Free The Hallowed Isle Book Three by Diana L. Paxson Page B

helped me to better understand it. You are seven years old. What I will show you today will set you on the road to power.”
    Medraut began to walk faster, and she smiled.
    By the time they reached the spring, the sun was setting at the end of the gorge, and as it disappeared, the shadow of the cliff loomed dark across the grass. Sounds from the dun above them came to them faintly, as though from another world.
    Morgause dropped the bag and hunkered down beside it, motioning to Medraut to do the same.
    â€œThis is the hour that lies between day and night. Now, we are between times, between the worlds. It is a good time to speak with spirits, and those that dwell in the sacred springs and holy wells are among the most powerful.”
    He nodded, gazing into the dark pool with wondering eyes. What did he see? When Morgause was a child she had sometimes glimpsed the faerie-folk. These days, she was learning to do so again, with the aid of certain herbs and spells.
    Carefully, she showed him how to cleanse head and hands, and made him drink a little from the spring.
    â€œMake your prayer to the spirit that lives here . . .”
    Obediently he shut his eyes, lips moving silently. She would rather have heard what he was saying, but that did not matter now. Presently he looked up at her once more.
    In the distance Morgause could hear the lowing of cattle, but by the spring it was very still. But there was a weight to that silence, as if something was listening. She picked up the bag and smiled.
    â€œThe spirit of the spring is waiting. Now you must make your offering. Open the bag—”
    With nimble fingers, Medraut untied the strings and pulled at the opening, dropping it with a squawk as something white and feathered burst free. It was a cockerel, and it was not happy at having been confined in the bag. But its feet had been tied, so for all its flapping, it could not go far.
    â€œBlood is life,” said Morgause. “Wring the bird’s neck, and let its blood flow into the pool.”
    Medraut looked from the cockerel to his mother and shook his head, eyes dark with revulsion.
    â€œWhat, are you afraid of a little blood? When you are a warrior, you will have to kill men! Do it, Medraut—do it now!”
    The child shook his head again and started to edge away. Morgause fought to control her anger.
    â€œI teach you secrets that grown men would pay to learn. You will not deny me. See—” she gentled her voice, “it is easy—”
    With a swift pounce, she captured his hands and pressed them around the neck of the fowl. The boy fought to free himself, still shaking his head and weeping. Morgause could not afford pity. Tightening her grip, she twisted, ripped the cockerel’s head off and tossed it aside. Medraut cried out as blood spurted, but still she held his hands on the body of the bird, and did not know if the tremors that pulsed through their clasped fingers were those of the dying cockerel or of her son.

IV
LADY OF THE EASTERN GATE
    A.D. 495
    I N THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN, THE PRIESTESSES GATHERED IN THE largest of the roundhouses on the Isle of Maidens. Mist lay like a veil across the lake; glittered in golden haloes around the lamps. Silent and anxious, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes, they filed in and took their places around the hearth.
    Igierne was waiting for them. From sunset of the night before, when her spirit, open in the evening meditation, had received Merlin’s message to this moment, she had not been able to sleep at all. Since the beginning of this last and greatest Saxon rebellion, the priestesses had met three times daily to support with the strength of their spirits the Britons’ campaign.
    But this was the last battle, the final confrontation with the ancient enemy. Through Merlin’s eyes she had seen the hill called Mons Badonicus where Artor’s army stood at bay, the scattering of campfires on its summit surrounded by a