“Yes. Your way will not be easy. It is a complex journey, and those who join your order will have much to do. The dream in which this design appeared was both dark and light, calm and fraught with a certain danger.”
Arianrhod touched it with a kind of awe. “The flesh is pained, but the spirit is uplifted by this design.”
Her words touched and troubled me. I wished I could see what was going to happen to Arianrhod in the future, but that Sight was completely closed to me.
I spent most of my days staring into the fire, tracing the path the Goddess was building with my sons. How strange the clothes! I heard the heirs speak, but their words had little meaning to me. There was Drunemeton—built larger and of brick, and very prosperous-looking. There was the grotto and the rites. . . slightly more elaborate. It was good they were filling in the ritual, although I noticed the initiation age getting later as time went by.
Here was a boy with dark green-as-leaves-in-the-moonlight eyes. There a man with hair like straw in the sun.
These were my great-grandbabies!
I peered harder. I wanted to see more!
“Mama,” Arianrhod said one day, “please, may I speak to you?”
I blinked away the image of one of my heirs riding in a grand chariot. “Yes, my own love?”
“I want you to write down your story. There’s so much I don’t know about you and how your story fits in with that of Merlin and Arthur.”
I sighed. “That there are heirs of those great men is all that matters. My part is of no consequence.”
Arianrhod kissed my scarred cheek—the only child of mine who touched it. “You were selected by the Goddess for a great purpose! Surely that’s of interest, no matter how uncomfortable the tale.”
I started, then laughed. “Ah. I see you have been poking around my life with the Sight.”
“Please,” Arianrhod said, placing the quill and parchment on a table beside me. “No matter how bad you think it makes you look, write it down. I promise I’ll not judge you ill.”
I could tell by the intensity of Arianrhod’s gaze that my daughter would not brook no for an answer. “I will take on the task, but only if you take one of your own.”
“What is that?”
“You must make a copy of the Arthur and Merlin book, and this one you command I write. Take them with you when you leave Drunemeton. And if the lines should fall, your heirs must help the Merlin and Arthur families rebuild. The Goddess’s Plan must not be allowed to fail!”
“It will be so,” Arianrhod pledged.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Stephen and his foster brother Malcolm, Sir Dagonet’s younger son, took up the mad idea of fighting for the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre, which their tutor had taught the young men defended the holy tomb of the Christ. The boys traveled to a far-away place called Jerusalem. I knew Stephen cared not one whit about the Brotherhood. He just wanted an adventure in a far-off place. Since his journey to a desert place was foretold by me when he was but a spark in my womb, I did not worry overmuch. I knew he would come back.
But, I had two disconcerting visions while he was away. Both times he was in grave peril. In each case, the Goddess saved him.
The details were never clear.
I had to trust that things were unfolding as they should.
But the waiting was hard.
Almost three years later, with the full Blessing Moon shining down, Stephen—hair and beard close-clipped like his father—returned. With him was his new bride, named Ilyada. She was a fine-looking young woman with skin the color of polished bronze and dark eyes. I caught her staring at me with a look full of interest and speculation when she thought I could not see her. She was no pretty plaything, but a fine, intelligent spirit.
After a hastily arranged feast, the family gathered outside in the courtyard, for it was a warm, pleasant night. “Well, brother,” Falcon said, “let’s hear the tale!”
Stephen explained that he and Malcolm joined a band of fighting men and took a boat to Jerusalem. The ship stopped in many ports; the people and places looked more and more exotic as they traveled south, then east. “But no place is as strange as Jerusalem! We’d never seen so many people in one place before. There were Hebrews and Persians, Christians, and people of Aegypt, Anatolia, Assyria, and every land of the ancient world you’ve ever heard of. The food was amazing and odd—spicy, made of this and that strange fruit. The markets—called souks—were crowded every day and filled with beautiful cloths, jewels, spices, and items of every description. And the animals we saw! There was something called a kamel—a great beast with a slim ox’s face on a horse’s body. It had a hump on its back in which it stores water.”
We ooh-ed and ah-ed at the strange things he described.
“When we arrived, the Byzantines of Constantinople were rulers of the city. But there was word an army of Persians under the command of King Parviz was on its way. We tried to help the garrison there, but a few moons later, the Persians laid siege and began a bombardment that lasted twenty-one days. We feared we would die when the walls were breached! The Byzantine guards either ran away or fought poorly. There wasn’t much we from Britain could do to stop the carnage that followed. The invaders burned the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Then they rounded up all the Christians they could find, drove them to the Mamilla Pool, and slaughtered them!”
“But how did you get out, dear brother?” Arianrhod asked.
“Once the city was lost, Malcolm and I ran from street to street trying to find our band of British fighters, but they were nowhere to be found. We ran down one alley and discovered ourselves in a dead-end. Just when I thought we’d surely die, a door opened, and a Moor beckoned to us. Malcolm didn’t want to go, fearing it was a trick. But I trusted the look on the man’s face, and we followed him. He hid us in his cellar while King Parviz’s men searched for Byzantium soldiers. We learned our rescuer was a judge—Hakam they call them—by the name of Hafiz El-Amin. He and his family fed us and concealed us for almost three moons. Finally, El-Amin smuggled us out of the city in giant empty clay jugs that had held olive oil. We were glad to get out of Jerusalem, I’ll tell you!”
He seemed to have finished his tale, but then he gave me a look. I heard in his mind: We need to speak of this later.
“And where did you meet this lovely young lady?” I asked. While he spun his tale, I had been studying his wife. I could feel the touch of the Goddess on her.
“Malcolm and I ended up in Anatolia and took up arms in the wars between the warlords there,” Stephen said. “In truth, I was never quite clear on whether the fellow we fought for was on the side of right, but he paid well, and we were near to starving when we came upon his army. In one clash, we fought at the walls of a town called Göbekli Tepe. On midsummer day, Malcolm was killed, and I was injured.”
“I am sorry for the loss of your foster brother. How were you injured?” I asked, reaching out with my mind. But I was satisfied he was healthy; his aura was a bright, clear red.
“I took an arrow to the shoulder,” he said. “When I woke up, this good lady was healing me. Didn’t leave my side for two moons.” His bride looked away shyly. “Well, I wasn’t going to let someone that beautiful and talented out of my sight! As soon as I was better, I asked her father for her hand—and now she bears my child!”
The family cheered and hugged the pair. The party lasted until quite late. But when everyone went up to bed, I headed into the study. Stephen followed.
“Ilyada is a servant of the Goddess?” I asked.
“Yes,” Stephen said, sitting on the stool next to me. Without having to be asked, he slipped off his shirt and allowed me to inspect the wound. It had healed cleanly and showed the talent of his healer wife.
“She’s not so skilled as you,” he said.
“Skilled enough to heal you well.” I noted a pouch hanging around his neck. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
“It is.” Stephen withdrew an odd-looking ancient thing
and handed it to me. It was a necklace made of a thick rope of braided gold chain. But the pendant was the important part. It was about a hand-and-a-half in length, in a diamond shape. It was covered with runes or writing of a kind I had never seen. In the center was a stone that looked like an eye: the top of it was bright white with just a dot of purple at the center. Around the sides of the stone were layers of colors: red, blue, green and purple. If the Goddess chalice had thrummed with power, the pendant positively howled with it.
“How came you by this thing?” I asked.
“All that I told was true, but this I did not say,” Stephen said, staring off into space. “Hakam El-Amin helped us out of the oil jugs once we were safely out of the city. He was wearing this, the first time I’d seen him do so. He took my head in his hands and kissed my forehead. El-Amin said, ‘You are beloved of the Goddess. She instructed me to save you, and to give you this, a thing of great and most sacred power.’ And then he left us in the field.”
I handed it back to him—for I knew it was not for me, but a time in the far future. “I have never seen its like. You must keep it safe. Once you have a home, you must make a rock cairn in your cellar and seal it. I will come and put spells on it to keep it from being used until it is time.”
Stephen’s dark blue eyes grew wide. “It’s not for the grotto?”
I listened for more instructions but received none. “No. This is for a time beyond the grotto. I do not understand it, but you and your heirs must be the steward of this one thing, apart from the grotto. Guard it well.”
He nodded and tucked it into the pouch around his neck. “Also, there was something strange during the battle of Göbekli Tepe.”
My skin prickled. The battle was one of the unsettling visions I could not parse while he was gone. “Tell me.”
“The sky was a strange color that day—the clouds were like a bruise, all black and purple. And there was a sound on the wind …”
I leaned forward. I could almost hear it in his mind. “Yes?”
“It was like chanting. It seemed to get louder just before I took the arrow,” he said. “But maybe it was just the huge flock of ravens that follow men into battle.” He chuckled. “We were still a little underfed and making war does strange things to the mind. It could have been my imagination. But, you’ve always told me to beware of strange happenings and share them.”
“Hm. Well, whatever it was, you are safe, at home, and with a new bride—who you should join in her bed!” I said.
Stephen pulled on his shirt, gave me a peck on my unmarked cheek, and went out.
But my thoughts turned to the Goddess. Was that Morgaine’s doing?
And I heard Her say: Morgaine will stalk the heirs until the end of days.
I shivered and went up to bed.
I meant to tell Arianrhod what the Goddess said the next day. But, what with the summer planting, Stephen and his new wife, and a rash of illness that struck the village, it quite went out of my head.
I gave Ilyada the gold and amber necklace Arthur gave me. “A wedding present.” Stephen seemed very pleased.
A few months later, Stephen bought a fine hall called Steadbye Place, only three leagues away, with the gold from his father I kept for him. I had him call himself Lord Steadbye and apply to serve as a council at the court of King Coel.
Just as I suggested to him, he built a rock cairn in the cellar. He placed the Jerusalem Jewel within, and I protected it with magick that would keep inquiring hands away until the right moment.
Ilyada bore him a fine son, with skin lighter than his mother, but his father’s eyes. I asked Stephen and all his heirs to name their first-born sons with a name starting with A, but never Arthur. They named him Ailis.
It occurred to me where I might hide the Oathstone. One night, with no one to watch, I made it safe for the Time Foretold—whatever that may mean.
Chapter Seventy
The harvest in my forty-second year seemed especially blessed. Falcon’s wife, Neala, her daughters Bedelia and Kelia, Droja, the new assistant housekeeper, the cook, Arianrhod, and I, busied ourselves making apple cider and preserves for the long winter. The bees produced copious amounts of honey, and so, what we did not use to make mead or medicines, we put by. We made many, many candles from the wax, a task that took weeks. There were herbs to distill and decoct for the remedies we would need for the illnesses of winter. Arianrhod’s herb brews were now better than mine, and I delighted in each new insight my daughter gained. We taught Neala the uses of the herbs and simples. She had become a good assistant healer.
Falcon, Kestrel, and Lairgnan were out long days in the fields helping with the harvest. We had a great feast with Stephen and his family for Samhain, and celebrated the addition of Stephen’s youngest son, Herne. Falcon sang a new song he composed, about the fall of King Arthur and Camelot.
The nights deepened, and the Mourning Moon shone its cold light on the empty fields. Ice was in every corner. Without all the distractions of the outdoors, I had time to call up the Sight and follow the line of my sons as the Goddess chose to show me. I had traced the paths of my sons’ descendants hundreds and hundreds of years, and still the Goddess’s plan had not unfolded. The manner of dress and living seemed so strange, but the family was still the same. I could see echoes of Merlin and Arthur in both lines—here the shape of a nose, there a way of gesturing when the boy talked. It was both fascinating and frustrating.
For what task has the Goddess selected my line? Finding the answer seized my every waking moment. I had a strong feeling my time was coming to an end.
I must see the result of the Goddess’ Plan!
Arianrhod prodded me to finish the book about my life. I suspected the task of writing my story was a ruse to distract me from pursuing the Sight. Arianrhod said repeatedly she felt it unhealthy to spend so much time in forcing visions. She might have been right. I had lost much weight and did not care for food. I only wished to see what path my offspring would take.
“Mama, don’t give in to the Sight. Stay here and be with us,” Arianrhod said.
I nodded, pretending to heed her. “You should copy down what I have finished. What if I die in the middle of writing this? You’ve said you will leave Drunemeton after my death!”
Arianrhod stormed out of the room, but I only laughed. In truth, I had mostly finished writing down my tale, with only the current days to write. But it amused me that my daughter used this one thing to prod me along.
I decided to write down a story the Lady of Viborg told me once, to make me understand our essential nature. Arianrhod, I write this down for you.
Consider, thou, the tall tasseled river grass that grows in the marshland. Wind rushes down from the mountains, bending the stalks. Gusts roar in from the sea, fluttering and shaking the leaves. Storms rumble through from the uplands, swirling the seed heads this way and that. Yet rather than stiffen and “bear-up” against this assault, the grass takes this as an invitation to dance. Her tendrils fly this way and that, her stalk weaves a complex movement, like a woman, hips swaying, moves to the beat.
Great storms sweep in from the ocean or the highlands, sometimes even beating down the grass so that it looks to be laid low. But, observe! When the sun comes out, the grass rises tall again, stalk straight, leaves up-reaching to the light. It is unbowed by passing weather. It knows the calm time will come again.
At the appointed moment, the grass will release its seeds to the riffling wind. Some of those will land on rock or water. A very few will land on fertile soil. Fewer still will take root and grow. See how the mother grass worries not once she has done what her nature commands her to do. She has given her full attention to that which must be and let what she cannot affect take care of itself.
But at the base of this acceptance of change is the root system. Try to pull the plant out, and one may only snap off the stalk. Attempt to dig it out, and one may break the spade. The grass holds fast to the earth, never letting go. It is firm in its p
urpose. It knows where it is in the great wide world and what it must do. It cannot be moved.
At last, the end comes: the light grows weak and fades. Winter wind comes and dries up the seeds and the stalks. Finally, the grass lies down and is buried by the snow. Yet the root retains her memory. She saves her strength for another day, when she will rise and dance in the wind once more.
So, too, do we live, my daughter. So, too, must we be.
Chapter Seventy-One
A moon later, Turi, Fredic and Droja’s son, returned home from his long travels. We held a celebration for him. He told many tales of strange, far-away places, as well as things closer to home. “Cinnia is now the governess for a great Florentine lord with five daughters. She lives very well and thinks she may never come back north.”
“Will you be staying, son?” Droja asked hopefully.
“No, Mother. I’m sorry, but my master will soon head back to his home among the Polans. I was fortunate his business took him to Londinuim, and he allowed me time to visit with you.” Turi said.
I noted how his eyes never left Arianrhod and how my daughter watched the young man behind her lashes.
Later, before the evening meal, Turi took a walk around the grounds. Arianrhod slipped out to go with him. Droja and I watched the pair from the upstairs window as they walked side by side. Turi took her hand. When they reached the big willow, he stole a kiss.
“They are sweet together,” I said.
“They are,” Droja said. Then, shyly she asked, “You don’t mind?”
“Why would I mind?” I asked.
“You could marry her to a lord or even a minor king,” Droja said.
“No, she has no parentage that would warrant such a match. Only this home. I could buy her a lord with a sufficient dowry, if she wanted it, I suppose. But Arianrhod’s path is not that way.” I hugged Droja. “If she wants your boy, be sure, he has little chance of escaping her!”
The Priestess of Camelot Page 32
