She smiled when she could finally trace the outlines of the great labyrinth of the Tor, an earthwork so ancient, no one in Covianna's line could remember the building of it, only that it had been, from time immemorial, the only way into and out of the Tor, with its quiet, wealthy rooms and snaking passages one had to follow—like Theseus hunting the Minotaur—in order to reach the summit. The labyrinth's pattern could be clearly seen across the wide, marshy floodplain, and smoke from the smithies rose black against the sky from Bride's Mound. Sight of her home never failed to lift Covianna's spirits. Her fingers itched to take up hammer and steel again, to forge some wondrous new blade to fit the stolen scabbard in her baggage. She chuckled aloud, imagining Artorius' rage when he discovered it missing—and apparently, at the hands of the disgustingly virtuous Morgana. Emrys Myrddin, riding beside her, smiled at the sound of her laughter.
"It is a long time, I think, since you have been home."
"Too long," she agreed. "There is much here I have longed to show you."
"I have heard wonderful tales of Glastenning Tor. I visited once, as a young man, but only the forges. It will be a pleasure to have you show me its secrets."
Laughter burbled up again, as wild and delighted as the water rushing through the heart of the Tor. "The Saxons long for the same thing, I think. I have heard the minstrels whisper that they call it Glastonbury, the glass mountain, where magic is done by the wizards and the smiths who hold the Tor."
"The Saxons," Myrddin chuckled, "consider an ordinary sword a thing of magic, forged by the gods they worship. They buy theirs, I am told, from the Franks. Which is why," he sighed, "they are so anxious to capture the southwest of Britain, to take the Tor and all your family's secrets. And why I agreed to come look over the defenses."
"For which I am forever grateful."
A cry went up as they approached the little town which lay sprawled on the flanks of the hill, spreading out down the long, slender leg of land toward the Goddess' outthrust foot. As the rain slacked off to a mere drizzle, children came running from cottage doorways, shouting the news to their parents and older siblings. Smiths emerged from the forges, wiping sweat and soot and thrusting tools into the pockets of their leather aprons. Covianna led the way along the safest path through the marshy bogs until they were close enough to be recognized.
"Covianna Nim!" the cry went up. "Covianna Nim's come home!"
Their horses splashed through the last of the marshes and Covianna slid from the saddle, flinging her arms round cousins and aunts and uncles amidst the noisy welcome. Her mother came running from the largest smithy on Bride's Mound, grey hair caught back in braids, face and hands streaked with soot. Tears tracked down the weathered lines in her face, losing themselves in the drizzling rain.
"My child! You've come home at last! And safe from marauders!"
They embraced long and warmly while Covianna's mother pressed kisses to her cheek, her hair, any part of her that would hold still long enough.
"Aye, Mother," she stepped back laughingly, "I've come home safe and sound, with a guest to be shown the Tor's hospitality."
Her mother gazed fondly into her eyes, then smiled. "Introduce us, Covianna. Who is this distinguished guest you've brought among us?"
She turned to Myrddin, who had dismounted and now bowed elegantly to her mother.
"It is my pleasure," Covianna purred, enjoying the excitement in her mother's eyes, "to present the legendary Emrys Myrddin, Druid to the Dux Bellorum, Artorius. He has come to the Tor to look over our defenses. Myrddin, my mother, Vivienna of the Tor."
Her mother gasped, went pink to the ears, and dropped a deep curtsey. "You are most humbly welcome, Emrys Myrddin. We have heard much of your wisdom. You do us great honor to visit."
He took her mother's sooty hands and kissed them gently, saying, "Not at all. The honor is mine, dear lady. Your daughter is a remarkable woman, wise and skilled in the ways of healing and of forging steel. She has been a treasure to have with us in Artorius' court at Caerleul."
Vivienna beamed fondly at her daughter. "We knew, child, that you would go far, in this life. You were marked for it from birth. Now, then, come up to the abbey, I'll introduce you to the abbot and see that you are given the finest quarters on the Tor."
"I would be pleased to bear you company," he offered gallantly, giving her his arm and minding not at all the wet soot that streaked his fine tunic sleeve, although Vivienna did try to wipe off the worst of it on her skirts. They set out, walking up the narrow road while children danced around them. Older boys took charge of the horses, leading them behind and finding apples to feed them as they clopped sedately in Myrddin's wake.
All the sights and sounds and scents of home rushed forward to surround Covianna with a delightful medley of familiarity: the hot-metal smell of iron drawn red-hot from the glowing coals; the ring of hammer on anvil; the sound of men blowing through long metal pipes, shaping molten glass into delicate pitchers and cups and vases to be traded the length and breadth of Britain; the homey scents of plain cooking and newly washed laundry. It all wafted in a wonderful mixture from the forges and low stone cottages and glass houses and washerwomen's huts lining the road and each lovely scent and sight and sound whispered a glorious welcome home. Covianna relished every fine moment of the walk.
She told herself she would never leave the Tor again, now that she had what she wanted from the last of her mentors. Her mother would be immensely proud of the secrets Covianna had brought home with her this time, proud and pleased that her daughter's wandering days were over, at last. It was time she settled, took a mate, and produced children to follow in her own illustrious footsteps. She laughed softly to herself, deciding not to take the herb she had been using for years to prevent men's brats from sticking to her womb. It would be quite a coup, to boast the child of Emrys Myrddin as her own son. Or daughter. It hardly mattered.
Emrys Myrddin was saying to her mother, "As much as it pains me to admit, I fear that I must give you a solemn warning, Lady Vivienna. My visit is not entirely motivated by pleasure."
Vivienna's sharp glance betrayed worry, which Covianna's mother usually managed to hide. "The Saxons?"
"Aye. They're on the march, as you must have heard by now."
She nodded. "We've heard, all right. The armies of the midlands have already marched south and the people who live beyond these marshes," she swept a hand outward, indicating the broad stretch of flatland skirted round by the shaggy Mendip Hills, "have fled already, taking their harvests and their flocks and herds to the caves until this war is ended, one way or the other."
"It's at Caer-Badonicus we'll stop them, Lady Vivienna, of that you may be certain. They'll not soon forget the drubbing we give them there. But you're wise to worry, for it's the Tor and the smithies they want, there's no mistaking that."
She nodded and tightened her fingers on his arm in a gesture of gratitude. "Then I am doubly pleased to make you welcome, for the runners have also brought tales of the work done at Caer-Badonicus. All Glastenning holds its breath—and for excellent reason. Many of us have cousins and brothers and sisters in Caer-Durnac, who have fled in advance of the Saxons, with tales of shocking murder and mutilations."
Myrddin's mouth went grim, a marble-hard line. "It seems to be a Saxon habit. Cutha slew every farmholder and villager within five miles and more of Penrith. The bastards outran pursuit to Dewyr and escaped across the Saxon border."
As Myrddin filled her in on the latest news, they left the low leg of land and began to climb up the path which led around the hill in a winding labyrinth of stone walls and flagged pavement. The great whorls and loops were scrupulously maintained free of weeds by a small army of monks who had taken holy orders at the abbey.