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Four Hundred Forty-five


The Lady Tinya was pleased; revisiting Lindum felt more like a home-coming than visiting her own birthplace of Eboracum. Here, she had been the fiancée of Sir Jonah whilst he was regent here, and its people treated her like their own queen even before they hosted their wedding. All of this had, of course, been after the Rebel Kings war, when the erstwhile rebel King Belinant acquiesced to Rokk’s choice of Jonah as his regent to atone for that folly.

Belinant, an older man, happily offered her fealty, and doted on her as if she was his daughter, even calling her such in the Angle vernacular; Lindum’ nobles cherished their local common tongues far more than nobles of Roman descent. Angles, of course, had only been in Britain for less that Belinant’s on lifetime, and the elderly king oft said he had no fond memories of the lands of his birth now also overrun by those vile Khunds.

How would this kind monarch react if he had known of Tinya’s service during the Khund siege of this very city? But that was a tale she had not even told her husband, the risks she took for her beloved Lindum. She knew enough of the Angles, of course, that women in combat were not uncommon to them, but few of them would guess a well-polished noblewoman of Roman descent had tasted blood-combat equipped only with basic Pictish training and weaponry.

On this particular evening, while Belinant and most of his staff were attending to military matters, Tinya found herself lost in thought. Drifting around the empty castle reminded her of her time when she was trapped as a ghost: the solitude, the loneliness, and yes, the freedom. When that had come to an end, there were several fleeting weeks when she and the Grail had existed in unison. She would not have returned to life without it, but sometimes she imagined she had also changed it somehow. Although she knew nothing of Pelles, Sussiah, or the Cauldron’s disappearance from Avalon, she did have a sense of foreboding, and the Grail was at its centre.

But no matter – there were footsteps coming up the grand staircase. The gait was a woman’s, a woman who carried herself with regality and authority.

Her hair bristled, and by instinct or intuition she knew who the newcomer was. “Greetings, mother.”

“Are you verily my daughter returned to life? Or merely some changeling Mordru or Mysa placed within Rokk’s court to keep Gawaine’s allegiance?” Queen Winifred’s frosty accusations were not unexpected, from all Tinya had heard from those among Eboracum’s nobles with whom she still had contact.

“Would you even believe me, if I spoke truly, that I died but passed not to any afterlife? That through the magicks of the Grail, I live again?” Tinya still kept her back to her mother. “And I, would I ever believe the words from a widow who would take the likes of Tarik for a husband? At least he speaks nary a single foul word to thee, if the tales be true.”

“Rokk’s lepress took his voice, tis true,” Winifred conceded. “And yes, I… regret my choice for remarriage. But I have a decision to make, and before I make it, I must know if my daughter truly lives.” The queen of Elmet let out a long breath. Meeting this Tinya meant forsaking her vow to never do so. It meant potentially letting go of her conviction that her true daughter was dead and that Gawaine – Jonah – was the villain (or the fool) she so needed him to be.

“So I should plead for you to believe me? Should I make my life’s tale into a petition for you to consider? Mayhap go with you to a sooth-sayer or crone so that her words or spells may show you the truth? Nay. I know you have made me dead in your heart. Tis most fitting, as your heart is so dead already.

“Go, mother. You are more at peace in loving a dead daughter than in dealing with one yet alive.”

Tinya did her best to speak with controlled anger, to not let lose so much as a half-sob and betray the hurt. But Winifred picked up on it. Verily, this incarnated spirit in truth does believe herself to be my Tinya! Is Gawaine in league with the mystery villain– or is he her very prey?

Read the first couple posts, Kent. I like your writing style. I'm not usually a fan of Arthurian/medieval works but I'll definitely try and read on.

thanks, Ibby!

Four Hundred Forty-six


For the first time, the dreams widely but not universally shared across Avalon brought more fear than wonder, and the elders all sought out Ryol for answers. Those who shared the third night of magickal dreaming were mostly but not all younger; it was not quite the same groupings as the first night’s recipients but similar. Many were novices, some were senior clergy, a few were Teachers, some were guests, and some were even servants. Whatever the commonality, it was not as readily apparent as the delineation between the first two nights.

Recent arrivals Sirs Stigandr, Peter and Dag assured each other that had no such dreams since their arrival the prior night, but gleaned from the gossips that they all somehow involved faeriekind: threats from faeries, threats to faeriekind that also placed the dreamers at risk, or other variations that included both fae and some sort of looming danger.

Joshua of the Josephites, Azura of the Priestesses, Asteri of the Teachers, and Beren of the Druids had been in closed conference with Ryol all morning, and except for the Priestesses many of those who had dreamt had gathered and waited outside of Asteri’s cottage. So too were the various guests of Avalon: various nobles, a few diplomats and messengers, and these three of Rokk’s knights.

Following Thora’s directions, Dindrane had attempted to go about her duties, but found herself unable to concentrate. As mid-day loomed, her very heart grew sicker, and she could no longer hold out. After all, the orders had not come from Azura, had they? And as much as the scowling second-in-command Priestess wished otherwise, it was Azura, not Thora, who reigned here as Lady of the Lake. So Dindrane joined the crowd on the Teachers’ Isle, and all her fellow maidens watching her go wished her well for the confrontation that must certainly be looming.

“Ye dreamed la’ noight, dincha?” Stig inquired of the young Priestess as she joined the others waiting.

Seeing the trio, Dindrane guessed that King Rokk wanted Ryol to journey to Exeter in the company of these knights, to offer insights on the war effort.

“Yes, I have,” she replied. She knew these three knights from the Khund war; Dag had at times been her personal bodyguard whilst she carried the Cauldron from battlefield to battlefield. “I dreamt I was a captive of a faerie queen, one whom I kenned not. Yet her handmaiden, a beautiful fae maiden called Ulie, freed me, and warned me of dangers we shall all face if I remain here in Avalon.” She dared not tell them the rest.

“Dindrane! Forgets thee thy chores?” Thora relished the times when Azura was off-isle or indeed any time she could bare her teeth unencumbered by the Lady of the Lake’s rebuke.

“Nay. But I must speak to Lady Azura-”

“And you shall, at the appointed time. Now go about your duties.”

Dindrane moved not. “I must speak to Azura.”

“I said GO!” Thora well knew the eyes of so many of Avalon were upon her; this was no time to back down.

Dindrane fought the ingrained instinct to comply, and tapped upon something within her she had never recognized.

“And I have refused,” she said sternly, projecting a sense of authority that defied her size and young age. Thora had balked but began to respond; Dindrane knew she would again attempt to exert authority, and it made her angry. There was more at hand here than merely Thora’s need for power. “I AM waiting for Azura. I may well be the only one in all of Avalon to have dreamt all three nights! And I must have counsel with Azura this very hour, ere all of Avalon suffers! So bark not your orders at me; I am not Mysa, whom you sent out to her doom just to defend your place of power!” Dindrane was red with anger and ready to speak her heart with abandon; she had lost friends in the same calamity that had claimed the king’s half-sister nearly two years ago and the loss still hurt. And now, speaking the words, she felt the truth of the matter – that Thora had done the deed as so many had rumoured.

“You speak lies before strangers-” Thora began, gesturing to the crowd. “Of this, Azura will certainly know.”

“She is the Grail Maiden,” Dag spoke up, “and the grand-childe of King Pellam. Her word carries much more weight throughout outer Britain than does yours, ‘milady.’”

Thora shot Dindrane an evil look. “Be not fooled. You are not unburdened of this transgression.” She stormed off. Many in the crowd smiled and nodded to Dindrane, while others’ faces remained stoic. Several of the clergy approached Dindrane with blessings and words of support, and gradually the crowd returned into small clusters of conversation.

“Ar’ ye a-roight? Di’ Thora ver’ly weave treach’ry agin’ Lady Mysa?” Peter asked.

Dindrane nodded. “The truths will all come out in the coming days,” she said. Ryol had told her so, and he would not lie, would he? After what they had shared?

Feeling light-headed, Dindrane lied down to rest, and was soon fast asleep; a fourth dream would come to her. It would be unlike any other in all of Avalon during this week of strange slumbers, a dream of warning meant for her and her alone. Dag placed his cloak over her, and the trio sat in silent contemplation for a while. Of the three of them, and despite what he had told his fellowes, only Dag had a magickal dream the prior night; he saw himself again defending Dindrane, but not from any faeries.

Four Hundred Forty-seven


Sussiah had hoped to make her way to Deva, from whence she could ride to Segontium with a distant kinsman whose merchant trade covered these lands, and from there sail for Eiru. Once out of Britain, she would feel all the safer.

But as she followed the western edge of Perilous Forest northward upon the lanes and farm-paths, she grew nervous. She saw no-one, but she knew she was being followed! Was it the Moorish scout, who had found her at Carbonek? Was it merely some vestige of Pelles, who had tracked her with his mind-magicks after she had fled Avalon? Her pursuer moved faster than sight itself, it seemed; if it was the Moor, she could be toying with Sussiah, hoping to find accomplices, too. Or mayhap run her through whilst she slept! At an opportune place, Sussiah darted into the forest, and for a while she felt better.

But as dusk approached and the forest darkened, she again felt like she was being followed. No matter; of fleeting foot or no, Rokk’s scout cannot find me in the dark. She took to the trees, and soon she was in the high canopy, leaping from tree to tree. She was safe.

Travelling between tree branches was tiring, and of course dangerous to do even if the woods were not growing darker and darker, but after a several good leaps she felt confident no-one following her movements from below could possibly know where she had hidden herself, and here she could rest cradled between two thick branches of an ancient, mighty oak. She clenched the sack holding her cherished prize all the tighter; mayhap this Grail could banish this fear, this panick from her heart…

Had her pursuer indeed been Genni, she would have been correct. But there was someone else in the forest, someone who leapt from branch to branch far more skillfully and stealthily than she, and one who saw in the night with near-feral eyes. He knew exactly where Sussiah slept, but did naught but follow… for now.

Four Hundred Forty-eight


Clothilde looked out the window, hoping in vain. The Parisian streets below were full of merchants and customers, as usual, but also full of soldiers from the eastern principalities. And yes, after some scrutiny, she spied the colours of her native Allemania; verily all parts of the empire had heeded her husband’s call to arms.

This would be no short war, she well knew. Wars against barbarian peoples were frequent but ended just as quickly, and despite the mockery of patriots and jesters, the British were not barbarians. This war would last years.

As queen of the Franks, and with a bed-ridden husband who might verily die ere the war’s end, Clothilde did more than her share of war preparations and strategies, much to the chagrin of many of the generals. And also to the ire of Vidar, but did not everything enrage that ‘holy’ man?

Truths be laid plain, she disliked him for the very things she disliked in herself – and in her husband: the practicalities of worldly politics all so often take precedence over the teachings of Iesous. But how to spread them if pagan barbarians trample all goode souls? Verily, the Christians of Britain and of the Franks should be united… yet even the Frankish Christians were not united themselves.

And for all Vidar’s power-grabbing, how was she any different, in her own fashion? When she was a girl, the usurper Eva and her Venetian husband ousted her parents from the Allemanii throne. Once Clothilde had wed Clovis, she had him retake the kingdom for her and placed her younger brother as her regent. Was that truly a Christian deed? Nay, it was retribution. Clovis was only a Christian because it was convenient, and he was a heretic Christian at that!

All this weighed more heavily than usual on Clothilde because of the sisters, the three nuns gifted with pure Christ-like hearts and with visions of prophesy. Earlier today, she had met with them, the seers of St. Genevieve’s Order, a nunnery not far from the city. Their prophecies told her the war was a certainty, but the war’s victor was not. “It will be the more Christian of the two kings, a man of honour and conviction, whose reign and name shall stand the test of time,” they told her. Clovis freely mixed Christianity and paganism as easily as one might change ones boots, she knew; she would have to work all the harder to save his soul and his kingdom.

Clothilde also knew of Vidar’s ploys – well, most of them. And there was one in particular that held her interest. There was a magickal chalice she had seen once when, as a childe, she had visited Eiru. And once she had heard of Vidar’s plan, she knew what that would mean for her, for Clovis, for Vidar, and mayhap all of Christendom. But for now, there was naught to do but wait. And plan. And keep eyes out for Vidar’s secret messenger, the one he thought she knew not.

Four Hundred Forty-nine


For very few people would Sir Brandius leave Londinium on the eve of war, even for but a single evening. As much as he trusted Sir Lucan to handle communications and planning, he hated to leave the younger man alone when any number of crises could emerge within mere hours. Perhaps fortunately, Sir Berach had arrived the prior day and was already up to speed on the latest logistical questions and nightmares. Brandius promised to be back by morning, and he set out for Sir Derek’s villa with a fairly modest cask of fine Iberian wine. If Sirs Lucan or Berach thought Brandius’ move foolhardy, neither one would so admonish their elder.

Yes, for very few people would Sir Brandius cast aside caution, but the man who now tended the villa in Derek’s absence was hardly an unknown. In the hills northwest of London awaited an old friend, a veteran of the wars against Vortigern, against an earlier generation of Khund invasions, and against Pict and Irish raiders. And in truth, he was one of the few who could adjudicate any of the feuds that arose between the three brothers Uther, Ambrosius, and Constans in those early days; twas not a wonder he held Brandius’ esteem.

Upon arrival, Brandius was taken aback by his old friend’s appearance; after the decades that had passed it seemed that, of the two of them, only Brandius showed his years. There stood the man at the entry courtyard wide a-grin, with a face of a man half his age and only a single bolt of white interrupting his full thick red mane of hair.

“I warned you to stay away from the faerie realms,” quipped Brandius.

“It is good to see you, you olde Gallic interloper!”

Brandius laughed at the old joke between them, and the two men embraced warmly. He then led Brandius into the parlour where Derek’s servants had prepared a repast.

After hours of talks about old times and about young Rokk, Brandius eventually inquired as to where his friend had been all these years.

“In truth, your jest has not been so very far removed from truth,” the man said. “I have not been in faerie realms, at least so far as I know, but I was in… kindred circumstance, in that the years pass not as they should.” He sipped his wine. “And I fear my wits and memories are not always all that they should be. I… I sometimes fear that all my life I have been but a pawn for the three brothers and those who mean to duel with them.”

Brandius sighed. “Uther and Ambrosius are both dead. Constans, who died once, still lingers on under another guise. Vortigern’s bastard Dubhghall tried to slay me, ere Sir Jonah slew him. Olde King Pellam is dead, and so are Ban, Bors, Amlaidh, and Gorlois. Tarik is in hiding. Lot, Voxv, Wynn, and even Derek are all loyal to Rokk; their old feuds and ploys are buried. All who would play those old games are gone, save for so very few of us.”

“And what of you?” The man eyed Brandius coldly before both men burst out in laughter. “And what of Avalon? Surely of all the names you could mention, only those intrigues of sorcerers and witches could rival the games of the brothers three.”

Brandius shook his head. “Much has changed. Avalon struggles to recruit pupils, and its great old leaders are gone, in wit if not in flesh. Kiwa is dead, Beren ages more than he lets on, and the Teachers squabble. Tis a far cry from the times of olde.”

“Mayhap poore Aglovale is avenged then, even if none put the blade to them.”

“Ah, Aglovale…” Brandius sighed, and took another swig of wine. “Had I not had young Rokk to raise, and my own son, mayhap I could have aided him. There is a Christian priest I know, Marla. He is a good man. Since Aglovale’s death, he has helped several of Britain’s most gifted youngsters avoid the clutches of both Avalon and the church of Rome.”

“If Aglovale is truly dead,” the man replied, earning Brandius’ eyebrow. “I hear certain things. Some say he fled to Eiru, and some even say he travelled west with Brendan. Others say he lives on in secret, living as a peasant but keeping eyes out for his younger brother, that no soul places onto him the burden that was his elder brother’s. Yet others say he hides in plain sight among the Josephite brethren.”

“All the gossips from all the villages of this isle do not bring back the dead,” Brandius dismissed the conjecture. “You might as well tell me Madoc yet lives, too.”

The man laughed. “Mayhap all of Britain’s lost sons return from the summer-lands reborn!”

“Britain has many staunch, honourable young sons and daughters in Rokk’s court. They are an assemblage worthy of any cadre of legend.” Brandius would rather vouch for the warriors at hand than pine for might-have-beens. “Zendak himself swears that he himself saw the dread ogre Validus slay Aglovale in the Cymry mountains years a-gone. I cannot believe yon king would lie so convincingly for so many years.”

“Mayhap,” his friend acknowledged. “Yet there are those with Sight who say a rightful heir may well displace Rokk within the year. Maybe tis Madoc or Aglovale reborn or never truly dead. Has this Rokk even learnt of his elder brother yet? Maybe Pellam himself shall a-rise from the grave, or Lot will resume his plottings. Maybe this Sir James of whom I hear can be coaxed, bespelled, or forced to betray his current liege. I know not. But… I fear changes are in the wind, and so long as they are not of Avalon’s will I can abide them. So beseech your foster-son, if ye will, that he casts his lot wisely.”

“Is that a threat?” Brandius was starting to anger. Who really plays the old games and intrigues, if not his old friends after all?

“Nay. Tis but friendly advice. If young Rokk is all you say, then may he live long, reign long! But if Avalon’s web verily is blowing away, as you yourself hint at, he would do well not to cling to that very web.”

Brandius grimaced. There was something more his old friend spoke of not.

“But tell me, Brandius, have you not a son of your own? Why, he must be Rokk’s most steadfast ally, must he not?”

Four Hundred Fifty


The salt-water stung his wounds, but it was worth it; his wager had paid off. For the better part of a week Prince Val had evaded his pursuers, across the forested hills, down the ravines and finally to a river that led westward to the sea. Unlike his pursuers, he had the option to rest, when and if he could find a safe hiding spot. And unlike his pursuers he knew the types of safe-caves and hunting-pits the remaining Picts of these hills used, hiding places most non-Picts could walk within a leg’s length of and never know their existence.

His wounds were mostly burns inflicted by King Mekt; they agonized his flesh but left not any trail of blood. As loathe as he was to flee at all, thus far all had worked out well. With further fortune, Grev or the other survivors were tracking after Mekt, although part of him hoped for the chance to pummel the rogue king himself once he had his strength back.

Val had hoped to reach the Carlisle-Deva Road, along which he could find succor from travelling troops or villages Mekt would not dare attack, but in the past day and a half he had taken to riding sturdy branches upon a river, his swiftest means of conveyance. The river turned swifter as it entered a narrow gorge; the roadway bridge was high above and Val reluctantly determined it would be foolhardy to try to reach shore and climb the rocks given his state of strength and health.

Having reached the sea, he opted to follow it to the left – the south, or southeast, perhaps, walking along the rocks so as not to leave a trail. Even if they had followed him down the river somehow, they would likely think he doubled back for the road rather than head further from aid. On the following day, he found the remains of an old pier. Crawling underneath it, he found a secluded place from whence one could hear any who approached, yet it was well above tide-levels too. Val slept for three days…

...

Until he woke with a start. There were voices, and they were close by!

“An unfffortunatte tturn of eventsss,” said one. “But look! We nearrr our dessstinatttion.”

“Lothian’s prince will likely die in the woodlands,” said a woman.

“Rokk’s legion are like rats. They crawl back for more,” the third voice sounded like Mekt’s! Had they tracked him after all? Yet how could they be here by accident?

Val quietly peered around, looking for an escape route. Only then did he realize he was no longer alone – a woman had joined him don here! She put her finger to his mouth, signaling him to remain silent.

Four Hundred Fifty-one


Errol studied the seaside castle from a nearby hill. “So, this is our destination?” he asked his companion. Seeing the youth’s nod, he sighed. “Twould be most proper to approach and inquire,” he said. It would be quite unseemly to sneak into a strange castle, he well knew. But instinct said otherwise.

“Rowan says they are holding my kin prisoner in there,” Peredur insisted. “There are a great gathering of villains therein.”

“And we shall join them?” Errol liked not the sound of it all. “Rowan? L’ile? Would thee please show thyself a-now?”

“To whom speaks thee?” grumbled a voice from the brush behind them. It was not Errol’s fellow Druid who called out, but rather a deep, rough, almost growling voice.

“I…I speak to a friend,” Errol replied. “Who might you be?”

“I know you. You are of the court of King Rokk.” The man stepped forward. He was a man, but looked more bestial than even the most isolated Pict or the most barbaric Khund. Peredur took a half-step backward.

“You… fought in the Khund war. We met not,” Errol replied.

“Brin!” Peredur exclaimed. “His name is Brin!”

“How knoweth such?” Brin growled.

“Rowan told me!”

Errol explained how the boy sees and hears the Druid L’ile, who has been missing, yet no one else does.

“And you believe him?”

“Aye. The boy has said things only L’ile would know. But what brings thee here?”

“I have been tracking a woman, a villain and a thief. She has gone there,” he gestured to the castle. “I have been plotting what to do next. I am of the woodlands, not of cities or castles.”

“We too need a way in,” Errol told him. “Mayhap we stand a better chance together.”

Four Hundred Fifty-two


“Choose, and choose fast,” Sussiah whispered. “Agree to help me reach Eiru, and I shall heal you. Or else I shall call out to your foes!”

Val hesitated. He was rested but still injured; he was no match for whatever warriors accompanied his pursuers, let alone Mekt himself. They had wandered further along the coast, heading for a destination, it seemed. He was no longer their quarry – but yet they stopped for a meal-break close by, still within earshot and possibly within sight.

“How? How shall you heal me?”

Sussiah opened her satchel and took out her prize. “Once there is water in this, you shall drink and be healed.”

The Cauldron! The Cauldron of the Gods! How had the woman before her, whom he trusted not, obtained the valuable relic Laoraighll had given to King Rokk? The cauldron had saved countless lives at court, including most of his friends. “How-?” he started to ask. But her eyes told him what he already knew: this was not the time. If she called out, he would die and never know, and the Cauldron would be lost.

“I agree. You shall reach Eiru under my care. I so swear it.” Val hoped he could find a way to reclaim the Cauldron for Britain despite the vow.

Sussiah made her way under the pier toward the sea, taking care as to not be seen from the camp. Filling the cup, she gestured for him to join her. He sipped, and sipped again. By the third sip he was ready to attack Mekt, but Sussiah saw his bravado and gave him a hard look.

“Let them go on their way, and we shall go about ours,” she whispered. “You have so pledged!”

“I shall safeguard you, my lady. But King Mekt I deem to be a threat to your person, and I must deal with him ere we depart!”

Sussiah was about to rebut, when out of the corner of her eye she saw the nearby group now returning toward the pier. Two warriors, a king, a clergyman and a woman, she guessed; the woman pointed directly at them.

Mettah had not paid attention to stray thoughts in the area ere now; only relaxing with her mid-day repast did she tune out the conversations at hand to hear the thoughts of others – Prince Val could be silenced after all!

Four Hundred Fifty-three



“Taliesin tells us that nigh on all of Avalon is having these dreams, by damnation,” Brandius confided. He and his old friend had consumed yet another tankard of wine, and the hour was late. Sir Derek’s servants had all gone to bed hours ago, and the sunrise would not be far along.

His companion nodded, unsurprised. “Thus it begins,” he said at last. “By the fifth night, even those in outer Britain near the gateways to Avalon will share in the dreams, although most will not ken them to be any different from ordinary dreamings. By the sixth night, many within a dozen leagues or so of all of Avalon’s gateways shall feel the dreams – and also those farther away with but a trace of The Sight. The seventh will be stronger yet, but I know not how much. And after that, it all ends.”

“All ends? What ends?” Brandius asked almost absent-mindedly, still thinking on the dreams of which the bard Taliesin had spoken. He took another swig of wine. A week full of dreams? Why, tonight must be the fourth night. And what kind of dreams have been let loose this eve?

“Tis like a quiver full of 20 arrows. The Sight, that is. A good seer is like an expert archer, shooting a single arrow and felling three quarries with it, be they pheasants or enemies. This archer has wit, wisdom, and experience to do much with little, and retains a full arsenal for further use.” He paused and with his hand brushed a swath of dangling hair back across the top of his head. “But imagine 20 people, one expert archer along with 19 people who had never even seen a bow before. The expert archer, let us say a young man who knows his craft but revels in the chance to be revered and valued as a teacher. Let us call him… Ryol perchance. He is enthralled at the opportunity to share his craft, to partake in a new kind of fulfillment, that others may know the joys of hitting their targets, and he too is a part of their own victories. Yet all – even the expert – are defenseless once the arrows are shot.”

Brandius nodded. “But the arrows can be re-gathered. Some will be broken, but not all.”

“Aye,” his companion admitted. “But amateurs will break more than the experienced archer would, had he fired all 20. And there is still the effort to re-gather the arrows, time the archer might not have. And… Well, what if,” he paused for effect. “What if the experienced archer had been fooled into sharing all of his precious arrows with the common folk, fooled by a villain ready and able to assassinate the defenseless archer, merely waiting for all the arrows to be shot?”

Brandius turned ashen at the realization. “Avalon is going to be blinded? And in danger of conquest? By faeriekind?” Who was capable of doing this?

His companion stood. “For many months, I have been controlled, manipulated, the demon within me unleashed, and I could do but naught. Yet despite all this, I shall shed no tears for Avalon. The self-proclaimed ‘secret heart of Britain’ is but a refuge for fools and charlatans, and I for one spit upon them! When the Eighth Door opens, Avalon falls.”

Brandius’ head raced. How could he get word to Avalon? There were currently none in Londinium who knew the Path of Isis, the city’s direct passage to the Teachers’ Isle; Taliesin and Uland had departed with Queen Imra’s entourage early this morn. Other passages were days away; only Genni could deliver word in time, and she was not here.

Brandius stood. He had to reach Londinium, rally the city guard, and have a message sent to Glastonbury, to the Priestess’ gateway.

He took a step but quickly collapsed. First his legs, then his arms, and finally his whole body spasmed and seized up like a fish thrust onto the dry ground.

“Iason… no…” he gasped.

“I’d have told you not any of this, if there were any way to change the outcome, old friend.” Iason of the Blood said with a restrained measure of what sounded like genuine compassion. “And just so you may ken, all of this… Twas not my idea to tell you all of this too late for you to act. Nor to leave you writhing on the floor, helpless to make even a miraculous final-moment effort to save your allies.

“Twas only my idea to spare you, that you are caught not in the snares of my master, who still plays the brothers’ old game with a vengeance, and quite literally so. But you shall be safe, just as shall your son Reep. You have my word on this. This is the one boon I could get my master to pledge unto me, that you and he should be safe from all of this.”

“Reep? Where is he?” Brandius gasped.

“Trapped by my master. But I shall set him free once Avalon falls.” Iason put his hand reassuringly on the old man. “Rest well, my friend. As the elixir takes hold, sleep will come, and you will miss the worst of the wine’s toll.” Seeing his friend still resisting, he added, “Even if you sent word, it is all too late, old friend. Avalon has earned the wrath of the once and future high king of all Britain, and fall Avalon must.”

Four Hundred Fifty-three


“Have we not avoided this enough? We must act, and put a stop to these wicked dreams!” Joshua’s voice contained more than exasperation; it was the closest to anger any of his peers had ever seen in the elderly Christian priest. The leader of the Josephite Brotherhood, Joshua was normally as serene as a summer pond, the very embodiment of the ideals he and his brethren espoused. But not today.

Three nights of dreamings had taken its toll on all of Avalon. For the first time, these magickal visions seemed overtly malicious, not merely blasphemous (to Josephite sensibilities, at least), and Joshua was not about to let the leaders of the other isles drop the subject and dismiss his concerns, as they had the prior two days.

Azura, Lady of the Lake and leader of the Priestesses, winced at the dreams being called ‘wicked.’ To her, and indeed to most of Avalon’s non-Josephite clergy, dreams were a sacred gift from the gods. And these very dreams, as alarming as some of them had been, were especially valuable. As much common ground as the Priestesses, Druids, and Teachers had with the Josephites, on this matter there seemed little room for mutuality. She had her own frustrations; here at the third convening of elders in three days, Avalon’s internal peace seemed fraying just as it was receiving its greatest gifts that any memory or lore suggested it had ever had been given.

Asteri, senior among the Teachers, sighed; he was caught in yet another squabble. His own fellow Teachers agreed upon little, and now that same discord was bearing fruit in talks with the other orders. He was also caught in that his newest fellow Teacher, a young seer named Ryol, was at the very centre of the discord. For days Ryol had assured all that the dreams were a blessing, but now many elders sought more than just assurances. Four teachers had accompanied Asteri, yet the one Asteri truly wished was present, the bard Taliesin, had still not returned from Londinium with Queen Imra, as he had only departed earlier this very morning.

“We have had two nights of dreams of memory and one of warning,” Ryol again beseeched for understanding. “There shall come another night of warnings we must heed. I know not yet of the three nights thereafter. No doubt the warnings must be heard first, ere we can ken the dreams that shall come hence. Just as we must know our own pasts ere we can ken the warnings of to-day,” Ryol said. “This I do know: the Eighth Door to Avalon will be known on the seventh day – but only if Queen Imra is here to gain such knowledge. That gift is but for her, and for the two other queens she must face.” The Josephites who accompanied Joshua rolled their eyes, as did a few of the Teachers.

Beren, the elderly hierophant of the Druids, kept a stoic face and kept his own counsel through most of these meetings. He intervened only to calm the talks, and the three Druids he accompanied him emulated his silence but betrayed their own frustrations with facial expressions. Yet it was time for the eldest of all the elders to finally speak.

“We have several possible courses of action,” Beren summed up the entire morning’s talks. “We all can pray fervently to stop the dreams,” he gestured to Joshua for confirmation that he had represented his argument accurately, “those of us who practice deeper magicks can try to seek more clarity and direction from the dreams,” he gestured to Azura, “we may let the dreams unfold as they would,” he gestured to Ryol, “we can evacuate all or most of the people from Avalon, or at least those who no longer wish to receive these dreams,” he nodded to various Teachers and Josephites who had suggested such, “we may send a willing delegation to the Forbidden Isle in hopes the gods may intervene,” he gestured toward MacCullough, a Druid who had openly snapped at Joshua earlier that meeting, “or we may spend this day praying and reflecting on which course of action is best for ourselves, our orders, all of Avalon, and possible all of Britain,” Beren gestured to the young monk Jan, a guest in Avalon who was not part of any of the four orders.

“Ryol tells us there will be four more nights of magickal dreams, including one more of warnings on this very eve. Then we shall have three more dreams of which we know not. And at the end of the week, revelation about the Frankish war’s future, about Avalon’s role in Britain for a generation to come, and about the Eighth Door itself,” Beren concluded.

“And that for one amongst us all of Avalon, their path will be revealed to-day,” Ryol added. “I saw as such two days ago, as I told you then.” Ryol was the greatest male seer in living memory; only the great Queen Nura and her birth-mother, the late Lady Kiwa, had surpassed him, Beren knew well. Ryol continued, “As I have said before, these dreams are all worth the turmoils. On the seventh night, all but one person n Avalon will have been gifted with at least one dream of potent magicks.”

Asteri spoke as well. “An eighth portal to the outer world concerns us all. I need not tell you of the theft of the very Cauldron of the Gods, or the Grail if you will, from these isles means that Avalon is less secure, less isolated than we had believed. If there is an eighth entry, we must know of it ere more ills befall us, whether we know this from dream-craft or some other way.”

Beren nodded and resumed. “The questions at hand: Should we act now? Can we act? Do we act as one, or does each order take its own path? And should we turn back High Queen Imra ere the Eighth Door does open, if Ryol’s Sight has been correct? Thus far, all we have agreed upon was to send the bard Taliesin to Londinium to invite the queen here. And, with respect to all my fellow elders, Druid or not, is that I have not yet been convinced that we can or should act. So I personally am in favour of Brother Jan’s suggested course of action. Let us take today to pray and reflect, and meet after our evening meals, at which time we must decide once and for all, else all days this week be spent more in talks than in thoughts or prayers.”

Many elders sighed in frustration; wasn’t this supposed to be the meeting to decide? But there was little more to say. Joshua said his order would act this eve, and this would be the last day Josephites would wait the other orders to decide their own courses of action.

Most elders knew he would have to get his fellowe Josephites’ agreements on this first. Avalon was yet a small enough place that they would have heard if he had done so already, as members of all orders had talked and interacted even more these past few days than they had in the handful of years since Azura assumed her duties as Lady.

Four Hundred Fifty-four


The elders adjourned not long into the after-noon, and as they departed Asteri’s hut on the Teachers’ Isle, the crowd around them awaited some sort of decision: Teachers, Druids, Josephites, servants and visiting guests looked on expectantly, but saw from their expressions that their leaders were just as much in the dark as the rest. Only Ryol had answers, but his repeated answers were no longer enough.

This awaiting crowd saw MacCullough give one look of disgust, and then suddenly he and a pack of Druids departed briskly as one, not waiting for Beren or the rest of their brotherhood. None of the Josephites, Teachers, or assorted guests had ever witnessed such a visible rift among the Druids.

There had been only one Priestess in the outer crowd, and as the elders’ meeting broke up she was asleep, watched over by a trio of High King Rokk’s knights. Beren approached her. Although she was Azura’s charge, the old Druid had grown quite fond of the lass during the Khund war last year.

And just then, Dindrane awoke with a scream.

Four Hundred Fifty-five


In mid-September, the Teacher, former Druid, and master bard Taliesin made two trips from Avalon to bring vital information to Queen Imra in Londinium. The first was a full week before the autumnal equinox, and the second followed the first by three days. In each case, he returned the following day; the trip was not a long one when one travels via the Path of Isis between the Teachers’ Isle of Avalon and Britain’s capital in the outer world, mere hours instead of the days it would be from Glastonbury, the next closest route.

On the same night he had returned from his first trip, all the youths on all the isles of Avalon dreamt of prior lifetimes. Some dreamed of lives lived in recent times, before and during the fall of Rome, while others dreamt of lives lived in Ys or Hybrasil, lands lost to the sea untold generations ago. Others dreamt of lives in the intervening eras, before the Celts, before the Romans, or before the earliest Angles and Khunds had landed on British soil. And still others of lives lived in strange other lands, some touched by Rome and many that were not.

After the elders’ gathering that first day, one of the maiden Priestesses sought out Ryol. She had dreamt of a life lived in ancient Egypt, where she and her lover in that lifetime fought against her own father, a king of that land. The rebels lost, and fled to a strange far-off island… Eiru. But there was also a dark secret learnt in that dream, one which unsettled her to the very core of her soul, and of all of Avalon she was drawn to Ryol to share this with.

Ryol listened patiently to it all of it. He comforted her, and filled in parts she could not recall clearly – for his own past-life dreaming was that of her lover in that same lifetime. And that evening, they renewed that love in the present day.

They were the only two in all of Avalon to share the first two nights of dreamings, as for the second night Avalonians relived each of their individual sexual awakenings. For Ryol and the Priestess, they relived the very initiation they had shared only hours beforehand, and in dreaming, still flesh to flesh and their limbs still intertwined, it took on a whole new level of power and intensity. Days later whilst holding vigil atop the Tor under the equinox full moon, Ryol would wonder: had their union given her more power over him, or had it given him more power over her? But he had only adolescent uncertainty, and uncertainty he was not used to at all.

Those who dreamt on the third night mostly dreamt of being captured and brought to the fae realms as captives and playthings for all of time, and that they were in danger of such occurrence should they ever leave the safety of Avalon. Others dreamt that a great wrong had been done to faerie-kind, and that the fae themselves were the ones in danger. Ryol’s own dreams on that third night were of the latter, but he found himself disbelieving his own dreams for the first time – for how could he think ill of King Rokk himself?

In all of Avalon, there was only one other than Ryol who had experienced all three dreams – and a fourth she had all to herself. In Dindrane’s third dream, a fae queen’s handmaiden Ulie had freed her from captivity, and she of all of the Avalonian hostages would go free. There was a name, Ulie told her, a name she must not hear, as she would in the next evening’s dreams – if she remained in Avalon to dream again.

She resolved to approach the elders directly, just as she should have from the start. Azura and Beren would know what to do; why had she been so enchanted with young, blond, handsome Ryol as to trust him first and foremost? But whilst the elders met, she dreamt again, and received a dream meant solely for her.

Four Hundred Fifty-six


As the elders’ gathering adjourned, Azura and Beren came upon the sleeping young Priestess. Just as they did, she awoke with a shriek, alarming the three knights watching over her: Sirs Dag, Peter and Stig.

“What ails you, Dindrane?” Azura asked her, pulling her close in a reassuring, motherly manner. Dindrane had been lax in her duties, it had been reported to her, but as these past few days had been unsettling to all of Avalon, no accounting had been asked.

The young woman who had been called the ‘Grail Maiden,’ who was now a maiden no more, struggled for words. “The Cauldron of the Gods,” she managed after several deep breaths, “It will be gone from British soil within the fortnight. I-I have seen it.”

Ryol heard the commotion and made his way to her, and held her tenderly. “And you must go after it, ere it fall into Frankish hands,” he told her. He turned his attention to Azura and Beren. “Recalls thee, that I foresaw on this day one dreamer’s path would be manifest? Tis hers, so it is.”

And so despite Beren’s suggestion, another meeting began, this time of just Azura, Joshua, Asteri, Beren and Dindrane. At Dindrane’s request, Sir Dag was also brought in, as her once and potentially future bodyguard. And at the commencement of this thankfully brief meeting, four people departed Avalon before nightfall, all bound for the shores of Cumbria.

Four Hundred Fifty-seven


In Exeter, Mysa tossed and turned long into the night, trying to recall a long-lost dream of her own. That dream was coming full circle, and Avalon was in danger. She had dreamt of standing on the Tor with Imra surveying all the isles of Avalon from that high point; their talks had been full of sorrow. Yet something had happened, and fire rained down on Avalon. But who had attacked?

“One last hope,” she whispered to herself. That had been in her dreams as well, an old legend reborn coming from within the Tor itself. But had that not been MacKell? Was he in Avalon? She should send word – but to who? What would be coherent enough to say? And who would even listen to her?

But by morning, she would be riddled with pain, unable to lift herself from her own bed. Where was Sir Accolon, her ‘wild huntsman?’ Why was he gone, now that she needed him more than ever?

Four Hundred Fifty-eight


“She’s coming! Lady Azura is coming!” Anryd whispered as loudly as she could to Zinthia and Elwinda, interrupting them from their chores. Thora had instructed them to prepare bonfires for special rituals tonight; teachers or no, there were magickal works to be done to address the alarming dreams of the prior night, Azura’s aide had decided.

The three Priestesses scurried through the fern-hedges, trying to find a good locale from which to spy upon Thora and the approaching party. Just as Anryd had described, Azura returned, along with Dindrane, Sir Dag, Beren and one of the Josephites whom they recognized not, a man of perhaps three decades with short, dark but slightly receding hair. The young Priestesses were too far away from the approaching group to hear their words, but clearly the Lady of the Lake was ordering the barge to be readied. One, mayhap all of them, were bound for outer Britain and the shores of the Glastonbury lake.

“Shall Dindrane be punished?” wondered Elwinda aloud, thinking of her argument with Thora earlier today. How could she would not, they wondered? Or else who would be the next Priestess to reply to instructions with a sharp tongue rather than obedience?

“The ‘Grail Maiden’ is above the rest of us,” Zinthia replied with no short measure of jealousy. “Or at least so she seems to think.” For the life of a young Priestess-in-training, any measure of freedom was precious, and as carrier of the Cauldron during the late days of the war and thereafter, Dindrane had had more than her peers had of late.

Zinthia’s spirits were still sore as she still pondered her own dreams: three nights ago, she dreamed of a prior life as a mother grievously wronged by Roman invaders when first they came to Britain, a mother who sold her children to a faerie court so they would not meet her fate. Even more alarming, last night she dreamt of those same children, still dwelling in the fae realms, taking their revenge upon Britain on some day yet to come.

Thora arrived and greeted Azura’s group, looking predictably quite miffed to not be apprised of the situation. From the gesturing, she apparently was ready to call out Dindrane in front of the Lady for her behaviour earlier that day – defying the senior Priestess, and in front of all of Avalon, no less. But Azura silenced her quickly, and Thora stormed off on her own, heading off in the direction of the Tor Isle for a bit, returning only when the barge was ready to depart. Thora never seemed as enfeebled in the maiden Priestesses’ eyes as she did now; would she even continue in her own duties after today?

Anryd smirked at seeing Thora so rebuked. The cruel woman would no doubt return to inflict her ills upon the maidens soon enough, but for now she could savour even a small hint of justice. Anryd was keen also to think not upon her dreams, of life when life in Britain was among people who grunted, not spoke properly, as they hunted great tusked beasts across fields of short grasses and lakes ice-covered even in summer. Her more recent dream had been of a future in which several years from now Sir Gawaine – Jonah – a knight she had known since childhood, slew her whilst under a faerie’s spell.

The barge soon departed, but with the rowers taking only Sir Dag through the misty waterway toward Glastonbury. Azura gestured for Thora to go to the Lady’s personal hut, prompting Anryd to joke that the Lady trusted her aide not even enough to transport the knight to the far lakeshore. The trio soon surmised that their hiding-spot would grow tenuous, and they resumed their duties before the quarries of their gossips made their way past them toward the Lady’s hut.

Elwinda worked in silence, thinking of her dream three nights agone of her life as another sort of priestess, a seer on a dry, rocky isle in a faraway land where the seas were warm and bright blue. She focused on this dream alone; the more recent dream was too vivid, and too prophetically true – she would vanish into the faerie realms as a captive before the frosts would place their kiss upon the fields of outer Britain.

Four Hundred Fifty-nine


Raghnall packed a simple bag, for he was a simple man. He had come to the Josephites from Caerleon, King Zendak’s South Cymry capital, and had not left the Brethren Isle of Avalon ever since he had arrived nigh on a decade ago. He had been a friend and comrade of Zendak’s own lost son, and fell into great despair ere coming to Avalon. Among the Josephites he had found the peace to let go of the traumas he had endured ten years agone, a horrid sequence of events that had cost Britain four of the greatest heroes in centuries, heroes now all but forgotten since the arrival of young King Rokk and his companions.

No knight nor hero nor warrior of any sort was Raghnall, and never had he even fancied himself to be one. No, he had been a weakling, a coward, content to flee to the background and let others fight his battles for him. And when Joshua asked him to join Beren’s group on a quest to regain the Grail, his first instinct had been to refuse.

But he did not, and that surprised him.

Was it Joshua’s words, a sense of obligation, concern over his leader’s near-frenzy of late? In part, perhaps. But it was his dreams, first and foremost.

Two nights ago, he had dreamt of a young maiden with whom he had dallied, in the sheep-fields north of Caerleon. She was a comely lass, a shepherd’s daughter, and he had helped her find three errant ewes so that her parents would not punish her. They had found all three, but then took shelter under a mighty oak during a summer downpour. Something else else about this maiden Dindrane reminded Raghnall of that maiden from all those years ago.

And last night... last night, Raghnall dreamed that he was in danger – if he remained in Avalon. He had been in a near panick at times, but dared not tell any of his Brethren of either of his dreams. Union of the flesh, faerie attacks; these were not welcome ideas among the Josephite order.

Maybe the dreams were nothing. Maybe they were something. But time away from Avalon was essential, even if only for peace of mind, peace that had until recently been the norm not the exception here in Avalon. But first the Grail was stolen by some female intruder from the Brethren isle itself. Brother Pelles was gone. A strange causeway had suddenly linked the Forbidden Isle with the rest of Avalon. And now the dreams. It was all too much! So recently, leaving Avalon would be too overwhelming, but now staying would be even more so. He had cause to leave, and could tell himself he was overcoming his cowardice, whilst he was in fact giving into it.

And meeting the maiden Dindrane, who with his earlier dream had awoken something within himself long denied, that was a factor too, truths be told. Why, he could bask in her youth, her beauty – something else his fellow Brethren frowned upon.

“You do not have to leave until morning,” Joshua assured him. “It will take more than a full day for Sir Dag to reach the closest village to our well, our gateway in the outer world.” Anyone from outer Britain who came to Avalon, whether they stayed an hour or a decade, still had to leave by the same entryway by which they arrived, of face horrific consequences. And given the dreams and magicks of late, no-one would dare tempt that fate at present. At Glastonbury, Dag had the longest journey ahead of him, and he had to find a mount for Raghnall as well before they reunited in southeastern Cymru. Then the two could meet Beren and Dindrane at Deva, as the latter two had to use the Druid Grove in North Cymru.

“Nay, I shall leave to-day,” Raghnall replied. “Although I must await Sir Dag’s arrival, I can use my time to better mask my passage from the tunnel to the village,” he said, reminding Joshua that the Grail-thief had most likely used their own tunnel to gain access to Avalon. “Tis best that all four of us skip this coming night’s dreamings. I shall be glad to not have any more evil dreams this eve.”

Earlier, he, Beren and sweet young Dindrane had seen Sir Dag depart from the Priestess Isle, and he looked forward to seeing her again at Deva and on their journey north from there. Whilst his mission was to aid in the recovery of the Grail as the maiden had dreamt, it was only third on Raghnall’s list of priorities after two more worldly concerns: sexuality and basic survival, and since his dreams had come the Brethren Isle seemed not conducive to either.

Four Hundred Sixty


“You should not go,” MacCullough advised her.

“But I must,” Dindrane smiled, trying to hide her fears from others – and from herself. Since her union with Ryol, she was now more conscious of how all men looked at her, something she was amazingly blissfully unaware of mere days ago. She held no ill will towards the senior Druid, one of Beren’s own adjutants, but neither was she particularly close to him.

“We do not know this Ryol. He may be misleading us,” he replied.

“Aye, maybe. But Beren trusts him. And so do I.” She half-turned away from him to make it clear she wished to change the subject. She was ready to depart, and now it was only a matter of waiting for the old hierophant whom would accompany her.

“You gave yourself to him, didn’t you?” His question elicited no reply, but she was glad she had not been facing him any longer. “Tis not beyond reason. He is young and charming. In his own fashion, he is almost like Beren himself might have been, if he were but a young man.”

Dindrane resented the implication; Beren was naught but a grandfatherly figure to her. “I am glad there is so little to do amongst the Druids that all the gossips and speculations may be bantered,” she retorted. She was not going to get as confrontational as she had with Thora, but in the past few days it seemed none of her emotions were worth stifling any longer.

“How quickly the maiden finds her sharp tongue,” MacCullough laughed. “But maiden no longer. You are a woman now.” He turned to leave and came face to face with Beren.

“What ails thee, MacCullough, that you must prod at the young woman when you would rather slap the old man? Yes, the anger has been building within you, I sense that. I have sensed it for some time now. So what ails thee? Can you speak of it, or has it already poisoned your tongue and heart too much to give voice to?”

“What ails me? We are Druids! We are the living guardians of this isle’s songs, laws, traditions and wisdom! Yet every generation, every year, every day we defer more and more, to the Priestesses, to the Teachers, and yes, e’en to the Christians! Our forbears stood against the Romans, but now we side with them! We ally with those who would wipe away our ways, who would stab us in the backs, and now, when all is in crisis, we go chasing one little relic to make King Rokk still like us enough to hold us in second place to the Christians!” MacCullough said more than he had wanted or intended, but stopped himself from uttering treason for the young king whom he trusted not.

“We are as we are. We serve as we can. And if we see all others as enemies, are we still of the heritage you describe? My time will be over soon enough; my years are too many as it is.” Beren replied with a weary sigh. “Choose with care the direction you would take us,” he placed a kind hand on the man’s shoulder. “Sometimes in trying to prevent great loss, we invite it.”

MacCullough nodded. “Mayhap my own dreams haunt me more than they should. But yes, I fear. I fear for the Druids, for Avalon, and for all of Britain. I... I shall take your advice and pray on this.”

As the other departed, Beren warmly took Dindrane’s hand and they walked towards the grove path that leads to the outer world, to the Druid Grove in North Cymru.

Dindrane looked around. “I almost fear I shall never see this place again.”

“The Druid isle? Or Avalon itself?”

“Avalon.” She slightly felt foolish for giving the thought words.

“You are young. All things are possible, gods willing.” Beren patted the young woman’s hand. But with what little Sight he still retained himself, he knew her words were true – for the both of them. MacCullough, Taidg, Llanfair, whoever leads the Druids next, gods let you be wise in looking over our charges.

Four Hundred Sixty-one


Sunrise on Avalon brought a new wave of panic; those who had not dreamt of faeries on the third night had dreamt of plagues on the fourth. Some of the few younger people who dreamed on this eve rather than the prior night dreamt of a devastating plague that would strike all of Britain many decades from now. Others dreamt of lesser plagues during wartime, blights afflicting crops on the eve of some other war, or smaller/localized plagues afflicting cities, towns and villages from whence the particular dreamers came. Sirs Stig and Peter dreamt of their missing friend, the lepress Drusilla – danger to her if she remained in her self-imposed exile, or danger to Britain if she returned. But those with ties to Eiru dreamt of MacKell and Laoraighll returning to outer Britain where the plague that exiled them resumed, and afflicted their minds as harshly as it had ailed Laoraighll previously.

It was that last dream that particularly alarmed the newcomers, when told of the dreams by Asteri. Queen Imra had hoped that the fading of the dog plague in Britain meant that the duo of Ulster warriors could return soon, to aid the war effort.

“E’en if they return from the Forbidden isle, I dare say that they should not leave Avalon,” Asteri advised, “and this I would have said had last night’s dreams not come to us.”

“Seven nights of dreams,” Imra was still amazed. “And then the Eighth Door...”

“What is this ‘Eighth Door?’” Luornu asked.

Asteri answered, “As you know, Avalon has seven isles, and seven different gateways to outer Britain. In Avalon, they are close together, but are spread far afield in outer Britain. But legend tells us there used to be more isles, some say nine, but possibly as many as thirteen.” Saihlough nodded at the mention of thirteen. Given the number of alarmed faces at the presence of a faerie in Avalon after the recent dreams, she had made herself visible only to her friends and to the elders.

Asteri continued. “Just as Avalon at the present time resembles the hills around Glastonbury, those lost isles undoubtedly were akin to Ys and Hybrasil, lands since lost to the seas, and so too were their Avalonian aspects lost to the waters here. Those lost isles would also have had their own gateways to Avalon. Mayhap one of those gates still stands, unbeknownst to us, and hopefully unknown to any other.”

“Aven once warned me about the Eight Door,” Imra said. “Something else else about a child of Llyr meeting a child of Brigid along a path of stones across the waters of Avalon, but a villain gaining entry thereafter.”

Ryol frowned. “I have foreseen no such villain, but tis worth pondering.”

“Well, as a granddaughter of Pellam, you are a descendant of Llyr,” Asteri said. “And since MacKell vanished, there has been a causeway of stones ‘tween the Priestess Isle and the Forbidden Isle. Mayhap the Eighth Door leads to Eiru.”

“If so, that might be the route by which MacKell was brought to Avalon, all those centuries ago,” Imra added. “Would the reopening of this door affect his ability to come and go by other gateways?”

“Unlikely. He had been in Avalon so long during his captivity in the Crystal Cave that, I believe, he would be like those children born here, who can only return to Avalon by the same gate they leave,” Asteri replied.

“The reverse of the conditions the rest of us face,” Uland added.

“What of the villain this Aven warned of?” Stig asked. “Who would dare come to Avalon?”

“There is a... Dark Circle of renegade Druids,” Querl reminded him. “Mayhap tis them.”

“There is also an old crone who claims to be the lady Mysa,” Luornu said. Stig and Peter looked uncomfortable at the mention; Imra did not need her own magickal gifts to deduce that they had met her and had placed at least some trust in her. Is it possible tis truly her? Imra wondered. Verily I should be glad the fates have so cursed her, she mused. But she was not; he actually pitied her one-time friend and more recent nemesis. And she missed her counsel and companionship; Mysa understood the pressures on Imra like no other had.

“If the Eighth Door leads to Eiru as suggested, could there be a Irish foe? Some ally of Saraid, or Saraid herself returned from the dead?” Uland wondered.

“The Isle of Manannán is not far from Eiru, and its late queen Glorith claimed to be Maeve, the Irish sorceress-queen of Lar Chulain’s era. Well, his first era, ere he ever called himself MacKell,” Taliesin said. “If we are discussing dead foes who may not be dead, we must remember her, too.”

“Torachi would no doubt love to acquire the secrets of Avalon,” Imra mused. “If he lives yet.”

“Oh, but how could we miss the most seemly?” exclaimed Jecka. “We are but on the eve of war with Clovis and the Franks. If they know of Avalon, then they would wish to do Avalon harm, so it may not help the British war effort!”

“In any matter, we can be ready, and give you a charm to close the door, one we know where it is,” Asteri said. “As such, Avalon can control who uses the door, and we can stop the villain ere she or he even enters.”

“Paused in the gateway between worlds,” Uland reflected on the concept; it triggered a memory of his first time along the Path of Isis, something that could be important. But what was it?

Four Hundred Sixty-two


In the outer world, just north of Londinium at Sir Derek’s villa, servants awoke to find one of their guests, Sir Brandius, sprawled out on the floor, unable to move or speak.

Thinking him drunk, they moved him to bed, unmindful of the panick in his heart or the mouth that so desperately tried to mouth words of warning but had failed.

The other guest was gone, along with his belongings and the pony he had rode in on.

Four Hundred Sixty-three


The fifth night brought dreams of abundance and of generosity rewarded to all who had ever aided another person without expectation of the same – and for all those who had ever received such from strangers. Most of Avalon so slept and dreamt, and the next morn even the Josephites seemed more relaxed. Ryol said these were the next progression of the dreams, but the Brethren claimed that their prayers had shifted the very nature of the dreams. The visiting nobles who had considered leaving Avalon altogether but had not now felt justified in remaining for the duration, and the frayed feelings between and within the four orders of Avalonian clergy seemed smoothed – for the moment, at least. The need for daily meetings of elders had passed. No one pressed for a gathering this day, and all four orders were content to let the mood of the day pass unquestioned.

Uland awoke almost giddy, and with the permission of Imra and Asteri ventured off alone to meditate on the Isle of Heath. He would interrupt this practice mid-day to seek out and confer with Azura, Joshua, MacCullough and Asteri, telling the latter he was on the verge of a revelation himself.

Upon his return, he was surprised to run into Thora, who unbeknownst to him had taken to wandering the heath when angered or frustrated by Azura.

Azura had taken the morning to call all Priestesses together and try to restore both a tighter sense of order and discipline among her ranks but also to offer words of encouragement to the young ladies she hoped would one day be as influential as the Priestesses had been in centuries agone. Perhaps in reaction to both MacCullough’s fear and anger and to Jan’s air of solace, Azura tempered her words toward conciliation towards Christians of Jan and Marla’s ilk, that Britain’s Christians would be more in harmony with the spirit of the isle than that of Vidar and Rome.

Her message did not go unnoticed by Imra and Jan, who caught part of her oration before they themselves walked onward to the Isle of Heath to resume talks about Jan’s proposed fifth order of Avalon – Christians of the Celtic church, an order more reflective of contemporary and local interpretation of Christianity than the Josephites, whose isolation and origins were more those of Palestine of centuries ago.

Thora, of course, was pleased by none of this, but held her tongue. She brushed off Uland’s greeting, and gave the younger man the sensation that Thora seemed to be waiting for something. He hoped it was some sort of peace or wisdom, and wished her well; perhaps the revelation at the end of the dreamings would be to her liking. She hoped so too, but envisioned a different outcome than he did; neither would be pleased by the looming actuality.

Thora actively avoided not only Uland but especially Imra and Jan, and upon realizing her refuge was today not hers alone she retreated to the Tor Isle. Better to run across a foolishe Teacher there than a mind-witch like the queen here, she surmised.

“She carries a great burden upon her heart,” Jan said, watching her depart.

“Aye, she does. Aven told me much about her, more than she would like. I dare say Azura chose poorly in her choice of aides,” Imra said, shifting young Amhar in her arms as they walked. True, she could have Luornu care for the boy, as had been the norm of late in Londinium, but if she could not be Imra the mother not Imra the queen for a day in Avalon, where and when could she?

She continued. “There were many senior Priestesses who ranked higher than her, in skill and experience, but none were here when they were needed.”

“Who were they? What became of them?”

“Myself, Jecka, and Mysa, you know of us all. But there were also Sinead, who left without warning just as I arrived on the Priestess Isle after leaving the Teachers’ Isle; Lianna, a favourite of Lady Kiwa’s, who was summoned away to the Forbidden Isle; Iera, a Priestess from long ago who returned after Kiwa’s death and helped Azura in her early months as Lady; and two sisters whose names I recall not, who feuded with Azura not long after Rokk’s coronation. It seems that not long after Kiwa’s death we lost so many senior Priestesses.”

“Some say Azura has not been up to her tasks,” Jan noted.

“Aye, she is no Kiwa. But who cold possibly be? Yes, she spun her webs and manipulated all of us, none less than myself or Mysa, but none could doubt her effectiveness.”

“You think of her often?” Jan inquired. “Mysa, I mean.”

“More so of late, more than I had expected. I... blamed her, rebuked her for ensnaring Garth with Jancel, whom I later learned was my own estranged sister! Yet Mysa was groomed by Kiwa to intervene in the lives of others... and I must confess,” she paused, searching for the words, “Mysa was... a-right... to keep Garth and myself apart. E-Else at the first argument, the first cross-roads, he and I would have been into each other’s arms.” And when I learnt of Rokk’s Pictish bastard, she thought but said not.

“So it is between men and women. Rokk has a son in the north, or so it is said. Queen Morgause of Lothian has taken James and mayhap others as lovers,” Jan reminded her.

“Aye. But the high queen and the king’s best knight? There is too much avenue for gossips. As fifth son of Lothian’s queen, Medrod’s sire is of less importance than his eldest brother Sir Jonah’s. The sire of the eldest son of a queen matters – to Celt and Roman alike, even if for somewhat different reasons.”

The duo had wandered to the Cauldron-thief’s camp, and stopped to observe.

“Who was she?” Imra wondered aloud, knowing Jan had not any answer no-one else had already offered.

“A test, perhaps. Did we become too reliant upon the Chalice? Upon Avalon’s secrecy? Both became so well-known of late, tis a wonder no army has landed yet, whether Frankish or a British would-be usurper.”

Imra shuddered at Aven’s warning. Could Avalon be invaded? By who? Meleagant? Clovis? Coirpre? The Angles? Khunds?

“Dyrk... Apollo, as he now calls himself, warns that Rokk must be closer to Avalon, that olde ties must be renewed and strengthened. Avalon counted on me to be that link,” the queen said with more than a hint of regret. She looked toward the Josephite Isle, just as unbeknownst to her Sussiah had done many a time, and watched the brethren go about their chores.

Jan suddenly put his hand on her shoulder as he tensed up and caught his breath. Imra turned to face the direction he was looking – it was towards the Forbidden Isle. While it was definitely too far to properly discern with human eyes any figures on that far shore, both of them sensed there was a woman on that isle, holding an infant of a similar size as Amhar, looking back at them.

Imra was struck with a moment of fear, yet also recalled part of her dream the night before. “We shall meet soon, she and I.”

“Is she the ‘child of Brigid’ Aven spoke of?”

“Mayhap. Mayhap not. But meet we shall, no matter.”

Four Hundred Sixty-four


“You look as if you have something to say?” Asteri was Uland’s teacher, now that the young man was working with the Teachers, and was getting to know the younger’s mind quite well. He came to visit his pupil as he completed his meditations atop the Heath Isle.

“I... I have been thinking of the gateways. I myself have entered Avalon at different ties by two routes, via the Path of Isis from Londinium to the Teachers’ Isle and tacross the Glastonbury lake to the Priestess Isle. Many on Avalon have taken three or even more routes. Yet I was struck of late on certain... experiences I have had – and until now forgotten – with these gates.”

“What sort of experiences?”

“Colours, not unlike those you have taught me to work with. When I first came to the Priestess Isle across the misty lake, I saw, as many do, the sea of gray mists that surround the boat, of course... but I also felt surrounded by a sea of bright blue that I could not see but knew was there. Similarly, although I have not walked the Path of Isis tween the Teachers’ Isle and Londinium with open eyes, of course, I had a similar sense of deep, dark red, darker than spilt, dried blood.”

“You have been working with colours,” Asteri nodded.

“But I am recalling sensations I had before I began such! My dreams reminded me of these, and more. And so today I visited the Druid path, not to fully enter, but enough to test my senses. Do you know what I sensed?”

“Green,” Asteri said. “Your senses are keen, my student, but you are not the first to note these: Purple for the Josephite tunnel, gold for the Forbidden Isle, and it is said the sealed gateways from Heath and the Tor isles were bright red and silver.”

Uland nodded, slightly disappointed he was not the first – on all aspects, at least. “There is more. As I dared not enter the Druid path, but merely observe from the entry, the young Druid called Morrisei ventured along the path at my request. He has been mildly afflicted by a cough and flowing nose, and as he entered I could perceive the ailment as a grey cloud around his lower face and his neck! I asked McCullough, who is healthy, to enter as well; no such cloud appeared around him.”

“So you can tell who has ailments as they enter or leave Avalon?”

“So it seems. But more, I was thinking about the works and magicks on colour we have already discussed, you and I. If ailments are connected to colour, what if we can change the colours of those ailments?

Asteri laughed. “You are welcome to try. And I shall help. But I think the Cauldron of the Gods shall not be so readily replaced, my eager friend.”

Four Hundred Sixty-five


In a handful of communities in outer Britain, in Glastonbury, in Londinium, at Camelodunum, in the villages just south of Segontium, and a few scantily populated locales, one person from every several dozen also had dreams of abundance and generosity, not unlike those most had dreamt of in Avalon. Only two men knew them to be anything other than normal dreams, and one, Iason of the Blood, was glad that the matters at hand were almost over.

The following night, far many more, perhaps hundreds of people had also experienced blissful dreams, along a wide arc from Camelodunum to Londinium to Salisbury to Glastonbury to the southeastern Cymry border to north Cymru to the shores of the outer Caledonian isles. Most took it as a good omen for the Frankish war.

They would soon enough lament their error.

Four Hundred Sixty-six


The sixth night brought dreams of joy; most of Avalon was overcome with such euphoria that little got done that day. And when Uland proposed to the elders and to the queen that they should go to the Forbidden Isle to seek out MacKell and Laoraighll so that they could return to court – and that he, Asteri and Jan could heal them and make them safe from the dog plague, even Querl offered not a single skeptical word of caution or resistance.

As Querl planned, Uland and Taliesin would lead Stig, Peter and Anryd to find Laoraighll, while Saihlough, Luornu, Jecka, MacCullough and Jan would seek out MacKell. Imra would wait with Azura, Ryol and Asteri on the causeway in hopes of finding the place where the Eighth Door would open. It would be unwise for the queen to enter the Forbidden Isle so close to the prophesy’s conclusion, as the Forbidden Isle had its own sense of time and unfathomable priorities, and it might not be so willing to let the queen return at the proper time. Querl would remain in a pavilion at the Priestess Isle end of the causeway, as he was still too weak for adventure, and Jan would stay with him.

All four orders cast their auguries and/or prayed for omens, but after the prior night’s dreams which everyone except Thora seemed to share, to no-one’s surprise those signs came up positive.

Whatever expectations any of them had for the Forbidden Isle, a land said to be full of gods and creatures and dragons and giants, there was a palpable sense of disappointment and underwhelming as feet crossed from rocky causeway to mossy soil. It seemed like just another northern isle, with chalky cliff, sea waters crashing upon rocks, sheep grazing in fields, and distant cottages, a castle or two, and woodlands. If there was any surprise, it was its vast size. More than a small Avalonian isle it seemed more like–

“Eiru.” MacCullough announced. “We are in Eiru. Ulster, specifically.” Taliesin nodded in agreement.

“Eiru is the Forbidden Isle?” Stig was confused.

“No, sillies,” Saihlough giggled. “The Forbidden Isle is making itself look like Eiru for us. Well, not just for us. For them.”

“For Laoraighll and MacKell,” Jecka said, speaking at barely more than a whisper. “For Jonah and Marla, this isle was Hybrasil. For the Hunter, it was Asgard. For Garth, it was various locales in Britain and Armorica. For the Ulster warriors– ”

“– it is home,” MacCullough concluded. “So my group, we shall most likely find our quarry at,” he paused and scanned the horizon, “Emain Macha!” He pointed towards a distant castle.

“And Laoraighll?” asked Peter.

Anryd replied, “During her recovery she spoke of growing up in a vale, a small hamlet in the midlands of these parts, where a small school of Druid-sages take on pupils.” She also scanned, but came up with a less certain answer than the senior Druid. “I believe we should head there,” she said pointing to a prospect that seemed akin to Laoraighll’s tales.

The two groups split up and set out.

As they walked, Uland had the growing sensation of the colour gold, but not from any single place or gateway. The sun had moved a noticeable distance in the sky before he could place the sensation: they were following someone who had come to the Forbidden Isle not from the causeway but from the outer world! But who? And how strong was his new-found gifts; would they work in the outer world, too, or were they jut stronger here on this isle?