Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [231]
She brought Niniane to the pool, then stopped for a moment to look at the sky. She handed her the sickle knife which had been given to Morgaine when she had been made priestess, and said to her quietly, “Look into the mirror, my child, and see where she who held this dwells now.”
Niniane looked at her hesitantly and said, “Lady, I told you—I have little of the Sight—”
Viviane suddenly understood—the girl was frightened of failure. “It does not matter. You will see with the Sight that once was mine. Be not afraid, child, but look for me into the mirror.”
Silence, while Viviane watched the girl’s bent head. In the surface of the pool it seemed only that wind came and ruffled the surface, as always. Then Niniane said in a quiet, wandering voice, “Ah, see . . . she sleeps in the arms of the grey king . . .” and was still.
What can she mean? Viviane could make nothing of the words. She wanted to cry out to Niniane, to force the Sight upon her undesired, yet she compelled herself, by the greatest effort of her life, to keep still, knowing that even her restless thoughts could blur the Sight for the maiden. She said, hardly above a whisper, “Tell me, Niniane, do you see that day when Morgaine shall return to Avalon?”
Again the empty silence. A little breeze—the dawn wind—had sprung up, and again the riffle of wind came and went across the glassy surface of the water. At last Niniane said softly, “She stands in the boat . . . her hair is all grey now . . .” and again she was still, sighing as if with pain.
“Do you see more, Niniane? Speak, tell me—”
Pain and terror crossed the girl’s face and she whispered, “Ah, the cross . . . the light burns me, the cauldron between her hands—Raven! Raven, will you leave us now?” She gave a sharp indrawn breath of shock and dismay, and crumpled fainting to the ground.
Viviane stood motionless, her hands clenched, and then, with a long sigh, she bent to raise the girl. She dipped her hand in the pool, sprinkled water on Niniane’s slack face. After a moment the girl opened her eyes, stared at Viviane in fright, and began to cry.
“I am sorry, Lady—I could see nothing,” she whimpered.
So. She spoke, but she remembers nothing of what she saw. I might well have spared her this, for all the good it has done. It was pointless to be angry with her—she had done no more than she was commanded. Viviane stroked the fair hair back from Niniane’s forehead and said gently, “Don’t cry; I am not angry with you. Does your head ache? So—go and rest, my child.”
The Goddess bestows her gifts as she will. But why, Mother of all, do you send me to do your will with imperfect instruments? You have taken from me the power to do your will; why, then, have you taken from me the one who should serve you when I am no longer here? Niniane, her hands pressed to her forehead, went slowly down the path toward the House of Maidens, and after a time, Viviane followed.
Had Niniane’s words been nothing but raving? She did not think so—she was sure the girl had seen something. But Viviane could make nothing of what Niniane had seen, and the girl’s few attempts to put it into words meant nothing to Viviane. And now Niniane had forgotten it all, so that she could not be questioned further.
She sleeps in the arms of the grey king. Did that mean Morgaine was lying in the arms of death?
Would Morgaine return to them? Niniane had said only, She stands in the boat . . . so Morgaine would return to Avalon. Her hair is all grey now. So the return would not come soon, if at all. That, at least, was unequivocal.
The cross. The light burns me. Raven, Raven, the cauldron between her hands. That was certainly no more than delirium, an attempt to put some tenuous vision into words. Raven