might never come?
She could not speak, but her grip tightened on his hand and she
knew that her body had replied.
But girls don’t play hurley! Boudica, they’ll never let you on the
field!” cried Coventa, grabbing for her sleeve. From the field came a
shout as one of the players caught the leather-covered wooden ball on
his cumman stick and lofted it back over the goal.
Boudica resisted an impulse to stride on, dragging the smaller girl
behind her. At fifteen, she had nearly reached her full height.
“It’s a game to train warriors,” Coventa said when she had caught
M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N
19
her breath. “In the old days it was not a little ball they hurled with that
stick, but the head of an enemy.”
“I know that!” retorted Boudica. “They play it in my tribe as well.
But Druids do not fi ght, so why are they playing? Anyway, in Eriu, the
women still go to war.”
Coventa blinked, trying to sort out the logic, and Boudica started
forward once more. The Druids recognized that a healthy mind func-
tioned best in a healthy body, and a large meadow near Lys Deru had
been made into a playing field. When thirty youngsters pursued the ball
with knees, elbows, and three-foot ash staves, the game could be almost
as dangerous as a battlefield. It was only a matter of time before someone
was taken out of play.
“Oh, very well.” Coventa sat down on the grass. “You always do
what you want anyway.”
A shout from Ardanos had separated the combatants, who regrouped
into their teams, facing their own goals across the center line. The
young priest threw the ball into the air and dashed backward as the two
sides closed once more.
Beyond the strait, the great humped shapes of the mountains stood
like a wall upon the horizon. Were they a protective barrier or a
prison wall? To be given to a husband would be to go from one cap-
tivity to another. But did Boudica want to stay here as a teacher or go
to some chieftain’s clanhold or perhaps to the marshes of the Summer
Country to serve the Goddess upon the Isle of Avalon? How could she
decide?
She flinched as the ball spun toward them from the center of the
heaving mass of boys and sticks. Ardanos’s student, Bendeigid, smacked
the ball toward a dark-haired Trinovante boy called Rianor, who pelted
after it, stick whirling as he leaped forward. The first swing missed, but
the second sent the ball hurtling toward the two holly trees that fl anked
the goal.
It is a good thing the ball doesn’t fight back, thought Boudica. If that was
an enemy with a sword, he would be dead before he could strike a second blow.
She tried to discern the pattern of the play, but if either team had a
plan it was not apparent. In that, also, it was like the way her people
made war. The game grew more and more desperate. She heard someone
20 D i ana L . Pax s on
scream and Ardanos calling a halt. Panting, the players surrounded the
writhing fi gure on the ground.
The player struggled to sit, face white beneath his freckles, support-
ing his leg with his hands. His name was Beli, and he had been on Ri-
anor’s team.
“Take him to the healers,” said Ardanos with a sigh. “And unless
you have reinforcements hidden somewhere, this will end the game.”
There was a babble of protest from the boys and a groan of disap-
pointment from the crowd. Games usually ran until one team had
scored ten goals or the sun went down. Nine colored scarves fl uttered
from the other team’s goal tree and nine from Rianor’s. Boudica stood
up, heart pounding in her breast.
“I’ll take his place,” she said in a clear voice. She kilted up her skirts
and strode onto the fi eld. Silence fell. Now everyone was staring at her.
“But you’re a girl,” Rianor said at last.
Someone giggled and was hushed. Boudica shrugged. “I’m bigger
than most of your boys. Of course if you want to play it safe, you can
She held his dark gaze with her own, and saw the battle-light suddenly
kindle in his eyes.
“Why not?” He grinned with a lift of the hand as if he were throw-
ing dice.
Ardanos looked at Cloto, a sturdy lad who was the leader of the op-
posing team.
“Fine with me,” he sneered. “Now I know we’ll win!”
“That’s settled, then,” said Ardanos, frowning down Rianor’s hot
reply. With a last glare for Cloto, the boy shut his mouth and handed the
cumman stick to Ardanos, who offered it to Boudica. “Do you swear
that you bring no charm or device of magic to this field, and will play
honestly and truly, with no aid but your own body’s power?”
It was a necessary question in a school where some of the students
could make the ball move by will alone, thought Boudica as she gripped
the stick and swore the oath.
“Beli’s position was there—” Rianor pointed to a spot halfway
down one side of the fi eld.
She took her place, noting the locations of the other players. It had
M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N
21
been a long time since she had played, but she remembered the few
guidelines that passed for rules. She saw Ardanos approach the middle
with the ball and hefted her stick. It had never occurred to her before,
but the widened tip made it look more like one of the big wooden
spoons the cooks used to stir stew in a cauldron than a sword. She grinned
suddenly. Why shouldn’t a girl play this game? They were using a wom-
an’s weapon, after all!
The ball flew upward and someone on the other side swung and sent
it angling toward her own team’s goal. Stick poised, Boudica ran to in-
tercept it, dodging the knot of boys racing forward with the same thing
in mind. She heard the smack of wood against leather as someone
whacked the ball, and the crowd of players surged after it in a confused
mass, spinning off boys to either side. She glimpsed Cloto hurtling past,
saw him turn and leap toward her instead, deliberately ramming the
point of his shoulder into her breast. As she went sprawling she heard his
laughter. Outraged, she opened her mouth to curse him—hurley was
a rough sport, and the shoulder block a legal move, but only to stop an
opponent from getting the ball—but pain robbed her of breath.
I’ll kick his balls up between his ears! For a moment she could only lie
curled around the agony as rage spread black wings across her vision,
screaming for prey. When Boudica staggered to her feet, still hunched
over, she saw Ardanos running toward her and waved him away. The
scrimmage was dangerously close to her own team’s goal. Beyond it she
glimpsed white robes and blue gowns among the spectators, but she no
longer cared if the Druids were watching. One hand cupping her bruised
breast, she scanned the heaving mass, trying to find Cloto, but what
she
saw was the ball hurtling toward her.
The pressure behind her eyes eased. Winning would be an even
better revenge.
She darted sideways and swung, whacking the small sphere to-
ward the enemy goal. Someone shouted behind her, but she was al-
ready in motion, her braid thumping her back as she galloped down
the field. The opposing backfield had seen the danger. One of them
scooped up the ball and sent it whizzing past Bendeigid, who man-
aged to smack it sideways with his left hand, was spun around by the
impact, and sat down hard on the grass. One of Cloto’s boys swung
22 D i ana L . Pax s on
down his stick to stop it and the hurtling ball rebounded toward
Boudica.
For a moment, then, it seemed that she had all the time in the world
to watch the ball spinning toward her. She set her feet, gripping the
cumman stick two-handed like a sword, shoulders flexing as she swung,
lips drawn back to release her rage in the Iceni war cry.
The impact as stick and ball connected shocked through her body,
and abruptly she was part of the world once more, still spinning with
the follow-through of her blow as the ball soared over the heads of the
backfi elders and goalkeeper alike.
All eyes fi xed on the ball’s flight. Dust puffed as it hit the earth be-
tween the holly trees. And in the moment of amazement as they real-
ized that the game was over, Coventa screamed.
Boudica ran toward her friend, who was sitting bolt upright with
staring eyes. As she reached her side, Coventa seized her arms.
“The Red Queen! Blood on the fields and cities burning, blood
flowing everywhere . . .” Coventa gasped and hiccupped. Her grip slack-
ened and Boudica caught her. For a moment her wavering gaze focused
on Boudica’s face. “It was you! You were swinging a sword . . .”
“It was only a hurley stick,” Boudica protested, but Coventa’s eyes
had rolled back in her head.
“Let her go, girl. I will take her now—”
Boudica looked up and recognized Helve, her dark hair bound around
her head in precise coils. “I can lift her—” she began, but the priestess
shouldered her aside, feeling for Coventa’s pulse and then signing to one
of the priests to take the girl in his arms. Only then did she turn to
Boudica.
“Does she have these fi ts often?”
Boudica shrugged. “She has nightmares, but this is the fi rst time
when she was awake. She hasn’t been strong since she had the fever after
her . . . accident . . . last year.” She flushed with shame.
But if Helve remembered Boudica’s part in that accident, she did not
seem to care. She watched as the young Druid carried Coventa away,
speculation in her gaze.
“She touched the Otherworld. That is all that is needed sometimes.
We shall see what some training can do . . .”
M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N
23
But what if Coventa does not want to become an oracle? Boudica opened
her mouth, but Helve had not been speaking to her. The girl sat back on
her heels, staring, as the priestess stalked away.
F or months, the heavens had alternated between storm clouds and
watery sunshine, like a coy maiden unable to decide whether to encour-
age a suitor or turn him away. Like me, thought Lhiannon, closing her
eyes and turning her face to a sun that was blazing in a blue sky. But
now everything—the white blooms of the hawthorn in the hedges and
the creamy primroses beneath them, the upright green blades of the
growing grass and the tender curls of the new oak leaves—seemed lit
from within. Tonight the Beltane fires will burn brightly, and so will I.
She had been to the herb-sellers to purchase more poppy seed for
the potion the priestess drank before the ritual. The open fi elds around
Lys Deru had filled up with traders’ booths and tents and wagons and
stock pens. All the farmers who were oathed to serve the Druid com-
munity were here, along with a scattering of families from the main-
land. Lhiannon was not the only one who dreamed of meeting a lover at
the Beltane fires. Young people from villages where they had known
every one of their age since babyhood came here to seek new faces and
new blood for their clans. After this night there would be handfastings
in plenty, and weddings to follow.
But before Lhiannon went to the fires, she must assist at the ritual of
the Oracle. When they sang the sacred song, she would know if its sum-
mons was stronger than the one her body was sending her now.
As she approached the enclosure she heard Helve, in her usual auto-
cratic mood. It was with shock that Lhiannon realized that the other
woman’s instructions were not for Mearan’s comfort, but for her own.
Lhiannon twitched aside the curtain that hung before the doorway.
“Where is the High Priestess?” she whispered to Belina, one of the
se nior priestesses. Helve stood naked before the fire, stretching out her
white limbs so that the others could bathe them with spring water in-
fused with herbs.
“She is not well,” the other woman replied, lifting one eyebrow.
“Helve will sit in the high seat this Beltane eve.”
24
D i ana L . Pax s on
“May the Lady grant her inspiration,” Lhiannon said dryly, and Be-
lina sighed. Lhiannon went to the corner where old Elin was grinding
herbs in a wooden mortar and handed her the poppy seeds. As she
turned back, she saw Coventa coming into the room. Her smile died as
she realized that the girl was swathed in the same midnight blue as the
priestesses, her brows bound like theirs with a garland of spring fl owers
and sweet herbs.
“Helve, what is this?” she exclaimed. “The child is untrained. You
cannot mean her to attend you in the ceremony!”
Helve’s pale eyes flashed with annoyance, but her voice, as always,
was sweet and low. “Without her the number of attendents escorting me
will be uneven, and I have been training her.” She smiled at Coventa.
“Have I not, my little one? You will do very well.”
She will look like a child dressed in her mother’s robes, thought Lhiannon,
but Coventa was radiant with delight. She looked at the other priestesses
for support, but they were carefullly avoiding her gaze. For a few mo-
ments the only sounds were the trickle of water as the priestesses dipped
the cloths into the herbal bath and the rasp as Elin ground up the poppy
seeds.
Lhiannon sighed and took off her veil. If Helve was nervous, she
had some reason. This would not be her first time in the high seat, but
she had not served as Oracle often, and if Mearan’s indisposition was
sudden, she would not have had much time to prepare. For the fi rst time
it occurred to her that Helve’s natural talent for autocracy must make it
especially difficult to surrender her will even to the gentle direction of
Lugovalos.
It would be easier for me, she thought bitterly. I cannot even assert myself
enough to stand up
for Coventa. But she could at least keep an eye on the
child during the ritual.
Above the hearth a small cauldron was bubbling. Elin cast in a
pinch of ground poppy seed to simmer with the mistletoe berries and
mushrooms and other herbs, then stood stirring the mixture, chanting
softly. Helve continued to chatter as they dressed her in the fl owing
robes of the Oracle. When Lhiannon approached with the garland of
columbine twined with spring flowers, she saw triumph in the other
woman’s pale eyes.
M A RI O N Z I M M E R B RA D L E Y ’ S RAV E N S O F AVA L O N
25
Helve will never allow me to sit as Oracle. Why have I denied myself so long?
Lhiannon wondered then. Mastering a surge of hatred, she set the garland
upon Helve’s brow, and the other woman fell silent at last. Elin ladled
some of the potion into the ancient jet bowl and set it to cool. Presently
the door curtain rustled and the Arch-Druid entered, leaning on his staff .
His silver beard glistened against the creamy wool of his robe.
“It is time, my daughter,” Lugovalos said softly, and Elin set the jet
bowl in Helve’s hands. She took a deep breath and drank, shuddered
once, and swallowed it down. Elin and Belina took her elbows and
escorted her to the litter that was waiting outside. As Lhiannon fell in
behind them she could feel the vibration of the drums through the
soles of her feet, as if earth’s heart were beating out the rhythm of the
festival.
In the west, the sky was a translucent blue, deepening overhead to
the same midnight shade the priestesses wore. A great crowd had as-
sembled before the sacred grove. Helve swayed when she was seated
upon the three-legged stool, and for a moment Lhiannon feared she
would fall, but before anyone could touch her she straightened, seeming
to grow taller. Lhiannon felt a breath of warm wind, scented with fl ow-
ers no mortal garden could boast, and knew that the Goddess was here.
Relieved, she drew Coventa back to stand with the others and re-
laxed as they settled into the familiar rhythms of the ritual. She had to
admit that Helve was a powerful seeress. From her place behind the
high seat she could feel the woman’s aura expand as she sank deeper into
trance, and brought up her own barriers to shield against it.
The first question came from Lugovalos, and was, as expected, about