Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (29 page)

“Eggs?” asked Damisa. After two years, all of the acolytes had made some progress in learning the Lake folk tongue, but Iriel and Kalaran were the only ones who could actually speak it. Damisa herself had not yet progressed beyond a limited vocabulary. The small woman grinned and simply crooked her hand in a summoning gesture.

As she followed, Damisa took the precaution of kirtling up her skirts, and she was glad she had: their destination was the nest of some strange duck, which had evidently thought itself well hidden among the reeds.

It would have been hard to say who was less happy with the encounter, the duck or the acolyte, as it degenerated into a furious mix of swearwords and squawking. She left each mother duck at least one egg to hatch, but that didn’t seem to soothe them. Damisa would not have thought a duck could bite, but she had nicks and scratches on both hands before they moved off toward higher ground to search for spring greens.

The tender new leaves of chickweed and goosefoot and mustard could be eaten raw, and there were lilies whose bulbs would provide more solid fare. Nettles were edible too, stewed as greens or steeped to make tea, but the native women always laughed when the acolytes tried to harvest them, for there was no way not to get stung, which made the girls curse in a manner most unbecoming to future priestesses.

Selast sucked her sore fingers and sulked, even after they turned toward home. “It could be worse,” Damisa said, taking the other girl’s hand and kissing the reddened stings. “Kalaran had to go out with the hunters. Nettles sting, but you don’t have to chase them. And they don’t sneak up on you.
And
they don’t have claws and big teeth!”

“I’d rather be hunting,” Selast growled, “except then I’d have to be with Kalaran.”

Damisa sighed, wracked with conflicting emotions. She had long ago come to terms with the fact that what she felt about having lost her own destined husband was mainly relief. But Selast and Kalaran were still officially betrothed and would be expected to marry some day, even though they had about as much interest in one another as a couple of rocks.
Why is it,
she thought,
that however often somebody tells us the rules have changed, that things are different here—
she felt her face warm as she remembered the events of the afternoon—
why is it we still have to keep doing pretty much whatever we would have done in Atlantis?
If they could have kept the splendid ways of old Atlantis she would not have minded, but it was the rules, not the rewards that seemed to have survived.

“But there are so few of us,” she said finally. “Can you honestly say you wouldn’t care if something happened to him?”

“He’s got the luck of a drunk!” Selast scoffed. “He never gets hurt—except for his feelings. Besides, animal attacks have not been our worry.”

Damisa frowned, but she knew what the other girl meant. Early last summer, two sailors had gone missing. The marsh folk sent out trackers, but found no sign of them. The straggling scatter of huts where the sailors who had taken native wives lived with the merchants and others who were not of the priesthood was full of stories. Some thought that the missing seamen had grown tired of waiting for the
Crimson Serpent
to head out to sea again, and had gone back to the coast, where they had been picked up by a passing ship, but few took the tale seriously. Whether they said so or not, most believed that the sailors had simply fallen into a bog and been sucked down.

There was less ambiguity about Malaera’s death. Morose from the beginning, the elderly Blue Robe priestess had finally succeeded in drowning herself in the lake. Damisa suspected that Liala blamed her personally for allowing the older woman to die.
It wasn’t even my turn to sit with her,
she told herself, with a pang of guilt, though it was true that she had been the one most often assigned to help.

“That’s cruel,” Damisa said suddenly. “You really wouldn’t miss Kalaran at all, would you!”

“Depends,” said Selast darkly. “Will I get his dinner?”

“You’re terrible,” Damisa said, not even noticing the tear in her own eye. “You wouldn’t even miss
me,
I guess!”

“What? Oh,
don’t
be stupid,” Selast began, but before she could say more, they emerged from the woods and found the settlement buzzing like a hive.

“A ship is coming!” Iriel was running toward them. “Reidel and his men sailed out to guide them in!”

“They left hours ago,” Elis added, approaching them. “We shouldn’t have to wait much longer.”

Everyone turned as Tiriki came out of her hut, waving cooing farewells to her baby, although little Domara seemed quite oblivious in the saji woman Metia’s arms. The birth and healthy growth of the child seemed to have made the high priestess into a far more cheerful person, but as Tiriki turned toward them and smiled in greeting, Damisa saw that the old familiar haunted pain had returned to Tiriki’s eyes.

“She’s hoping they bring news of Micail,” said Elis in a low voice.

“After all this time? Not too likely,” Selast scoffed.

“It’s all very well for you to sneer!” Elis snapped. “Your betrothed is still alive and well. And at least I
know
what happened to Aldel—I can mourn him properly. But not knowing . . .” She shook her head, eyes wet with compassion. “That must be the worst of all.”

Damisa grimaced, but she and her betrothed had only known each other for a year. She could hardly even remember what Kalhan looked like after all this time.

From the lake came the watchman’s high, clear call.

“Finally!” Iriel shouted and started running down the path that led to the river. Laughing, the others followed her.

They arrived just in time to watch the
Crimson Serpent
dropping anchor alongside another, smaller craft, not a warship but a midsize fishing boat, with only one mast and what looked like a crude shelter inside the ship. Her once-bright blue-and-copper paint had been worn away by wind and wave. Next to Reidel’s wingbird, she looked like a mule beside a racehorse; but mules are sturdy beasts. This craft had not only survived the Sinking but made it here . . . “How many of them, I wonder,” Damisa muttered.

Selast said, “I hope they brought something good to eat.”

“There you go again,” Elis reproved. “Just as likely, they’re hungrier than we are, and we’ll have to cast lots for every bite.”

“Good,” Selast growled. “I’m feeling lucky!”

By now, everyone for acres around must have heard about the arrival. At every moment someone else joined the crowd until the muddy shore was three-deep with marsh folk and Atlanteans, jostling one another and chattering excitedly.

As Reidel’s ship settled into place beside the other craft, some men on the shore swung planed logs to her side, and then two groups of sailors leaped lightly down to finish the job of securing the ships to the tree stump that served as a mooring post. Damisa found herself holding her breath as the huddle of shapes on deck separated enough for them to see the first passenger, a strongly built man with a grizzled black beard. Cautiously, he made his way across the plank, carrying a little girl who looked to be about five years old. As he stepped onto the narrow promenade, the child at last loosened her grip on the man’s neck and shoulders and looked about, allowing Damisa a quick glimpse of her face—well-shaped eyebrows, a noble nose, and a heart-shaped mouth.

The big man turned and watched anxiously as the sailors helped a slender woman step off the plank. She gazed at the watching crowd, and then, weeping gratefully, ran into the bearded man’s embrace.

“A family!” Iriel whispered. “A real family!”

“As opposed to a false one?” Selast scoffed.

But Damisa understood, or thought she did. Married or not, the priesthood did not always choose to live together in family units; among those who had escaped on the
Crimson Serpent,
there had been no such couples. There were, of course, many families of Lake folk, but these were Atlanteans, and possibly even of the priests’ caste . . . Damisa realized that the stinging in her eyes came from tears. Furtively she dashed them away as Tiriki hurried toward the newcomers, holding out her hands.

Damisa started after her with a spurt of resentment. The high priestess had apparently forgotten how to form a proper escort . . . But would these people even realize that Tiriki
was
a priestess? Damisa blinked, trying to reconcile her memory of the ethereal figure who had welcomed the Prince of Alkonath to Ahtarra so long ago with this woman whose wispy fair hair was already coming free from a simple braid. Yet if Tiriki’s coarse robe was badly woven, ragged at the hem and stained with mud, still she addressed the strangers with all the gravity and formal poise of a Guardian of Light.

Chedan had by now also joined the escort. Damisa noted with pride that he was at least wearing the golden cord of the Robe of Ceremony, although it was cinctured around a faded tunic . . .
Of course,
she thought,
these new people look pretty shabby too. But they have an excuse
—
they’ve been at sea!

Somehow, without ever quite letting go of the woman or the little girl, the bearded man bowed. “Honored Ones!” he said, in a warm voice that could be heard to the back of the crowd, “I am Forolin, merchant of the city of Ahtarra. And this is Adeyna, my beloved wife, who also greets you in great respect—and my daughter, Kestil. We—there was another, born just after the Sinking, but—” Realizing he was babbling, Forolin stopped. His chin twitched briefly. “We give thanks to the gods!” He touched his heart and extended the hand skyward. “For we have found you!”

“And you are most welcome here!” said Tiriki again, as she offered further blessings to the trio. “Forolin, Adeyna—and let this welcome be a personal one, for I have a little daughter of my own, just over a year old. Perhaps Kestil will like to play with Domara?”

“Indeed you
are
welcome,” Chedan said to Forolin. “But may I inquire where you have come from? Please tell me you have not spent two years upon the sea in that little boat!”

“No! No, indeed—” Forolin’s face grew grim again, as he delivered his daughter into his wife’s waiting arms. “We sought refuge on the mainland, in Olbairos, where my merchant house once maintained a trading station. We found it deserted, mostly, but we hoped to make a new start there. But there were so few of us—and then the plague came. We are the only ones who survived.”

“But how did you know where to look for us?” asked Chedan.

“I told you—Olbairos used to be a well-known trading station. The merchant fleet is long gone, of course, but natives still pass through there from time to time—even some from these isles. We had more than one report of others of our kind settling hereabouts.”

“More than one?” Tiriki turned toward him with a new sharpness in her voice. “You know of others?”

“Well, my lady, I have not seen them myself. And of course my informants mostly did their trading with the coastal settlements. The tribes that dwell inland are said to be strong and fierce. But it was said that several wingbirds had been sighted at Beleri’in, so we went there; it looked quite deserted, which is why we did not fight very hard when the storm drove us back out to sea. We were forced to turn west and northward, and when at last we were able to come to shore, we encountered a group of native hunters who told us you were here. As we were seeking you, your captain came to guide us in his ship. Please thank him for me! We are eternally in his debt, and yours.”

“It was storm winds that drove us here as well,” Chedan mused. “Maybe none can find this place, except they are called by the gods . . .”

“What we may offer you is little enough,” said Tiriki, “but we had some warning of your arrival, and so a hot meal awaits you, and dry, warm dwellings for you to rest in. Come now, let us begin to be friends.” She drew the merchant and his family toward the wooden trackway that led to the settlement below the Tor . . .

“I suppose,” Selast grumbled, “this means
we
will have to go to bed hungry—”

But no one was listening. Iriel clutched Damisa’s arm and pointed at a strange figure just crossing the plank from the fishing boat. “Who is
that
?”

Tall, rather gaunt, the stranger wore a dingy white robe that, after a moment’s examination, identified him as a priest of the Temple of Light. In each hand, he clutched a large leather satchel. Frowning, he stopped at the center of the plank, peering nervously at the curious crowd, but his face brightened as he recognized Chedan.

“Wise One!” He bowed as well as he could without dropping his bags in the mud of the wharf. “I am Dannetrasa of Caris. I doubt that you will remember me, but in Ahtarra I served with the Guardian Ardravanant in the Hall of Records—”

“Ardral!” Chedan explained. “Have you news of him? Did he escape?”

“Ah, if I only knew,” said Dannetrasa apologetically. “But if you knew
him—
”

“He was my uncle.”

“Then you know there is
no
reason to believe he would not escape! He was prepared, if any man ever was—” Dannetrasa paused again, and then hefted his satchels. “Of course you know, it was our duty to preserve what we could. And I have with me still a number of maps and several treatises about the stars—and some other things that may be useful—” Dannetrasa broke off again, as some sad memory seemed to pass before his eyes.

Chedan’s expression grew concerned. “Come with me, friend. I can see you have had a bitter time—let us make you welcome. You shall join the feast, such as it is, and then you will show me what treasures you bring in these sacks of yours!”

“Many things,” Dannetrasa repeated, with a grimace, “but no texts on healing, alas . . . Still, maybe they would not have helped. The sickness that drove us from Olbairos was unlike anything we had known.”

Despite the still-bright sunlight, Damisa shuddered, just as glad she could not hear the further details of their conversation as the two men moved away. Reidel, she observed, had taken it upon himself to arrange a proper welcome for the crew of the fishing craft. It was strange how relieved she felt at seeing him safely returned.