“I am better, but I am afraid to sleep again…. If Taliesin could play his harp, it would give me better dreams.”
For a moment her mother looked angry. Then some new thought seemed to cross her mind, and she nodded.
When, later that evening, the bard came to sit by her side, he too looked anxious and strained. Viviane asked what was wrong, but he would only smile and say that she had had enough troubles for one day and he would not burden her with his own. And there was no sorrow in the music he drew from the harp’s shining strings; when sleep claimed her, it was deep and without dreams.
The year that followed proved Viviane a true prophet. It gave her a certain standing among the priestesses, but she would far rather have endured their scorn, for the news that began to reach them with the harvest, though insulated by distance, was as bad as it could be. Hengest the Saxon, complaining that Vortigern had not delivered the promised payments, had fallen upon the cities of Britannia with fire and sword. In a few short months all the south and east were devastated, and refugees streamed into the west country.
Numerous though they were, the Saxons had not the force to occupy the entire island. Cantium was in the grip of Hengest; the Trinovante territories north of the Tamesis were the hunting grounds of the East Seax; and the Iceni lands were firmly held by their Anglian allies. Elsewhere, the raiders struck and retreated again. But the Britons who fled did not return to their homes, for how could they make a living when there were no markets in which to sell their produce and their wares? The conquered lands were like a sore on the body of Britannia, and the nearby places grew numb even before the fever reached them.
Farther to the west, life continued more or less unaffected, except for the fear. In Avalon, separated from the world, the priestesses found it hard to enjoy their safety. From time to time, some refugee wandering in the marshes would be found by the little folk. Those who were Christian were sheltered by the monks on their isle, but several of the others came to Avalon.
The High King, despite his Saxon wife, did not sit idle. Little by little, they began to hear how Vortigern had held Londinium, and how his sons were attempting to rally the people and take back their lands, calling for men and support from the undamaged lands of Britannia.
In the spring of the following year, when Viviane was seventeen, one of the marsh folk came through the mists with a different message. The son of the High King had come to seek the aid of Avalon.
In the House of Maidens, the girls had huddled together with all their blankets, for it was early spring, and still cold.
“But did you see him?” whispered little Mandua, who had come to them the summer before. “Is he handsome?”
The girl was young but precocious, and Viviane did not think she would last here long enough to be made a priestess of Avalon. But, then, she herself was still a novice, and though she was not the tallest, she was the oldest of them all. Only her friend Rowan remained of the girls who had been here when she arrived.
“All princes are handsome, just as all princesses are beautiful,” said Rowan, laughing. “It is part of the job.”
“Was not this one once married to your sister?” asked Claudia, who had been a refugee of good family from Cantium, though she never spoke of it now.
Viviane shook her head. “My sister Idris was the wife of Categirn, Vortigern’s older son. This is the younger one, Vortimer.” She had caught a glimpse of him as he came in, thin, as dark of hair as she was herself, but taller. Still, she had thought he looked absurdly young to be carrying a sword, until she saw his eyes.
The wooden winter-door at the end of the hall was pulled open, and they all turned. “Viviane,” came the voice of one of the elder priestesses, “your mother wants you. Come, and wear your ceremonial robe.”
Viviane stood up, wondering what on earth this could mean. Five pairs of rounded eyes watched as she settled her cloak around her shoulders, but no one dared to say a word. Would she still be a maiden, she wondered, when she returned? She had heard tales of magics that required such an offering. The idea made her shiver, but at least if it happened they would have to make her a priestess.
The Lady was waiting with the others in the Great Hall, already robed in the crimson garments of the Mother, while old Elen, swathed in black, was clearly the priestess who had been chosen to take the part of the Crone. Nectan wore black as well, and Taliesin was resplendent in scarlet. But no one there matched her white. It is the Prince we are waiting for, she thought then, beginning to understand.
Her mother turned, though Viviane had heard nothing, and told her to put on her veil. Prince Vortimer came in, shivering in a white woolen tunic borrowed from one of the young Druids. His gaze fixed on the Lady of Avalon, and he bowed.
Are you frightened? You should be. Viviane smiled behind her veil as, without a word, the Lady led them from the hall. But as they started up the path to the Tor, she realized that she was frightened too.
Tonight the moon was still a maiden, her shining bow already arching westward as the world turned toward midnight. Like me, thought Viviane as she gazed upward. She shivered, for the torches they had set to either side of the altar gave out no heat, and only a fitful light. She took a deep breath as she had been taught, willing her body to ignore the chill air.
“Vortimer, son of Vortigern”—the Lady spoke softly, but her voice filled the circle—“why have you come here?”
The other two priests moved forward, escorting the Prince so that he faced the Lady across the altar stone. From her place at her mother’s shoulder Viviane saw his eyes widen, and knew he was seeing not the little dark woman who was her mother, but the tall and stately High Priestess of Avalon.
Vortimer swallowed, but managed to speak steadily when he replied.
“I have come for Britannia. The wolves tear at her body, and the priests of the Christians can do nothing but tell us that we are suffering for our sins. But there is no sin in the little children burned in their houses, or the babe whose head is smashed against the stones. I have seen these things, my Lady, and I burn to avenge them. I call on the old gods, the ancient protectors of my people, for aid!”
“You speak well, but their gifts are not given without a price,” said the High Priestess. “We serve the Great Goddess, who is nameless, and yet called by many names, and though formless, yet has many faces. If you come to dedicate your life to Her service, then perhaps She will hear your call.”
“My mother was trained on this holy isle, and brought me up to love the old ways. I am willing to give whatever is required for the favor of Avalon.”
“Even your life?” Elen stepped forward, and Vortimer swallowed, but he nodded. The old woman’s laughter was dry as bone. “Your blood may one day be demanded, but not today….”
Now it was Viviane’s turn. “It is not your blood that I ask of you,” she said softly, “but your soul.”
He turned, staring as if his burning eyes could pierce her veil.
“It belongs to you….” He blinked suddenly. “It has always belonged to you. I remember…I have made this offering before.”
“Body and spirit must both be given,” Ana said sternly. “If you are truly willing, then offer yourself upon the altar stone.”
Vortimer pulled off his white garment and lay back, naked and shivering, upon the cold stone. He thinks we are going to kill him, thought Viviane, despite my words. He looked younger lying there, and she realized that he could not be more than a year or two older than she.
Elen and Nectan moved to the north and the south, while she took her place in the east and Taliesin moved westward. Humming softly, the High Priestess came to the edge of the circle and, turning sunwise, began to dance in and out among the stones. Once, twice, and thrice, she wove the circle, and as she passed, Viviane felt her own awareness shifting, and saw with altered sight a flicker of radiance pass through the standing stones that seemed to hang in the air. When she had finished, she returned to the center.
Vivia
ne straightened to her full height, setting her feet firmly as she reached out to heaven, and the circle filled with the scent of apple blossom as she called on the powers that guarded the Eastern Gate by their ancient and secret names.
Old Elen’s voice grew resonant as the warmth of the south filled the circle; then Taliesin called the west in a voice of music, and Viviane was lifted by a tide of power. Only when Nectan’s invocation summoned the guardians of the north did she feel herself rooted once more. But the circle to which she returned was no longer entirely in the world. Even Vortimer had ceased to shiver; indeed, it was quite warm within the circle now.
Ana had unstoppered the glass phial that hung at her girdle, and the scent of the oil hung heavy on the air. Elen poured oil on her fingers and bent to Vortimer’s feet to draw the sigil of power.
“To the holy earth I bind you,” she whispered. “Living or dying, you belong to this land.”
The High Priestess took the oil, and gently anointed his phallus, and he blushed as it stiffened beneath her hand. “I claim the seed of life you carry, that you may serve the Lady with all your power.”
She offered the phial to Viviane, who moved to his head and began to draw the third sigil on his brow. She blinked, memories that were not of this lifetime showing her a fair-haired man with eyes as blue as the sea, and then another boy, with the dragons of kingship newly emblazoned on his arms.
“All your dreams and aspirations, the sacred spirit within you, I consecrate to Her now…” she said softly, and was astonished to find her own voice so sweet in her ears. She wondered if, in those other lives, she had loved him. Lifting her veil, she bent and kissed his lips, and for a moment saw a goddess reflected in his eyes.
She moved to join her mother and old Elen at Vortimer’s feet. As they linked arms, she felt the dizzying shift and a moment’s panic as her former self fell away, and began to tremble. She had seen this, but had never experienced it before.
Then her own consciousness was replaced by that Other, focused in the three figures that stood in the circle but were not contained by them, whose being embraced the world. She was aware of the other faces of Her triple nature, and yet she was One; though she spoke through three pairs of lips, it was in one voice that Her words came to the man who lay below.
“You who seek the Goddess and believe you know what you have asked for—know now that I shall never be what you have expected, but always something other, and something more….”
Vortimer had gotten himself upright, and was kneeling on the stone. How small he looked, and how frail.
“You listen for My voice, but it is in silence that you will hear Me; You desire My love, but when you receive it, then shall you know fear. You beg Me for victory, but it is in defeat that you will understand My power.
“Knowing these things, will you still make the offering? Will you give yourself to Me?”
“I come from You—” His voice wavered, but he went on, “I can only give You back Your own…. It is not for myself I ask this, but for the people of Britannia.” As Vortimer answered, the radiance within the circle grew.
“I am the Great Mother of all things living,” came Her answer, “I have many children. Do you think that by any act of men this land can be lost, or that you can be separated from Me?”
Vortimer bowed his head.
“You are great of heart, my child, and so, for a time, you shall have your desire. I accept your service, as I have accepted it before. Sacred King you have been, and Emperor. Yet again you shall preserve Britannia. What one man may do, your arm shall accomplish, but it is not yet time for the Saxons to be conquered. It is another name that the ages will remember. Your labors in this life will but prepare the way…. Will that content you?”
“It must. Lady, I accept Your will…” he said in a low voice.
“Rest, then, for as you have served Me, I will keep faith with you, and when Britannia has need, you shall return….”
His face grew radiant as the Goddess reached out to enfold him, and when Her embrace was ended, laid him curled on the altar stone, sleeping like a little child.
Chapter Nineteen
At the end of the summer, the sun blazed in a cloudless sky and turned the grass to gold. The Druids dug out a pool at the edge of the lake, where the priestesses went to bathe. When the weather was so warm, there was no need for clothing, and the women spread cloths on the grass and dried off in the sunlight, or sat chattering on benches in the shade of the spreading oak tree.
Viviane’s hair had grown out a little from its yearly shearing, but a good shake was enough to get rid of the moisture. By now she had become accustomed to having it short, and on such a day as this, the lack of weight was very welcome. She spread out her tunic on the grass and lay down, letting the sun toast the rest of her body to the brown that arms and legs had already acquired. Her mother was sitting on a tree stump, her body in shadow but her head tipped back to catch the sun as Julia combed out her hair.
The Lady’s hair was usually worn coiled on her head and held with pins, but it fell past her hips when unbound. As the comb lifted each dark strand, auburn highlights ran down it in waves of flame. Through slitted eyes Viviane watched the other woman stretch with pleasure like a cat. She had been used to thinking of her mother as little and ugly, all frowns and angles, except, of course, when she wore the beauty of the Goddess in ritual. But Ana was not ugly now.
Sitting there, she was a goddess in miniature, her body carved from old ivory, with a smooth belly etched with the silver scars of childbearing and breasts high and firm. She even looked happy. Curious, Viviane let her eyes unfocus as she had been taught, and saw Ana’s aura ablaze with rosy light. It was brightest over the belly. No wonder if even to normal sight she seemed to glow.
Her skin chilling with a sudden, outraged suspicion, Viviane sat up. Trailing her tunic behind her, she made her way to her mother’s side.
“Your hair is beautiful,” she said evenly. Ana’s eyes opened, but she was still smiling. Definitely, something had changed. “But, then, you have had a long time to grow it. You were made priestess when you were fifteen, were you not? And had your first child the next year,” she added thoughtfully. “I am turned nineteen. Do not you think it is time for my initiation, mother, so that I may begin to grow my hair out too?”
“No.” Ana had not changed position, but there was a new tension in her body.
“Why not? I am already the oldest novice in the House of Maidens. Am I destined to become the oldest virgin in the history of Avalon?”
Ana did sit up then, though anger had not yet quite overcome her benevolent mood. “I am the Lady of Avalon, and it is for me to say when you are ready!”
“In what lesson am I unlearned? In what task have I failed?” cried Viviane.
“Obedience!” The dark eyes flashed, and Viviane felt, like the blast of a hot wind, her mother’s power.
“Is it so?” Viviane reached for the only weapon left to her. “Or are you simply waiting for me to become expendable, when you have been delivered of the child you now bear?”
She saw her mother’s face flush, and knew it was true. It had happened, she supposed, at Midsummer. She wondered who the father was, or if he even knew.
“You ought to be ashamed, at an age when I should be making you a grandmother, to be pregnant yourself once more!”
She had meant to sound defiant, but even she could hear the petulance, and now it was her own face that was aflame. As Ana began to laugh, Viviane turned, pulling on her tunic, and her mother’s laughter followed her like a curse as she ran away.
After an active summer, Viviane was hard and fit. She did not care where she went, but her feet chose a safe path around the edge of the lake, away from the Tor. The summer had dried much of the marshland, and soon she found herself farther from Avalon than she had been since the day she arrived. But she kept on running.
It was not exhaustion that stopped her, but mist, which rose up suddenly to blot out
the light. Viviane slowed, her heart pounding. She told herself it was only a land-fog, drawn up from the boggy ground by the heat of the day. But such fogs were normally released when night began to cool the air, and when she last saw the sun it had only been midafternoon. The light she saw now was all silver, and had no direction that she could see.
Viviane came to a halt and looked around her. It was said that Avalon had been withdrawn to a place partway between the world of humankind and Faerie. Those who knew the spell passed through the mists to reach the human shore. But from time to time something would go wrong, and a man or a woman would be lost in the other realm.
My mother would have been wiser, she thought as the sweat dried clammy on her skin, to let me try the mists from the direction of the mortal world.
The veil was thinning; she took another step, then stopped short, for the hillside it revealed was lush and green and starred with unfamiliar flowers. It was beautiful, but it was no land she knew.
On the other side of the rise, someone was singing. Viviane frowned, for the voice, though pleasant enough, was having some trouble maintaining the tune. Carefully she parted the bracken, and looked over the rim of the hill.
An old man sat singing among the flowers. He was tonsured across the forehead like a Druid, but he wore a nondescript tunic of dark wool, and at his breast hung a wooden cross. In her astonishment she must have made some sound, for he saw her, and smiled.
“A blessing on you, fair one,” he said softly, as if he feared she would vanish away.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, coming down the hill.
“I might ask the same of you,” he said as he took in her scratched legs and the perspiration on her brow. “For, though indeed you have the look of the folk of Faerie, I see that you are a mortal maid.”
“You can see them?” she exclaimed.
“That gift has been given me, and though my brothers in the faith warn me that these creatures are demons or delusions, I cannot believe evil of anything so fair.”
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