Guinevere's Tale Read online

  The wall behind the chair was lined with pots of sweet-smelling incense, its lazy haze blending with the orange flames from rows of candles that glowed like the midday sun. From the ceiling hung brass containers of fire, probably fed by small charcoal bricks. Craning my neck, I peered between the curious women to my right, just catching a glimpse of flower petals floating on the surfaces of bowls of water surrounded by scores of seashells on a small table. In the opposite window, the one facing east, bronze wind chimes adorned with feathers hung limply from their strings, silent due to the lack of a breeze. Glancing over my shoulder, I was startled to see the Tor framed perfectly in the doorway behind us. All of the elements—earth, air, water, and fire—were represented here, all in perfect balance.

  As the moments trudged slowly by, I grew increasingly uncomfortable. Everyone seemed to be staring at me as if I came from another world. A few whispered to each other, no doubt talking about me. I began to nervously twirl a strand of my hair in order to combat the sickening fear welling up inside me.

  “Guinevere, stop that.” Viviane swatted at the fingers knotted in my hair. “It does not befit a student of Avalon to fidget like a child,” she said, her voice sharper than I’d ever heard it.

  I dropped my hand to my side. Just then, a small wooden side door creaked open, and I jumped in fear. The murmuring ceased as every woman in the room snapped to attention at once.

  An aged, stately woman emerged from the dark interior room and took her place on the throne. Her hair was a rich auburn streaked with heavy bands of gray, her face lined and furrowed from many years of living, but her eyes were bright and perceptive, like a hawk’s. She wore a blue gown similar to Viviane’s but decorated with intricate spiraling patterns. A single glittering crystal bobbed from a silver chain around her neck, and a thin silver circlet rested on her head, just above the mark that signaled her rank as High Priestess—the three visible phases of the moon drawn in blue ink. Her crown mirrored the mark so that the waxing and waning moons peeked out from her hair on either side of an opaline full moon.

  As I watched, awestruck, every woman in the circle around us, including Viviane, dropped to one knee in unison and touched the thumb of her right hand to her forehead, lips, and heart—the same gesture my mother had made to Viviane when she arrived at Northgallis. As one, they whispered, “May the Goddess grant me wisdom, may the God govern my speech, and may my heart be filled with their love.”

  I looked around nervously, unsure if I should do the same, and fumbled a slight curtsy instead.

  “Her name is Argante, but always address her as Lady,” Viviane whispered.

  The old woman smiled slightly at my attempted reverence but then just as quickly resumed her serious disposition. “Viviane, for what reason have you gathered us here?” Her voice was stern and authoritative.

  Viviane stepped forward and nudged me toward the Lady. “Sisters, I have brought with me a new candidate to be counted among our number.” She placed a hand on my shoulder, turning to address the woman on the throne. “Most blessed Lady of the Lake, this is Guinevere of Northgallis, who wishes to be named a servant of the Goddess.”

  Viviane had warned me on the journey here that in Avalon, when speaking in general, all the goddesses of our people were collectively referred to as the Goddess, and likewise, all the gods as the God. Avalon welcomed people of many tribes and traditions, each with their preferred deity names and mythologies. This way, they avoided confusion and arguments over exactly which deity was being referenced or whose gods were better. Here, all were equal and, except on feast days sacred to a specific deity, all were worshiped according to individual preference. Personally, I favored the horse goddess Rhiannon, worshiped in my homeland, and the sun god Lugh, patron of my mother’s Votadini tribe.

  Argante’s eyes met mine with an all-knowing gaze that pierced my soul and laid the entire contents of my being out on the floor for her examination. As her eyes searched mine, I trembled and said a private prayer to my gods, terrified she would find in me some imperfection, some reason to send me back to my father in shame. Argante reached forward, placed a hand on my brow, and my eyes involuntarily snapped shut. Moments passed in silent darkness, and then wood creaked as she sat back in her chair. When I opened my eyes, she appeared pensive.

  The women in the assembled crowd shifted their weight restlessly, and tears began to prick at the back of my eyes. I feared this lengthy pause was a sign of disapproval; surely if I was pleasing to her, the Lady would have made it clear without delay. I searched the air between us for Viviane’s hand, and she gave mine a gentle squeeze before leaving me once again on my own.

  “This child is pure of heart,” the Lady said at long last, her voice far-off and intense, as if it was not she who spoke, but someone greater through the medium of her voice. “Her innocence and faith please me greatly. I see in her no duplicity or capacity for betrayal, only a strong desire to love and serve. In her blood the sight runs strong, and she will be for Avalon a great asset.” She paused, and a slight frown played on her lips. “However, she will not ascend to greatness on this isle. Another crown sits on her brow, one that will secure the safety and prosperity of many, but at a great cost, both to herself and to those she holds dear.”

  A whisper of concern ran through the circle as I knitted my brows together, trying to puzzle out the meaning of her words.

  “But that is the future and its lines are not writ in stone, only hinted at by an uncertain sight interpreted by the human heart.” Argante looked at me lovingly now, seeming much more human, her voice softer. “Do not fear what is to come but embrace it, following the Goddess’s voice—which you shall not fail to hear in your heart—and trusting she will lead you on the right path. Guinevere, you have been chosen by she who created life itself and now you must prove your devotion by stating your intent. Why have you come to the isle of Avalon?”

  I shifted my gaze to the floor in embarrassment, unsure how to reply.

  “Answer from your heart,” Viviane whispered.

  I raised my eyes to meet the Lady’s. “To serve the Goddess, who has protected me since before my first breath.” My voice issued forth strong and clear, as if propelled by a will other than my own. “My mother promised me to this isle in thanksgiving for our safe deliverance from her difficult labor. Now I fulfill the vow she made eleven years ago.”

  In truth, this was my fate, but I purposefully neglected to mention my visions in such a public arena. Argante likely knew about them already, and I feared the judgment of the others.

  Argante nodded in understanding. “Honorable as that is, it does not compel you to stay. Do you come here free of coercion and choose to remain here of your own will?”

  “I do.”

  “Look around. The women gathered here are your sisters. Do you promise to treat them as such, harming none and living in love and trust so strong that you give freely of yourself when needed and accept their aid when offered to you? Will you treat each woman as you would treat the Goddess, your own mother, or yourself?”

  I looked out over the sea of strange faces. “I will.”

  Argante caught my gaze and held it, impressing on me the seriousness of what she was about to say. “Know that the vows you now take are not binding and you may be released from them at any time, should you so desire. They are, nevertheless, a promise, and you will be held to them by value of your word, as it is your source of honor.”

  Uncomfortable, I wanted to look away but could not break her gaze.

  “Do you vow to serve the Goddess and God with all of your mind, heart, and soul and preserve your maidenhead until such time as you take your final vows or part ways with our community?”

  I swallowed, sensing the sacrifice required in assenting to these terms. “I do.”

  Argante smiled at me with all the warmth of a doting grandmother and leaned forward to kiss me on the forehead. “Welc
ome to the sisterhood, Guinevere.”

  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 setb
ack 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.