Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (18 page)

Tiriki took a breath and stopped a few feet away from the natives. Chedan halted just behind her, and then Reidel. The sailors took up positions on the plankway, ready to cover a quick retreat. The silence became absolute.

Raising her open palms to the sky, Tiriki trilled the lilting formal phrase: “Gods, look kindly upon this meeting.” Only then did she remember that these people almost certainly would not understand the Atlantean tongue. She tried to smile, wondering if it would help to bow again . . . but the marsh folk were no longer looking at her. Their eyes had returned to the foreign silhouette that had drawn them here—the high-prowed wingbird just visible through the willows that hid the river.

“Yes,” said Tiriki, still smiling tightly, “that is our ship.”

Perhaps in response to her words or her gestures, a thickset man with heron plumes waving from his headband stepped forward, showed his palms, and made a series of rippling gutteral sounds. Helplessly, Tiriki turned to Chedan, and after a moment the mage replied, rather slowly, in the same sort of speech. Tiriki blessed again the fate that had sent Chedan to these isles once before. She sensed it was going to be hard enough to reach an understanding with these people even
with
the help of words.

The headman’s scowls melted away, and he spoke again. Chedan’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Tell me what you’re saying,” Tiriki whispered.

Chedan blinked at her. “Oh. Sorry. This fellow is the chieftain. His name is Heron. He says our arrival is fortunate, or fated. If I understand correctly, these people spend winter in the hills, and have only now returned here for the hunting season—and to celebrate some kind of festival.”

As Tiriki nodded thoughtfully, Chedan turned again toward Heron, and initiated another complicated exchange . . . Tiriki bit her lip and tried to look patient and wise.

“He says,” Chedan interpreted at last, “their priestess—a wise woman of the tribe—has invited you to visit her. Apparently she dreamed about our ship. He says all may come and receive her blessing, but the men must wait apart while she speaks with you—”

“What? Lady, you must not go alone!” Reidel interrupted, with a protective glare that, Tiriki thought, was really meant for Damisa. She had observed such glances often lately and wondered if the girl herself had noticed them.

“Tell him we will come,” said Tiriki suddenly, and catching Heron’s gaze, gave him a smile and a nod of her head. “I think that Liala and Damisa and I can handle one old woman by ourselves, no matter how wise she may be.”

Reidel muttered and cast a dark look around, but Chedan turned and indicated to the chieftain that he should lead the way. To Tiriki, however, the mage said softly, “Do not underestimate these people. There are some in this land who wield great power. I do not know if that is the case with this wisewoman, but . . .” He shrugged, and said again, “Do not underestimate her.”

With Reidel and Cadis at their back to guard against treachery, Tiriki, Damisa, and Liala followed the trackway across the marsh and through a dense stand of beeches and alders to a wide, raised platform made of broad planks. At its center were a number of huts and low-walled buildings, some weathered or even roofless, but several had been freshly daubed with mud and thatched with green reeds.

The inhabitants emerged to greet them—a mixed group, old and young. Although the women were no taller than an Atlantean child, many of them clasped even smaller children, who stared at the newcomers out of huge dark eyes. Tiriki wanted to spend some time there, but the chieftain hurried them on into the marsh again, along yet another wooden trackway, until they reached the banks of an island of solid ground. The distinctive point of the hill they had seen earlier loomed up ahead, between the trees and the clouds.

Until now, the marsh folk had behaved almost casually, laughing and talking among themselves, with many a sidelong glance at the strangers. Now they all fell silent, and began to move with exaggerated care, as if the spot was somehow as unfamiliar to them as to the Atlanteans. The wooden planks went no farther, but there was a path, old and well trodden, and edged with small rounded stones.

Tiriki knew immediately that this was holy ground. The rustle in the leaves made it clear, as did the subtle shift in pressure in the air. It was not only because the path was so level that she found herself straightening and striding more freely. She began to draw strength from the earth and the air. More than relief, she felt a surge of actual hope, and a quick glance showed her that Liala felt the same wonder at the unusual energy here.

The path wound gently upward along a wooded slope, curving only occasionally to accommodate a particularly venerable tree. From time to time the smooth green rise of the Tor could be seen between the leaves, and this, she realized, was because the trees were thinning.

Before them lay a small meadow. To the left, a tangle of hawthorns formed an enclosure. From an arched opening in the bushes emerged a small stream, edged by rusty red stones. On the right, farther up the hill, white stones jutted from the ground, half hidden by trees. From among them, a second stream coursed down to join the first. On a knoll just above the point where the rivers joined, nestled a small round hut, its faded close-packed thatching extending almost to the ground. Unlike the simple shelters in the village, this building had clearly been there for a very long time.

They had not quite reached the edge of the rushing waters when a figure emerged from the hut, leaning on a short staff. To the Atlanteans, her stature seemed that of a girl of ten, but as she raised her head to survey them Tiriki saw a face webbed with wrinkles and knew that this was the oldest person she had ever seen.

Heron held out his palms and greeted the wisewoman in his throaty speech, then turned to Chedan and spoke again.

“This is their priestess. Her name is Taret,” Chedan interpreted. Tiriki nodded, unable to look away. Though the wisewoman’s flesh was ancient, surely no one had ever had such lively and penetrating black eyes.

As the Atlanteans made their various bows, Taret took another step forward.

“Welcome,” said the wisewoman in the tongue of the Sea Kingdoms. “I wait for you.” Her words were heavily accented but otherwise entirely understandable. Observing their surprise, she grinned merrily. “Come
now.
”

With hardly a pause, the priestesses set out across four great stepping stones that bridged the turbulent waters. But when Reidel sought to follow, the chieftain stepped in front of him. Immediately, the sailors rallied to their leader and the scene grew tense, but Chedan put his hand on Reidel’s shoulder and drew him gently back.

Taret, standing at the edge of the water, stared at the mage for a long moment, but his only response was to make an odd kind of salute to the sun.

“
Ah!
You, then,” said Taret—it was clear to whom she spoke—“you shall walk here.”

Chedan looked startled, but Heron appeared even more surprised. He looked from Taret to Chedan and back again several times before, with a conflicted expression, he moved aside, allowing the mage to tread the stepping stones.

Chuckling softly, the wisewoman settled herself on a sturdy three-legged stool just outside of the doorway of the hut, and motioned to the others to take their ease on a bench carved from a felled tree trunk.

Taret’s bright black eyes darted over each person in turn, and came to rest on Tiriki’s headdress and the wisps of golden hair that were visible beneath it. The wisewoman smiled again, but more gently.

“Sun people,” she said, with evident satisfaction. “Yes. Children of red snake that I saw in dreams.”

“We are very thankful to have found this place,” answered Tiriki, and though her words were formal, they were enlivened by genuine emotion. “I am Tiriki, a Guardian of the Light. This is Chedan, Guardian and mage—”

“Yes. Man of power,” said Taret. “Most men, I don’t ask to come here.” Chedan was flustered at the compliment and made another little bow, but the wisewoman’s gaze moved inquisitively to the others.

“Liala is a priestess of the healers and kinswoman to me,” said Tiriki, not quite realizing how slowly and carefully she was enunciating the words. “And Damisa is my chela.”

Taret inclined her head. “Welcome. But there is another.” Again her ageless eyes probed at them. “With you in my dream . . . one who sees into closed places. Perhaps—” She gazed curiously at Liala, then shook her head. “No. But you are friend to her, maybe?”

Tiriki and Chedan exchanged glances as Liala replied, a little nervously, “We do have a seeress. Her name is Alyssa. She injured her knee during the journey, and I have tended her, but she is . . . unready to leave the ship.”

“If you wish,” Tiriki offered, “we will bring her to you when we can.”

“Good. I like to ask her, did she see what is here? Did she see
me
?” The old woman chuckled again.

“We come here not by intention,” Chedan said earnestly, “but by a turn of fate. We ask only to be friends with you and your people. Our home has been destroyed, and we must seek refuge here.”

Taret shook her head. “You lose more than old home. And you come here because Shining Ones want you. You feel their power.”

“Yes,” said Tiriki fervently. “But we did not know—”

“The gods knew,” Chedan interrupted. “Indeed, I saw it myself in the stars! But I did not understand until now. We thought we were sent here to build a Temple, but it may be that the sanctuary is already here.”

Taret grinned. “Not Temple like Sea Kings make, but holy place of safeness, true.”

“We don’t want to disturb your sacred place,” Chedan said swiftly.

This time Taret’s wizened shoulders shook with what they soon realized was not a spasm of pain, but uncontrollable laughter. “Fear not!” she gasped at last. “Shining Ones not disturbed!” Her wrinkled face could not contain her smiles. “In dreams I see. I know you belong. And dreams be true, or you not be here. Anyway, sacred place not belong me.” She gestured toward the Tor. “I show some things. Then, if Shining Ones wish,
they
show more.”

“The Shining Ones,” Chedan repeated, as if not certain he had heard her correctly. “You will introduce us to them?”

“What?” Taret bobbed her head and almost laughed again. “No, no. I just say—you people live here. New home. Shining Ones—find
you.
”

Chedan grew thoughtful, then said, “Wise one, your generosity is far greater than we could have hoped. We sought this place because it is well above the flood line. But I was beginning to get the impression that building here would not be allowed.”

Taret nodded. “For
my
people, no. All this valley a spirit place, but the Tor—special. A gate. Only wisefolk live here.” She sat back for a moment, seeming to look within, and then pointed a bony finger at the mage. “So now you know. And you go now, yes?” She smiled, almost coquettishly. “Tell others, all is well. But priestess and priestess must speak—of other things.”

Chedan clasped his hands and bowed his head. “I think I understand. Thank you once more, wise Taret. You greatly honor me.” The mage stood and gave her the salute that one adept accords to another who stands high in the Mysteries. Then he made his way back to Reidel and the sailors, who looked relieved to have at least one of their charges safely back in their care.

“Tiriki,” the old woman said when he had gone, “little singer . . . You serve the Sun but, for true, you are priestess of the Mother.” Her fingers curved in a sign that Tiriki had thought unknown to anyone but an initiate of Ni-Terat and Caratra. Even as her fingers moved reflexively in the answering sign, Tiriki’s eyes widened at a sudden, clear memory of the vow her mother, Deoris, had made before she was born. Tiriki’s work in the temple had followed other paths, but always that primal allegiance was there, the foundation of her soul.

“You think us wild folk.” Taret’s youthful laughter cackled anew. “But we know Mysteries. In this land, nine wisewomen serve Her . . . Sometimes, we meet priestess from other lands. So I learn your talk, long ago.”

“You speak our language very well,” Damisa complimented.

“Not be so kind.” Taret gave the girl a smile. “But, know enough to teach the maiden Mysteries of red and white.” Damisa frowned in confusion, and Taret went on, “Soon you see. Rocks white where one stream comes—white rocks, white cave. Other spring leaves red stain, like moon blood. And you will go there.”

“You offer initiation into your Mysteries?” Tiriki asked doubtfully. “It is a great honor, but none of us can submit to any rite that may conflict with oaths we have already sworn—”

“We call on Thee, O Mother, Woman Eternal.”
Taret tilted her head like some bright-eyed bird. “No conflict
that
oath—Eilantha.”

Hearing her sacred name, Tiriki felt the blood leave her face. What the old woman had said was the very oath that Tiriki’s aunt and mother had sworn for themselves and their offspring before her birth. “How—?” For a moment, her voice would not obey her. She had come to this new land to preserve the high magic of Atlantis, but this was something far more profound. On Ahtarrath the worship of Ni-Terat had been a minor cult, honored, but not particularly important; yet Taret plainly welcomed Tiriki not as a Guardian of the Light, but as a priestess of the Great Mother, as if that was a higher distinction.
“How can you know?”

Taret only smiled. “Mysteries, Mysteries. Everywhere the same. Now you believe me? The Mother welcomes you . . . and your child . . .”

Tiriki swayed. Damisa reached out to support her, brows lifting in surprise.

“What?” Taret laughed, tipping her head to one side like some ancient bird. “You do not know?”

“I thought I was seasick,” she whispered, mind whirling back to her symptoms. She had never suspected. In sorrow for the children she had lost, she had repressed the very memory of what pregnancy was like. Without volition her hands moved to protect her belly, which was now no longer empty, if what the wisewoman said was true.