Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  everything now.

  Everything . . . For a single eternal moment Boudica was one with

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  the world around her, her daughters, the land, the people who wept for

  their king. Prasutagos had loved them all. For a moment she felt his

  presence enfold her once more.

  She lifted her head, a sudden tingling awareness shocking through

  her. Had the heat of the pyre set that shimmer in the air, or was the

  world only a veil of light that concealed a more enduring reality?

  L ys Deru seemed smaller than Lhiannon remembered. Or perhaps

  it appeared so because so many more people were now crowded within.

  She should not be surprised—the influx of refugees had begun even

  before she went to Eriu—but it was strange.

  “Thank you for sending out the horses,” she said as she followed

  Coventa down the path to the council hall.

  “After my other recent visions, that one was very welcome.” Cov-

  enta looked back with a sad smile.

  It seemed strange to see Coventa in the dark blue robes of a senior

  priestess, but she must be past thirty by now. Well, Lhiannon thought

  sadly, we all grow older.

  “Did you return because of Boudica? Her husband has died, they

  say. Rianor left to see if he could be of service to her. If he had known

  you were coming perhaps he would have stayed . . .”

  Lhiannon stopped short in the path. “I felt . . . that she was in some

  trouble,” she murmured. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I’m not surprised. You two were always close. They say he was a

  good man.”

  That was true, but after so many years the bond that had been

  forged between Prasutagos and Boudica at his kingmaking might have

  faded to the habitual affection most married couples knew. And yet Lhi-

  annon had felt Boudica’s anguish. She would be devastated, but . . . the

  king was gone. Where now would his queen look for comfort?

  From the hall ahead she could hear the mutter of conversation—of

  argument—she realized as they drew near.

  The wicker walls had been removed to let in air, and the benches

  beneath the thatched roof were full. Helve sat in the great chair at the

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  head of the fire pit, her eyes bright as those of some predatory bird. But

  her hair was liberally streaked with gray. And the man beside her—

  Lhiannon missed a step as she realized it was Ardanos.

  Even in Eriu she had heard that Ardanos had been chosen Arch-

  Druid when Lugovalos died. But she had not expected him to change. He

  sat like an image in the white robes, even his hair set in stiff curls. But

  perhaps his heart was not so armored as it appeared, for it was he who

  turned first, and as their eyes met, something kindled in his glance.

  Whatever she thought she had seen was almost immediately veiled.

  He bowed his head in greeting and Helve looked around, her expression

  an odd mixture of exasperation and relief as she saw Lhiannon standing

  there.

  “Our sister Lhiannon has returned from Eriu,” she said pleasantly.

  “I am sure she will have much to tell us when our present deliberations

  are concluded. In the meantime, let us make her welcome.” Her gaze

  swept the assembled Druids, male and female, and an appropriate mur-

  mur rose from among them. Lhiannon recognized Belina and Cunitor

  and some of the others, and was that stalwart young man with the

  brown beard little Bendeigid? But many of those sitting there were

  older priests and priestesses whom she did not know.

  She followed Coventa to a seat on one of the back benches.

  “This is the situation.” Ardanos’s voice was even and controlled.

  “The governor Paulinus has spent the winter in his fortress at Deva,

  building boats and gathering supplies. The supplies might take him any-

  where, but boats—fl at-bottomed boats that can run up on mudfl ats or a

  sandy shore—can only be intended to bring soldiers here. And now the

  season of storms is over . . .” At the murmur of protest he lifted a hand.

  “We have long known that it might come to this. We should be grateful

  that the gods have protected us so long.”

  “This island is full of Silure and Ordovice and Deceangli warriors

  who escaped when the Romans conquered their tribes,” said Helve.

  “On the mainland, there is no British king with the force to defend us.

  We have called you here together to decide whether to disperse, to resist

  with all our powers, or to surrender to the mercy of Rome.”

  “The latter is no choice, surely,” said someone. “They have none for

  our kind.”

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  “They hate what they fear—then let us prove them right to do so!”

  This was an imposing old fellow with a long white beard who had

  clearly been the chief Druid to some tribal king. “For the warriors who

  have come here there is nowhere else to run, and when have there ever

  been so many Druids of our stature gathered in one place? Let us call

  down the wrath of the gods on Rome!”

  Sweet Goddess, thought Lhiannon, what have I returned to? It will be like

  the campaign with Caratac all over again. In nightmares she still wandered

  across that fi nal battlefield, though the memories had faded while she

  was in Eriu.

  “First, surely, we should seek their favor,” said one of the priestesses.

  “When we fled to this place we brought our treasures. Swords and

  chariots are not a Druid’s weapons. Let us give them to the gods!”

  “Better sunk than displayed in a Roman triumph,” muttered some-

  one behind her.

  “The warrior prepares for battle by practicing his skills,” Ardanos

  said sternly. “You who served in dun and village had more need for

  the rites of growth and healing than for high magic. And our purpose

  here at Lys Deru has been to nurture spirits. If we are to stand against

  the Romans, every one of you must spend the time we have left in

  prayer and purification, disciplining the mind and preparing the

  soul.”

  Lhiannon wondered how much use that would be. She had seen

  enough warfare to know that the farmer whose hands were more accus-

  tomed to wielding a hoe than a spear was useful mostly to fill out the

  battle line. To use a sword effectively required constant practice. In Eriu,

  the Druids were often called upon to raise storms or spirits against the

  armies on whom their kings made war, but only a few of the Druids

  here— like Ardanos . . . and me, she thought

  grimly—had actually seen

  fi ghting.

  Lost in thought, she was taken by surprise when the meeting ended.

  Before she could protest, Coventa was pulling her into the circle that

  had formed around Ardanos and Helve.

  “Is your family here?” she asked politely as the Arch-Druid turned

  to her. “I trust that they are well.”

  Ardanos’s features relaxed. “They are indeed, but not here. They are

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  safe, thank the gods, with Sciovana’s family in the Durotrige lands. My

  little Rheis was married to Bendeigid just last year, and is expecting a

  child.”

  Lhiannon blinked, mentally tallying the years, for it seemed only

  yesterday that she had returned to Mona to find Ardanos married with

  a little child. But the world had not stood still while she was in Eriu. By

  this time, Boudica’s daughters must be husband-high as well.

  At the sound of his name Bendeigid looked up. Lhiannon realized

  that inside that muscular body still lived the lad who used to climb trees

  to look at birds’ nests, just as somewhere within her was a girl who had

  loved Ardanos. And despite that shell he has built for protection, there is some-

  thing in Ardanos that still cares for me . . .

  She felt no surprise when he came to her after supper was done.

  “Walk with me, Lhiannon.”

  She looked at him dubiously, remembering the last time they had

  been alone. Reading her expression, Ardanos looked away.

  “You need not be afraid,” he said in a constricted voice. “I shall say

  nothing to you that could not be said in full view of the entire Druid

  community, nothing of a personal nature, that is. But as I also wish to

  speak frankly of matters that concern the others, I would as soon they

  did not hear.”

  “Very well, my lord,” she replied. “I will come with you.”

  This time he led her down the road toward the shore. The cliff s on

  the other side were thickly wooded. On the height beyond, a point of

  light marked some shepherd’s fire. The dark waters of the strait lay quiet

  beneath the young moon, belying the strength of the current below, but

  the tide was coming in and the wavelets, each one a little closer, lapped

  gently at the sand. It was hard to believe that soon those waters might

  run with blood.

  “You were right to address me as ‘lord’ a little while ago,” Ardanos

  said presently. “The heart of the man who loves you tells me to send you

  away while I can, but the Arch-Druid answers to other imperatives.

  You have seen my ‘army,’ ” he added bitterly. “Good priests and priest-

  esses, most of them, but these are not adepts. Helve, little as you may

  like her, does have power. So does Coventa, if there is someone to direct

  it. Most of those who were young enough to remember their training

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  went off to help the warriors and died. But you, Lhiannon, were the

  most powerful priestess of your generation. We will need you badly. For

  the sake of our Order, I ask you to stay.”

  “What chance do we have?” she asked.

  Ardanos sighed. “This governor Paulinus worries me. I fear he is

  another Roman of the breed of Caesar. His gods must love him. He

  takes risks and wins. He should have died a hundred times when he was

  in those mountains—” he gestured toward the dark shapes that brooded

  beyond the water, “—but he always came through.”

  Lhiannon nodded. The fact that Paulinus had been able to fi nally

  subdue the Ordovices, who had kept on fighting even after Caratac was

  gone, bore witness to that.

  How could she weigh the need of one

  woman—even one she

  loved—against that of the community that guarded the traditions of an

  entire people? It was the old argument all over again. What good did it

  do to preserve the body if you lost your soul? And if this enemy was

  indeed too strong, if all the war gods of the tribes together could not

  contend against Jupiter and Mars Ultor, could she bear to live in safety

  with Boudica, knowing that she had not even tried?

  We are gathered here to take counsel for the future of the Iceni

  tribe,” Morigenos said with the kind of sober grandeur that he adopted

  even on less momentous occasions. As the eldest of the clan leaders, he

  had become the spokesman for the men who were gathered around the

  great fire before the house of the king.

  The cluster of buildings within the palisade had not changed much

  since she had come here for her wedding, thought Boudica wistfully.

  Except for the little temple just outside the dun, even in his passion for

  building Prasutagos had not ventured to alter the ancient home of his

  line. Once more the elders of the Iceni clans had assembled at Dun Garo

  to choose a king.

  “We have buried a noble lord, Prasutagos son of Domarotagos, son

  through many fathers of Brannos, who led us to this land. There is now

  no male remaining of the blood of our kings.” Morigenos pulled at his

  brindled beard.

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  Boudica sighed, remembering her lost son. If he had survived he

  would be nearly the age of the young emperor.

  “It was the will of our lord that his daughters inherit with the emperor.”

  Morigenos’s lip curled at that, but he said no word that could be reported

  against him. It was the other chieftains who glared at Cloto, who had ar-

  rived the day after the funeral, unheralded, uninvited, and unwelcome.

  At least it was only Cloto, thought Boudica. She had feared that Pol-

  lio might come to the funeral. She herself was here only for the sake of

  the living children who sat to either side. Her moment of exaltation at

  the funeral had gone as swiftly as it came. Without Prasutagos it was a

  barren world, but for their sakes she must learn to live in it.

  “With that we have no quarrel. A man may leave his possessions

  where he likes—” and where it is politic, came the unspoken addendum.

  “But it is for us to choose who shall lead the tribe.”

  “On both counts you are wrong.” Cloto’s voice overrode his. “Pra-

  sutagos was a client of the emperor. That relationship dies with him. It

  is for the emperor to choose another man to rule these lands as client-

  king or to administer them directly as a conquered territory.”

  “We were never conquered!”

  “We are Rome’s allies!”

  The meeting erupted in a babble of protest.

  “And who are you to speak for the emperor, toad?” roared Bituitos.

  “One who is trusted by Nero’s procurator. While the governor is in

  the west it is Decianus Catus whose word you must obey. Neither your

  will nor that of Prasutagos has any meaning until confirmed by the real

  rulers of Britannia.”

  “If they do not do so, they betray that Roman Law they praise so

  highly!” snapped Drostac, his mustache bristling.

  “And they show themselves without honor and unworthy of our

  obedience,” added Morigenos.

  Cloto shrugged. “I tell you this for your sake, not for mine.”

  Boudica surged to her feet. “How dare you say such things while

  my husband’s ashes are still warm? He trusted Rome. Go back to your

  masters and let them teach you the meaning of honor, if they can!”

  “Do you think yourself another Cartimandua?” he sneered. “They

  do not trust her, and they will place even less faith in you—”

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  From the throats of the men around the fire came a deep growl, like

  that of dogs when they scent an enemy. For the first time, Cloto seemed

  to realize that he might be in danger. Standing, he draped his cloak over

  his shoulders with what dignity he could muster.

  “On your heads be it,” he repeated. “You have been warned.”

  “We have heard you.” Boudica drew herself up. The men laughed as

  he wilted beneath her glare. “Now be gone!”

  When Cloto had departed, she resumed her seat and nodded to

  Morigenos. “I apologize for interfering. Continue.”

  “We thank you for ridding us of that cur—” For a moment he con-

  sidered her, then turned to the others once more. “Not that I believe

  him. The Romans have been strong in their support of the Brigante

  queen. Why should they not accept a queen in the Iceni lands? There is

  no male of the old blood, but Boudica and her daughters are of that line,

  and she has ruled at her husband’s side. I propose that we acclaim her

  now. When her daughters have husbands it will be time enough to con-

  sider the election of a king.”

  “This is what I hoped for!” Rigana squeezed her hand. “Mother,

  why do you look so surprised? It was the obvious thing.”

  Boudica had not expected it. But as the tribesmen began to cheer

  she heard once more the voice of Prasutagos asking her to guard his

  people. For you I will do it . . . she said silently. For you . . .

  Boudica stood in the Earth-ring where she and Prasutagos had

  been bound. The body to which the marriage rite had linked her was

  no more, but he was still a part of her soul. Standing here, with the

  green fields rolling away on every side, she could almost sense him be-

  side her. He had loved this land, and she had loved him. If she followed

  in his footsteps perhaps he would walk with her, and she might dare to

  feel once more.

  The Druids who had conducted Prasutagos’s rite were long gone,

  frightened into exile or hiding when the Romans had begun to enforce

  the ban on their Order. Brangenos, with the surprising assistance of Ri-

  anor, who had turned up unexpectedly at their gates a few days after the

  council, was conducting the ceremony.

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  “Boudica, daughter of Dubrac, of the line of Brannos, son of the White

  Mare, will you stand as queen for the people and Lady of the Land?”