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

those of the Du-rotriges and the Atrebates. He gestured and Boudica came forward to offer him the drinking bowl with the elegance she had learned in Cu-nobelin’s hall. He gave her an appreciative look, and she dodged a more-than-appreciative pat as she took the bowl back to fill it again.
    “If you join together,” answered the High Priestess, “I believe you can make them retreat, just as Caesar, despite his boasts of conquest, did a hundred years ago.” She looked tired. Boudica had heard that when the Druids had performed a second, private ritual, Mearan had seen even more bloodshed than Helve.
    “I will gladly clasp hands with all those who are here,” said Tancoric, “but what about those who are not? I notice that the Regni refused your invitation.”
    “There may be more than one reason for that,” said Mearan.
    “Perhaps they heard that the sons of Cunobelin were going to be here,” said Maglorios, and the others laughed. The Regni lands were bordered on the north by the territory ruled by Togodumnos and on the east by the Cantiaci country, where Caratac was now king.
    “And perhaps the Atrebates heard that you would be here!” retorted Togodumnos. “They are your neighbors, after all.”
    The Arch-Druid shook his head. “I did not invite them. King Veric has a treaty with the Romans. He sent his grandson Cogidumnus to be fostered by the emperor, and would not dare to turn against them even if he desired.”
    “The Isle of Vectis has a tempting harbor. The Romans could march straight up the middle of Britannia through the Atrebate lands. We will have to do something about Veric …” Caratac said slowly. He looked at his brother and Boudica shivered. Cunobelin’s sons had inherited his ambition to unite Britannia. The threat of Roman conquest might be what they needed in order to succeed.
    “And will the men of art fight with us?” came a new voice. The others turned as Prince Prasutagos leaned forward. He had not spoken often in this council, but when he did, men listened to his words.
    “Indeed,” said the Arch-Druid with a wintry smile. “The Romans will not give us the option of surrender. Our magic is perhaps not all that legend makes it, but we have some power over wind and weather, and the reading of omens. We shall send our most talented priests and priestesses to march with you when the time for battle comes.”
    The prince nodded, and Boudica came forward to offer him the drinking bowl. When he looked up to take it, there was sadness behind his smile. The servants said that the prince had recently lost his wife in childbirth. It was too bad. He had a good face, and she thought he would have made a kindly father to little ones.
    “Then I hope your seers can tell us when the invasion will come. It will be hard to gather an army, and even harder to keep it together,” said King Maglorios.
    Boudica carried the drinking bowl around the circle, and the discussion of warriors and supplies and strategies went on.
    uch as Lhiannon loved Lys Deru, at times its atmosphere of focused dedication could become constricting, especially now, when the presence of the royal strangers reminded them so forcibly that there was another world beyond the Druids’ Isle. She had been honored to accompany the kings to make their offerings at the Lake of Little Stones, although she was still not certain whether Mearan wanted her assistance as a priestess or as a chaperone for Boudica, who was striding along ahead of her.
    They had started that morning, passing through patches of woodland and shorn fields where crows seeking fallen grains amid the stubble flew up in raucous alarm. It had been a bounteous harvest indeed, and in coming seasons the grain that filled the storage pits might be needed to feed people whose fields were trampled by war.
    But Mona’s fields, though rich, did not cover the whole island. A few miles inland, the fertile ground on the eastern side gave way to a swath of marshland that ran