around the maidens, dancing

  forward until they almost touched, then whirling away once more.

  Eyes grew bright and faces flushed with more than the heat of the fi re.

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  D i ana L . Pax s on

  Prasutagos was smiling. Did she imagine that the pulse at the base of

  his throat was beating more quickly, or was that only the throb she felt

  in her own?

  This festival was not only to honor the new king but to welcome in

  the summer, and to do all that men might to encourage a bountiful year.

  Boudica cast a glance toward Lhiannon, remembering how the older

  woman had hoped to meet Ardanos at the Beltane fires. Child that she

  was, she had not understood the message of the drums. Her fl esh com-

  prehended it now.

  They thundered in a fi nal flourish; man and maid joined hands and

  ran laughing into the darkness. Suddenly the circle was still.

  “It is time . . .” said Lhiannon very evenly, as if she, too, were fi ght-

  ing for control.

  “It is time indeed—” Belina turned to Boudica. “Are you ready, my

  dear?”

  Boudica could not have found words, but her body was responding

  for her. She got to her feet. She reached out to take the mask of the

  White Mare from the priestess’ hand. She settled the molded leather

  over her head, where her hair had been coiled to support it, and Lhian-

  non reached up to secure the ties. The neck of the mask extended down

  the back of her head to her shoulders, while the head hid her face,

  cheekpieces curving down to frame her own while the muzzle pro-

  jected forward. Real horsehair had been added to form a mane.

  “Now . . .” Lhiannon’s voice seemed to come from a very long ways

  away. “Now you are a queen . . .”

  Boudica scarcely noticed the leather’s weight. As the mask enclosed

  her head, she felt a corresponding pressure within her skull that pushed

  the self she thought her own into some space from which she could only

  watch in terror and amazement as her body jerked like a young horse

  fighting the rein. How many queens had borne this crown? They were

  all here, whispering, their voices blending into a single Voice.

  “Is it time to run?” came the question. “Is it time to dance?”

  Tremors ran downward along her spine, out her flailing arms, down

  strong legs to feet that stamped and struck the earth. She reeled, and soft

  hands pushed her upright again. The mane tossed as she shook her head,

  breath exploded from her lungs with a sound that was halfway between

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  197

  a laugh and a neigh. She tried to fight, as she had tried to fight the Mor-

  rigan. This goddess was both wilder and more benign, but She was just

  as strong.

  “You already know Me, my daughter, why are you afraid? Don’t you re-

  member how you rode the red mare?”

  And as Boudica recalled that wild ride through the moonlight, past

  and present, rider and ridden, became one. When she was a little girl she

  had begged her father for a pony, and ridden her own galloping legs

  around the dun until he complied. Her body already knew the motions.

  Letting the cloak fall from Her shoulders, She swept the curtain aside

  and paced toward the fi re.

  A whisper of awe swept around the circle, louder t
han the fl utes and

  rattles that had finally remembered to play. “The goddess is with

  us . . . Epona has come to us . . . the goddess comes to the king . . .”

  The totems of every clan rippled as muscles slid beneath white skin.

  She turned, arms extended, embracing them all. Women were weeping,

  men’s eyes shone with a hope that had not been there before. She took

  Her time, for these people had suffered and had need of Her love. Once,

  twice, thrice, She paced around the circle, blessing Her tribe, and then

  at last She came to a halt before the king.

  Prasutagos’s calm had shattered. On his cheeks shone the silver track

  of tears, in his eyes an astonished joy. The molded mask bowed before

  him, lifted with a shake of the mane. A quiver ran through Her body;

  She twisted, presenting Herself like a mare. But She was also a woman.

  She turned back to him, offering the firm breasts that had suckled his

  child, ran Her hands across Boudica’s belly, outlining the womb that

  had received his seed.

  “Come!” came the command in a voice that both was and was not

  Boudica’s own.

  The king stood, fumbling with the golden clasp of his belt, and let

  the wrapped kilt fall away. Already his phallus was engorged and rising.

  Was it the ritual, or was he really more generously endowed than other

  men? The people shouted out their approval as he stepped toward her.

  As She was the goddess, he stood before them as the image of the god.

  “Come and serve Me,” She whispered. Power jolted through them

  both as he took Her hand.

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  D i ana L . Pax s on

  A path was opening through the crowd before them. Beyond, the

  plowed fi eld waited to become their bed.

  I wish that you were not leaving us,” said Boudica, picking up the

  traveling cloak that Lhiannon had just shaken out and folding it up

  again. At Dun Garo the queen and her women had a sun- house for their

  own activities, built in a ring whose center was open to the sky. The

  light was welcome, but the company of so many chattering women

  grated on Lhiannon’s nerves. But there was room here to pack the many

  things that the queen had insisted she and Belina must take on their

  journey.

  “We need you here, Lhiannon. We need your healing and your wis-

  dom,” Boudica continued.

  If you had said “ I need you here, Lhiannon,” I might stay . . . she thought

 

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