The Old Magic (3 page)

And though all the world knew that the new king feared nothing under heaven or beneath the earth, even he did not disturb
Avalon’s peace, for the finest healers in all the land dwelt there, and even a king may some time need to be healed.

Elissa had first come to the Abbey as a tiny child in her mother’s arms. Her mother had been Queen of Orkney in the North,
but King Constant’s dream of a unified Britain had left no room for queens and northern kingdoms. The war he made sent Queen
Morgause fleeing with her infant daughter to the sanctuary of Avalon, and she died there soon after—some said of a broken
heart. Elissa had grown to womanhood within the sound of Avalon Abbey’s tolling bells, a princess without a country. Though
she had received offers of an honorable place in many a nobleman’s house, in her heart Elissa did not long for what was lost.
Elissa had thick dark hair and sparkling eyes and a tendency to freckle if she stayed too long in the sun. She was cheerful
where her mother had been grand, pretty where Morgause had been beautiful. The peaceful life of the holy sisters suited her,
and she asked no more than to be able to spend the rest of her days here in Avalon.

But she was young, and it was summer, and even the most contented of Avalon’s inhabitants could be forgiven for playing truant
from an afternoon of weeding the garden to curl up against the sun-warmed wall of the apple orchard and dream. And after all,
she was not yet one of the holy sisters, vowed to obedience, merely a young postulant who might someday become a novice.

It was while she was sitting in the shadow of the wall looking out over the land that she saw the old woman.

Elissa did not question how she could be so certain at this distance that the bundle of rags that lay upon the flats was a
woman, or even alive. There was one thing that Elissa knew full well, and that was that the tide was coming in, and no amount
of prayer could hold back the running sea. Without someone to help her, the woman would drown.

Elissa flung herself to her feet and ran through the trees. She reached the bottom of the orchard and lifted her skirts to
leap over the wall, agile as any boy, and ran down the path that led to the mainland. The sea-washed stones were cold against
her feet as she ran, and she tried to calculate how long it would be until the space between Avalon and the mainland was awash
with the running sea. Not long enough to take the time to summon help; what she must do here she must do alone, and quickly.

Elissa reached the prostrate figure and knelt beside it, turning it over gently. It was, as she’d first thought, a woman.
The woman’s hair was streaked with grey, and there were lines of pain etched around her mouth. Her clothes were ragged, but
they had been of good quality once. Elissa saw the Pagan signs embroidered on the tunic at wrist and hem and crossed herself
hastily, though she did not think that one so injured could possibly mean her harm.

“Who are you?” Elissa asked. There was no answer. In the distance she could see the shining line of the advancing sea. It
seemed as if there was plenty of time, but Elissa knew from experience how fast the sea came in. She shook the old woman gently.
“Wake up, wake up—you cannot stay here.”

Elissa saw the old woman’s eyelashes flutter. The woman’s head tossed from side to side fretfully, and she coughed.

“Le’ me
’lone,
” the old woman muttered, flinging up an arm over her face to shield her eyes from the sun.

“I can’t do that,” Elissa said reasonably. “I can’t just go off and leave you here now that I’ve seen you. Besides, the tide’s
coming in. You’ll get wet.”

“I don’t care,” the old woman said, but there was more life in her voice now, and it seemed as if she’d resigned herself to
living.

“I’m Elissa. What’s your name?”

“Ambrosia.”

Elissa pondered this. “It doesn’t sound very much like a good Christian name,” she said tentatively.

“I’m not a very good Christian,” Ambrosia muttered. “Look here, girl, if I get up will you shut your row and leave me alone?”

“Let me help you up,” Elissa said, evading the question. Between the two of them, they got Ambrosia to her feet.

She leaned heavily on Elissa, and Elissa could feel how thin and starved she was through her rags. When she coughed, her whole
body shook. Elissa was a practical person, and began composing a mental list of all the things her patient would need once
they reached the Abbey. Though it was only a short distance to the gates, she was all but carrying Ambrosia by the time they
reached it.

“No more, girl. I can’t walk another step. Let me die here,” Ambrosia gasped. Behind them, the sea foamed over the causeway,
cutting Avalon off from the mainland.

Elissa looked around. There was no convenient place she could leave her patient to rest while she went to find the serving
brothers to get a litter brought to carry Ambrosia to the hospital. The only building anywhere near was the chapel, and if
Ambrosia were truly a worshipper of Pagan gods, she might not be willing to go there.

But the whole isle is holy ground, and she is already here. There is no other place. The chapel will have to do.

“Come on. It’s only a little farther,” Elissa coaxed. She half-dragged Ambrosia to the open doorway of the chapel, and carried
her inside.

Once out of the sun, Ambrosia seemed to recover a little more of her strength. She straightened up and looked around, standing
unsteadily upon her own feet.

“What’s that?” she said in a surprised voice. “By the Lady—it’s glowing.”

“It’s the Grail,” Elissa said proudly.

Avalon Abbey had been founded by Joseph of Arimathea, who had come from the lands east of Rome seeking a refuge, for in those
days the followers of those whom the Greeks and Romans called
The Anointed One
were weak and few, and everywhere were persecuted. Avalon had been their refuge, the land deeded to them by an ancient Pagan
king, and it was here that Joseph had brought the new religion’s greatest treasure: the Cup that their Master had touched
with his own hands, the Cup from which he had crafted their link to the Eternal.

It blazed with white radiance as it hovered above the altar; a great silver chalice, its lip edged with pearls. There was
always someone keeping vigil before it day and night; when Ambrosia and Elissa had entered, the young brother who was watching
the Grail stood and stared at them curiously.

“This is Ambrosia, Giraldus,” Elissa said to him. “She’s injured. She needs help.”

But when she turned back, Ambrosia was tottering unsteadily toward the Grail’s radiance. Its pale light shone on her face,
making her look again as she must have looked as a young girl. The Grail Chapel was not large, and in moments Ambrosia stood
before the altar itself. She reached out a hand as if to touch it, but before her fingers could brush it there was a great
flare of light, and Ambrosia squealed as she fell backward.

“Are you all right?” Elissa and the young brother asked almost on the same breath.

“I …” Ambrosia drew a deep breath without coughing. “I’m more than all right. I haven’t felt this good in years.” She got
to her feet, and it did seem to Elissa that she looked sturdier than she had when she’d come into the chapel.

“The Grail healed her. It’s a miracle,” Brother Giraldus said.

“Laddie, where I come from we have miracles with our morning tea,” Ambrosia said, fixing him with a glittering hawk-keen gaze.
“Still, I’ve got to admit that it was more use than any of Herself’s tricks ever were. Now, who did you say you were?”

“I’m Elissa. This is Brother Giraldus. Welcome to Avalon.”

Elissa could see Giraldus puffing up to deliver one of his lectures on the wickedness of the Pagans, but from all that Elissa
had seen of them, they did not seem very different from Christians.

“Avalon?” The name seemed to mean something to Ambrosia. She looked alarmed, as if she expected both of them to jump on her.
“Not the Christians’ place?”

“She’s a Pagan,” Brother Giraldus said in disgust.

“Pagan or Christian, all are welcome here,” Elissa said firmly. “Yes, we are Christians here, but the Grail’s magic is for
all.”

“Oh, aye, the way it was under the old king,” said Ambrosia, “with the axe set to the root of every tree in every sacred grove.”

“The false gods must be swept away by the light of the True Religion,” Giraldus said.

“If it’s the true religion, it doesn’t need our help to prevail,” Elissa said gently. “You saw what the Grail did, Giraldus—can
we choose to do less? Avalon’s arts are free to all who ask. Our Lord would ask nothing less of us, for He taught that the
love in the human heart is the greatest magic of all, and here, by the Grail’s aid and example, we try to live that magic.
Whoever you’ve been, whatever you’ve done, it does not matter within these walls,” she said to Ambrosia. “Vortigern’s war
cannot penetrate here.”

Ambrosia studied Elissa with surprised respect. “Eh, girl, you’ll do. Pity there aren’t more who think as you do.”

“There will be,” Elissa said, with a certainty that startled even her. “The truth will prevail in the end.”

In the Hollow Hills at the heart of the earth, Mab listened and heard and felt the outcries of the slaughtered as they grew
ever greater. With every murder of her folk she felt the deathly cold of extinction strengthen its grip on her, leaching away
her power, her very life—and the lives of all she ruled.

“No!” her scream of fury struck sparks from the walls of her crystalline kingdom, and hot fury banished the pangs of weakness.

In the long centuries of war between Christianity and the Old Ways, her heart had hardened. After so much loss, Mab could
no longer love as she once had, and after so many deaths honest grief, too, was denied to her. All that was left to her was
the need to fight back, to lash out against the tormentors. Weak as she had become, there must be something she could do before
all was lost!

But when she reached the site of the battle that had summoned her, all that was left was crumbling bone and the embers of
a battle long over. Victor and victims alike were gone—all that remained was the bones of the dead and the blackened stones
of the defiled shrine.

“Gone … all gone,” Mab whispered.

But even if she had come in time, there was so little she could have done. Her powers lay in trickery and illusion, and Vortigern’s
men feared their master far more than they could ever fear any apparition of Mab’s.

Vortigern.

She had thought it would be so simple, that once the Christian king was gone the people would return to the Old Ways. She
had used Vortigern as a sword to cut off Constant’s head, but her weapon had turned in her hand, and the new king slaughtered
her people just as the old king had—and worse. Now more and more of Vortigern’s subjects were abandoning the Old Ways in fear
and despair, hoping that the new god could defend them against the White Dragon as Mab could not.

I have tried!
she wailed silently. It was only that she had made the wrong choice. She had chosen a warlord, but her people needed a leader.

And that was what she would give them—a leader. She had learned her lesson well. She had made a bad choice in Vortigern—very
well, she would not look for Britain’s savior among the people of the mortal world this time. She would
create
him. A prophet and wizard who could see what must be done to return Britain to the Old Ways, and who would do those things
through the power of the magic that was his birthright.

Mab smiled, feeling the promise of victory beat through her veins like hot wine. It would take all the power she possessed,
but she would weave the greatest spell of her existence. Through her magic she would create a warrior to humble Vortigern,
a leader to lead her people back to the Old Ways. He would be no simple soldier, but a wizard, a true heir to the Old Ways,
born of her magic. One who would be loyal to the land and to her, who would fight for not only the body but the soul of Britain.

She could do it. It would be hard, but she knew this plan would work. No foreign kings or alien usurpers—this would be a leader
formed in the heart of Britain, made to rule and to serve the Old Ways.

The lake’s surface was a flawless mirror in the morning sun, and the land around it was beautiful and wild. Mab stood upon
the shore and called soundlessly to the Power that dwelled here, summoning it forth.

Suddenly the surface of the still clear water began to churn and waves appeared as if the surface of the water was lashed
by a ferocious storm. A brightness flashed beneath the surface of the water, and then broke into the air. All at once the
surface of the lake was placid once more, as the shining figure swam through the air toward Mab.

She shone like the sunlight on the wave, and moved languidly through the air as if it were her own watery kingdom. Her gown
seemed made of bright water, and as a necklace she wore a circlet of shimmering fish that swam back and forth around her throat.
Her silvery hair floated on the air, moving slowly after her like a mermaid’s tail. Where Mab was dark, she was bright. Where
Mab was hard, she was supple. Where Mab was stone, she was water.

She was the Lady of the Lake, and she had ruled here since the first raindrops had gathered to form a pool in a hollow on
the cooling earth.

“… Sister …” she said, and her soft voice was the sound of water rushing over stones. “I got your message.”

“I have come to a great decision,” Mab said. The fairy queen seemed out of place here in the Lady of the Lake’s domain. Mab
was a creature of night and shadow. Here in this shining green and silver land, she seemed like a scrap of glittering darkness
dropped from some other world.

“I don’t like the sound of your voice when you say that,” the Lady of the Lake said mournfully. Small circling motions of
her hands allowed her to hold her place in the air before Mab. The bright silver fish flitted back and forth about her throat,
and she gazed sadly at her sister.