The Guinevere's Tale Trilogy

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

One full moon cycle later, I watched the light slowly drain from the sky as I traversed the seven rings of the Tor with the other women of Avalon. I clung to Aggrivane’s parting words as though they would bring him back to me. I was supposed to be thinking of the ritual, but instead I sought out the night star, as I would every night until the end of time.

“Airanrhod, Branwen, Brigid, Rhiannon, Cerridwen, Great Mother,” the priestesses uttered in rhythmic unison. The chant echoed off the terraced side of the Tor as we wound our way in and out of its turns, slowly ascending.

“Hear us,” responded the acolytes.

The wood chips lining the path crackled underfoot as we passed. We moved like the tide, first closer and then farther away from our destination, which was the summit of the Tor, the center of the labyrinth. Unlike a maze, it had no dead ends or trickery—only a beginning and an end. The complex journey of ascent that began our ritual was meant to free our minds of all care and focus our spirits. When we descended at the close, it would slowly release us from our spiritual state and bring us back to the world.

I pushed all thoughts of Aggrivane from my mind and concentrated on my breathing. Regardless of my mood or mindset when I entered the gate, I always found peace along the way. This walking meditation had been one of the few ways I had found solace during my early days in Avalon. To this day, I marveled at how symbolic the pattern was. As in life, the farther I seemed from the goal, the closer I was, and when I thought it lie just around the next bend, I was at the opposite point.

“Airanrhod, Branwen, Brigid, Rhiannon, Cerridwen, Great Mother,” we called.

“Hear us,” the younger ones replied.

“Airanrhod, Branwen, Brigid, Rhiannon, Cerridwen, Great Mother.”

“Hear us.”

I gradually fell under the spell of the chant and lost the ability to distinguish my own voice from the rest. Around me, the rosemary, lavender, and night-blooming flowers that clung precariously to the side of the Tor’s rings exhaled their fragrance, coaxed by a gentle nudge from the hem of our gowns. Above, the rotund Honey Moon ruled the clear night sky, sparkling stars surrounding it like dutiful courtiers.

I was so absorbed in the procession that I scarcely noticed when we reached the top.

Across the circle, Morgan’s copper hair reflected the silver moonlight with an odd luminosity. By now it was clear she was not with child as was hoped. Still, Argante said the Sacred Marriage was not a failure; she insisted the Goddess had a greater purpose in mind.

Four of the women raised their arms to honor the elements, then Viviane recited the sacred prayer to the Goddess of the moon. As her last words died out, the wind stirred, fanning the flames of the ritual fire toward the heavens. Argante gave the signal. It was time for the invocation.

Viviane stepped forward and assumed the position at the center of the circle normally occupied by Argante. This was the first time in anyone’s memory that Argante had not acted as the mouthpiece of the Goddess. It was not a good a sign. Argante’s lingering illness—the one that had taken hold before Beltane—had progressed to the point that she had been carried up the Tor on a litter. She was far too weak to withstand such powerful forces, so Viviane performed the ritual in her stead.

Viviane faced the moon. Morgan and I moved to flank each of her sides, serving as attendants to her every need. Viviane raised her arms, closed her eyes, and the air around her grew perfectly still, as if time had stopped. An ancient chant passed her lips in a language of time immemorial, and her head tilted back as her body received the spirit of the Goddess. Morgan and I braced both of her shoulders, but Viviane shrugged away our hands, indicating she needed no assistance. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned, regarding each priestess with distant eyes.

“Great Mother, may your wisdom forever guide us.” Argante leaned heavily on her cane as she posed the first of the ritual questions to the Goddess. “What say you of this land?”

“The red dragon is poised to return to the realm of spirit, but another shall succeed him. The hallowed one has received the blessing of the land, and so shall it prosper under his guidance. Although malevolent forces threaten from without, the bear shall be victorious and all shall bow at the sound of his name.” The voice that issued from Viviane’s mouth was not her own, but one like liquid silver.

Argante seemed unfazed by the strange reply. “Thank you, Mother.” She continued on in the traditional way. “May your goodness be forever praised. What say you of this sacred place?”

“Soon the final passage shall be crossed by one of great power, allowing the lily to emerge from shadow and bloom in the light. An unlikely rose is transplanted to this isle and blossoms in its rich soil. But beware the rose and handle her carefully, for her thorns threaten to pierce the bud of the lily, thus causing the whole garden to die.”

A murmur rippled around the circle, but Argante paid no heed.

“We thank you for your wisdom. May your protection be forever on us. What say you of these, your servants?”

“These here gathered serve me well, and I am pleased. But the day will come when sister shall oppose sister, both in this sacred place and without. Loyalties will be tested and betrayed, so heed my warning. That which is birthed in jealousy shall not give life but infect all who draw near. Therefore, act with love and not out of spite. Only then shall you escape the fate the stars foretell.”

Silence followed. Around the circle, my confusion was mirrored in all but a few faces. Argante, however, seemed to have comprehended the Goddess’s enigmatic words fully, for she leaned against her cane, nodding as if in agreement with what she heard, eyes shining with newly formed tears. Morgan too appeared to have gleaned some knowledge from the prophecy, for she once again bore that sly, cat-like expression that made me suspect she knew more than she let on.

We bid the Goddess farewell and Morgan led Viviane aside to recover from the strain. I was called forward to gaze in the well of seeing. Every month, a different priestess took her turn scrying in a cauldron filled with water from the confluence of the sacred springs. Sometimes her visions elaborated on the prophecy given by the Goddess. Other times they yielded a message that pertained to one or more of the priestesses present, while sometimes nothing was seen at all.

I stood over the cauldron, gazing at my own reflection and breathing deeply, trying to calm myself enough to open my perception. As I leaned forward and exhaled, my breath ruffled the surface of the water, shattering the mirror image before me. A mass of colors swirled in the water, and I sent my consciousness downward through them, into the depths of the dark. I breathed out once again and my hair fell forward, separating the watery oracle from the rest of the world around me. Slowly, my spirit rose up and escaped my body. Smoke-like tendrils of gray mist began to dance on the surface of the water. Then the visions came.

At first, all I could see were shapes, but then I became aware of enough details to know what I was seeing. It was Northgallis. I recognized my father’s sign—an eagle with a thistle blossom clutched in its talons—flying high above the watch towers. The sight of the familiar walls made my heart soar, but that joy was short-lived. My father came into view first, unkempt and unshaven, tears etching canyons in his cheeks. On his shuffling heels followed a tall blond man whose ritual robes marked him a Christian priest. My lady’s maid, Octavia, trailed behind, scarcely able to stand, so great was her grief.

Bringing up the rear was an honor guard transporting a bier. The body was shrouded and covered in a black cloth, but I recognized the symbol embroidered on it immediately. It was a knot work horse, the symbol of my mother’s clan. Beside the bier, a young man carried a small box draped in matching cloth but bearing my father’s standard. It was a baby’s coffin; this woman had died in childbirth. Somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I knew who she was, but my mind could not bear to admit it.

The vision splintered to pieces as stabbing shards of light filled my eyes. From somewhere far away, a banshee’s high-pitched wail shattered the night. It was only moments later, as my hand struck the cauldron and sent it tumbling to the ground, that I realized I had been the one screaming.

My knees could no longer support me, and my mind threatened to collapse as well. I sank to the ground, heedless of the steaming waters that soaked my skirts. A merciless claw squeezed my heart so hard I thought I would die. I struggled to breathe but could not take in air. Cold, stiff fingers like those of the Death Mother herself pawed at my arms, trying to help me to my feet.

“Guinevere, what is it? What have you seen?” The voices echoed from a great distance.

I swallowed, fighting back the blackness that threatened to engulf me. “My mother—she is dead.”