Lady of Avalon (44 page)

From the depths of her memory she began to summon up the spell. It was, she had been taught, slightly different for each one who used it-sometimes each time it was used it seemed to change. The words themselves were not what mattered, but the realities to which they were the key. And it was not enough simply to say the spell-the words were only a trigger, a mnemonic to catalyze a transformation in the spirit.

Viviane thought of a mountain she had seen which became the figure of a sleeping goddess when looked at in a certain light. She thought of the Grail, itself only a simple cup until you viewed it with the eyes of the spirit. What was mist when it was not mist? What, in truth, was the barrier between the worlds?

There is no barrier…
The thought precipitated into her awareness.

“What is the mist?”

There is no mist… There is only illusion.

Viviane thought about it. If the mist was an illusion, then what about the land it hid? Was Avalon a mirage, or was it the Christian isle that was not real? Perhaps neither existed outside her mind, but in that case, what was the self that imagined them? Thought pursued illusion down an endless spiral of unreason, at each turn losing coherence as more of the boundaries by which humans defined existence disappeared.

There is no Self…

The thought which had been Viviane trembled at the touch of disintegration. A flicker of insight told her that this was the darkness in which Anara had drowned. Was that the answer, that nothing existed at all?

Nothing…and Everything…

“Who are You?” Viviane’s spirit cried.

Your Self…

Her self was nothing, a flickering point on the verge of extinction; and then-in the same moment, or before, or after, for there was no Time here-it became the One, a radiance that filled all realities. For an eternal moment, she participated in that ecstasy.

Then, like a leaf not quite light enough to float on the wind, she fell downward, inward, reintegrating all the parts that had been lost. But the Viviane who returned to her body was not entirely the same one who had been reft away. And as she redefined herself, her voice returned to her and she sang out the rippling syllables of the crossing spell, and with it redefined the world.

She knew, even before the mists began to part, what she had done. It was like the moment when she had emerged once from a tangled wood, certain that she was going in the wrong direction, and then, between one step and the next, felt the shift in her head and known her way.

Later, when Viviane wondered how she had come to succeed where Anara had failed, she thought that perhaps it was because her five-year battle with her mother had forced her to build a self that could withstand even the touch of the Void. But lest she fancy herself too holy, she understood also that there were some who were lost during their testing because they were already so close to the One that their separate souls joined it without distinction, as a drop of water becomes one with the sea.

The ecstasy of that union was still near enough that Viviane blinked away tears as it faded. She recalled with sudden anguish how she had wept when her mother sent her away with Neithen. Until now, she had not allowed herself to remember that day.

“Lady…do not leave me alone!” she whispered, and like an echo came that inner awareness:
I never left you; I never will leave you. While life lasts, and beyond, I am here…

But if the inner light was dimming, the mist had become a shimmer of brightness as it thinned, and in the next moment Viviane stood dazzled by the full light of the sun.

She blinked at the brightness of light on water and the pale stone of the buildings and the vivid green grass of the Tor, and she knew there was no sight more beautiful in all the worlds. Someone shouted; she shaded her eyes with her hand and recognized Taliesin’s bright hair. Her eyes searched the slope, seeking her mother, and she tensed against the old pain. Taliesin had been watching for her, probably since the moment she went away. Did her mother not care, even now, whether Viviane succeeded or failed?

And then her spirit lifted: abruptly she knew that her mother was hiding because she would not admit to herself or anyone else just how much she did care whether her oldest living daughter came safely home.

“Ouf-I think it’s time for Fivy to put you down, love, while I still have a back!” At four, Igraine was almost half Viviane’s height already, and there was no doubt she was Taliesin’s daughter: though the little girl’s hair was a redder gold, the deep blue of their eyes was the same.

Igraine gurgled with enjoyment, and trotted off down the path in pursuit of a butterfly.

Sweet Goddess,
thought Viviane as she watched the sun gleaming on those curls,
what a beauty the child is going to be!

“No, sweetheart,” she cried suddenly as Igraine veered toward the bramble hedge, “those flowers don’t like to be picked!” But it was too late. Igraine had already made a swipe at the blossoms, and little dots of red were welling from the scratch on her hand. Her face grew crimson and she drew breath for a yell as Viviane scooped her into her arms.

“There, there, sweetness, did the nasty flower bite you? You have to be careful, do you see? There, now, I’ll kiss it and it will be well!” The wails began to diminish as Viviane rocked her in her arms.

Unfortunately, the child’s lungs were as well developed as the rest of her, and everyone within earshot, which was almost everyone on Avalon, seemed to be running to the rescue.

“It’s just a scratch-” Viviane began, but first among those approaching was her mother, and suddenly she felt like the youngest novice, despite the blue crescent on her brow.

“I thought I could trust
you
to keep her safe!”

“She
is
safe!” exclaimed Viviane. “Let her learn caution from those things that will do her no real harm. You cannot keep her forever cushioned in goosedown!”

Ana reached out and, reluctantly, Viviane let the little girl go.

“You may raise your children in your own way when you have them, but do not tell me how to raise mine!” Ana spat over her shoulder as she carried Igraine away.

If you are so wise a mother, why is it that the first two daughters
you
raised are both dead, and only the one you sent away survived?
Crimson with embarrassment, for they had attracted quite an audience, Viviane bit back the reply. She was not angry enough to say the one thing she knew her mother would not be able to forgive, just because it might be true.

She dusted off her skirts and fixed Aelia and Silvia, two of the newest novices, with a stern glare. “Is that sheepskin you were scraping completely bare? Come, then,” she continued, reading the answer in their lowered eyes, “the hide will grow no sweeter with keeping, and we must get it clean and salted down.”

Viviane marched down the hill toward the tanning shed, which was located well downwind of all the other buildings, with the two girls in tow. At times like this she wondered why she had wanted to be a priestess. Certainly her work had not changed. The only difference was that now she had more responsibility.

As they neared the lake, she saw one of the marsh men’s punts being poled through the water at speed.

“It’s Heron,” exclaimed Aelia. “What can he want? He seems to be in a dreadful hurry!”

Viviane stopped short, remembering the Saxon attack. But it could not be that-Vortimer had beaten Hengest back to Tanatus for a second time two years before. The two girls were already running down the shore. More slowly, she followed them.

“Lady!” Even in his desperate haste, Heron gave her the full salutation. Since she had brought the Grail to save them, the marsh folk had honored her equally with the Lady of Avalon, and she had not been able to make them cease.

“What is it, Heron? Has there been an accident? Have the Saxons come?”

“No danger for us!” He straightened. “They take the good priest-Father Lucky Man-men came to take him away!”

“Someone is taking Father Fortunatus?” Viviane frowned. “But why?”

“They say he has bad ideas that their god does not like.” He shook his head, obviously unable to comprehend the problem.

Viviane shared his confusion, although she did remember Fortunatus’ saying that some of the Christians considered his ideas to be what they called a heresy.

“You come, Lady! They listen to you!”

Viviane doubted it. His faith was touching, but scaring off a band of Saxons seemed an easy matter compared with dealing with a squabble between Christian factions. Somehow she doubted that Fortunatus’ superiors would be favorably impressed by a testimonial from Avalon.

“Heron, I will try to help. Go back, and I will speak to the Lady of Avalon. That is all that I can promise you…”

Viviane had expected her mother to dismiss Heron’s tale with polite regret, but to her astonishment she appeared to consider it a cause for concern.

“We are separate from Inis Witrin, but there is still a connection,” Ana said, frowning. “I am told they dream of us sometimes, and our workings are disturbed when there is trouble there. If Christian fanatics fill the isle with fear and fury, surely we will feel the effects in Avalon.”

“But what can we do?”

“It has been in my mind for some time that Avalon should know more about the leaders in the outside world and their policies. In former days, the Lady of Avalon traveled often to counsel princes. That has seemed unwise since the Saxons came. But the land is more secure now than it has been in years.”

“Will you go, Lady?” asked Julia in amazement.

Ana shook her head. “I had thought to send Viviane. And along the way she can inquire concerning this Fortunatus. The experience will be useful.”

Viviane stared. “But I know nothing of politics or princes-”

“I would not send you alone. Taliesin shall go with you. To the Romans you will say you are his daughter-that is something they will understand.”

Viviane gave her mother a quick glance. Was this an answer to the question neither she nor Taliesin had ever dared to ask? Or was the Lady telling her how she ought to feel? Whatever Ana’s reason, thought the girl as she went off to prepare for the journey, she had chosen the only companion with whom Viviane would have been willing to leave Avalon.

Fortunatus’ trail led them to Venta Belgarum, its stout walls scarred by barbarian attacks but still unfallen. They were told that the chief magistrate, a man called Elafius, was playing host to the visiting bishop, the same Germanus who had made himself so useful against the Picts ten years before. On this visit, however, he seemed to have confined his attacks to his fellow Christians. Two British bishops had been deposed and a number of priests confined until they should see the error of their ways.

“No doubt Fortunatus is among them,” said Taliesin as they rode through the fortified gateway. “Pull your shawl up to cover your hair, my dear. You are a modest virgin of good family, remember?”

Viviane gave him a mutinous glare, but she complied. She had already lost the argument about traveling in men’s clothing, but she had sworn that if she ever came to be Lady of Avalon she would wear what she pleased.

“Tell me about Germanus,” she said. “It is unlikely he will speak to me, but it is as well to know your enemy.”

“He is a follower of Martinus, the bishop of Caesarodunum in Gallia, whom they revere now as a saint. St. Martinus was a man of property who gave away all his possessions, even dividing his cloak to share it with a poor man who had none. Germanus preaches against inequality of wealth, which makes him popular with the people.”

“That does not seem so bad,” observed Viviane, reining her pony up beside his mule. After Lindinis and Durnovaria, she was becoming accustomed to towns, but Venta was by far the biggest city she had seen. Her pony twitched nervously at the crowds, and so did she.

“No, but the mob is easier to sway by fear than by reason. So he tells them that they will burn in hell unless they have faith and their god decides to forgive them, and of course it is only the priests of the Roman Church who have the power to say if he has done so. He preaches that the Vandal occupation of Rome, and our own troubles with the Saxons, are a divine punishment for the sins of the rich. In uncertain times like these, such a philosophy has a great appeal.”

Viviane nodded. “Yes…we all want someone to blame. And I take it that Pelagius, and those who follow him, don’t agree?”

They were passing now along the wide street that led to the forum. The gatekeeper had said that the heretics were being tried in the basilica.

“Pelagius himself has been dead for many years. His followers are mostly men of the old Roman culture, well educated and accustomed to thinking for themselves. They find it more logical that a god would reward benevolence and right action than blind faith.”

“In other words, they feel that what a man does is more important than what he believes, whereas for the Roman priests it is the other way around…” Viviane observed dryly, and Taliesin gave her an appreciative grin.

Her pony shied as two men ran past them. Taliesin reached down to take her rein, then peered ahead, his greater height and taller mount enabling him to see farther.

“Some kind of disturbance-perhaps we should stay-”

“No,” said Viviane, “I want to see.” More slowly, they continued forward until they reached the square.

A crowd was gathering in front of the basilica. She could hear a murmur like the first mutter of thunder that precedes a storm. Many wore the rough dress of workmen, but the garments of some of the others had once been much finer, though now they were stained and worn. Refugees, most likely, eager to find a scapegoat on whom to blame their sorrows. Taliesin leaned down to ask what was going on.

“Heretics!” The man spat on the cobbles. “But Bishop Germanus will sort them, that he will, and save this sinful land!”

“We seem to have come to the right place,” said Taliesin evenly, but his face was grim.

At the wrong time…,
thought Viviane, too appalled to speak at all.

The door of the basilica opened, and two men in the dress of guards came out and took up positions to either side. The muttering of the people deepened. There was a gleam of gold and a priest emerged, wearing an embroidered cape over a white tunic. It must be the bishop himself, she thought, for he had an oddly shaped hat and he was carrying an ornately gilded version of a shepherd’s staff.

“People of Venta!” he cried, and the babble fell to a murmurous silence. “Sorely have you suffered from the sword of the heathen. The men of blood have ravened like wolves across this land. You cry out to God-on your knees you have asked why you should be punished.”

The bishop’s staff swept over their heads and they bowed, wailing. Germanus considered them for a moment, then, more calmly, continued.

“You do well to ask, O my children, but you would do better to call upon the Lord of Heaven for mercy, for He does as He will, and it is only by His mercy that we shall escape damnation.”

“Pray for us, Germanus!” shouted a woman.

“I will do better-I will purify this land. Every one of you was born in sin, and only faith will save you. As for Britannia, it is the sins of your great ones who have brought this plague upon you. But the mighty are brought low. The heathen have been the scythe in the hand of God. They who ate at rich tables now beg for their bread, and those who wore garments of silk walk in rags.” He stepped forward, sweeping the air with his crooked staff.

“It is so! It is true! God have mercy upon us all!” People were beating their breasts, prostrating themselves on the hard stones.

“They boasted that their own deeds could save them, and said that their wealth proved God’s favor. Where is God’s favor now? The foul heresies of Pelagius have led you astray, but by the grace of our Heavenly Father we will purge them!”

He looked as if he had taken a purge himself, thought Viviane, his eyes bulging with passion, and spittle flying from his jaws. How could anyone believe such things? she wondered. But the people were crying out in an ecstasy of agreement. Her pony pressed up against Taliesin’s mule, as if even the little mare felt a need for protection.

The shouting increased as more guards came through the door, shoving three men before them. Viviane stiffened, unwilling to believe that one of these shuffling prisoners could be Fortunatus. But as if he felt the thought, the first one straightened, surveying the crowd with a wistful smile. His face was bruised and his hair awry, but she recognized the monk who had been her friend. Then the guards began to push them down the stairs.

“Heretics!” cried the people. “Devils! You have brought the pagans down upon us!”

If only they had,
thought Viviane. With an army of pagans she could have swept this rabble away.

“Stone them!” called someone, and in another moment the whole forum had taken up the cry. Men bent to pry up paving stones. Viviane could see them throwing; she glimpsed Fortunatus, his head bloodied; then the crowd closed around him.

For a long moment the bishop stood watching, on his face a kind of appalled satisfaction. Then, as if he had regretfully remembered that Christians were supposed to be lovers of peace, he spoke to one of the guards, and the soldiers waded into the melee, swinging the blunt ends of their spears.