Free Ravens of Avalon by Diana L. Paxson, Marion Zimmer Bradley

haven of the isle. He was tall, and thin almost to the point of emaciation, with a streak of white through his black hair. He was also a much better harper than Ardanos, who had been the chief of their bards until now. But even when he smiled one could see sorrow in his eyes.
    As he finished tuning, there was a stir at the door. The Arch-Druid was entering. In honor of the festival, over his white robe he wore a thick fringed mantle woven of seven colors. After him came the senior Druids, followed by Ardanos and Cunitor and the other younger priests. Where, she wondered as they took their places at the head of the fire pit, were the priestesses?
    At a nod from Lugovalos, Brangenos rose, the harp cradled in the crook of his arm, and began to sing:
    “The people cheered for the leader of war-bands The king of the marching men called the tribes to war
    Now all the shouting is silent and the wind plays a harp of bone.”
    The harp gave forth a shimmer of sound as the Druid drew his fingers across the strings. He comes from the land of Vercingetorix, remembered Boudica. At least the only Gaul who bested Caesar in battle is remembered there.
    Everywhere in the Celtic lands they knew the story of how Vercingetorix had united the Gaulish tribes, using the hillforts and the hills themselves as bases from which to attack Caesar’s legions. But in the end the Roman imperator penned him up in Alesia and starved him out.
    “The high king came to the lord of the eagles Laid down his arms to save his warriors Nameless is his grave, and the wind plays a harp of bone.”
    Once more sound sighed from the strings. Then the harp was still. The Gaulish king had been dragged through the streets of Rome in Caesar’s triumph and imprisoned for years in a hole in the ground before the Romans killed him. This was certainly no very cheerful music for the solstice. Why was it always the defeated who got the best songs?
    While the bard was playing, Mearan had appeared. For a moment Boudica was disappointed to have missed her entrance, for the High Priestess usually took her meals in her own house, and her appearance at the high festivals was attended by some ceremony. But even the ruddy firelight could not disguise the fact that she was pale. Perhaps she had taken advantage of the distraction to keep them from noticing that she had to be assisted into her chair.
    Helve, on the other hand, was blooming. The priestess had always been pleasant to Boudica, but that was more because she knew that Boudica was highborn than from any personal feeling. The girl had seen that look on sons of kings who were eager to inherit their fathers’ honors. And she had seen them afterward, sometimes, when the choice of the chieftains fell upon another man of the royal kin. She did not think that Helve would deal well with disappointment, but she wondered how the rest of them were going to deal with Helve if her expectations were fulfilled.
    The hides that covered the doorway were drawn aside once more and the marvelous scent of roast boar filled the hall. Crowned with ivy in honor of the season, old Elin led the procession. There were bowls of porridge with dried fruit, platters of root vegetables, and baskets of sausages and cheese. Two of the older boys bore between them a plank from which chunks of pork sent white curls of steam into the air. Mouths watered as the Arch-Druid lifted his hands and began to intone a blessing over the food.
    oudica drained her wooden ale cup and sat back with a sigh. “That was good. This is the first time in days I have felt warm inside and out.”
    “Your cheeks are flushed from the ale,” observed Coventa. “Or is it because Rianor is staring at you?”
    “He is not—” Boudica looked up and saw that the boy had taken her glance as an invitation and was coming toward them with two of his friends.
    “I think he likes you …” Coventa grinned, and squealed as Boudica pinched her.
    Rianor was no longer a boy, she realized