Ravens of Avalon (59 page)

It was not fair, thought Lhiannon, to use what they had shared against her, but they were both desperate now. What hurt so badly was the truth in Boudica’s words. In Eriu she had learned how to seek illumination through depriving the senses in a darkened room, how to divine by touch, and how poetry might drive the mind past reason to the intuitive leap that brings truth. But since she rode with Caratac she had not used magic to ask any question about whose answer she cared.

I have cut myself off from the ecstasy of the flesh and the spirit both,
she realized.

“And if I do …” she said slowly, “if I go out and seek the answers I fear, will you fight to live?”

This time, she noted sourly, Boudica’s wince did not come from physical pain.

“I will fight,” the queen said with a sudden grim resolve, “if, when you stand between the worlds, you will let me question you.” There was a long silence. Bogle, sensing that the quarrel was done, gave a gusty sigh and stretched himself on the floor.

“I am sorry, Lhiannon, sorry for everything,” Boudica said presently. “I wish you had never returned from Eriu.”

“I am not.” In the emptiness her fury had left behind Lhiannon glimpsed something that might be peace. This, too, she thought numbly, was the gift of the Morrigan. “I would regret forever not having shared this final battle with you.”

“Then you had better give me some more of your magic potion …” Suddenly Boudica was very pale.

As the queen’s eyes closed, Lhiannon bent over her in sudden fright, but Boudica was still breathing. Why had they wasted this time in hurting each other, the priestess thought despairingly, when this might be all they had?

hiannon observed Boudica warily as they settled her litter beside the fire, too anxious for her friend to fear for herself. The queen’s fever had risen. She watched with eyes that were far too bright as Lhiannon took her place on the tripod stool Caw had fashioned for the ritual.

You have compelled me to sit here,
Lhiannon said silently.
What dreadful answer will you require of me?
For a long moment their eyes held, and Boudica lifted her hand as a warrior salutes one who rides out to face the foe.

The sacred drink burned in Lhiannon’s belly, the garland bound her brows. Her finger ached where she had pricked it to add her blood to the water in the blessing bowl. Answers always came most easily when need impelled the questions, and the gods knew they needed wisdom here.

They had gathered for the rite at the foot of the Tor, between the

Blood Spring and the Milk Spring. Even here she could feel the energy that spiraled up the hill, and knew it would carry her far and fast. As she drew down her veil, Lhiannon could feel her awareness beginning to shift, and suppressed a tremor of fear.

“Soft, how soft the evening air, Sunset leaves the world more fair, Peace a blessing everywhere …”

Dusk had left the world in cool shadow beneath a scattering of stars. Despite her anxiety, that peace eased her as Brangenos sang the familiar words.

“Now, at the dying of the day, Our road, a final shining ray, Between the worlds we find the way …”

Lhiannon felt herself falling, though her body remained poised upon the stool. As from a great distance, she heard Brangenos call.

“Children of Don, why have you come here?”

“We seek the blessing of the Goddess,” the others replied.

“Then call Her!”

The many names by which the tribes had called their goddesses rang through the still air, myriad parts building toward a greater whole. Lhiannon felt her identity tremble as if she stood in a strong wind. And then Boudica’s voice rose above the others—

“Cathubodva, I call You! Lady of Ravens, You have brought us to this pass. Give us Your counsel now!”

Lhiannon tried to shake her head in denial. Of all the faces the Goddess might wear, this was surely not the one they needed now! But already black wings were beating at her consciousness and bearing it away.

From a great distance she was aware that she was straightening, working her shoulders back and forth, stretching out her arms with a low laugh as the Morrigan came in.

“This horse is not so strong as the other was, but she will serve your need. What would you ask of Me?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, as if the onlookers, having summoned the goddess, were now regretting it. The first to pull himself together was Caw.

“Lady, when will the Roman reprisals be over? When can I take Argantilla home?”

There was another silence. Lhiannon trembled, feeling the Morrig-an’s amusement ebb away. What replaced it was pain.

“I shall not see a world that will be dear to me,” the goddess keened. “A spring without sowing, an autumn without harvest, women slaughtered in their houses and men in their fields. Danatobrigos burns, and the walls of Teutodunon are cast down. Mars Ultor stalks the land, avenging those who burned in the Roman towns.”

Brangenos cleared his throat. “Is there no hope for us, Great Queen? How shall we survive?”

“Even the gods cannot combat necessity,” the goddess replied. “Blood feeds the earth, flesh feeds the ravens, and you feed the people, O raven-son, with your songs—” The Druid flinched at the Morrigan’s harsh laugh.

“Today you Britons fall, but one day it will be Rome’s turn, and when the legions are gone, your stories and your blood will still be here. Again and again you will fall, but something always survives. You were not wrong to make war—you have forced your conquerors to respect you. Now you must bend to the blast, using your wits to scavenge what you can.”

It was what Ardanos had said, and Lhiannon did not like it any better knowing that the Morrigan agreed.

“The blood of my thousands has already fed Manduessedum’s field,” Boudica cried. “What can I offer to save those who remain?”

“Your own …” The answer fell into the silence like a stone. In that hidden place in which her spirit sheltered, Lhiannon began to wail as the goddess used her lips to pronounce Boudica’s doom. “Your own oath binds you. The blood of the ruler is the final sacrifice.”

Argantilla voiced the protest that Lhiannon’s heart was screaming, but the Morrigan’s cry was louder.

“Do you not, even now, understand? I am the moan of the dying warrior and the shout of the one who slays him; I am the scream of the woman in childbed and her baby’s first cry. Fear my fury, for without balance, it will destroy the world. Only from the Cauldron of Dagdevos can your people be reborn!”

he Cauldron was the Blood Spring.

Lhiannon could not deny the words that had come from her own mouth, though she would rather have sewn her lips shut than speak them. This time it had been given to her to remember not only what the Morrigan had said, but the emotion behind it, the terrible outpouring of love and pain. But in giving the goddess a voice she had done all she could bear. And so it was Brangenos’s disciplined calm that ruled them as they prepared for the ritual.

In frozen silence, Lhiannon followed Boudica’s litter as Caw and Rianor bore it to the pool. There was too much light, she thought as they set it down. The sparkle of sunlight on water hurt her eyes. Boudi-ca’s hair flamed upon the pillow, her face seemed lit from within.

She seems so peaceful,
thought the priestess despairingly. The queen looked as she had before the battle, all her forces focused toward one goal.
Perhaps,
thought the priestess,
it is I who bear her fear…
But whether that was the Morrigan’s punishment or her mercy, she did not know.

Coventa took her arm and helped her to sit down. Caw had moved to his usual place beside Argantilla, and the two Druids stood together nearby.

“Tilla,” the queen said softly. “Come here, darling, and listen to me. I wish so much that I could stay with you. I think that you and Caw will have beautiful children. You cannot go back to Danatobrigos just yet, but if the gods accept my offering it may be safe one day.

“You must take the torque with you.” She bent her head so that her daughter could twist the woven golden wires that formed the neck ring. They did not want to give, and in the end Brangenos had to ease his dagger under one of the terminals and cut it free.

“Perhaps it is as well,” said the queen as Argantilla sat back with the two pieces in her hand. “I think it will be a very long time before a prince of our people wears such a torque again. But it should go home. Bury it in Iceni earth, and my spirit will go with it to watch over you.”

“We will build a mound above it and our people will bring offerings to honor you!” the girl said passionately.

“No!” cried the queen. “If you do, the Romans will find it, and you! The place and manner of my death must remain a mystery. Hide the torque in some secret spot that no one knows … But make my pyre atop the Tor, and the wind will carry my ashes throughout the land. I took oath to the Iceni, but I fought for all Britannia.”

So had Caratac, thought Lhiannon, but he had refused the final sacrifice. If he had offered his blood in that last battle would Boudica have to do so now?

For a long moment the queen cradled the girl’s fair head against her breast. Then her hand fell. Argantilla straightened, weeping, and Caw took her in his arms.

“Lhiannon,” Boudica whispered then, and the priestess forced her limbs to bear her to the queen’s side. “We had an agreement. You fulfilled your part. I ask you now to release me from mine.”

“The goddess has absolved you,” Lhiannon said stiffly. “You need no permission from me.”

Boudica shook her head with a little smile. “No—only forgiveness. My dear one, you have been better to me than I deserved. I leave you my love …”

But still, you leave me …
Lhiannon thought as their eyes met. “We do what we must,” she said aloud.
I must let you go, but I will not assent to it, and it will be long before I forgive the gods.

Boudica reached up, and for the last time Lhiannon took her in her arms, heart wrenched anew as she felt how thin the frame beneath the white gown had grown. As she released her, Boudica sighed deeply and her eyes closed.

“Lady, how is it with you?” Brangenos asked after a few moments had passed.

“I feel very light,” Boudica’s voice held wonder, “and there is no pain. I think that we had best act quickly or I will go with my work undone.”

“The ritual requirements are clear,” Brangenos said softly. “The ruler’s blood must be shed. It must be a willing offering. The water that comes from the spring will carry it into the land.”

“Then let it be so …” The queen held out first one arm, then the other, and with a swift stroke he drew the sharp knife lengthwise along the veins. Blood sprang crimson upon the white skin, spiraling downward to drip onto the stones.

“Now, put me into the pool …”

ehold the Cauldron of the Mighty Ones.” The Druid’s voice seemed to come from very far away.

Boudica winced as the litter was picked up and maneuvered down the steps into the pool. Her arms stung where the knife had cut, but by comparison with what she had borne for so long, she scarcely recognized the sensation as pain. She was bleeding freely, lightheaded already as the strength left her limbs. Her blood bloomed in a crimson cloud through the i ron-tanged water, flowing onward through the channel where it left the pool, spreading like a mist of light.

She had hoped to hear the voice of the goddess within once more, but at least She had spoken through Lhiannon.
If it is permitted,
Boudica sent a last thought toward her friend,
I will come to you as Prasutagos came to me …

“Let the waters receive you …” Brangenos’s voice shook. “This is the Cauldron of Dagdevos, in which you shall be reborn.”

Lady of Ravens,
the queen added silently.
I am Your sacrifice.

“Boudica,”
came the answer,
“you are My victory.”

The cool waters closed over her and carried her away.

… And she was Elsewhere, standing naked in a flowing stream, whole, strong, and not the self she knew.

With a shock of recognition Boudica understood that she was one with the Morrigan. In sheer relief, She threw back Her head and laughed, and like an echo, heard deeper laughter answering.
He
was standing on the shore, blond and burly, leaning on His club, His other weapon making a tent of the absurdly short tunic he wore.

“Dagdevos,” She challenged Him. And the part of Her that was Boudica recognized Prasutagos smiling through the god’s eyes.

She scooped up water and splashed it between her thighs, the touch sending a tingle of sensation across Her skin. She looked at Him again. He had stripped off his tunic and laid his club aside. Erect and ready He strode into the water, planted His feet in the streambed, and drew Her into His arms.

“Now is the hour of our coming together.” His deep voice rumbled against Her hair. “Let Your rage be satisfied. Release the raven and become the dove, and let the destruction end. Accept the woman’s offering.”