Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (12 page)

“We must,” answered Tiriki. “But the shrine will be a noble tomb.”

She was still speaking when the earth heaved once more and propelled them out through the portico. As they sprawled on the roadway a pillar of fire exploded upward from the mountain and the Shrine of the Omphalos collapsed with a rending roar.

 

Muscles and balance told Tiriki that they were going downhill as they struggled onward. But that was all she knew for sure. She jumped and nearly dropped the handle of the cabinet that held the Omphalos as the front wall of a house slammed into the street. Beyond it a second building was collapsing with gentle deliberation, as if it were falling asleep. A dark figure emerged from one of the homes, hesitated, and then dashed back into the falling building with a cry.

“I can smell the harbor,” gasped Damisa. “We’re almost there!”

A breath of moist air blessed Tiriki’s cheeks and brow. Above the crackle of flames and the groans of dying buildings she could hear the almost reassuring sound of human shouts and screams. She had begun to fear they were the only ones left alive on the isle.

And now they could see the water and the masts that tossed in the harbor. Boats bounded across the dark waters, heading out to sea. Two wingbirds had collided and were sinking in a tangled mass while bobbing figures swam for the shore. As they hurried forward the ground shook as if to propel them on their way. Rocks tumbled from the cliffs and splashed into the bay.

“There’s the
Crimson Serpent
!” cried Selast. The lines that held it to the stanchions on the dock were still fast, and young Captain Reidel stood poised at the stern, shading his eyes with one hand.

Micail, where are you?
Tiriki sent her spirit winging forward.

“My lady, thank the gods!” called Reidel. He jumped to the dock and caught her as she swayed. Before she could protest, strong arms were swinging her onto the deck. “All of you get on board, fast as you can!”

“Someone, take the box,” Chedan commanded.

“Yes, yes, but hurry—” Reidel reached out to give Damisa a hand, but the girl pulled away.

“I’m supposed to be on Tjalan’s ship!”

“It would seem not!” Reidel answered. “The Alkonath fleet was anchored in the other harbor—and everything between here and there is in flames.” He gestured, and one of the sailors picked the girl up bodily and tossed her into his arms.

Tiriki struggled to her feet, trying to make sense of the confusion of people, bags, and boxes. She recognized the seeress Alyssa huddled in the healer Liala’s arms, and Iriel.

“Where’s Micail?”

“Haven’t seen him,” answered Reidel, “nor Galara. We can’t wait for them, my lady. If the headland collapses we’ll be trapped here!” He turned and began shouting commands. Sailors began to unwind the lines that held the ship to the harbor.

“Stop!” cried Tiriki. “You can’t leave yet—he will come!” She had been so certain he would be waiting for her, frantic at her delay, and now she was the one who must fear.

“There are forty souls on this ship whom I must save!” exclaimed Reidel. “We’ve already delayed too long!” He grabbed a pole and pushed them away from the dock as the last sailor leaped on board.

The third great tower, the one that watched over the palace, was falling slowly, as if time itself were reluctant to let it go. Then, with a roar that obliterated all other sounds, it disappeared. Debris exploded into the sky and burst into flame.

Reidel’s ship lifted and fell as the shock wave passed beneath it. Another craft, still tethered, crashed into the dock. The oarsmen heaved and struggled to pull the ship through the debris that bobbed on the dark waters.

Above, the sky boiled in a vortex of flame and shadow and fire fell back upon the already burning city in a hail of indescribable destruction. Damisa was weeping. One of the sailors swore in a murmur of meaningless sound. They had already come far enough that the figures who were casting themselves into the water were silhouettes without faces or names. Micail was not among them—Tiriki would have known if he were that near.

They were passing beneath the cliff now. A boulder splashed down before the bow and the deck canted over, sending Tiriki sprawling into Chedan. He hooked one arm around her and the other around the mast as the ship righted itself and leaped forward.

“Micail will be on one of the other ships,” murmured Chedan. “He will survive—that too is part of the prophecy.”

Through eyes that blurred with tears Tiriki stared at the funeral pyre that had been her home. The motion of the ship grew more lively as the sails filled, carrying them out to sea.

Black smoke billowed up as the volcano spoke once more, blotting out the sky. In the moment before everything went dark, Tiriki saw the tremendous image of the Man with Crossed Hands covering the sky.

T
iriki clawed her way out of a nightmare in which she was drowning. Reaching out to Micail for comfort in the dark, her fingers closed on cold wool. As she groped, the floor rolled and she tensed yet again, bracing herself for another earthquake; but no, this was too gentle, too regular a rocking to sustain her fear. Exhausted, she sank back limply upon the hard bed, thankful for woolen winter blankets, her eyes half closed again.

A dream,
she assured herself,
brought on by the cool breeze through the window . . .

For some reason, she had thought that it was spring already, and that the disaster had come—that somehow she and Micail had ended up on different boats.
But here we are side by side, as we should be.

Smiling at the foolishness of dreams, she shifted position again, trying to stay comfortable despite a vaguely dizzy feeling and a persistent chill. Something hard through the blankets . . . And then, close by, someone began to weep.

Her own discomfort she could ignore, but not another’s pain. Tiriki forced her eyes to open and sat up, blinking at the dim, recumbent shapes all around her. Beyond them she could see a narrow railing, and the darkly heaving sea.

She
was
on a boat. It had not been a dream.

As she looked about, someone out of sight, toward the bow, began to sing.

As she listened, additional unseen voices joined the song.

For a moment the beauty of the song lifted her spirit. The stars were hidden, but no matter what happened here they remained in the heavens, afloat in the sea of space as their ship floated on the sea below.
Star father, Sea lord, protect us!
her spirit cried, trying to feel in the uneasy rocking of the ship the comfort of mighty arms.

But whether or not the god was listening, Tiriki could still hear someone crying. Carefully, she peeled away enough of the woolen blankets about the curled-up figure beside her to recognize the youthful face of Elis, fast asleep, her dark hair tangled, her eyes wet with unhappy dreams.

Poor child—we have both lost our mates.
Tiriki choked back her own grief before it could overwhelm her.
No,
she told herself sternly,
though we shall surely never see Aldel again, Micail lives! I know it.

Tenderly, she soothed Elis into deeper sleep, and only then withdrew enough to stand up. Shivering in the stiff breeze, trying not to let the continual gentle swaying underfoot disturb her stomach, Tiriki tried to will away the lingering tensions of her unrestful sleep and strained her eyes toward the foggy seascape beyond the railing. The wake of the ship glinted redly in the bloody glow that pulsed along the horizon, illuminating a vast cloud of smoke and cinders that roiled the heavens and hid the stars.

It was not the sunrise, she realized abruptly. The raging light was from another source—it came from Ahtarrath, even in its final death throes unwilling to submit to the sea.

As the lurid dawn light grew she recognized Damisa standing by the railing, staring forlornly at the distant flames. Tiriki started toward her but Damisa turned away, her shoulders hunching defensively. Tiriki wondered if Damisa was one of those people who preferred to suffer in privacy, and then she wondered whether she wanted Damisa’s company for the girl’s sake or for her own.

Most of the other people huddled on the deck were strangers, but she could see Selast and Iriel not far away, lying curled together like kittens as Kalaran snored protectively beside them.

From amidships came a quiet voice giving orders; then Reidel appeared carrying a lantern, his bare feet almost silent on the wooden deck. She nodded in automatic greeting. Since yesterday he seemed to have aged ten years.
For that matter,
she thought,
I wonder how much older
I
must look by now!

Reidel returned her greeting, rather anxiously, but before they could exchange words, he was beset by a pair of red-faced merchants wanting something to eat.

A man whom she recognized as Reidel’s sailor, Arcor, had been hovering nearby. “My lady,” he said, as she finally turned to face him, “we hoped not to trouble you while you slept, but the captain wishes you to know, there be comfortable beds for you and the young folk below. The honored ones, the adept Alyssa and the priestess Liala, rest there already.”

Tiriki shook her head. “No—but I thank you—” She looked at him inquiringly and he murmured his name, once more touching his brow in a gesture of reverence.
Living at such close quarters during this voyage,
she mused,
how long will the old caste distinctions last?

“I thank you, Arcor,” she repeated, in more pleasant tones, “but so long as there is anything to see here—” She broke off. “I must go,” she murmured, and quickly made her way amidships, where she noticed Chedan standing alone, gazing at the waves and the troubled sky.

“I am sorry. I meant to help keep watch over the Stone,” she said as she reached Chedan’s side. She intended to say more, but found herself coughing, and a sharp, growing ache in her chest reminded her that the very air they were breathing was poisoned with the ashes of Ahtarrath.

Chedan smiled at her fondly. “You needed rest,” he said, “and should feel no shame for taking it. In truth, there has been nothing to see. The Stone is at peace, even if we are not.” He gathered her against him, and for a moment she was content to rest within the steady support of his arms, but the mage’s sparkling eyes and ash-whitened beard could not conceal his worried frown.

“No other ships?” Her voice was a rasping whisper.

“Earlier, I glimpsed a few sails, heading on other courses, but in this murk—” He waved at the smoke and fog. “A hundred ships might pass unseen! Yet we can be confident that Micail will direct whatever boat he may be on toward the same destination as we—”

“Then you agree he is alive?” She gazed at him in appeal. “That my hope is not just a delusion of love?”

The mage’s expression was solemn, but warm. “Being who you are and what you are, Tiriki—bound to Micail by karma, and more—you would surely have felt him pass.” Chedan fell silent, then grimaced and let slip a muffled oath. Following his gaze, Tiriki saw the faraway glow of the dying land rapidly expanding in a swirl of flames.

“Hold on!” Reidel’s voice rang out behind them. “Everyone—grab something and hold on!” He already had one arm around the mainmast, but he and Chedan barely had time to clasp Tiriki between them as the ship’s stern lifted, sending unsecured gear and sleepers sliding. With a scream, someone went over the side. The masts groaned, sails flapping desperately as the ship continued to lift until it hung poised on the very crest of the swell. Behind them a long slope of shining water stretched back toward the fires of Ahtarrath, perhaps ten miles away. Then the wave passed, and the stern tipped as the ship began a long slide back down. Farther and farther yet they plummeted until Tiriki thought the ravening sea meant to swallow them whole. The ship bucked, seeking balance on the water, but the overstressed mainmast cracked and came crashing down. The
Crimson Serpent
shuddered as waves whipped around it.

It seemed a long time before the ship came to rest again, rocking gently with the tide. Reidel’s lantern was nowhere to be seen. The faint phosphorescence that danced along the wave crests was the only light. There were no stars above, and the fires of Ahtarrath had sunk, finally and forever, beneath the sea.

 

The next morning Chedan jerked upright with a snort and realized that, against all expectation, he had been fast asleep. It was day, and that, too, he supposed, was more than any of them should have dared to expect after the violence of the night before. It was a daylight, however, in which very little could be seen. He could hear quite clearly the omnipresent creaking of wood as the ship rolled on the swell, the gurgle of water beneath her bows, and the cries of seabirds as they bobbed like corks all around. A clammy grey fog rested between the sea and sky. It felt as if they were sailing through another world.