Even from the avenue, Kerridwen could see the glow of the great bonfires atop the mound, and the fiery arcs the torches traced against the dark sky. The drums pulsed with a heavy insistence, their beat deepened to thunder as the lads of the countryside competed to toss their torches highest.

Kings and armies might come and go, but the real struggle—sometimes it seemed to Kerridwen the only struggle that mattered—was the one that men waged each year to protect their fields and nurture their crops.

In the distance she heard the lowing of the cattle that had already been driven between the sacred fires and so blessed. She smelled woodsmoke and cooked meat and the sharp fragrance of the mugwort and hypericum from her garland.

"O look," said Achtan, beside her. "See how high they throw the torches? Like shooting stars!"

Keva answered her. "May the crops grow as high as the torches rise!"

They'd brought a bench for Kerridwen to sit on until it was time for the rite of the Oracle. She huddled there gratefully, letting the murmured conversation of the other women eddy around her.

There was a last crescendo from the hill, and then the fires appeared to explode outwards as lads snatched brands from the bonfires and raced down the hill in every direction to bear the sun-power to the fields. The drumming settled to a hypnotic heartbeat. Kerridwen felt the familiar flutter of approaching trance.

It will be soon now, she thought, and then, whatever comes of this night's work, it will be done. For the first time in years she had mixed the most powerful trance herbs into the potion, afraid that without their help her own fears might keep the Goddess at bay.

She knew the Mór-Dára was anxious as well, though his face did not show it. He was like a carven image, a shell in which the spirit flickered ever more fitfully. She had seen how much he needed the support of his oaken staff. One day, perhaps soon, he would be gone. There had been times when she hated him, but in the past years they had come to an unspoken understanding. And there was no telling who his successor would be.

But that was a fear she could face once this night was past. The procession was beginning to move now. Kerridwen allowed Keva to assist her to her feet and start up the hill.

The drymyn were chanting; their song pulsed through the warm air.

Behold, the holy priestess comes,

Sacred herbs are in her crown;

The golden crescent in her hand...

There was a moment of surprise when Kerridwen felt the first wave of expectation from the assembled crowd. Then she had a sense of nausea, and a sickening lurch in consciousness as the potion took hold. She fought back a flicker of panic as the world whirled around her. She'd sought after this—whether out of faith or cowardice she was not sure, but this time she wanted the world to go away.

Lady of Life, to You I entrust my spirit. Mother, be merciful to all your children!

Years of practice had given her full control over the techniques of focus and breathing that loosed the spirit from the body. The herbs in the potion aided the process. Her head felt shattered like a broken bowl, and that certain Otherness flooded into her, tossed her consciousness aside like a leaf on a stream.

Her grandmother, the Bándrumór Corchen, appeared before her, undecidable, uncertain. She heard the muttered prayer, watched with limpid curiousity as Grandmother sketched the sign of blessing in the air, where it seemed to burn whitely for a moment, the sharp blue-white fire of the thunderbolt. Kerridwen felt the ban-drymyn priestesses assist her into the chair, and the unsettling sensation of falling even though she knew they lifted her. Her spirit swung between Abred and Ceugant; there was a slight jerk as they set the chair atop the mound. Then she was free.

She floated as if through golden mist. For a time it was enough simply to enjoy the sense of being safe, protected, at home. Suspended in that certainty, the fears she'd left behind her seemed transitory, even absurd. But her body would not entirely release her. Presently, even reluctantly, the mist thinned enough so that she could see, and hear.

She looked down upon the huddle of blue robes in the tall chair and knew it for her own body, dimly illuminated by the embers of the great bonfires to either side. The drymyn and ban-drymyn made a circle with the people behind them, pale robes on one side and dark on the other in two great curves of light and shadow. The great mass of folk who had come for the festival darkened the hillside; points of fire winked from the booths and tents of the encampment that had sprung up around it. Beyond stretched the patchwork of trees. Without curiousity, she noted a swirl of motion in one part of the crowd, and farther off a more regular movement along the trail from the foothills, and the gleam as metal caught the light of the setting moon.

The drymyn priests invoked the Goddess, twining all the incoherent imaginings of the people into a single, mighty image which was at the same time as various as there were people to echo their call. Kerridwen saw the power they raised as a swirl of multi-colored lights and threads. She pitied the fragile form into which it was descending. Now her body was almost hidden. The magick took shape—a female figure, heroic in stature and splendid in form, though the features could not yet be seen.

Kerridwen drew closer, wondered what face the Lady would wear for this gathering.

A whirl of dark-winged shadows fluttered across the circle as a sudden chill wind stirred the fires. The figure in the chair seemed to expand suddenly, then sat bolt upright and threw aside the veil.

"I hear your summoning and I come," she said in the language of the tribes.

The murmur of fright that swept the circle faded to absolute silence. The chair creaked as the figure who sat there leaned forward. In the firelight, Her face and Her hair were as red as a bloody sword. She smiled terribly, and Cétshamain though it was, the wind was suddenly icy, as if the darkness of the Great Queen had killed the sun. The people began to edge backward.

Here ends The Romance of Eowain, third tale in the Matter of Manred.

—33—

Thank you so much for reading The Romance of Eowain. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it and bringing it to you. You can support my work by picking up the whole book now from Amazon for print and Kindle: getBook.at/Romance-of-Eowain.

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Previous Works in the Matter of Manred Saga

Hedge King in Winter

The Epistles of Eithne & Eowain (Wattpad Exclusive)

A Merchant's Tale

Other Forthcoming Works in the Matter of Manred Saga

Heron's Cry

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