Lady of Avalon (16 page)

His eyes glowed suddenly with a light that did not come from the fire. Without another word he strode toward the circle of stones. His escort followed, but when he passed the two pillars that flanked the entrance they took up position before it. For a moment Gawen faced the alter, then lifted the sword and placed it like an offering before the stone. Empty-handed, he turned to look back the way he had come.

“Sianna! Sianna! Sianna!” he cried, and the longing in that call carried it through all the worlds.

For a moment all the Tor was silent, waiting.

And then, from the far distance, they heard a sound like silver bells. With it came drumming, a swift and dancing beat that set the heart to skipping with joy. Caillean peered down the hill and saw lights bobbing up from below. Soon she could glimpse faces-the rest of the marsh folk, and others, who were not quite human, able to walk among men on this night when the gateways opened between the worlds.

A shimmer of white moved in the midst of them-a length of some gauzy material held like a canopy over the one they were escorting. The music grew loud, voices soared in the bridal song, the feasters drew back to either side as the procession came over the rim of the hill.

A king at his crowning, a groom at his wedding, a priest at his initiation-all these were in their moment of glory divine. And Gawen, watching as they brought his bride to him, was all three.

But Sianna-however great the beauty of the God, that of the Goddess surpassed it. As they lifted the canopy and the maiden passed between the pillars to meet him, hawthorn-crowned, Caillean recognized that even with all her magic she could never have matched her. For, while Gawen had slept, Sianna had gone back to her mother’s realm, and it was the jewels of the Otherworld that adorned the daughter of the Faerie Queen.

Gawen’s whole body shook along with the pounding of his heart. He was glad he had put down the sword; the way he was trembling, he would have cut himself for sure. The torchbearers who had escorted Sianna stood now around the circle. As Sianna passed between the pillars and came toward him, their light seemed to thicken, and the world outside the circle disappeared.

In that moment he could not have said if she was beautiful. That was a human word, and, bard-trained though he was, no words he could command would have expressed what he was feeling now. He wanted to bow down and kiss the ground upon which she was walking, and yet something equally divine within him was rising up to meet her. He saw its reflection in her eyes.

“You called me, my beloved, and I am here…” Her voice was soft; in her eyes he saw a gleam that recalled the human girl with whom he had hunted birds’ nests so long ago. It made it easier to bear the god-power that beat within him.

“Our joining,” he said with difficulty, “will serve the land and the people. But I ask you, Sianna, if to lie with me now will serve
you?
”

“And what will you do if I say no?” There was a gentle mockery in her smile.

“I would take another-no matter who-and try to do my duty. But it would be my body only that acted, not my heart or soul. You are a priestess. I want you to know that I understand if you-” He stared at her, willing her to understand what he could not say aloud.

“But I have not,” she answered him, “and neither will you.”

Sianna moved closer and set her hands upon his shoulders, tipping back her head to receive his kiss, and Gawen, his hands still open at his sides, bent to take what she offered him. And as his lips touched hers, he felt the God enter fully in.

It was like the fire that had filled him the night before, but gentler, more golden. He knew himself, Gawen, but he was conscious also of that Other who knew, as he did not, just how to untie the complicated knot of the Maiden cincture, and unpin the brooches that held her gown. In a few moments she stood before him, the sweet curves of her body more beautiful than the jewels she still wore.

She moved then, unhooking his gilded belt and tugging at the ties of his kilt until he too was freed. In wonder he touched her breasts, and then, straining together as if they could become one being, they kissed once more.

“Where shall we lie, my love?” he whispered when he could breathe again.

Sianna moved back and eased down upon the stone. Gawen stood before her, feeling the great current that passed through the Tor surge upward from the core of the hill through the soles of his feet, rushing up his spine until he trembled with power. Carefully, as if at any sudden movement he would shatter, he bent over her, sinking between her opening thighs as he fitted his body to hers.

In the moment of their joining, he felt the barrier of her maidenhood, and knew she had not lied, but that no longer mattered. He was coming home, with a sweetness that the man in him had not expected, and a certainty that the god in him recognized with joy. For the space of a breath they lay without moving, but the power that had brought them together could not be denied.

As Sianna clasped him, Gawen found himself moving in the rhythms of the oldest dance of all, and knew that he was only a channel for the power that surged within him, that drove him to give all the strength that was in him to the woman in whose arms he lay. He felt her turn to fire beneath him, opening yet further, and strained against her as if through that human body he could reach something beyond humanity.

In the final moment, when he had imagined himself beyond conscious thinking, he heard her whisper, “I am the altar…” He answered, “…and I am the sacrifice,” and, answering, found release at last for the passion of the man and the power of the god.

The fountaining flow of energy, magnified by the union of God and Goddess, rushed back through the Tor. Too great for its main channel, it surged through every passage available, pulsing down the lesser leys that crossed at the Tor to bless all the land. Caillean, waiting outside the circle, felt it and sat back with a sigh. Others, sensing in their own ways what had happened, leaped to their feet, eyes brightening. The drums, which had continued their steady beat since Sianna joined Gawen within the circle, exploded with a sudden thunder of exultation, and first one voice, then another took up the shout until the entire hill resounded with their joy.

“The God has joined with the Goddess,” Caillean proclaimed, “the Lord with the Land!”

The drummers, after their first tumult, settled into a lively dance beat. Laughing, the people got to their feet. Everyone, even the oldest Druids, had felt the release of tension. With it went fatigue and, as it seemed, inhibition. Those who had watched the earlier dancing from the sidelines began to sway. A young girl of the marsh folk pulled old Brannos into the space before the fire, and he bobbed and circled more nimbly than Caillean would have believed possible.

Though the fire was lower, the heat was greater than it had been before. Soon the dancers were streaming with perspiration. To Caillean’s surprise, it was one of her priestesses, Lysanda, who first pulled off her tunica, but others swiftly followed her example. A young man and woman of the marsh folk, freed from the danger of fluttering clothing, joined hands and leaped for luck across the fire.

Watching them, Caillean thought that it had been years since she had seen such joy at the Beltane reveling. Perhaps never, for the rites at Vernemeton had been inhibited by the fear of Roman disapproval, and they were still learning the ways of the land at Avalon. But that had been remedied by the joining of a son of the Druid line with a daughter of the Folk of Faerie. They could all, she thought as she surveyed the leaping dancers, take satisfaction from this night’s ceremonies.

But no night, however joyous, could last forever. Two by two, men and women moved off to celebrate their own rites on the hillside. Others wrapped themselves in their mantles and lay down to sleep off the heather beer beside the fire. The torches of those who guarded the circle had long ago burned out, but the stones themselves cast a barrier of shadow which assured the privacy of those who lay within.

A little before dawn, some of the younger folk went off to cut the Beltane tree and gather greenery with which to deck the buildings at the foot of the Tor. The dancing that honored the tree during the daylight, though just as joyous, was more decorous than the nighttime celebrations at the fires, and would give the uninitiated maidens and younger children who had stayed below a chance to share in the festival.

Caillean, who had danced less and drunk less than the others, and who was accustomed to keeping vigil, watched out the night, still sitting in her great chair by the fire. But even she fell into an exhausted sleep once the shadows of night had been banished by the dawn.

It was a beautiful day. Through the screen of leafy branches with which they had built a bothy to provide some privacy, Gawen gazed out from the top of the Tor across the patchwork of water and wood and field that basked in the sunlight of Beltane morning. He was sure he would have thought so even if he had not been so happy. True, he ached in odd places, and the lines of his new tattoos had scabbed over and pulled when the muscles flexed beneath them, but those were only surface pains, scarcely to be noted when compared with the marvelous feeling of well-being that sang through every vein.

“Turn,” said Ambios, “and I’ll scrub your back.” He poured water over the cloth. From the other side of the partition, where Sianna was being bathed, came the sweet sound of girlish laughter.

“Thank you,” said Gawen. Any new initiate might expect to be coddled, but there was a deference to Ambios’ service that surprised him. Was it going to be this way always? It was all very well to feel himself a king in the ecstasy of ritual, but he wondered how well it would wear from day to day.

A twinge from his forearms brought his gaze back to the dragons. Some things, at least, had forever changed. Those tattoos were not going to go away. And Sianna was his forever.

He finished bathing and pulled on the sleeveless tunic they had brought him, of linen dyed a living green and embroidered in gold. He had not imagined the Druids had such a splendid thing in their stores. He tied the cincture and then belted on the sword. Though the blade showed no sign of age, the leather of the sheath that had come with it was powdery, and some of the stitching had begun to give way. He would have to see, he thought as he came out from the leaf shelter, about having a new one made.

All thoughts of the sword were driven from his mind when he saw Sianna. She was robed, like himself, in spring-green, and was just settling a fresh crown of hawthorn upon her brow. In the sunlight her hair shone like red gold.

“Lady…” He took the hand she held out to him and kissed it.
Are you as happy as I am?
asked his touch.

“My love…”
Happier,
her eyes replied. Suddenly he longed for the night, when they could be alone once more. She was only a human woman now, but to him the Goddess who had come to him the night before had been no more beautiful.

“Gawen-my lord-” stammered Lysanda. “We have food for you.”

“We had better eat,” murmured Sianna. “The feast they are preparing down below won’t be ready until after they dance around the tree at noon.”

“I have fed,” said Gawen, squeezing her hand, “but I will be hungry again soon…”

Sianna blushed, then laughed and pulled him toward the table where they were setting out cold meats and bread and ale.

They were about to sit down when they heard shouting from below.

“Do they want us to come down already?” Sianna began, but there was an urgency in those cries which did not sound right for a festival.

“Run!” The words came clearly now. “They are coming-you must get away!”

“It’s Tuarim!” exclaimed Lysanda, looking down the hill. “Whatever can be wrong?”

The training that Gawen thought he had left behind him brought him to his feet, hand moving toward the hilt of his sword. Sianna started to speak, then, as she met his eyes, bit off the words and rose to stand at his side.

“Tell me.” He strode forward as the young Druid staggered the last few steps to the flat top of the hill.

“Father Paulus and his monks,” gasped Tuarim. “They have ropes and hammers. He says they’re going to throw down the sacred stones on the Tor!”

“They’re old men,” said Gawen soothingly. “We’ll stand between them and the circle. They won’t be able to budge us, much less the stones, even if they have gone mad.” He found it hard to believe that the gentle monks with whom he had made music could have become such fanatics, even after a year of listening to Father Paulus’ fulminations.

“It’s not that-” Tuarim gulped. “It’s the soldiers. Gawen, we must get you away. Father Paulus has sent to Deva and called the Romans in!”

Gawen took a deep breath, his heart pounding in a way he hoped they could not see. He knew what the Romans did to deserters. For a moment then, he almost considered trying to flee. But he had done that once already, and if the shame of abandoning a war which was not his own and an army to which he was not sworn still burned in his belly, how could he live with himself if he deserted the folk who had hailed him as Pendragon on the Holy Tor?

“Good!” He forced himself to grin. “The Romans are reasonable men, and their orders are to protect all religions. I’ll explain matters to them, and they will keep the Nazarenes from harming the stones.”

Tuarim’s expression began to clear and Gawen let his breath out, hoping that what he had said was true. And then it was too late to change his mind, for Father Paulus himself, his face crimson with exertion and fury, was clambering over the edge of the hill.