Ravens of Avalon (5 page)

“Does she have these fits often?”

Boudica shrugged. “She has nightmares, but this is the first time when she was awake. She hasn’t been strong since she had the fever after her … accident … last year.” She flushed with shame.

But if Helve remembered Boudica’s part in that accident, she did not seem to care. She watched as the young Druid carried Coventa away, speculation in her gaze.

“She touched the Otherworld. That is all that is needed sometimes. We shall see what some training can do …”

But what if Coventa does not
want
to become an oracle?
Boudica opened her mouth, but Helve had not been speaking to her. The girl sat back on her heels, staring, as the priestess stalked away.

or months, the heavens had alternated between storm clouds and watery sunshine, like a coy maiden unable to decide whether to encourage a suitor or turn him away.
Like me,
thought Lhiannon, closing her eyes and turning her face to a sun that was blazing in a blue sky. But now everything—the white blooms of the hawthorn in the hedges and the creamy primroses beneath them, the upright green blades of the growing grass and the tender curls of the new oak l eaves—seemed lit from within.
Tonight the Beltane fires will burn brightly, and so will I.

She had been to the herb-sellers to purchase more poppy seed for the potion the priestess drank before the ritual. The open fields around Lys Deru had filled up with traders’ booths and tents and wagons and stock pens. All the farmers who were oathed to serve the Druid community were here, along with a scattering of families from the mainland. Lhiannon was not the only one who dreamed of meeting a lover at the Beltane fires. Young people from villages where they had known every one of their age since babyhood came here to seek new faces and new blood for their clans. After this night there would be handfastings in plenty, and weddings to follow.

But before Lhiannon went to the fires, she must assist at the ritual of the Oracle. When they sang the sacred song, she would know if its summons was stronger than the one her body was sending her now.

As she approached the enclosure she heard Helve, in her usual autocratic mood. It was with shock that Lhiannon realized that the other woman’s instructions were not for Mearan’s comfort, but for her own. Lhiannon twitched aside the curtain that hung before the doorway.

“Where is the High Priestess?” she whispered to Belina, one of the senior priestesses. Helve stood naked before the fire, stretching out her white limbs so that the others could bathe them with spring water infused with herbs.

“She is not well,” the other woman replied, lifting one eyebrow. “Helve will sit in the high seat this Beltane eve.”

“May the Lady grant her inspiration,” Lhiannon said dryly, and Be-lina sighed. Lhiannon went to the corner where old Elin was grinding herbs in a wooden mortar and handed her the poppy seeds. As she turned back, she saw Coventa coming into the room. Her smile died as she realized that the girl was swathed in the same midnight blue as the priestesses, her brows bound like theirs with a garland of spring flowers and sweet herbs.

“Helve, what is this?” she exclaimed. “The child is untrained. You cannot mean her to attend you in the ceremony!”

Helve’s pale eyes flashed with annoyance, but her voice, as always, was sweet and low. “Without her the number of attendents escorting me will be uneven, and I have been training her.” She smiled at Coventa. “Have I not, my little one? You will do very well.”

She will look like a child dressed in her mother’s robes,
thought Lhiannon, but Coventa was radiant with delight. She looked at the other priestesses for support, but they were carefullly avoiding her gaze. For a few moments the only sounds were the trickle of water as the priestesses dipped the cloths into the herbal bath and the rasp as Elin ground up the poppy seeds.

Lhiannon sighed and took off her veil. If Helve was nervous, she had some reason. This would not be her first time in the high seat, but she had not served as Oracle often, and if Mearan’s indisposition was sudden, she would not have had much time to prepare. For the first time it occurred to her that Helve’s natural talent for autocracy must make it especially difficult to surrender her will even to the gentle direction of Lugovalos.

It would be easier for me,
she thought bitterly.
I cannot even assert myself enough to stand up for Coventa.
But she could at least keep an eye on the child during the ritual.

Above the hearth a small cauldron was bubbling. Elin cast in a pinch of ground poppy seed to simmer with the mistletoe berries and mushrooms and other herbs, then stood stirring the mixture, chanting softly. Helve continued to chatter as they dressed her in the flowing robes of the Oracle. When Lhiannon approached with the garland of columbine twined with spring flowers, she saw triumph in the other woman’s pale eyes.

Helve will never allow me to sit as Oracle. Why have I denied myself so long?
Lhiannon wondered then. Mastering a surge of hatred, she set the garland upon Helve’s brow, and the other woman fell silent at last. Elin ladled some of the potion into the ancient jet bowl and set it to cool. Presently the door curtain rustled and the Arch-Druid entered, leaning on his staff. His silver beard glistened against the creamy wool of his robe.

“It is time, my daughter,” Lugovalos said softly, and Elin set the jet bowl in Helve’s hands. She took a deep breath and drank, shuddered once, and swallowed it down. Elin and Belina took her elbows and escorted her to the litter that was waiting outside. As Lhiannon fell in behind them she could feel the vibration of the drums through the soles of her feet, as if earth’s heart were beating out the rhythm of the festival.

In the west, the sky was a translucent blue, deepening overhead to the same midnight shade the priestesses wore. A great crowd had assembled before the sacred grove. Helve swayed when she was seated upon the t hree-legged stool, and for a moment Lhiannon feared she would fall, but before anyone could touch her she straightened, seeming to grow taller. Lhiannon felt a breath of warm wind, scented with flowers no mortal garden could boast, and knew that the Goddess was here.

Relieved, she drew Coventa back to stand with the others and relaxed as they settled into the familiar rhythms of the ritual. She had to admit that Helve was a powerful seeress. From her place behind the high seat she could feel the woman’s aura expand as she sank deeper into trance, and brought up her own barriers to shield against it.

The first question came from Lugovalos, and was, as expected, about the prospects for a good harvest. There was a murmur of satisfaction as the seeress spoke of sunny skies and fields golden with ripe grain. Now the air around her was beginning to glow. Lhiannon smiled. Mona was one of the breadbaskets of Britannia—it would take an evil fate indeed to threaten that harvest. Coventa swayed beside her, humming softly, and Lhiannon gave her hand a sharp squeeze.

“Fasten yourself to the earth, child,” she whispered sharply. “Only the seeress is supposed to go through the gate of prophecy.” Coventa hiccupped and then grew still, but she remained unsteady as Lugovalos spoke once more.

“In Gallia, the Legions of Rome have placed an iron yoke upon our people, and now their emperor has banished the Druid Order from their lands. Say then, seeress, what the future holds for us here in Britannia?”

There was a silence, as if not only the Arch-Druid but all Britannia was waiting to hear.

The blossoms in Helve’s garland began to tremble, and Lhiannon felt Coventa shake as if in sympathy. Once more she damned Helve’s pride. The child was being caught up in the vision and had no defense against it.

“I see oars that lift and dip like wings on the water …” muttered Helve. “As the geese flock north in the spring they come—three great flocks of winged vessels stroking across the sea …”

“When will they come, wise one?” Lugovalos asked urgently. “And where?”

“Where the white cliffs rise and the white sands gleam,” came the answer. “When the hawthorn is in white bloom.”

Time was notoriously difficult to fix in prophecy, thought Lhiannon as a murmur of unease swept through the crowd. But at the earliest, it could not be until next year. To collect so great an army would take time, and though the Druids might be banned from Gallia, the Order had agents in plenty on the other side of the sea. Surely when an invasion was planned they would know. She put her arm around Coventa, holding her close and praying that Helve would finish soon. But the Arch-Druid wanted more.

“And what then? Where are our armies?” he demanded.

“The Red Crests march westward and none oppose them. I see a river …” Helve’s moan was echoed faintly by Coventa. The glow around her deepened to a fiery hue. Lhiannon shook her head as vision teased at her awareness, armies locked in combat and corpses floating downstream.

“The river runs red … red … it becomes a river of blood that covers the land!” Coventa’s thin scream joined Helve’s shriek in eerie harmony. Focused on Helve, the priests did not appear to notice, but the other priestesses turned in alarm.

“Get her out of here!” hissed Belina in Lhiannon’s ear.

Coventa’s limbs were twitching now. With the strength of desperation Lhiannon lifted the girl and stumbled backward into the trees. Behind her she could hear Helve’s wail and the murmur as Lugovalos strove to stem the torrent of visions. The Druids would have more questions about the Romans, but Lhiannon did not need to be in trance to predict they would not be asking them at a public festival.

Panting, she leaned against a tree. She tensed as a shadow appeared beside her and then relaxed, recognizing Boudica. Coventa had gone limp, still muttering. Together they carried her through the trees and back to the House of the Healers.

ill she be all right?” Boudica looked from her friend’s still face to the strained features of the priestess, alternately lit and shadowed by the flickering of the little fire. Coventa had quieted as soon as they got her away from the grove, and now she lay as one in a deep sleep. She leaned forward, wondering in what dream Coventa wandered now. “Should we try to wake her up?”

“Best not,” answered Lhiannon. “People often fear being lost in trance, but if one cannot return consciously, it is better to simply pass into normal sleep. Coventa’s mind will reorder itself before waking again. All we can do is to guard her. If she wakes too suddenly some part of her spirit may be dream-lost, and it will be difficult to fetch it back again.”

“But you would do it, wouldn’t you.” It was not quite a question. “Would Helve?” The sound of the festival was like distant waves on the shore—they might have been alone in the world.

Lhiannon looked at her in surprise, and Boudica held her gaze. Except for Coventa, for a year she had refused all offers of friendship, especially Lhiannon’s, suspecting condescension, or worse still, pity. Lhiannon was so beautiful, what use could she have for a gawky, head-blind girl? But tonight they were united by a common need and a common fear. Boudica was the one who had noticed that Coventa was in trouble. Tonight she could face her teacher as an equal and dare to wonder what lay behind the serene face the priestess showed the world.

“Oh yes. You must not underestimate her skills. It is likely that she will be High Priestess after Mearan.” From outside they heard the joyful shout that hailed the lighting of the Beltane fire.

“I find it hard to like her,” said Boudica. Lhiannon said nothing, but her lips tightened, and Boudica understood what the priestess was too loyal to say. “She flirts with every male she sees, but she gives her love to none.”

“She must keep pure to serve as Oracle,” Lhiannon said evenly. “When Mearan fell ill it was a good thing we had another priestess who was qualified.”

“You could do it,” Boudica said warmly, and noted the betraying color that reddened Lhiannon’s cheekbones. “Is that why you are here instead of dancing around the fire?” She had seen how Lhiannon and Ardanos looked at each other when they thought no one could see.

“I am here because Coventa needs me!” snapped the priestess, and this time, her response was sharp enough to warn Boudica off.

“I do not understand all this emphasis on virginity,” the girl said at last.

“To tell you the truth,” Lhiannon said wryly, “at this moment, neither do I!”

Boudica smiled, finding it surprisingly sweet to know herself forgiven. “I do not like the idea of being at the beck and call of a husband, but I would like children. Mearan has always seemed like a mother to this community. I am surprised that she has none.”

“In the past the High Priestess often bore children, and another woman served as Oracle,” Lhiannon replied.

“But is it so important?” asked Boudica. “How do they manage in Rome?”

“The Romans have no seers of their own,” Lhiannon answered, obviously relieved to move the conversation to more neutral ground. “They visit the oracles of Hellas, but when the Sibyl of Cumae offered the books of prophecy to their last king, he refused twice, and she burned six of them before the tribal elders insisted he buy the last three—for the same price she had originally asked for all nine!” Both women laughed. “Now they consult omens or pore over the verses that remain, or make pilgrimage to oracles in other lands.”