The Guinevere's Tale Trilogy

Chapter 2-1

Chapter Two

Summer—Winter 491

Life in Avalon—a life equal to, rather than above, everyone else—was more difficult than I expected. I cried myself to sleep for a month.

No amount of protesting, tears, or will power could change the orders dispensed daily by the Lady’s authority. Argante had no time for temper tantrums and flatly ignored them. Complaints only ended in a sentence of silence for the remainder of the day, and if I refused to obey a command, I found myself without supper or barred from the evening’s ceremony, a great humiliation in this sacred place.

When my attention wasn’t fully focused on the task at hand—such as when I was helping to clean our communal living quarters or learning to cook a palatable meal—I found myself longing for home. As my parents’ only surviving child, I had rarely been away from them, following in their footsteps to learn how to rule the kingdom I would one day inherit.

But now I faced years without their love and attention, and I missed everything. Sparring with my mother and male cousins had been replaced with chasing the other girls across the hillsides and racing to climb trees. Quiet evenings learning new embroidery patterns by the firelight with my lady’s maid were replaced by solemn rituals I barely understood. I even missed sitting with my parents at council meetings, where the western lords would lament High King Uther’s inattention to their kingdoms now that he was focused on the invading Saxons. Those practical lessons in politics and governance now gave way to endless language and writing classes, which were followed by studies of the lore of the gods and practice of how to worship them on each of the eight great festivals.

Every morning began with sunrise salutations on the holy Tor. Then while the other girls scampered off, laughing and joking, to their lessons in familial groups, I followed Viviane to her quarters for private study. It was unusual for a first-year student to learn control of the sight—that usually came after a series of tests designed to assess our mental preparedness—but given my situation, Viviane thought it best for me to begin with that skill.

“You will not be able to give your other studies full attention if your mind is clouded with visions,” Viviane explained on our first day.

That had been several weeks ago. Now I was used to the pattern of each lesson, although that didn’t stop my hands from shaking as I washed my face and hands in the cool, clear water collected from the white spring. Sitting with my legs crossed beneath me, I closed my eyes and took a series of deep breaths, focusing my attention on my heartbeat.

I dreaded these meetings. My fear was in part because I knew they were separating me from the friendships I was trying so hard to forge. Even though they never showed it, I heard the other girls’ spiteful whispering that I was getting preferential treatment. But even more, I feared the painful memories and horrifying images that each session unearthed. Even when the visions were unrelated to me personally, the experience left me feeling raw and ragged.

“Tell me when you feel the sight coming on,” Viviane directed, her voice gentle and musical like the tinkling of bells.

She had already taught me the signs preceding each vision—the disorienting feeling like I was floating above my body and the now-familiar tingling in the center of my forehead, the very spot all priestesses were marked upon their consecration.

“Now,” I exclaimed, the area between my brows prickling.

She settled to the floor behind me, her voice almost directly in my right ear. “This time, instead of replacing what you see with a pleasant memory, as we have done before, will the image to go away, simply because you desire it to.”

At first, I thought I was succeeding because I couldn’t see anything. But before I could draw my next breath, I was reliving the day my mother and I were attacked in the woods near Northgallis, the moment that had led me here. My mother’s scream rang in my ears as they descended on us, a pack of foreigners with strange markings on their left forearms. I tried to defend myself, but there was an arm around my throat, crushing my windpipe. I was dragged from my saddle onto another horse by one of the men. My arms were wrenched behind me, leaving me defenseless. Even now, the stench of his skin filled my nostrils.

“I can’t. It isn’t working,” I cried to Viviane, only half aware what I was seeing was not real. My panic rose with the pace of my breath.

Viviane placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “Yes, you can. Imagine the scene collapsing in on itself like folded cloth. When that is done, frame what remains in an open doorway. Shut the door tight. You can even lock it, if you like.”

I concentrated on the vision as it played out before me, my mother and captor battling with me trapped between them, their blades clashing dangerously close to my nose. Slowly and with much effort, I covered the scene in reams of gray wool, first over my stunned captor, his face eternally contorted by the last thing his eyes saw—my mother’s sword buried in his stomach. I folded that in over the memory of my wounded mother, blood streaming from gashes in her arm and side. One more fold to make that image disappear, and I slammed shut the door of my mind. Now there was nothing but the chirping of the birds outside Viviane’s walls.

I opened my eyes in relief, still panting from the effort.

Viviane’s pale eyes searched my face. “It is over. It may take some time and you may have to repeat the exercise, but eventually you should be free. As long as you keep that door closed in your mind, the vision should not trouble you again.” She put an arm around me.

I reached behind me to complete the embrace.

“In a few years, I will teach you how to open your mind without letting that memory back in, so have no fear. For now, it is probably best to shut off the channels of the sight until you can control them.”

Laughter echoed outside as the women moved from one task to another, interrupting our private moment. Viviane poked her head out the door and waved to Mona.

Turning to me, she said, “You have missed your Ogham lesson for today, but I have no doubt you will catch up. Off with you.” She shooed me out the door.

I followed Mona to Argante’s hut where we would learn from her great wisdom.

My days began to pass quickly. Spring gave way to summer’s heat, and we spent nearly every pleasant day outdoors, getting to know every inch of the island and learning to feel the subtle shifts in energy as the seasons progressed in their endless cycle. Romping through the forest and over the hillsides, we were taught to identify every herb and flower that took root in the land and how to use it in healing.

Today, however, we stood in a large rectangular garden spread out behind Avalon’s main cluster of buildings. Tiny blooms of chamomile magnified the sun while tall reeds of dill nodded their hairy stalks and seeded starbursts over thick carpets of fragrant thyme and marjoram. In the far shadows of the wall, foxglove bells stood sentinel over purple-winged wolfsbane, perky clumps of larkspur, seductive nightshade, and other herbs not meant for untrained hands. Those were the herbs of the Goddess, which, like her power, could bring life or death, depending on the intent and skill of the one using them.

While every one of the herbs cultivated here could be found growing wild across the isle, this garden kept the most commonly used ones near to hand, in case of emergency. It also served as a teaching ground for new students.

On the opposite end of the garden, a tall, thin girl with bright red hair and skin like fresh cream was pointing at herbs as Viviane named them off, a test we each took to determine who could advance to more complex lessons and who still needed more study.

I toyed with the finger-like fronds of a fern whose name would forever be etched in my memory. It was the only one I had misidentified. Unfortunately, had the situation been real, my mistake would have killed the recipient. Viviane was displeased, to say the least, and there was no question she would tell Argante. I was desperate to win their approval, so this setback troubled me deeply.

I eyed the girl engrossed in the test, who was now squatting over a spray of tiny pink flowers at Viviane’s feet. “I wager she is right on each,” I muttered to the girls waiting impatiently with me. “She always is.”

Rowena snorted. “Herbs come as easy to Morgan as does breathing.”

“But she’s part fey, so she has an advantage,” Grainne chimed in.

I narrowed my eyes at the bright-eyed girl with wavy, golden tresses. “You don’t really believe that rot, do you?” Although I thought I detected a slight lilt in Morgan’s voice when she spoke, I didn’t think for a moment she was part of an ancient, mystical race from across the sea in Ireland. I had been living with Morgan for months now, during which time she had proven herself very much mortal, although she would be loathe to admit it, content as she was with her reputation for Otherworldly perfection.

“Oh yes.” Grainne scooted closer to me, leaning in as though confiding a great secret, and the other girls inclined their heads to listen. “One of the old priestesses told me Morgan has lived here most of her life, but no one can remember her coming here. There was no boat ride through the mists for her; she just appeared.” She made a popping sound with her lips.

I looked back at Morgan, noting with a pang of jealousy the blossoming approval on Viviane’s face as they moved from plant to plant. She was outshining me again.

Everyone seemed to have their own theory about Morgan’s origins. Other whispers named her the lone survivor a slaughtered tribe, or worse yet, a changeling or the abandoned offspring of some unholy union. But more than likely, the tongues which told such tales were simply jealous of Morgan’s intelligence and aptitude in the magical arts, if not of her great beauty. I assumed she had been promised to Avalon much like myself, or taken out of kindness from the arms of a mother who could not care for her.

“No, I think she is very much human.” I turned back to Grainne. “I just wish she were more forthcoming. I never know what she is thinking, and that unnerves me.”

Grainne smirked as a placid, lightly accented voice floated over my shoulder. “I think it is unkind to speak of others outside their presence.”

I whirled around. Morgan had materialized silently behind me, her slate blue eyes flashing. Maybe Grainne was right about her otherworldly bloodlines.

An amused smile played on Morgan’s lips. “Viviane told me to tell you we all passed the test.”

The others whooped and hooted with joy.

“There is only room for one favorite among us,” Morgan quietly added to me. “That title is mine, and I intend to keep it. You’ll have to try much harder if you wish to best me.”

As summer wore on, Morgan’s declaration of dominance ate at me. I was used to getting my way unchallenged, and to make matters worse, I was also used to being the best and brightest of the cohort my mother instructed back home. So I was ill-equipped to endure my rival’s constant assertion of superiority.

At first, I took the passive route, hoping she would be satisfied, forget me, and move on to hating someone else. I let her think she was superior even when I knew my skill to be greater and frequently resorted to false flattery, but Morgan saw through me every time. To truly win her over, I would have to openly admit my inferiority before the rest of the House of Nine, bowing and scraping like a slave before her master. That was the one thing I would not do, and she knew it.