Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [418]
It glided noiseless as a shadow to the shore, but the sound of the boat scraping on the land was very real and solid. Several of the little dark men scrambled out and took the horses’ heads, bowing low to Morgaine, saying, “I will lead them by the other path, lady,” and vanishing into the rain. Another drew back so that Morgaine could first step into the boat, lift the staring child in after her, give a hand to the frightened servants. Still in silence, except for the muttered words of the man who had taken the horses, the boat glided out into the Lake.
“What is that shadow, Aunt?” Nimue whispered, as the oars shoved out from shore.
“It is Glastonbury church,” said Morgaine, surprised that her voice was so calm. “It is on the other island, the one we can see from here. Your grandmother, your father’s mother, is buried there. Someday, perhaps, you will see her memorial stone.”
“Are we going there?”
“Not today.”
“But the boat is going straight toward it—I have heard there is a convent on Glastonbury too—”
“No,” said Morgaine, “we are not going there. Wait and see, and be quiet.”
Now would come the true test. They might have seen her from Avalon, with the Sight, and sent the boat, but whether she could open the mists to Avalon . . . that would be the test of all she had done in these years. She must not try and fail, she must simply arise and do it, without stopping to think. They were now in the very center of the Lake, where another stroke of the oars would take them into the current which ran toward the Isle of Glastonbury. . . . Morgaine rose swiftly, the flow of her draperies around her, and raised her arms. Again she remembered . . . it was like the first time she had done this, with a shock of surprise that the tremendous flow of power was silent, when it should blast the sky with thunders . . . she dared not open her eyes until she heard Nimue cry aloud in fear and wonder. . . .
The rain was gone, and under the last brilliance of a setting sun, the Isle of Avalon lay green and beautiful before them, sunlight on the Lake, sunlight striking through the ring stones atop the Tor, sunlight on the white walls of the temple. Morgaine saw it through a blur of tears; she swayed in the boat and would have fallen, except for a hand laid on her shoulder.
Home, home, I am here, I am coming home. . . .
She felt the boat scrape on the pebbled shore and composed herself. It seemed not right that she should not be wearing the garb of a priestess, though beneath her gown, as always, Viviane’s little knife was belted close around her waist. It seemed not right . . . her silken veils, the rings on her narrow fingers . . . Queen Morgaine of North Wales, not Morgaine of Avalon . . . well, that could be changed. She lifted her head proudly, drawing a long breath, and took the child by the hand. However she had changed, however many the years that lay between, she was Morgaine of Avalon, priestess of the Great Goddess. Beyond that Lake of mists and shadows, she might be queen to an elderly and laughable king, in a country far away . . . but here she was priestess, and born of the old royal line of Avalon.
She saw without surprise, as she stepped on land, that before her stood a line of bowing servants and behind them, awaiting her, the dark-robed forms of priestesses . . . they had known and had come to welcome her home. And through the line of priestesses, she saw a face and form she had seen only in a dream, a tall woman, fair-haired and queenly, her golden hair braided low on her forehead. The woman came to Morgaine quickly through the line of the other priestesses, and took her