Ravens of Avalon: Avalon

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  on which we stand . . . O spirits who dwell in this place, we ask your

  blessing.”

  “By the fire of life that illuminates the spirit; by the pool from

  which we draw power, by the tree that links earth and heaven . . .”

  Lugovalos held his torch high, “we call the Shining Ones to witness.”

  Lhiannon moved forward. “By all the hopes borne on the wind; by

  all the memories that lie within the pool; by present knowledge in the

  fields we know; we call on the wisdom of our fathers and mothers who

  have gone before.”

  “Hear us! Bless us! Be with us now!” they cried as one. The stallion

  pulled nervously at its tether and the startled gulls burst yammering into

  the air.

  The sky had brightened to a translucent pale blue. The sun was still

  hidden behind the mountains on the mainland, but its coming was pro-

  claimed by a growing radiance. Togodumnos picked up a long sword

  and the light gleamed on its blade. The Druids taught that there were

  two kinds of sacrifice: those that were shared to bind men and gods in

  one community, and those that were broken and put beyond use by hu-

  mankind. It was the second they meant to off er now.

  “These weapons we won from our foes in battles between the tribes.

  As I destroy this blade—” he set his heel upon the point of the sword

  and leaned, and the metal groaned and gave, “—I end the enmity that

  was between us. Gods of our people, accept this sacrifi ce!” The sword

  wheeled outward as he released it, the distorted curve carving the pale

  sky, and disappeared with a splash into the dark waters below.

  Caratac snapped the shaft of a spear, then broke off the tip against a

  stone. “Never more shall this spear drink Celtic blood! May the Lady of

  Ravens accept the sacrifi ce!”

  If only, thought Boudica, the hatreds between the tribes could be drowned

  so easily! But perhaps the Roman threat would frighten them into setting

  old enmities aside. One by one the kings came forward with swords and

  spears, shields with bosses of bronze sculpted in graceful triple spirals,

  pieces of horse harness, and fittings for the wicker chariots that were the

  tribes’ most terrifying weapon in war. These were works of art as well as

  use, a treasure that could have bought support from followers, but there

  might be no followers if they did not have the favor of the gods. As the

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  D i ana L . Pax s on

  pile dwindled, Boudica fingered her dagger, wondering if she ought to

  throw it in. But though she was of the blood of kings, she herself had

  neither position nor power. What business did she have bothering the

  gods, especially at this ritual?

  Holy Ones, she thought then, if you will tell me what would please you, I

  will do my best to make the sacrifice. She had a sudden sense of vertigo as if

  the earth had shifted beneath her. For a moment she found it hard to

  breathe. Boudica had always believed that the gods were listening, but

  suddenly she knew that she had been heard, and shivered, wondering if

  it had been wise to make so unconstrained an off ering.

  And now the ripples from the last dented shield had stilled. A breath

  of wind brought the scent of the fire that Bendigeid was tending. The

  sky was bright now, and the jagged edges of the eastern horizon edged

  in gold. Ardanos and Cunitor stripped off their white robes and laid

  them aside, then went to the thorn tree and untied the stallion’s halter.

  The Iceni were great lovers of horses. Boudica had missed not being

  around them. This was a fine animal, whose shining coat and bright eye

  proclaimed its good condition. But as she looked at the horse she sensed

  something more. She had seen beasts in plenty slain for the table or as

  offerings, but at this moment everything—the animal, the humans, the

  dark waters beneath the cliff, seemed suddenly more real. No, she thought

  then, the sacrifice makes everything more holy . . .

  The beast skittered nervously as one of the ravens gave a hoarse cry.

  This time no one made a joke about it. They could all feel that not only

  the birds but the gods themselves were eager for the off ering.

  As the two younger Druids held the horse, Mearan paced slowly

  around him, shaping the air around his body with the branch of silver

  bells. The stallion’s ears fl icked nervously, following the sound.

  “The head of this horse is the dawn! His eye is the sun and his

  breath is the wind,” Lugovalos sang. “His back is as broad as the bowl of

  the sky. The sun rises in his forehead and sets in the crease between his

  quarters.”

  The deep rumble of the Arch-Druid’s voice seemed to vibrate in the

  very earth. Was it his words or the blessing of the bells that made the air

  around him glow? It was a song of transformation, the part becoming

  the whole, the world of the fl esh off ered to the world of the spirit.

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  The stallion jerked as a breath of wind made the torch flare. “This

  horse is the earth and the stars of heaven. This horse is the steed that

  journeys between the worlds. This horse is the off ering.”

  Bendigeid offered Ardanos the sacrifical blade. Steel caught the

  light as he reached to draw it across the animal’s throat and the stallion

  neighed and surged upward, striking at the air. A flailing forefoot

  caught Ardanos in the ribs and the knife flew glittering from his hand

  and splashed into the pool. Lhiannon cried out and ran to Ardanos as

  he fell.

  The kings leaped aside as the horse dragged Cunitor across the

  ground, but Prasutagos dodged the hooves and leaped forward, grab-

  bing the halter and using his greater weight to hold the animal still.

  “He’s had the wind knocked out of him,” said Lhiannon as Ardanos

  gasped. She began to probe his torso with gentle fingers, but when she felt

  down his ribs he screamed. “And broken some ribs,” she added. “Be still,

  my dear. We must bind you up before you try to move.”

  The stallion ceased to struggle as Prasutagos spoke to him, his voice

  a gentle unceasing murmur like the wind. Only then, looking at the

  others, did Boudica realize what a disastrous omen this must be.

  She drew her knife and ripped at the bottom of her tunica, gritting

  her teeth until the strong linen gave way and she could tear a strip from

  the hem. “Use this,” she said, off ering it to Lhiannon.

  “Cunitor, bring the horse back,” said Lugovalos. “We must com-

  plete the ritual.”

  “I will bring him,” said Prasutagos. “He senses your Druid’s fear.”

  Well, that was no wonder, thought Boudica, seeing what had hap-

  pened to Ardanos. But she could not help feeling a spurt of pride. The

  Iceni were known for the training as well as the breeding of horses, and

  Prasutagos was clearly a master.

  The prince led the animal back to the edge. He stroked the satiny

  neck, whispering into the pricked ear until the noble head drooped and

/>   the horse grew still. Still whispering, he leaned on the strong neck and

  touched the animal’s knees until the horse knelt and rocked and lay

  down.

  Lugovalos took off the feathered headdress and rustling hide cloak

  and laid them aside.

  44 D i ana L . Pax s on

  “Take my dagger.” Caratac held out a shining blade. “It is newly

  sharpened.”

  “This horse is the offering . . .” the Arch-Druid said in a low voice.

  Moving slowly, he came up on the animal’s other side and crouched,

  holding the knife at his side until the last moment, and then, in a swift,

  smooth motion, drawing it across the throat.

  Blood gushed out in a shining stream. For a moment the horse did

  not seem to realize what had happened. Then he jerked, but Prasutagos

  had his weight on the animal’s neck, still murmuring, and presently the

  great head drooped and the prince lowered it gently to the ground.

  In the sudden light of the risen sun the world seemed turned to scar-

  let as blood pooled beneath the white body and flowed in a red river

  toward the edge of the cliff. Boudica blinked, seeing the shimmer of

  energy that had surrounded the stallion move with it into the pool. But

  it seemed to take a long time until the life force left entirely and there

  was only a carcass lying there.

  In silence Cunitor and the other men butchered the animal, taking

  the heart and liver and carving off great chunks of flesh from the hind-

  quarters. Boudica helped to work pieces of meat onto iron skewers and

  suspend them above the fire. The head and legs were left attached to the

  hide, which was dragged down to the waterside and suspended from a

  post that had clearly been used for that purpose before. When they were

  done, the guts were heaped beside the thorn tree and the rest of the car-

  cass tipped into the pool.

  The morning stillness was shattered by the triumphant cawing of

  the ravens as they descended on their share of the feast. The hem of the

  Arch-Druid’s gown was bloody and the front of Prasutagos’s tunic crim-

  son where he had cradled the head of the horse as it died. Nausea warred

  with hunger as the scent of roasting horsemeat filled the air.

  Everything is food for something . . . thought Boudica. May my death be

  as worthy when the time comes for me. But she was acutely aware that all those

  who shared the feast not only off ered, but were part of the sacrifi ce.

  F O U R

  Helve did not want me to sit with you,” said Coventa. The folds of

  Boudica’s fur-lined cloak were still sufficient to wrap both of them as

  they waited for the midwinter feast to arrive. “But I don’t mind if she

  blisters my ears tomorrow if this eve ning you will keep me warm!”

  When the kings left Mona they had taken the summer with them,

  and the winter that followed was turning out to be colder and wetter

  than any since Boudica had come here, or perhaps it only seemed that

  way because for every tribe that had agreed to join the alliance there

  was one that refused the Arch-Druid’s call.

  A ripple of music brought Boudica’s head around. At the end of the

  fire pit, screens of laced hides kept drafts from the dining couches and

  side tables where the senior Druids reigned. That new man, Brangenos,

  had come in and was adjusting the strings on his crescent-shaped harp.

  A bard of the Druid Order from Gallia, he had only recently reached

  the haven of the isle. He was tall, and thin almost to the point of ema-

  ciation, with a streak of white through his black hair. He was also a

  much better harper than Ardanos, who had been the chief of their bards

  until now. But even when he smiled one could see sorrow in his eyes.

  As he finished tuning, there was a stir at the door. The Arch-Druid

  was entering. In honor of the festival, over his white robe he wore a

  thick fringed mantle woven of seven colors. After him came the senior

  Druids, followed by Ardanos and Cunitor and the other younger priests.

  Where, she wondered as they took their places at the head of the fi re pit,

  were the priestesses?

  At a nod from Lugovalos, Brangenos rose, the harp cradled in the

  crook of his arm, and began to sing:

  “The people cheered for the leader of war-bands

  The king of the marching men called the tribes to war

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  Now all the shouting is silent and the wind plays a harp of

  bone.”

  The harp gave forth a shimmer of sound as the Druid drew his fi n-

  gers across the strings. He comes from the land of Vercingetorix, remembered

  Boudica. At least the only Gaul who bested Caesar in battle is remembered

  there.

  Everywhere in the Celtic lands they knew the story of how

  Vercingetorix had united the Gaulish tribes, using the hillforts and

  the hills themselves as bases from which to attack Caesar’s legions.

  But in the end the Roman imperator penned him up in Alesia and

  starved him out.

  “The high king came to the lord of the eagles

  Laid down his arms to save his warriors

  Nameless is his grave, and the wind plays a harp of bone.”

  Once more sound sighed from the strings. Then the harp was still.

  The Gaulish king had been dragged through the streets of Rome in

  Caesar’s triumph and imprisoned for years in a hole in the ground before

  the Romans killed him. This was certainly no very cheerful music for

  the solstice. Why was it always the defeated who got the best songs?

  While the bard was playing, Mearan had appeared. For a moment

  Boudica was disappointed to have missed her entrance, for the High

  Priestess usually took her meals in her own house, and her appearance at

  the high festivals was attended by some ceremony. But even the ruddy

  firelight could not disguise the fact that she was pale. Perhaps she had

  taken advantage of the distraction to keep them from noticing that she

  had to be assisted into her chair.

  Helve, on the other hand, was blooming. The priestess had always

  been pleasant to Boudica, but that was more because she knew that

  Boudica was highborn than from any personal feeling. The girl had

  seen that look on sons of kings who were eager to inherit their fathers’

  honors. And she had seen them afterward, sometimes, when the choice

  of the chieftains fell upon another man of the royal kin. She did not

  think that Helve would deal well with disappointment, but she wondered

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  how the rest of them were going to deal with Helve if her expectations

  were fulfi lled.

  The hides that covered the doorway were drawn aside once more

  and the marvelous scent of roast boar fi lled the hall. Crowned with ivy

  in honor of the season, old Elin led the pro cession. There were bowls of

  porridge with dried fruit, platters of root vegetables, and baskets of sau-

  sages and cheese. Two of the older boys bore between them a plank

  from which chunks of pork sent white curls of steam into the air. Mouths

  watered as the Arch-Druid lifted his hands and began to intone a bless-

>   ing over the food.

  Boudica drained her wooden ale cup and sat back with a sigh.

  “That was good. This is the first time in days I have felt warm inside

  and out.”

  “Your cheeks are flushed from the ale,” observed Coventa. “Or is it

  because Rianor is staring at you?”

  “He is not—” Boudica looked up and saw that the boy had taken

  her glance as an invitation and was coming toward them with two of his

  friends.

  “I think he likes you . . .” Coventa grinned, and squealed as Boudica

  pinched her.

  Rianor was no longer a boy, she realized suddenly. He had shot up

  during the past months, and his chin bore a trace of dark beard. It was

  just that compared to warriors such as those who had visited them last

  summer he still seemed a child.

  “Move over, maidens,” he grinned. “Or did you eat so much there’s

  no room on the bench? It’s not fair that you should block all the heat

  of that fi re.”

  “Are you saying I’ve grown fat?” protested Boudica, but she was

  already sliding over so that Rianor could squeeze in. She flushed a little

  as he put his arm around her shoulders. His friend Albi tried to do the

  same and missed, landing in the straw at their feet, where he was joined

  by the other boys, playfully cuffing each other as her father’s hunting

  dogs used to scuffle before they stretched out before the fi re.

  In the pack there was an order—in the boy pack, too. Rianor was a

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  leader. So was Cloto, but since the visit of the kings many of his former

  followers were avoiding him.

  “What did you think of our new bard?” Rianor asked.

  “He has such sad eyes,” observed Coventa with a sigh.

  “Well, his song was sad enough,” Albi agreed.

  “Then we should learn from it,” Cloto said harshly. “You can’t fi ght

  Rome. Vercingetorix tried, and died, and all those proud kings who

  came here will die, too.”

  “Caesar conquered Vercingetorix and Caesar is dead,” objected Ri-

  anor. “This emperor they have now is not a warrior.”

  “He does not have to be,” Cloto said grimly. “He has generals who

  will do the work for him.”

  “And so you think we should just lie down and let them?” exclaimed

  Albi. As they grew louder, others began to turn. Boudica made a hush-

  ing motion and for a moment everyone was still. When Cloto spoke