The Priestess of Camelot Read online

  Mabina and Beatha struck my back, buttocks and legs with branches of laurel leaves that had been dipped in the Sacred Well. “Be cleansed, Sister!” Mabina called out.

  “We drive out ignorance and fear!” shouted Beatha, hitting me a little harder than was necessary.

  They stopped, and again, there was a sudden silence.

  “Rise,” commanded the high priestess.

  Unsteadily, I stood. My vision seemed to expand and contract with the beating of my heart. The high priestess loomed huge! The Lady Morgaine seemed tiny!

  The high priestess held out the ancient golden Goddess chalice. “Drink from the Sacred Well. See what the Goddess shows you.”

  I took it and felt the smooth, cold metal in my hands. The power of the vessel pulsed through my fingers. It took all of my concentration not to get lost in the thrumming of the magick. I lifted the chalice and drank deeply of the icy moss-flavored water, letting it spill out of my mouth, down my chin, along my neck, between my breasts, down my belly, down my thighs, over my calves and ankles, to dribble onto my feet and into the grass.

  When the water was gone, the chalice was taken from me.

  “Open yourself to the Goddess!” the high priestess commanded.

  I threw open the doors of my mind and felt the Goddess’s presence. The high priestess touched my forehead. “It is done!”

  There was a ululation and then a shout, “Another priestess for the Goddess!” The chanting and dancing began again. Someone led me to the center rock and laid me upon it.

  The sounds of the revelries seemed distant and unimportant. My eyes locked on to a spark from a torch. It floated over the Sacred Circle, drifting this way and that. Slowly, it made its way up, into the sky.

  My mind felt as if it was dissolving, and I knew I was sinking into a vision. But the images that formed seemed more memory than dream. In fact, it felt as if I was there once again, living every moment.

  I was back in Viborg, the night I was consecrated as the high priestess. That Motherhouse had no stone circle; there was only one ancient red stone in the middle of the Sacred Grove. No high priestess stood at the center, and there were few to celebrate. As in Avalon, I was given a special brew made of deadly nightshade. The women chanted the names of the Goddess, drummed, rang chimes, and played flutes.

  I was not asked to submit to the Goddess. I had done that as a new priestess. Instead, Jasoslava and Katia, the two remaining elder priestesses, used the most sacred spell known to them. The very air hummed as they said the ancient magickal words.

  The stone in the ground sang a song of praise. The wind played harp on the leaves. The nearby Sacred Stream gurgled a tune.

  Suddenly, a towering spiral of water and air appeared at the center of the Sacred Grove!

  Katia intoned in her creaking voice: “Whoso shall lead us must brave the whirlpool. Whoso shall command us will step into the wave!”

  Even though I was woozy from the powerful herbs, I was a little afraid. I was assured I would not be drowned, but it was hard to believe that standing this close to the roar of the swirling water. The teachings said the water was a symbol to show the high priestess’ mortal self being washed away. And yet, I had only sixteen winters and had only been studying for eight of those years. It seemed too much to ask of me.

  But I must. I was the only one who could take on this burden.

  I took the calming breaths—out, then in; out, then in.

  I placed my feet into the well-worn steps in the red rock, and stepped up, into the whirlpool.

  Instantly, I was carried upwards, and spun round and round. The water was somehow dry. It sank into my skin, my body, my mind.

  I was the water!

  Then I took on many forms: I was a man. I was a woman. I was an oak. I was a horse. I was a hawk. I was a trout. I was a bee. I was the land itself. I was the sky. I was the sun, then the moon.

  I could hear the whole universe sing. I was deaf.

  I was everywhere. I was nowhere.

  I was everything. I was nothing.

  I was Power itself.

  After a time, the water receded, revealing only my Anya-self. I felt lighter than air, as if I could simply float away.

  Gently, Jasoslava guided me off the rock and in front of the assembled priestesses. She placed the crown made of young willow branches and flowers upon my head. It felt oh-so-heavy: an anchor weighing me to the ground. “Behold,” Jasoslava called out, “the Goddess made flesh!”

  The singing and dancing seemed almost drowned out by the music of the stars.

  You are My Priestess.

  I realized I did not hear the Goddess say that when I was consecrated in Viborg. And I could still hear the women around me singing in the tongue of Avalon.

  The memory had become a vision.

  “Goddess?”

  Follow the Path, Anya. Remember the dream. Do not give in to fear.

  “I hear! I obey!” I shouted and passed into a dreamless sleep.

  Days later, I was sitting in the sun outside the healer’s croft. My right wrist was very sore from the new design in woad they had placed there: a triskele, symbol of the three-in-one worship of the Goddess. It was a circle made of three different spirals interlocked. We did not have such a thing in Viborg, but I could see its use. It was both a daily reminder of our worship, and a way of identifying each other when we are in the wide world.

  But it stung, and I was not allowed to apply any healing salve to it.

  Just then, the Lady and several of her closest priestesses walked up the path. I bowed to her, then rose.

  “What did you mean when you shouted that you heard and would obey, Anya?” Lady Morgaine asked.

  I decided the wisest course was to answer simply, “The Goddess told me to follow the path She laid out for me.”

  The Lady searched my face for a lie. Finding none, she nodded and left.

  I resolved to tell no one of the vision-recollection of my consecration as the high priestess of Viborg.

  I could see that would not go well in Avalon.

  Chapter Twelve

  After my initiation, I turned to my duties as a healer for the women of Avalon. Even in the cold months, there was plenty to do. One of my first tasks was to construct a healing drum from the skin of an unborn lamb. Mabina helped me and painted many charms and healing symbols onto it.

  Secretly, I mourned for the drum I had in Viborg. That one had much power, as the Viborg Lady had blessed it. When I ask Mabina if Lady Morgaine would bless this drum, she looked as if I had asked if the sun would come up in the west that day.

  I did not ask again.

  On the eve of the full moon, Rowena came to the healer’s hut. “Where is Mabina?”

  “She is at the baths. May I be of service?”

  Rowena eyed me. “Well, I suppose you’ll do.”

  “What has happened?” I asked.

  “The Lady has burned herself and requires your ministrations,” Rowena said. “Come.”

  I gathered up supplies I might need and my healing drum and followed the woman through the gathering dusk.

  We entered and found the Lady Morgaine on a stool in front of the fire. She was clutching her left wrist, teeth gritted in pain. The room smelled of burnt hair and sulfur.

  I knelt beside her and gently took her hand. The smallest finger and the one next to it were blistered and blackened. The rest of her hand was an angry red. Her whole body shook, and I knew she was trying not to cry out. “What happened, my Lady?”

  “I dropped a cup in the fire. Stupidly, I tried to fish it out, not realizing the coals were live,” she gasped out through gritted teeth.

  It was a lie.

  And we both knew it.

  I inspected the hand carefully to make sure I saw all the damage. But I could not help also noting the feeling I got.

  The Lady had been practicing dark magick.

  That kind of power had a nasty habit of turning on the user. So, it was no surprise that sh
e was harmed. What was unusual was that a high adept should use it at all.

  But I said nothing about this.

  I explained what I would do for treatment. She nodded for me to proceed. I dabbed aloe salve and other unguents on the worst of the burns, and gently patted wet moss on the areas less affected. Then I took up my healing drum and began a song meant to weave new skin.

  I was careful in how I fashioned my spell. Dark magick feeds off conflict—so the trick was that I must not try to push it away or attempt to banish it. Instead, I embraced the residual negative spell with positive thoughts and love. Gradually, I felt it shrink, wither, and disappear. Then I worked to heal the skin.

  After a time, I completed my song. Lady Morgaine’s hand was improved. The blisters and charring were gone, but the area was still red. “It is likely to be inflamed and painful for several days, but the salve should heal it.”

  She inspected her hand, looking relieved. “That is well done, Anya. We are fortunate to have you here in Avalon.”

  “The honor is to serve, my Lady.”

  She sat back and stared hard at me.

  “Is there something the matter, my Lady?” What have I done?

  “Save for the lash-mark, you are a very pretty thing,” she said.

  I looked down at the floor. I had not thought she might find me attractive. “Thank you, my Lady. I have often admired your beauty, your presence, if you do not find it impertinent to say.”

  She emitted a sound that was very much like a cat purring. “Come, bring your stool near me.”

  I did so, heart racing.

  She stroked my unblemished cheek. “I have watched you as you worked to become one of us. You have touched my heart with your sincerity, your obedience, your loyalty to us. To me.”

  “I am grateful to be here. To serve the priestesses of Avalon. To serve you, my Lady.”

  She stroked my right eyebrow. Slowly, so that she could turn me away if that was not what she wanted, I leaned forward and very gently kissed her on the lips.

  Morgaine chuckled deep in her throat. Her hand slid around to the back of my neck and drew me closer. Her tongue—which seemed dry—slid into my mouth and danced with mine. I dared to run my hand up her side and caress her breast. She squeezed my breast.

  We paused, and she said, “Let us take this to my bed.”

  I followed her meekly, wanting in all ways to please her. She saw my need and slipped off my shift. I took her dress off more slowly, pausing to kiss each area as it became exposed.

  She led me in the ancient dance of desire, our moves becoming more urgent. She turned her head away as we edged closer to the height of our lust. And so, I pressed my face into her nape.

  Morgaine whispered something, and all the hairs on my body stood up as I felt myself explode.

  “And now you are mine for all time,” echoed in my mind.

  And so, the Lady of Avalon and I became lovers. I found myself thinking about her in every spare moment. The way her arm seemed to slip through the air like a swan on the water. The curve of her cheek. The way she cried out when I gave her pleasure. The smell of her hair.

  Lady Morgaine did not call for me every day. Sometimes, she would demand my presence for three days in a row. Then I would not hear from her for a fortnight.

  But I knew the moment she wanted me. Morgaine would connect to me in mindspeech. Never had I known a more powerful adept who could make herself known anywhere she wished.

  I wanted her every moment of every day.

  Mabina became exasperated with me. Sometimes I would be thinking about the last time the Lady and I made love, and I would drop a complex potion, or put the wrong ingredients into a salve. Mabina would catch me and exclaim over the waste. “You could kill someone if you don’t pay attention.”

  I tried to focus, but it was difficult.

  Morgaine was not the first with whom I had been so besotted. Gerhild was a soon-to-be priestess at the Viborg Motherhouse when I fell for her. The day the setting autumn sun lit her strawberry blond hair from behind, she looked like a fire sprite. She was funny, smart, and powerful. I would do silly things just to hear her bright, sharp laughter. In her arms, I learned what it was to be loved.

  But then the sickness came and killed her and forty-nine others—one of whom was the Lady of our Motherhouse.

  There had been no time to mourn she who I had lost.

  Lady Morgaine was nothing like Gerhild in looks, temperament, or bedplay. Gerhild was gentle, as interested in discovering me as I, her. The Lady wanted me the moment I walked in the door and had very firm ideas about how I should please her and what she wanted to do to me. Being with Lady Morgaine was a little like leaping out of a tall tree, blindfolded. It was thrilling and frightening at once. In contrast, Gerhild was like swimming in a warm pool.

  Why did I want Lady Morgaine so much? It seemed madness. I kept thinking about what she said the first time we made love. Did she spell me? Am I ensorcelled by her? Does this account for my wild lust for her? Possibly.

  But this seems not a bad thing.

  I dreamed of stroking her back, tracing the lines of the strange red, yellow, and orange fire image on her back. It was the largest and strangest mark I had ever seen. She would not speak about where it came from, although she liked for me to touch it.

  One night, Morgaine took me practically from the moment when I walk in the door. She laid me down on the hearth, and sparks leapt all around us. I feared my hair would catch fire. Then Morgaine did those things that ignited my lust. I really did feel as if I was on fire—but it was flames of desire I was consumed by.

  At least I think that was what was happening.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Anya. Come to me.

  I looked out. Snow was falling. Large fat flakes spiraled past the light from the window.

  But I knew better than to refuse.

  I threw a cloak over my winter shift.

  “You’re going out? Now?” Mabina asked.

  “I must.” I could not say where I went.

  Mabina frowned with concern, but simply nodded. She knew.

  I hastily made my way to the Lady’s croft. After the winters of Viborg and my home village, Avalon’s cold season seemed warm and sunny. But it was the occasional evenings like this that reminded me of my home. By the time I got to Morgaine’s cottage, my feet were aching with cold, and my hair was wet and filled with snow.

  “Ah, there you are,” Lady Morgaine said. She continued to poke at her fire and did not notice the wet dripping off me.

  I took off my cloak and shook out the snow as best I could. I went and knelt down next to her. “You called, Lady?”

  Still, she stared into the flames, but reached out to stroke my hair, then snatched it back. “Ack! You’re wet as a duck!”

  “I’m sorry, my Lady. It is snowing quite heavily out.”

  She seemed to see me for the first time. “Snow? Is the season so late?”

  “It is near Imbolc, Lady.” How can she not know?

  “Time … it slips away from me sometimes,” she muttered. “Get us some mead, girl.”

  I went to do as she asked, although I would rather something hot. I brought her back the horn cup and took a sip from my own. The flavor of honey was intense. It reminded me of bees in summer.

  She took a sip absently. “Have I ever told you about what the betrayer, Merlin, did to me?”

  “No, my Lady,” I said, taking her empty cup from her and refilling it.

  “I have noted that you and Merlin seem to be spending time together when he is here,” she said.

  The skin at the back of my neck prickled, and I was immediately on my guard. “Lord Merlin is most kind in his attentions to this humble servant. I am grateful for his help in bringing me here.”

  “Indeed.” She stared into the fire. I did not move. I knew she was deciding what she wanted to say. “You must understand that, although I give Merlin the honor he is due as the High Druid, I do not trust
him.”

  “May I ask why?” I asked.

  “He is the usurper’s spy, Anya. He works against all the servants of Avalon, but especially me,” Lady Morgaine said in a tone that was just short of a snarl.

  “How can this be?” I said. “I know nothing of the ruler of this land. Is he not the lawful king?”

  “He is not!” Lady Morgaine’s eyes glowed red in the firelight. “Merlin bewitched my mother, the Lady Ygraine, to believe that her husband, Duke Gorlois of Cornwall, had come home. But Merlin cast a spell on King Uther to make him look like my father. While Uther raped my mother, my father was killed in battle leagues away!”

  “That is a misuse of magick!” I said, surprised at such a transgression.

  “It is. And so, from that rape, the child who would become King Arthur was born, stealing the throne from the rightful heir!” Her voice rang through the small croft.

  I began to understand. “You, my Lady?”

  “Me!” she said, rising. “My mother was King Ambrosius’ sister-daughter, first-born of the line. But these purblind fools will not allow women to rule.”

  “Ah,” I said. “In my former land, there have been few queens, but women do rule on occasion.”

  Lady Morgaine glared down at me, then settled herself back in her chair. “Britain should be ruled by a woman. Not these fool men with their wars and endless laws!”

  “And does this usurper king not acknowledge your rights at all, my Lady?” I asked.

  “He would allow me my family lands in Cornwall, the right to choose a mate.” She toyed with her flame necklace, which flickered and swelled like a real fire. “But he does not even see that I have a better claim to the throne!”

  “And you say this is all Lord Merlin’s doing?” I asked, wondering how this man I perceived as so kind could do such a thing.

  “Yes!” And I heard that word like the hiss of an adder. “Ever he has plotted and schemed against my family. Merlin killed the great King Ambrosius. He poisoned Uther when he got Arthur. Merlin spirited the boy away and had him raised in Fae, far from court, so he could warp his mind.”