Ravens of Avalon (4 page)

“To Avalon?” Coventa said eagerly.

The priestess shook her head. “She came to a place with neither sun nor moon, where the trees are always in fruit and in flower. And the queen of its people, who have been here longer than any human folk on these isles, took her in. For a time out of time she stayed there, and when she was healed, she passed through the mists once more. That was how she came to Avalon.”

“Were priestesses living there?” asked Boudica.

“Priestesses and priests,” Mearan replied. “Descended from the mingling of the first people in these islands and the masters of high magic who had come from the Drowned Lands. But there was this difference—while among those early Druids the priestesses were present only to serve the priests in the rituals, on Avalon priest and priestess worked together, and it was the Lady of Avalon who wielded the greater power.”

“And that is still the difference between our Order here and the way it is, or was, in Gallia,” added Lhiannon.

“The wisewomen of Avalon taught Catuera, and sent her back to make peace between her people and the men of the old race, and though wars and raids continued, they were never so evil as they had been, and in the end we became one people as we are today.”

“And all men honor our priestesses …” added Coventa in satisfaction.

“Let us take care to deserve that reverence,” said Lhiannon.

TWO

ne is for the Source, the Divine Origin, nameless, unknowable, beyond perception,” chanted the boys and girls who sat beneath the ash tree.

For the first time in weeks the clouds had let through a little sunshine, and the teachers had brought their charges out to enjoy it. Arda-nos had sent the bardic students to practice beyond the grove. Even their mistakes sounded sweet in the spring air.

Truth may be forever One,
thought Lhiannon,
but its manifestations in the world are always changing.
The thought made her shiver.

“Two is for the God and the Goddess, male and female, light and darkness, all opposites that meet and part and join once more.” She spoke the words unthinking, then paused.

Spring was giving way to summer. In another week they would light the Beltane fires. At the festivals when man and woman lay down together to bring the power of the Lord and the Lady into the world, only those priestesses who had vowed virginity for the sake of the higher magics stayed apart. She cast a quick glance at Ardanos, who sat on the other side of the circle, and felt the hot blood heat her cheeks.

Even from across the circle she could feel his desire for her. When winter chilled all fires it was easy to deny the body’s demands, but when the sun kindled new life in every leaf and blade of grass, she remembered that she was young, and in love.

“Three is for the Divine Child that is born of their union, and three the faces of the Goddess who gives life to the world.” The spring sun filtered down through the new leaves, crowning the students with light. Coventa’s fair hair shimmered silver-gilt, and behind her she glimpsed a bent head like a blazing fire that could only be Boudica.

Were these the only children Lhiannon would ever have? Once more she glanced at Ardanos. She might dream of bearing him a child, but she had never cared much for babies. Let others create bodies—here at Mona, she and Ardanos formed minds and souls.

She wanted to sit in the seat of prophecy and soar through the heavens, but she also desired the wiry strength of his arms around her. The senior Druids taught that one must choose between the body and the soul. Lhiannon’s lips continued to move as the chant droned on, but her mind was far away.

As the young people trooped back toward Lys Deru, Lhiannon could hear them speculating on what they had heard. Boudica in partic-ul ar seemed thoughtful. It was about time. After a little more than a year the girl still sometimes acted l ike—a Roman visiting barbarians. But Boudica was forgotten as Lhiannon felt a warmth at her side and turned to find Ardanos there. Her whole body flushed with response as he took her hand.

“When I read the heavens, they tell me that Beltane is near …” he said softly. “Will you dance with me when they light the festal fire?”

Will you lie with me?
He did not need to say the words aloud.

The priests said that the flow of energy in the body was altered when a woman lay with a man, blocking the channels through which power flowed in prophecy. But what hope did Lhiannon have of sitting on the Oracle’s stool as long as Helve was the priests’ darling? The energy that flowed between man and woman raised another kind of power. Was she a fool to refuse that ecstasy for the sake of an opportunity that might never come?

She could not speak, but her grip tightened on his hand and she knew that her body had replied.

ut girls don’t play hurley! Boudica, they’ll never let you on the field!” cried Coventa, grabbing for her sleeve. From the field came a shout as one of the players caught the l eather-covered wooden ball on his cumman stick and lofted it back over the goal.

Boudica resisted an impulse to stride on, dragging the smaller girl behind her. At fifteen, she had nearly reached her full height.

“It’s a game to train warriors,” Coventa said when she had caught her breath. “In the old days it was not a little ball they hurled with that stick, but the head of an enemy.”

“I know that!” retorted Boudica. “They play it in my tribe as well. But Druids do not fight, so why are they playing? Anyway, in Eriu, the women still go to war.”

Coventa blinked, trying to sort out the logic, and Boudica started forward once more. The Druids recognized that a healthy mind functioned best in a healthy body, and a large meadow near Lys Deru had been made into a playing field. When thirty youngsters pursued the ball with knees, elbows, and three-foot ash staves, the game could be almost as dangerous as a battlefield. It was only a matter of time before someone was taken out of play.

“Oh, very well.” Coventa sat down on the grass. “You always do what you want anyway.”

A shout from Ardanos had separated the combatants, who regrouped into their teams, facing their own goals across the center line. The young priest threw the ball into the air and dashed backward as the two sides closed once more.

Beyond the strait, the great humped shapes of the mountains stood like a wall upon the horizon. Were they a protective barrier or a prison wall? To be given to a husband would be to go from one captivity to another. But did Boudica want to stay here as a teacher or go to some chieftain’s clanhold or perhaps to the marshes of the Summer Country to serve the Goddess upon the Isle of Avalon? How could she decide?

She flinched as the ball spun toward them from the center of the heaving mass of boys and sticks. Ardanos’s student, Bendeigid, smacked the ball toward a dark-haired Trinovante boy called Rianor, who pelted after it, stick whirling as he leaped forward. The first swing missed, but the second sent the ball hurtling toward the two holly trees that flanked the goal.

It is a good thing the ball doesn’t fight back,
thought Boudica.
If that was an enemy with a sword, he would be dead before he could strike a second blow.

She tried to discern the pattern of the play, but if either team had a plan it was not apparent. In that, also, it was like the way her people made war. The game grew more and more desperate. She heard someone scream and Ardanos calling a halt. Panting, the players surrounded the writhing figure on the ground.

The player struggled to sit, face white beneath his freckles, supporting his leg with his hands. His name was Beli, and he had been on Ri-anor’s team.

“Take him to the healers,” said Ardanos with a sigh. “And unless you have reinforcements hidden somewhere, this will end the game.”

There was a babble of protest from the boys and a groan of disappointment from the crowd. Games usually ran until one team had scored ten goals or the sun went down. Nine colored scarves fluttered from the other team’s goal tree and nine from Rianor’s. Boudica stood up, heart pounding in her breast.

“I’ll take his place,” she said in a clear voice. She kilted up her skirts and strode onto the field. Silence fell. Now everyone was staring at
her.

“But you’re a girl,” Rianor said at last.

Someone giggled and was hushed. Boudica shrugged. “I’m bigger than most of your boys. Of course if you want to play it safe, you can blame your loss on the accident. But if you have the courage, try me!” She held his dark gaze with her own, and saw the battle-light suddenly kindle in his eyes.

“Why not?” He grinned with a lift of the hand as if he were throwing dice.

Ardanos looked at Cloto, a sturdy lad who was the leader of the opposing team.

“Fine with me,” he sneered. “Now I
know
we’ll win!”

“That’s settled, then,” said Ardanos, frowning down Rianor’s hot reply. With a last glare for Cloto, the boy shut his mouth and handed the cumman stick to Ardanos, who offered it to Boudica. “Do you swear that you bring no charm or device of magic to this field, and will play honestly and truly, with no aid but your own body’s power?”

It was a necessary question in a school where some of the students could make the ball move by will alone, thought Boudica as she gripped the stick and swore the oath.

“Beli’s position was there—” Rianor pointed to a spot halfway down one side of the field.

She took her place, noting the locations of the other players. It had been a long time since she had played, but she remembered the few guidelines that passed for rules. She saw Ardanos approach the middle with the ball and hefted her stick. It had never occurred to her before, but the widened tip made it look more like one of the big wooden spoons the cooks used to stir stew in a cauldron than a sword. She grinned suddenly. Why shouldn’t a girl play this game? They were using a woman’s weapon, after all!

The ball flew upward and someone on the other side swung and sent it angling toward her own team’s goal. Stick poised, Boudica ran to intercept it, dodging the knot of boys racing forward with the same thing in mind. She heard the smack of wood against leather as someone whacked the ball, and the crowd of players surged after it in a confused mass, spinning off boys to either side. She glimpsed Cloto hurtling past, saw him turn and leap toward her instead, deliberately ramming the point of his shoulder into her breast. As she went sprawling she heard his laughter. Outraged, she opened her mouth to curse him—hurley was a rough sport, and the shoulder block a legal move, but only to stop an opponent from getting the ball—but pain robbed her of breath.

I’ll kick his balls up between his ears!
For a moment she could only lie curled around the agony as rage spread black wings across her vision, screaming for prey. When Boudica staggered to her feet, still hunched over, she saw Ardanos running toward her and waved him away. The scrimmage was dangerously close to her own team’s goal. Beyond it she glimpsed white robes and blue gowns among the spectators, but she no longer cared if the Druids were watching. One hand cupping her bruised breast, she scanned the heaving mass, trying to find Cloto, but what she saw was the ball hurtling toward her.

The pressure behind her eyes eased. Winning would be an even better revenge.

She darted sideways and swung, whacking the small sphere toward the enemy goal. Someone shouted behind her, but she was already in motion, her braid thumping her back as she galloped down the field. The opposing backfield had seen the danger. One of them scooped up the ball and sent it whizzing past Bendeigid, who managed to smack it sideways with his left hand, was spun around by the impact, and sat down hard on the grass. One of Cloto’s boys swung down his stick to stop it and the hurtling ball rebounded toward Boudica.

For a moment, then, it seemed that she had all the time in the world to watch the ball spinning toward her. She set her feet, gripping the cumman stick two-handed like a sword, shoulders flexing as she swung, lips drawn back to release her rage in the Iceni war cry.

The impact as stick and ball connected shocked through her body, and abruptly she was part of the world once more, still spinning with the follow-through of her blow as the ball soared over the heads of the backfielders and goalkeeper alike.

All eyes fixed on the ball’s flight. Dust puffed as it hit the earth between the holly trees. And in the moment of amazement as they realized that the game was over, Coventa screamed.

Boudica ran toward her friend, who was sitting bolt upright with staring eyes. As she reached her side, Coventa seized her arms.

“The Red Queen! Blood on the fields and cities burning, blood flowing everywhere …” Coventa gasped and hiccupped. Her grip slackened and Boudica caught her. For a moment her wavering gaze focused on Boudica’s face. “It was you! You were swinging a sword …”

“It was only a hurley stick,” Boudica protested, but Coventa’s eyes had rolled back in her head.

“Let her go, girl. I will take her now—”

Boudica looked up and recognized Helve, her dark hair bound around her head in precise coils. “I can lift her—” she began, but the priestess shouldered her aside, feeling for Coventa’s pulse and then signing to one of the priests to take the girl in his arms. Only then did she turn to Boudica.