Eilan drew closer, wondering what face the Lady would wear for this gathering.
And in that moment, the disturbance in the crowd reached the center; she saw the red gleam of swords and heard male voices harsh with anguish crying, “Great Queen, hear us! Cathubodva, we call you – Lady of Ravens, avenge your sons!”
Ardanos turned, his face contorting, to silence them, but the intensity of emotion in that call had done its work. A whirl of dark-winged shadows fluttered across the circle as a sudden chill wind stirred the fires; and the figure in the chair seemed to expand suddenly and sat bolt upright, flinging the veil aside.
“I hear your summoning, and I come,” she said in the language of the tribes. “Who is it that dares to call on Me?”
The murmur of fright that had swept the circle faded to absolute silence as a man limped into the circle of firelight. Eilan recognized Cynric, a bloody bandage around his head and a naked sword in his hand. “Mother, it is I who call you – ever have I served you! Lady of Ravens, arise now in wrath!”
The chair creaked as the figure who sat there leaned forward. In the firelight Her face and Her hair were as red as Cynric’s sword. Ardanos looked from one to the other, straining to stop this; but the force that linked them was too strong and he did not dare.
“Well indeed have you served me . . .” Her voice scraped the silence. “Severed heads and dismembered bodies are your offerings, blood the libation you pour upon the ground. The wails of women and the groans of the dying are your sacred music; your ritual fires are fueled by the bodies of men . . .You have called me, red raven. What would you, now that I have come?”
She smiled terribly, and Midsummer though it was, the wind was suddenly icy, as if Cathubodva’s darkness had killed the sun. The people began to edge backward. Only Cynric, Ardanos, and the two attendant priestesses held their ground.
“Destroy the invaders; strike down the despoilers of our land! Victory, Lady, is what I demand!”
“Victory?” Hideously, the battle-goddess began to laugh. “I do not give victory – I am the battle-bride; I am the devouring mother; death is the only victory that you will find in my arms!” She raised her hands and the folds of her cloak flared out like dark wings. This time even Cynric recoiled.
“But our cause is just. . .” he faltered.
“Justice! Is there ever justice in the wars of men? Everything the Romans do to you, men of your blood have done to each other, and to the peoples who were before them in this land! Your blood feeds the earth whether you die in the straw or on the battlefield -it makes no difference to Me!”
Cynric was shaking his head bewilderedly. “But I fought for my people. At least tell me that our enemies will also suffer one day . . .”
The Goddess leaned forward, staring at him, and he could not look away. “I see…” She whispered. “From the bright god’s shoulders the ravens are flying – no more shall they counsel him. Instead it is an eagle he welcomes. He shall become an eagle, betrayed and betraying, suffering in the branches of the oak tree until he becomes a god once more. . .
“I see the eagle put” to flight by a white horse that gallops from across the sea. Now the eagle joins with the red dragon, and together they fight the stallion, and the stallion battles dragons from the North and lions from the South . . . I see one beast killing another and arising in its turn to defend the land. The blood of all of them shall feed the earth, and the blood of all of them shall mingle, till no man can say who is the enemy . . .”
There was silence in the circle when She had finished, as if folk did not know whether to hope or fear. From further away came the moaning of cattle, and a sound like drumming, though the musicians were still.