Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (16 page)

“But there was no word—” He fought for breath.

“Calm yourself,” the prince urged, “my dear friend! We’ve had no news of Tiriki, no. But ships are still arriving, and some have even sailed past us, no doubt headed to Belsairath as well. She may yet join us. But what good will that be, if you have torn yourself in pieces?”

 

In the days that followed, Micail began to fill in more gaps in his memory. The house in Beleri’in where they lodged him was one of several belonging to a native merchant who had grown rich on the tin trade. As his strength returned Micail walked in the spacious gardens, breathing in the clean wind that scoured the green foggy hills half visible beyond the garden wall. The sky looked immense, whether it showed itself as a tapestry of shapeless clouds or an expanse of radiant blue.

So this is the new world,
he realized, and for a moment his grim mood almost lifted.
There is much beauty here . . . but it is cold, very cold. Father Sun, we sing your praises as we have always done. Why will you not warm the earth here? Even the sea wind bears me nothing of you. Must I build your new Temple just to feel a moment’s warmth?

He watched constantly for ships, but not until they were leaving to go to Belsairath did he appreciate the beauty of the sea. The harbor was the same clear blue as the sky. In its midst was a small island that separated a cluster of wingbird ships that bobbed in the tide. The largest was Tjalan’s ship, the
Royal Emerald,
her green sails like bright leaves against the darker green of the island.

“The summit of that island is so pointed, it looks man-made,” Micail said to Galara, in an attempt to distract his mind from the rocking of the fish-smelling round coracle in which they were being ferried out to the
Emerald.

“Maybe so,” said the native boy, as a skillful dip of his paddle sent them shooting forward. “Has beacon up top. Light it when tin ships come. But now, no traders,” he added sadly.

“Take nothing for granted,” advised Micail, thinking of what Tjalan had told him of his plans for this new country. But did it really matter? Was there any point in trying to build a new Atlantis if Tiriki was lost?

He clutched the side of the coracle as the sea grew even more lively, astonished that the boy could govern the motion of so unlikely a craft. But as the oddly pointed islet drew nearer, Micail became aware of another sensation, a kind of subaudible humming that he instinctively associated with the flow of power . . . He touched Galara’s shoulder.

“Do you feel it?”

“I feel sick.” She looked pale and queasy. He remembered hearing her say that she did not like the sea. That must be why she did not notice the thrumming in the water.

Tiriki would have felt it.
Awkwardly he patted Galara’s arm and then closed his eyes, swamped by a new wave of sorrow.
Without her, I am crippled,
he thought.
The gods will not want me.

When they came aboard at last, they found the deck of the
Royal Emerald
swarming with soldiers. Micail had not realized that Tjalan had brought not only his bodyguard, but a contingent of regular guards as well.

The soldiers remained on deck throughout the three days it took to sail north and east along the coast to Belsairath. The cabins below were reserved for noble and priestly passengers such as himself. That first night, however, he encountered only the acolyte Elara. He had been told that she had ended up on Prince Tjalan’s ship, but had not seen her until now. Micail, glad to leave her with Galara, went in search of his cabin, where he fell into sleep as a rock into an abyss.

The second day was well advanced when he awoke to the discovery that he shared the cabin with Ardral, who had also let his friend Jiritaren into the room. Jiritaren was not about to allow Micail to wallow in self-pity in his bunk on such a beautiful day.

“You have to admit, Alkonans build good ships,” Jiritaren commented as they came on deck, running his hand along the polished wood of the rail. The wind put color into his sallow skin and lifted locks of his lank black hair back from his brow.

“I suppose,” said Micail, gazing up at the bravely fluttering green banner whose ring of falcons seemed to flap their golden wings. “After all, here we are.”

Jiritaren gave him a troubled look. They had been friends for a long time, and usually did not need to speak to know each other’s hearts. After a moment, he put one arm around Micail’s shoulder, and raised his other hand to point at the wingbirds that followed them, particularly one a little longer and leaner in construction, with an orange banner at its mast.

“That’s the
Orange Swift,
” said Jiritaren, “from Tarisseda! They arrived with a few empty cabins, so some of our people are with them. Good thing, too, or I’d probably be sleeping on deck with the spearmen.”

Micail managed something like a smile. “What’s that ship?” he pointed.

“Ah—that is the
Blue Dolphin.
An older ship but solid. There’s a gaggle of folks on it, some from our Temple.”

“My fellow acolyte Cleta is on the
Dolphin,
my honored lords,” said Elara, moving forward to join them, “with her brother Lanath and Vialmar as well.” She looked up at Micail with a smile that seemed rather too warm, considering that except for Damisa, whom he had often seen with Tiriki, he hardly knew the acolytes at all.

But few as they were, strangers or not, they would be the foundation of the new Temple, and they were his responsibility now. He managed to return Elara’s smile. She was a pretty girl, old enough not to be flustered by the attention of two senior priests. She was only of middle height, but her features were good, and her curly black tresses, barely secured against the wind with a filigreed hairpin, had a glossy sheen like a raven’s wing.

“You are promised to Lanath, are you not?” he murmured. “I am sorry. It must be hard for you to be separated . . . At least Cleta and Vialmar are together.”

She lowered her eyes. “All thought of marriage must wait, my lord,” she said. “We are far from completing our training. I—I wanted to say, it is a great honor to be here, my lords, where I may hope to take instruction directly from
you.
”

 

To reach the trading port of Belsairath took two days. It lay on the southern coast of the land that the native inhabitants called the “Isle of the Mighty.” It had been established when Alkonath first sought supremacy over the trade routes of the Sea Kingdoms, but since then had lingered in obscurity.

As at Beleri’in, a small islet stood a little way offshore from the port, surrounded not by ships at anchor, but by a line of long sandbanks that guarded the shore from storms. As the
Royal Emerald
headed past it, the soldiers rushed to the side to get a glimpse of their destination. Even Micail felt a faint stirring of curiosity.

He shivered and rewrapped himself in his newly acquired cape of Alkonan green. It was warmly lined, but it felt odd to him to replace his family’s ceremonial crimson with this color.
But what does it matter?
he asked himself.
There is neither Ahtarra nor Alkona anymore. Even the gods seem far away . . .

The clouds were drawing in again, foreshadowing rain, and the scene unfolding before him became a mural painted in greys and browns. The low delta at the back of the bay was dotted with pools and reed beds, as if the land had not entirely won its argument with the ocean. . . . He guessed that storms might occasionally rearrange this landscape entirely. He hoped the Alkonans had built their port on solid ground.

Word of their arrival spread fast. He glanced about and saw that most if not all of the passengers had emerged onto the deck. Elara and Galara stood quite close to him, their attention focusing, it seemed, upon the soldiers rather than the view.

A feather floated landward past them, and Micail realized that the tide was on the flow. Straining his eyes, he looked farther inland toward the rising mainland, a dim bulk of thickly forested hills. At their center he could see a single thin streamer of smoke, rising and curling in the wind.
Perhaps that is from the port,
he thought.
What do they call it? Belsairath? “Point something port . . .”

Captain Dantu’s voice rang out above the hubbub of passengers, calling out orders. The soldiers went to the other side of the ship to balance it, as the helmsman guided the wingbird’s sharp prow through an inlet that opened into a foggy, quiet cove where the river at last made its peace with the sea. A bank of efficient-looking docks had been built out into the harbor, but Micail guessed that even so, at low tide the larger ships would all be aground.

This, then, is journey’s end,
he thought.
A fine place for dying.

Close against the docks stood a palisaded enclosure. Behind it, a string of buildings, at first grey and indistinct, meandered away along the riverbank. Masses of weathered wood, faded paint, and worn-out thatchings suddenly appeared in his vision, and he realized that each building in one way or another reflected the standard Atlantean forms: here an arch, there some balconies, and even, a little way uphill, a newer structure that looked like the beginning of a seven-walled courtyard. The outskirts of the old town were a sprawling expanse of new-looking villas, built in the aristocratic Alkonan style, with much of the building hidden underground. As elsewhere, wood seemed to be the primary material of construction, but the terraces and foundations at least were all stone, ornamented with the usual carvings and painted plaster. The alien mists made everything look vaguely ominous, but he smiled in spite of himself.

The fit of amusement did not last. Rajasta the Wise had said that the new Temple would be built in a new land, but Belsairath looked old, even neglected.

 

Prince Tjalan had arranged for Micail to stay in an inn on the water, as Micail wished to watch for ships arriving and any news of Tiriki.

Yet before he could rest, Prince Tjalan summoned Micail to a reception at his villa. As he stood in the midst of a brightly dressed throng, he found himself wishing that he had stayed in his bed at the inn.

“Prince Micail—you are most welcome!” a woman said behind him. “I met you once, that year you spent with Tjalan in Alkona, but of course you would not remember me; I was the merest child then. . . .”

Her voice had that throaty quality that so many found seductive, and her perfume, which Micail perceived even before he turned to see who had spoken, was blended from the most expensive spikenard. In truth, he needed no other senses to recognize Tjalan’s wife, Princess Chaithala. Tjalan had told him that she had sailed from Alkonath well before the Sinking, bringing their three children here to safety. But he would have guessed that, too, for her hazel eyes, artfully highlighted by kohl, were wholly unshadowed by the grim memories that haunted all who had watched the old world die.

Micail’s royal upbringing had trained him in all the right responses. He bowed just so far and spoke softly of the impossibility of forgetting such beauty, but his mind and his heart were far away.

“You are too kind,” said Chaithala with equal composure. “I do the best I can. My lord says we must keep up our standards—” She glanced around to make sure that the servants were keeping every cup, goblet, and plate full.

“You have done very well,” he answered automatically. The constant clamor of conversation made his head ring. Worse, he had taken a polite drink with almost everyone so far and strongly suspected he would not remember anyone’s name by morning.

“There is a great deal to do,” the princess said. “But I wished to speak with you because, in a way, we are both faced with the same task.” She beckoned him to follow her into a long gallery that looked out on a pleasant courtyard open to the sky.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “I am afraid I find these underground rooms a little constricting, even with all the light-wells and ventilation shafts—”

“A style,” the princess observed softly, “which shielded fair Alkonath from the fierce summer sun will serve well here to conserve heat.”

“No doubt you are right,” Micail demurred. The same tubes of polished bronze that brought in what sunlight there was would also keep out the winds that scourged these cold grey shores. “But I am too much a son of the Sun,” Micail finished, with the necessary flourish, “to thrive where its presence is seen less often than it is implied by shadow.”

“That may be so, but you will find no more sunlight in the windows of the port precinct than you do here.” Chaithala smiled. “My lord has told me it is your wish to remain in Domazo’s Inn, rather than to lodge with us here. It is your choice, of course, but still I hope you will visit often. I, too, have some need of your counsel.”

“So you said.” Micail tried to look attentive.

“It concerns the education of my children. My lord has so many responsibilities—their upbringing has been left to me.”

“Madam, forgive me, but I know nothing of teaching children,” Micail stammered, suppressing a pang of sorrow as he remembered the babies Tiriki had lost.
All my house is dead,
he thought.
What can I teach the living?

“You misunderstand me, my lord. They already have a most satisfactory tutor, a learned and patient man. No, rather it is of the content of their education that I wished to consult you, for the acolytes are given into your training—is it not so?”

“I—” He paused and looked at her closely. “You are entirely correct, madam, but I have had little chance to fulfill my duty to them. The House of the Twelve was moved to Ahtarrath only last year. And only four of them are with us now—” For a moment grief for all those lost closed his throat once more.

“Yes,” said Chaithala brightly. “But at least those four are here. Do you think they might visit us from time to time? The gods know we shall have priests enough!” She gestured back toward the main hall with a rueful smile. “But it seems to me that most of them have become far too holy to remember how to speak with children. With only their example, I fear that my three will grow up with no appreciation for the true meaning of our religion.”