Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [78]
Her small lamp flickered, becoming more and more visible in the darkness, and above the trees the pure, slim crescent of the virgin moon, barely visible, shone like the silver torque about the Lady’s throat. She went along the ancient processional way, climbing slowly—for, although she was still strong and vigorous, she was not a young woman—until she came to the mirror pool, lying clear between standing stones of enormous antiquity.
The water was clear, reflecting the moonlight and, as she bent over it, springing into flame at the Lady’s tiny lamp. She bent, dipped her hand in the water, and drank—it was forbidden to dip any man-made object into the pool, though above them, where the water bubbled into a spring, pilgrims might come with bottles and jugs and take away what they would from the flow. She tasted the clear, metallic-tasting water, and as always felt the stir of awe: this spring had been flowing since the beginning of the world, and it would flow forever, generous and magical, and free to all people. Surely such a spring as this was the gift of the Great Goddess, and Viviane knelt as she drank, raising her face to the slender crescent in the sky.
But after that momentary renewal of awe, which she had observed since first she came here, a novice of the House of Maidens, she turned back to her business. She set the lamp on a flat rock near the lip of the mirror pool, so that its light would reflect, as would the crescent moon, into the water. Now there were present the four elements: fire, in her lamp; water, from which she had drunk; the earth where she stood; and as she invoked the powers of air, she saw, as always during this invocation, a vagrant breeze ripple across the surface.
She sat for a moment in meditation. Then at last she formulated to herself the question for which she would consult the magical mirror.
How is it with Britain? How is it with my sister, and her daughter who is priestess-born, and with the son who is the hope of Britain?
For a moment, as the wind stirred the surface of the mirror pool, she saw only confused images, flowing—were they within her mind, or on the restless surface of the pool? She caught glimpses of battles, blurred by the restless water; she saw Uther’s dragon banner and saw her Tribesmen fighting at his side. She saw Igraine robed and crowned, as she had seen her in the flesh. And then, in a flash that made her heart pound faster, she saw Morgaine weeping; and in a second and terrifying flash of Sight, she saw a fair-haired child lying senseless, motionless—dead or alive?
Then the moon sank out of sight beyond the mist, and the vision was gone, and try as she might, Viviane could summon nothing back except mocking glimpses: Morgause holding her second son, Lot and Uther pacing in a great hall and hurling angry words, and the confused memory of the bruised and dying child. But had these things been, or were they only a warning of things yet to come?
Biting her lip, Viviane bent and picked up her mirror. She cast the remaining drops of pure oil into the surface of the pool—oil burned for the Sight must never be used for mundane purpose—and went swiftly in the falling darkness along the processional way and to the dwelling of the priestesses.
Once there, she summoned her waiting-woman.
“Make all ready to ride at first dawn,” she said, “and let my novice make ready to serve at full moon, for before it waxes another day, I must be in Caerleon. Send to tell the Merlin.”
10
They travelled mostly in the early hours, lying hidden at midday and riding again at dusk. The country was for the moment peaceful—the war was away to the east. But stray bands of marauding Northmen or Saxons had been known before this to fall upon villages or isolated country villas. Travellers, too, unless protected by armed men, went warily and trusted no one.
Viviane had half expected to find Uther’s court deserted, abandoned to women and children