Ravens of Avalon (32 page)

By the time the food was ready it was quite dark. The overgrown ramparts of the abandoned hillfort above them loomed against the stars. These days it served the region as a site for the seasonal fairs and festivals. Lhiannon hoped that was all it would ever need to be. The last few years had given her a distaste for hillforts—it was too easy for those walls to trap those whom they were supposed to defend.

“And Lugovalos is certain that the Romans will not come to Mona?” asked one of the men.

“Is anything certain, except, possibly, Helve’s prophecies?” asked Belina. “But they can only come at us by the coast path, and that will be hard to manage with so many men.”

“But if they do,” the old man persisted, “can the Arch-Druid defend us? I have heard that his health has been poor.”

“The past few years have been hard on him, as they have been on us all,” Belina said patiently, serving out the porridge.

“If he does pass, who can succeed him? Cunitor is senior, but he is not very forceful, as I recall.”

“I suppose the choice would fall on Ardanos, but we will hope that the need is long delayed.”

Lhiannon blinked as the world became a whirl of darkness shot with fire. A burning pain on her thigh brought her back to awareness and she realized that she had dropped her porridge bowl. She swabbed at the mess rather clumsily with her sleeve.

“Lhiannon, are you all right?” Belina was beside her with a cloth.

“I’m sorry,” she said numbly. “I didn’t mean to waste the food. Ardanos—” She drew a shuddering breath. She would not admit she had thought him dead all this time. “I last saw him when the Dun of Stones fell. I am glad … he escaped.”

“Oh of course, you have been so out of touch you wouldn’t know that. He was wounded and left for dead, it’s true, but he is fine now. He’ll be glad to see you,” she added brightly. “He went around with a face like a sour apple for months, thinking you were lost. I had forgotten that you two worked together when Caratac was leading the Durotriges. I know you were quite close,” she chattered on.

Close …
thought Lhiannon.
As close as blood and breath. He is alive, and I will see him soon!

s they rounded the granite cliff Lhiannon took a sharp breath, shivering as the cold salt scent for a moment gave way to the sweet verdant breath of the island beyond, a promise of sanctuary in the gray domain of the sea. Past the trees she could see the blue waters of the strait and the island of Mona, a magic island surrounded by magic, glimmering golden in the afternoon sun.

She shivered again as the wind grew stonger. Fits of trembling had seized her at intervals ever since she learned that Ardanos was alive. Be-lina had dosed her for the ague and Lhiannon did not gainsay her, though she knew this was no illness of the body but a symptom of the turmoil within.

Would Ardanos have changed? Would he look older? Would she? They had lost so much time, wasted so many opportunities. She had seen in the fulfillment that Boudica had finally found what a true marriage could be. She would be the Goddess to Ardanos, and they would renew the world.

As one in a dream she reined her pony after the others down the path. A fl at-bottomed boat was drawn up at the landing. Lhiannon went across with the second load. By the time they rode through the gates of Lys Deru the entire community had gathered. There were more than she remembered, priests and priestesses who had fled before the Roman advance. She did not envy the job Helve must have to keep them all fed and occupied.

Still on her horse, Lhiannon searched the crowd for Ardanos’s ginger head. The crowd was parting as the High Priestess herself came out to welcome them, Coventa, taller but otherwise little changed, a half-pace behind. And behind her a gaggle of others, but only one whose face had meaning for Lhiannon. As Helve moved forward he stopped, looked up, and met her searching gaze.

His lips moved, but there was no sound. All the color drained from his face. A woman reached out to hold him as he swayed. But by then, Lhiannon was off the pony and running toward him.

“Lhiannon,” came Helve’s voice from behind her. “What a miracle to have you among us again! As you can see, our community has acquired many new members. Ardanos—you must introduce your wife and child …”

For the first time, Lhiannon looked at the woman who was supporting him. Long, fair hair was knotted underneath a scarf. A green tunic covered a figure that had probably become more matronly with the birth of the towheaded two-year-old who clung to her skirts.

“Nay, my man is too flummoxed to say a word, and he a trained bard!” the woman exclaimed in the accent of the Durotrige tribe. “I am Sciovana, and this here is our daughter, Rheis. He has told me so much about you, my l ady—I know it must be a wonder to him to see you alive!”

That speech had saved both of them, thought Lhiannon as she looked from Ardanos, who was fighting to regain his composure, to Helve, who watched with what seemed a malicious smile. She could not scream at this woman who was beaming at her with such welcome, and she would not afford Helve the satisfaction of knowing that her little surprise had wounded Lhiannon as deeply as she could have desired.

Coventa came up beside her. “Lhiannon, you must be exhausted by your journey,” she said softly. “Come, we should put your things away— after dinner will be time enough to catch up with old friends …”

t was true that it was easier to face most things on a full belly, thought Lhiannon, though she had not expected Coventa to know that.

“I am surprised you are still in plain linen.” She indicated the un-dyed maiden’s tunic that the girl wore. “I would have expected to see you in priestess-blue by now.”

Coventa shrugged. “I am ready, but Helve has judged the roads too dangerous to make the journey to my homeland after the ceremony at Avalon. Perhaps next year, if things settle down.”

Well, that might be the reason. But there could be others. Coventa had always been delicate. Now she looked positively ethereal, as if she would not need to be in trance to visit the Otherworld.

“Have you been well, child?” she asked.

“Oh, safe as I have been here on the island, how could I be otherwise?” Coventa said cheerfully. “It is you who have been having the adventures …”

She had made up a bed for Lhiannon in the House of Priestesses and helped her to arrange her few belongings, and she had brought a bowl of barley and greens from the central fire so that she could eat in peace.

“When you are in the midst of the story, the danger is more apparent than the adventure,” Lhiannon said wryly. “Such moments are much better experienced secondhand in a bard’s tale by the fire.”

“Not all the good stories are about terrors,” observed Coventa. She sat down cross-legged on the end of Lhiannon’s bed. “Tell me all about Boudica. I miss her so much. Is it really true that she ran away from her husband on their wedding night?”

Lhiannon shook her head in wonder that the tale should have traveled this far. “She did, but they are very happy together now—”

She sighed, reminded that for a few short days she had hoped to find a similar joy, and as if the thought had summoned him, she heard Arda-nos’s voice outside the door.

“Is Lhiannon there? Is she rested enough to come for a walk with me?”

Coventa looked inquiringly at Lhiannon, who got to her feet and reached for a shawl. She had known they would have to have this conversation sometime. Afterward she could forget her dreams, or if that proved impossible, throw herself into the sea.

The sun had set, but so close to midsummer the sky still glowed with no visible source of light. It reminded her of the light in the Faerie world. As they crossed the fire circle Lhiannon saw that more huts had been built around it. The carved gateposts were the same, like the trees that arched over the path to the Sacred Grove. And yet to her they looked strange, as the man who walked beside her was a stranger, limping a little as they moved down the path.

“Your child is very sweet, and your wife seems both good-natured and kind,” she said politely.

“Lhiannon, I thought you were dead!” Ardanos answered the question behind her words. “Swords were swinging all around you, and then I was struck down. I thought I was dead myself. The Romans thought so, too, or I would be a slave in Gallia by now. They tossed me on a heap of corpses, and if I had not been found by people from the nearest farmstead looking for some of their own men I would have been food for the ravens.”

She said nothing. The Sacred Grove lay before them. By unspoken agreement they paused just outside.

“Sciovana’s family took me in,” he continued. “I had lost a great deal of blood and taken a fever. She nursed me, and when I lay raving with grief and pain, she held me in her arms.”

Not enough pain to keep you from taking advantage of her generosity,
thought Lhiannon.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, but when I came to myself and realized that I had got the girl with child, I was willing enough to marry her. What did it matter, if you were lost to me?”

Could she blame him, she wondered, remembering how she had sought comfort with Boudica? If Boudica had loved her as Sciovana did Ardanos, she would not have been here at all. But here she was, and her own pain left her with little sympathy for his.

He stared at her, tears in his eyes. “My love is a girl with hair like the yellow flag,” he whispered. “Soft as the breast of the swan …” He swallowed and took her hand. “You are a priestess, Lhiannon, as Sci-ovana can never be. In the great rites we can still come together, priest and priestess, raising the power!”

“You have everything figured, I see!” Lhiannon jerked her hand away. “One woman for the altar, and one for the hearth. How very convenient! But I have not stayed virgin so long to become your magical mistress! Go back to your wife, Ardanos! She seems a good woman and deserves better, but it would appear that she loves you …”

He tried to hold her, but with a quick twist, she was running back down the path. She did not stop until she reached the House of Priestesses where she collapsed, weeping, in Coventa’s arms.

SEVENTEEN

elve asks if you will attend her this afternoon,” said Coventa. Spring had come at last to the island, and the soft wind stirred her fair hair.

“My child, you lie.” Lhiannon looked up from the quern in which she was grinding grain and smiled. “Helve does not send requests to her inferiors. You were supposed to bring me her
command
…”

“Well, yes—” Coventa blushed. “But she speaks that way because she thinks her dignity requires it. Truly, she can be very kind.”

To you, perhaps,
thought Lhiannon. If a belief in Helve’s goodness made the young woman feel better about her own position here, it would have been cruel to deprive her of it, especially now, when Helve had transferred her affection to a new girl called Nodona. Except for the fact that her hair was dark, she reminded Lhiannon strongly of what Coventa had been like when she was very young.

“You may tell the High Priestess that I will come.”

She scooped another handful of grain into the hole at the top of the upper quern stone, grasped the use-polished stick that served as handle, and began to push it around once more. It was hard work of a kind that she should have delegated to someone like Sciovana, but the repetitive motion had a mind-numbing effect that helped her get through the days.

Before going to Helve, however, Lhiannon took the time to wash and change into a clean tunica. She was glad she had done so when she saw that the High Priestess was not alone. Lugovalos and Belina, Cuni-tor and Ardanos, and a selection of the more senior Druids who had taken refuge on Mona were also there.

Coventa did not tell me that this was a council—perhaps because Helve feared I might refuse to attend,
she thought wryly, though it wasn’t true that she avoided Ardanos’s company entirely: she only refused to see him alone. She settled into place beside Belina with an armored smile.

“Welcome, my sister—you complete our circle,” said Lugovalos kindly. If he was aware of the undercurrents he gave no sign as he went on. “I have called you all here because we have learned that the governor is planning to attack the Deceangli.”

“To attack
us,
you mean,” put in Divitiac, who had been chief Druid to the Durotriges before the Romans came. He had been spirited away as the legions were marching into Tancoric’s dun, and his limbs trembled, though his mind was still strong. “Whatever toleration the Romans had for us is ended. The new governor is killing those of our Order wherever he finds them. We are all that remain, and the Decean-gli guard the path around the north coast that any invader must take to come here.”

“We must flee!” whispered a priestess who had been with the Belgae, and sometimes woke sobbing in the night from nightmares. “We must take ship for Eriu. The Irish Druids are strong and will welcome us.”

“And where will we go after that—the Blessed Isles?” asked Cunitor with grim humor.

“One way or another we will all come there in the end,” murmured Belina.

“If we run now we will never stop,” objected Cunitor. “Caratac is still fighting, and there are still tribes that have not bent the knee to Rome. If we can stir them up to rebellion, the Romans will leave the Deceangli alone.”