Ravens of Avalon: Avalon
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around you. It is hard to go through that door alone. Prasutagos had
to do it, and I had to help him. But you won’t help me . . . It hurts,
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Lhiannon,” Boudica said then. “Would you condemn me to live in
agony?”
“I daresay it does,” the priestess said tartly. “You have always had
the constitution of one of your own ponies. Except when you lay in
childbed have you ever known pain? You lived soft for seventeen years
and then spent three months in one campaign. What do you know of
the long struggle that exhausts the soul?”
Boudica recoiled as each barbed word struck home. Bogle unfolded
his long limbs and stood looking from one woman to the other with
anxious eyes. A lifetime of anguish the priestess had not known she held
was flooding forth, and she could not stem the flow until she was done.
“You lost one battle—I have had to spend all my strength in fruitless
magic and see our warriors slain again and again. To fail and die is hard,
but it’s harder still to fail and fight on, knowing you will probably lose!”
Boudica was weeping silently. Lhiannon felt suddenly sick and old.
The hatred she felt for the Romans was a bright, clean thing, a justifi ed
rage. What she and Boudica were doing to each other now was the shadow
side of love.
But weak as she was, the queen was not yet beaten. After a few mo-
ments she took a deep breath and fixed the priestess with the gaze that
had commanded an army.
“And what about the things you have not dared?” she asked. “When
I first came to Mona, your deepest desire was to sit as Oracle—at least,”
her lips quirked, “when you were not dreaming of lying in Ardanos’s
arms. Helve is dead, and you are our High Priestess here. Why haven’t
you seized the chance to ride the spirit road?”
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 il-
lumination 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.
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“And if I do . . .” she said slowly, “if I go out and seek the answers I
fear, will you fi ght to live?”
This time, she noted sourly, Boudica’s wince did not come from phys-
ical 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 fl oor.
“I am sorry, Lhiannon, sorry for everything,” Boudica said pres-
ently. “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 hurt-
ing each other, the priestess thought despairingly, when this might be all
they had?
L 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 fi nger 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
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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 God-
dess 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?”
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There was an uncomfortable silence, as if the onlookers, having sum-
moned 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.
tered 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 bet-
ter knowing that the Morrigan agreed.
“The blood of my thousands has already fed Manduessedum’s fi eld,”
Boudica cried. “What can I off er 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 fi nal sacrifi ce.”
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
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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!”
The 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 off ering 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.”
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“We will build a mound above it and our people will bring off er-
ings to honor you!” the girl said passionately.
“No!” cried the queen. “If you do, the Romans will fi nd 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 fi nal sac-
rifice. 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 ful-
filled your part. I ask you now to release me from mine.”
“The goddess has absolved you,” Lhiannon said stiffl
y. “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 off ering. The water that
comes from the spring will carry it into the land.”
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“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 down-
ward to drip onto the stones.
“Now, put me into the pool . . .”
Behold 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 recog-
nized the sensation as pain. She was bleeding freely, lighthea
ded already
as the strength left her limbs. Her blood bloomed in a crimson cloud
through the iron-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 mak-
ing 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.
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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 rum-
bled against Her hair. “Let Your rage be satisfied. Release the raven
and become the dove, and let the destruction end. Accept the woman’s
off ering.”
He lifted Her and She swung up Her leg to hold Him, giving and
taking, Her passion arousing His power, His peace transmuting Her
anger to love, until they shuddered at last to equilibrium.
And as the waters of the sacred spring bore the queen’s blood to the
earth of Britannia, the power that flowed from Avalon began its healing.
E P I L O G U E
Lhiannon Speaks
Darkness has fallen, and the wind whines in bare branches like