Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (25 page)

“
She
is perfect,” came the voice of Taret from her other side.

Tiriki’s gaze returned to her child. Not a son, then, to inherit Micail’s powers—if indeed those powers meant anything in this new land. A daughter, then, to inherit—what? Silently, unable to voice the questions that whirled through her, she looked up at Taret.

“Daughter of holy place,” said the wisewoman cheerfully. “She be priestess here, someday.”

Tiriki nodded, only half hearing, yet feeling all the scattered pieces of her soul slip back into place. But it was not quite the same configuration. There was a part which linked her to the child at her side, and another that touched the earth on which she lay, and something else that she could not have defined or named. She knew only that with this birth, the process that had begun with the ritual on the top of the Tor was complete. Now she would always belong to this land.

With that thought came another. “Thank you,” she said to Taret, “and you must take my thanks to the woman who brought me here. Without her help I would have died. Was it you, Liala? Or Metia? Or—?”

“What?” Liala’s brows wrinkled with confusion. “I did little enough. It was Damisa who grew worried when you did not join us at the feast, and then could not be found. So I came to Taret, hoping she might be able to help. I had only just gone inside when we heard your cries and let you in—but I thought you came alone!”

Taret’s smile had become a grin. “The Queen of the Shining Ones, it was,” she said proudly. “She takes care of her own.”

M
icail sighed in his sleep, reaching out to Tiriki with an instinct that even the loneliness of the last nine months had not been able to destroy. And this time it seemed to him that his arms closed around her. He felt the hard round of her belly contract, and with the certainty of dream knew that she was giving birth to his child.

She moaned in pain and he held her more tightly, murmuring encouragement, and then, abruptly, they were on a grassy plain in the grey hour before dawn. As his wife’s belly heaved, the earth was also heaving, but not with the fires of destruction. Everywhere new life was springing from the soil. Tiriki’s struggles grew harder until, with a cry, she pushed the child into the world. As she lay back, gasping, he reached down to take the babe and saw that it was a girl, perfectly formed, with an unruly wisp of hair like a new flame.

Laughing, he held her high. “Behold the child of the prophecy, my pledge to this new land!” As all the beings gathered on that plain, both human and other, shouted in enthusiastic welcome, waves of contentment lifted him and carried him away.

Micail fought free from his blankets, blinking as he realized that he was still hearing cheering and the sound of voices raised in song.

Was it a dream,
he wondered,
or is all I remember of the past year only a nightmare?
But the dim outlines of the room around him were only too familiar, and they belonged to no memories that included Tiriki or a child.

It was a dream, then—a lie. But strangely that realization did not fill him with the despair he usually felt when the bright promises of the night were snatched away. If it had been an illusion, at least it was a good one.

The tumult outside was getting louder. He lurched out of bed, stumbled across the woven mat, and fumbled open the shutters that kept out some of the damp night air. To the west a new storm front was rolling in, trailing streamers of rain behind it, but the new moon, Manoah’s messenger, slid among the streamers of clouds, seeking rest beneath the horizon, and the stars shone cold and dim.

All the world was at rest, dark and silent—except for Belsairath. The muddy crossroads outside the inn were alive with torches, and in the square an immense bonfire blazed. People were dancing around it, shouting.

Has another ship come in?
He strained to see the harbor, but the docks were dark and still. He rubbed his eyes, unable at that moment to imagine what other reason people might have for such frenzied celebration.

The door to his chamber opened and he saw Jiritaren’s angular shape against the light of the lamp that was always left burning in the hall.

“You
are
awake! I thought you must be, with all the racket outside!” As usual, Jiritaren sounded as if he were on the brink of laughter.

“Did I have a choice?” Micail gestured toward the window. “What in the name of all the gods is that commotion about?”

“Didn’t anyone tell you? This is how they celebrate midwinter here!”

“Oh.” Micail shrugged and pulled the shutters closed, which dulled the noise slightly. He
had
known it was the winter solstice and had chosen not to attend the ritual of the New Fire at Prince Tjalan’s villa. . . . “I haven’t been myself lately.”

“You
sound
a lot better than you have in some time. Let’s have a little light!” Jiritaren thrust a splinter into the flame and brought it back to kindle the lamp in Micail’s room.

“Ye-e-s,” he said then, as he looked into Micail’s ear. “Someone home there, all right, and just in time.”

“Oh stop!” Micail aimed a mock punch at his friend and turned, looking for his cup and the water he hoped was still in it. “But I am glad you’re here. I’m even glad for the damned festival! It’s high time something cheerful happened around here.” He stopped, peering at Jiritaren. “In time for
what
?”

“Haladris and Mahadalku have called a special meeting—relax, they won’t actually start until after dawn prayers. But since I just got back from the ritual and happen to know you’re often up late, I thought you’d like to know—”

“Indeed I would,” Micail growled, “if you’d be so kind as to
tell
me anything!”

Jiritaren’s dark eyes glowed. “What I was
about
to say is that the Tarissedan psychics that Stathalka has been working with have found the place, and it’s not too far away.”

“The place?”

“The power source we need to build our Temple! Naranshada has been able to confirm that the energies probably coordinate, too. It’s in the place Prince Tjalan was talking about, the Ai-Zir lands.”

Micail frowned, his mind beginning to engage as it had not for many moons. “If Ansha agrees it’s the right place, then we should start planning—” He stopped short at Jiritaren’s laughter.

“No, no, go on—it’s just that you sound more like yourself than you have in, oh, far too long.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Even if his dream were only illusion, Micail blessed the gods for sending it to give him the strength to fulfill his responsibilities. If Tiriki should sail into the harbor today, he thought, he would be almost too ashamed to face her.
I have done nothing,
he told himself sternly,
but that will end now.

Jiritaren nodded, sober again. “They want you to lead the expedition. Tjalan says he means to go with you, but he will almost certainly have to return here, just to keep an eye on things. You are the only one with both the rank to command a detachment of soldiers
and
the status to control the priests they will guard.”

Micail shook his head in wonder. What Jiri was saying surprised him less than the fact that for the first time since the Sinking he found himself genuinely interested.

Micail lay awake for what seemed a long time after his friend had left, listening to the noise of the revelers outside. The rain that presently began to rattle against the tiles of the roof dampened their spirits not at all. It reminded him of waves on the shore of Ahtarrath, and he found himself smiling.

He closed his eyes at last, going over the bright images of his dream once more. And just as the first birds were beginning to herald the day, the vision changed. He heard a voice proclaiming,
“The Daughter of Manoah brings life back into the world!”
and from the babe he held grew a blaze of light as the midwinter sun began to rise.

 

As the first anniversary of their arrival in Belsairath came and went, even the dead winter foliage seemed to celebrate, giving way to brilliant green, filling the world with a sweetness that seemed to linger in the air. The cycles of the sun, which at home had been measured and perceptible only to priests, were the very heart of the native religion in this northern land. Certainly Micail had never before been so aware of the lengthening days. Caught up in preparations for the expedition to the country of the Ai-Zir, he found himself too busy for much brooding, but that was not the only reason.

His grief was not gone, but it had grown distant. He was beginning to accept that Tiriki was lost to him. He had spoken to traders who came to the town, and even persuaded Prince Tjalan to send a ship around Beleri’in to check the more likely landfalls, but there had been no word. Though Micail mourned for the form of flesh in which he had loved her, he told himself that in another life they would come together again. And sometimes he even believed it.

The day of departure came, and Micail stood on the docks with his white robes girdled up for walking, stout sandals on his feet, and a staff in his hand that could be used for more than magic. Behind him he could hear a confusion of voices as the column formed, the white robes of the acolytes who had been selected to go with them pale against the green tunics the soldiers wore. The waves were blue today, with sparkles of foam. His gaze caught a gleam of reddish gold and he stiffened for a moment, sure that he saw a wingbird rounding the point, heading in . . . But the wind shifted, flattening the waves. It had only been a trick of the sunlight.

Do not mistake the signpost for the destination,
old Rajasta murmured in his memory.

“Micail! Come on, man, we can’t leave without you!” The voice of Jiritaren roused him.

“Farewell,” he whispered, lifting his hands in salute to the glimmer of light on the waves. Then he turned and strode away from the harbor to take his place in the column beside Prince Tjalan.

For the first hour of that first day’s journey the rutted road was all Micail saw, and he paid little heed to anything he heard until someone behind him exclaimed in surprise. Micail looked up to see a turf-covered embankment along the side of a hill to the left of the road.

“The natives here built that?” he asked Tjalan. “I would not have thought them capable of it.”

“They built it,” responded Tjalan, “or rather their ancestors did. And they lived in it, until we came. My great-grandfather established the port—” He gestured, thumb over his shoulder. “My father regarded the Tin Isle ports as a total loss, but in local terms, they’ve done well. In fact, Domazo, who runs that inn you like so well, is the direct descendant of that chief. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t have as much real authority there as I do! Anyway, as you can see, nobody lives here now. It gives us plenty of space for expansion . . .”

“Impressive,” Micail said at last.

“Yes, it is. We should not forget that when properly led and motivated, these people can accomplish a great deal.”