Heart of the Hill by Andrea Spalding Page A

and red waters from this precious bowl.” Arto held the cup in the air to display its fine workmanship and beaded pattern. “We all watched as the Lady cast the cup into the lake. Utha found it by accident and should have left it in its resting place. It belongs to no one but the Lady.”
    â€œAnd was sacrificed by her to symbolize the final sealing of the Crystal Cave and the casting away of its magic,” came a quavering voice. An old woman, bowed of leg, scarred of face and swathed in woolen blankets, hobbled from the nearest hut.
    The girl and Arto bowed in deference.
    â€œArto is right,” continued the crone. “The cup must be returned. Memory of Avalon must not be desecrated.”
    The young woman jutted her chin. “Then cast the cup back into the lake, Arto. Go not to Avalon.”
    â€œI must. The Lady calls in my dreams,” said Arto.
    â€œShe bids me take the cup to the Crystal Cave. I do not understand why she needs me there, but I must obey.”
    The young woman spread her hands. “The earthly way into the cave is sealed. There remains only one way—through the Portal. That is a way full of dangerous magic. Do not go, Arto. You might never return.”
    â€œEarth Magic will protect Arto. He is a faithful follower of the Lady. The Portal will not hurt him,” insisted the old woman.
    â€œBut I will,” roared a voice. A bronze dagger skimmed through the air and buried itself in the wattle wall of the hut, a hair’s breadth from Arto’s ear. “How dare you steal from a clansman.”
    A skin-clad warrior, his face patterned with blue woad, leaped from the reeds on the far side of the encampment. He brandished a second dagger.
    The young woman screamed and rushed inside the hut.
    â€œI do not steal. I am returning the sacred cup you stole from its resting place in the lake.” Arto spun on his heels to face Utha, but stumbled on a root rearing through the mud.
    He fell to his knees, and the bronze cup was jolted from his grasp. It sailed through the air and into Holly’s thicket. Without thought, Holly put out her hands and caught it.
    Utha gave a cry of rage and fell upon Arto, who dropped his spear as little use in such close combat. Arto rolled to one side and freed the dagger from his belt.
    They fought ferociously, rolling over and over the mud bank, snarling like wild dogs and leaving dark smears of blood in their wake.
    Holly watched in horror as the maddened pair rolled closer and closer to her hiding place. Then Utha’s enraged face was right before her. His bloodstained knife slashed viciously though the air as he pressed Arto against the bush in which she hid. Arto gave a convulsive jerk and jackknifed to one side, but Utha’s thrust continued.
    Pain bit into Holly’s arm. She sprang back, forcing her body blindly through the thicket, ignoring sharp thorns and the wicked whipping of twigs against her cheeks and limbs. Then there were no more bushes, just the kinder concealment of the reeds. Holly stumbled gratefully among them but too late remembered the marsh. Her feet found no solid ground, and she tumbled dizzily into blackness.

    Grass blades tickled the back of her neck, and sunshine warmed her face. Holly opened her eyes and sighed with relief. She was lying in the middle of the lawn. She must have been asleep and dreaming. She sat up. Her clothes were muddy and her arm hurt. She looked down and all relief vanished. She was clutching a small bronze bowl in a hand caked with blood from a throbbing knife slash on her forearm.
    A wave of fear washed over Holly. “How the heck am I going to explain this?” she whispered, fighting nausea as she gripped her arm to stop the bleeding.
    She struggled to her feet, shut her eyes and swayed dizzily. This wasn’t right. She’d had a dream, hadn’t she?
    How come she was so muddy? How could she get hurt in a dream? How was it possible to bring something