Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (20 page)

A last scramble brought her to the summit—a gently rounded oval expanse with a coverlet of the same richly green turf. Even in that first moment, half blinded by glorious sunlight, she was aware of it, like another kind of radiance . . .

Her eyes adjusted quickly. From here, high above the primeval forest that girdled the Tor, even the marshes below revealed to her a strange, wild beauty, for the vast fields of green spring reeds were spangled and veined with pale blue whenever the water reflected the sun.

Magnificent,
she told herself, but her sigh of appreciation at once gave way to a sudden stab of nostalgia. In Ahtarrath she and Micail had often greeted the day from the summit of the Star Mountain, where the blazing sun above the diamond sea had revealed each and every feature of the countryside and glittered on a thousand decorated rooftops with breathtaking clarity. Here, even on a cloudless day, the view fell away into a misty shadow of rolling hills backed by a foreign sea.

In Ahtarrath she had always known who and where she was. Here she had no such clarity. Instead, what she saw in the subtly veiled landscape before her was . . . possibility.

Slowly she turned, noting how the long ridge to the south and the higher hills to the north sheltered the levels between. To the east, the mist was turning to a brown haze, but Tiriki scarcely noticed. Before her, at the summit of the Tor, was a circle of standing stones.

Compared to the massive edifices of Atlantis, it was not particularly impressive. For one thing, these stones still were shaped as the gods of earth had made them, the tallest scarcely breast-high. But the very fact that such a thing could exist here forced her to a sudden re-assessment of the skills, or perhaps the will, of the people who had made it.

The real question,
she thought then,
is why?
She straightened and took a deep breath, remembering her own skills. Near the center of the stone circle she could see a darkened area and the remains of a fire. Moving sunwise around the perimeter of the circle, she entered through a slightly wider gap on the eastern side. With the first step, she knew she had been right about the power here; as she continued inward, her awareness of the energy in the earth grew even stronger, increasing yet again as she reached the circle’s center. Only her training enabled her to stay upright.

Closing her eyes, she let her senses seep into the earth, rooting herself ever more deeply, and feeling the swirling currents of power as they rayed out in every direction, but most powerfully to the southwest and northeast. Yet more strongly still she felt the vitality that surged in the ground beneath her, flowing upward through her body until her arms again rose by themselves and stretched toward the heavens, making herself a living conduit between earth and sky.

Tiriki had thought to use this moment to lay claim to the new land, but instead she found herself surrendering.

“Here I am . . . Here I am!”
she cried.
“What would you have me do?”

Keen as the wind, radiant as the sun, steady as all the earth below, the answer came.

“Live, love . . . laugh . . . and know that you are welcome here. . . .”

Tiriki’s eyes flew open in shock, for the voice was not that of her spirit. She was hearing it with her physical ears. For a brief and angry moment she thought that someone had followed her uphill from the encampment, but the woman before her, clad in garments of sunlight and spiderweb, was no one she had ever seen before.

Noting the slender limbs and cloud of dark hair, she thought this must be another of the marsh folk. But there was something in the line of the cheek and brow, and even more in the way the slanting light played about the figure—at times shining on her, and at other moments glowing through her—that proclaimed this was no being of the mortal world.

Tiriki bowed her head in instinctive reverence.

“That is well,” said the woman, with a wry but gentle smile, “yet I am not one of your gods, either. I am . . . what I am.”

“And that is—” Tiriki’s mind raced, her heart pounding so that she could hardly speak. In the Temple they had called such beings
devas,
but here it seemed more natural to echo Taret’s words—“You are one of the Shining Ones . . . ?”

The woman’s strange eyes widened, and she seemed to dance a little above the ground. “So some say,” she allowed, still with that faint air of amusement.

“But what shall I call you?” There was a pause, and Tiriki felt a tingle as if a delicate hand had brushed her soul.

“If a name is so important, you may call me—the Queen.” She lifted a hand to her hair and Tiriki realized that the Lady’s brows were crowned with a wreath of white hawthorn bloom. “Yes,” she added with a hint of laughter, “thus I may be sure you will respect me!”

“Assuredly!” Tiriki breathed, kneeling; spirit though the woman might be, she had the stature of the Lake dwellers, and it seemed discourteous to look down at her. “But what should I offer you?”

“An offering?” The Queen frowned, and for a moment Tiriki felt that glancing touch upon her soul once more. “Do you think I am one of your . . . merchants . . . requiring payment for the gifts I bring? You have already offered yourself to this land,” she said more kindly. “What else could I ask of you? What do
you
desire?”

Tiriki felt herself flushing. “Your blessing . . .” she said, her hand over her womb. Surely the best safeguard she could have would be the favor of the power in this land. “I ask your blessing on my child.”

“You have it—” The answer came soft as the fragrance of flowers. “And so long as they shall remain true to the hallows here, I promise you also that your line shall never fail.”

“This hill?” Tiriki asked.

“The Tor is only the outward semblance, as your womb is the shelter for your child. In time you will learn to know the Mysteries that lie within the Red Spring and the White, and the Crystal Cave.”

Tiriki’s eyes widened. “How shall I learn about these things?”

The Queen lifted one dark eyebrow. “You have met the wisewoman. She will teach you. You have been a servant of the sun, but now you shall learn the moon’s secrets as well. You . . . and your daughters . . . and those who come after. . . .”

She smiled, and the radiance around her intensified until Tiriki could see nothing but light.

T
he days since Micail’s arrival in Belsairath stretched into weeks, and still Tiriki did not come. He had always thought of himself as the strong one, but he was beginning to realize that despite her apparent fragility, her bright spirit had supported his. By day, he participated in rituals and attended meetings, hoping to hear some word of her or persuade the Alkonans to mount a search, though he had no idea where the other refugees might be found. Every night in his dreams he retraced the bygone streets of Ahtarra, searching for Tiriki as the light went out of every shop and home and temple.

Sometimes, for a moment, she seemed so close he thought he touched her. And then he would wake and realize that she never drew away because she was always gone.

The days were almost as depressing. The existence of Belsairath proved that Atlanteans could indeed survive, even thrive in a new land, but somehow the number of new buildings going up, with their grandiose imitations of antique architectures, only contributed to Micail’s deepening gloom.

Tjalan would have installed Micail in his villa, indeed in his own suite, but Micail protested in the strongest terms. Belsairath was noisy and less than sanitary, and the inn was at the center of it, but he
needed
to be able to see the harbor.

“Tiriki might come. If I were somewhere I could not see her ship, then—” He shook his head. “She might leave. Some of the ships that come here do not stay. No, I need to be here.”

After that, Micail was exempt from the council meetings at Tjalan’s villa. Of course he was glad enough to miss the unending scholarly debates over astral influences and power flows in the land. It was certainly not difficult to enjoy the regular temptation of the finest foods, spiced with loore, marinated in raf ni’iri . . . Still, Micail would have preferred more solitude. Continually, it seemed, there was a soldier nearby to protect him, a Blue Robe or other healer looking after him, Jiritaren or even Bennurajos visiting, offering heady liqueurs and a steady stream of quips and diversions.

Stoically, Micail had tolerated the special treatment and endless interruptions, for at some level he knew he walked close to madness . . . Perhaps most difficult of all were the bracing visits from Tjalan, who repeatedly made it known that he was prepared to provide
anything
that might break through Micail’s lethargy, up to and including fetching young women for his diversion.

His cousin Naranshada came once or twice, but Micail could never decide whether Ansha’s visits brought comfort or more pain. When they had been junior priests he and Ansha had been close, but as Ansha moved more deeply into the engineering studies that were his specialty, they had grown apart again. Now what they had in common was their loss, for in the chaos of the escape from Ahtarrath, Ansha’s wife and children had drowned. The
Royal Emerald,
searching for survivors, had found him clinging to a spar, half mad with grief.

At times Micail envied his cousin, who could put aside the vain torment of waiting for news and move on. But then he would see again the mute pain in Ansha’s eyes and realize that the slightest hope was better than a certainty of despair. If he had seen Tiriki sink beneath the waves, he would not have survived.

 

Late one afternoon, Ardral came unexpectedly to call on Micail, offering a jar of honey wine from Forrelaro’s cellars and a platter of succulent roast pig direct from Tjalan’s personal chef. The day was warm, but less than sunny, so they dragged a low table and a pair of benches closer to the open balcony and attacked the repast fiercely.

Some little while later, mere appetite sated, they began to speak of plans for the new Temple.

“You ought to attend some of those meetings, my boy. Haladris and Mahadalku make a formidable team, and you’re the only priest with the rank to challenge them,” said Ardral, seriously. “If they have their way, the new Temple will faithfully reproduce all the flaws of the old.”

“Isn’t it a little soon to be worrying about who will be in charge of the new Temple? After all, we can hardly decide without Tiriki and Chedan—”

“And in which lifetime will
they
rejoin the debate?” Ardral’s dry response shocked Micail upright. “Ah, lad, I’m sorry,” said the adept more gently, “but you have met every ship, boat, and seal that comes into this cove since we got here, and for three new moons now there has been no sign nor word. There comes a time—”

“I know!” Micail shook his head. “I know. It is foolish of me, and stubborn. But still—how can
this
be all of us? I cannot believe it, that would be too cruel a jest. I will not believe that my dearest—that they are
all
gone, the best of us—leaving only a handful of obscure priests and a lot of prideful nobles, a gaggle of scribes and chelas, and all too many soldiers! And so many of them hardly more than children.”

“Listen, Micail.” Ardral’s voice grew softer, his tone almost comforting. “You are not wrong to keep hoping. I often heard Reio-ta say the two of you were as one soul—and he understood such things. If you believe she lives—then I believe it, too. But remember—all will be as it is meant to be. Perhaps Tiriki’s work and yours, so long performed in parallel, must for a while run in separate courses.” The adept paused, measuring his words. “And when it comes to establishing a worthy Temple, consider this—it is not for our talents or our numbers that we will be held accountable. Only one righteous spirit is needed to preserve all the ways of Light.”

“So I have heard,” Micail rejoined, “but to preserve the priestly skills we need more, and the simple fact remains, of the Chosen Twelve, we have saved only four.
Four.
”

Ardral nodded. “More?” he asked, and sighing, Micail allowed his goblet to be refilled. Again the wood-aged liqueur of the Ancient Land rippled over his palate, leaving a delicately dusty savor.

“Yes, we have left much behind,” Ardral murmured. “Of course I don’t know precisely what you expected—”

“Expected?” Micail’s laughter rang with a tinge of hysteria. “I can’t even remember what I expected! Though I know Rajasta always seemed to be describing—something more primitive than—this.” He waved one arm toward the crumbling buildings of Belsairath.

“A savage land
would
be easier,” Ardral agreed, as he sliced off another hunk of ham. “The uncivilized are usually willing to be taught.”

 

The four survivors of the Chosen Twelve often found themselves dependent on their own resources. The acolytes were not even lodged together, but lived in various places in and around Belsairath. Princess Chaithala’s villa, well heated and spacious, had rapidly become the favored gathering point for all of the younger Atlanteans. The acolytes themselves, of course, should have been occupied with meditation and study. There were a few elder priests who could have taken them in charge, but those priests were the ones most deeply involved in disputes and studies of their own. Time dragged on, and though Micail had not formally set aside his responsibility to supervise their training, he never seemed willing to begin. Elara, who had once wondered if she might be reassigned as his acolyte when they reached the new land, thought they might be better off without him. She had seen enough of him on the journey from Beleri’in to Belsairath to question whether he could manage his own life right now, much less theirs.