Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (38 page)

Sahurusartha knelt before a small marble bowl set on a low altar in the west and intoned the Alkonan form of the Hymn of Placation to Four-Faced Banur, Destroyer and Preserver, God of Winter and of Water, while the Tarissedan priest Delengirol twice raised and then lowered a filigreed platter of salt to the north, for Ni-Terat was honored without words.

Micail strode to the southern edge of the embankment, his staff held high. The orichalcum knob on its head blazed like a star in the noonday sun.

“By the power of Holy Light let this place be purified!” he cried. “By the wisdom of Holy Light let it be warded! By the strength of Holy Light let it be secure!”

He turned to his right and slowly began to pace around the circle as the other three followed, purifying each quarter with the four sacred elements. As they did so, the other priests and priestesses softly sang—

Micail could feel the familiar slip and shift of gravity that told him the warding was rising around them. It was not only the copious incense smoke that caused everything beyond the circle to waver as if seen through water. The singers were separating the stones from the ordinary world . . .

He completed the circuit as the chant ended and stood for a moment, listening. They had shaped the stones well to contain both sound and energy. Whatever noise the Ai-Zir might be making outside the circle was less than the whisper of wind in the trees. He let out his breath in relief. Speaking with the native workers, he had grown accustomed to thinking of the stones as a Sun Wheel, but what they had designed was intended to function as a resonator, amplifying soundwaves into a force that could be directed along the lines of energy that flowed through the land. With that power at their command they could build a new Temple to rival the old. Strictly speaking, so powerful a warding should not be necessary for this sort of Working, but he had enough respect for the power of Droshrad’s shamans to take precautions against any chance of magical interference.

Once the sacred elements had been returned to their altars, Micail and the other hierarchs removed their masks and joined the ranks of the singers. He took a moment to examine each one as he passed by—the more experienced priests were already expressionless with concentration, the younger ones wide-eyed with last-minute nerves.

Haladris had taken up his position and now addressed them all. “You know what you are to do—” He fixed each stand-leader in turn with his hooded glare. “I will give you the keynotes, and then the bass singers will project the sound toward the stone. As the chord builds, it will rise, and I will direct it. Remember! It is focus, not volume, that is needed here. Let us begin.” Very softly, he hummed the short and innocuous-seeming sequence of notes that they had been practicing for the last few days.

Haladris lifted his hand, and the three bassos, Delengirol, Immamiri, and Ocathrel, emitted a wordless hum so deep it seemed to vibrate out of the earth itself. The stone did not move yet, of course, but the first, responsive stirring of the particles within were apparent to Micail’s inner eye.

The baritones came in, Ardral and Haladris dominating until they modulated their voices, blending with Metanor, Reualen, and the others in that range until all their throats were producing the same rich note. The shimmering energy about the target stone became almost perceptible to ordinary vision as Micail and the other tenors eased into the growing resonance, balancing the middle range.

The sarsen was shaking, its concave face glittering weirdly with inner light. Now was the time when care was needed, lest they shatter the stone instead of raising it.

The contraltos joined the developing harmony, and then the sopranos came in, doubling the volume, and the song became a rainbow of overwhelming sound. The stone moved—empty space could be seen beneath it.

Smoothly, the singers modulated the great chord upward. The sarsen lifted past their knees, and then waist-high, moving upward with the music until it was even with their shoulders . . . and had passed them. Micail could feel the massive power flowing around and through Haladris, even as he used his own gift to augment and refine it.

The uprights of the trilithon were three times the height of a man. As the sarsen lintel floated toward its destination, the heads of the singers tipped back to keep it in view.

Once more Micail’s stern will controlled his emotions as the slowly rising arms of the archpriest lifted their voices and, with them, the great sarsen stone. Watching it riding the tide of sound, Micail felt his spirit expanding with a joy that was entirely pure.
This—
the thought flitted through his awareness—
this is what we are seeking. Not power, but harmony . . .

The stone hesitated, hovering alongside the tops of the uprights. Haladris nudged it a fraction higher so that it would clear the bumps of the tenons in the center of each, then eased it forward until the hollows on the underside of the lintel were just above them; and lowering his hands a little, he modulated the volume of the singing and allowed the stone to settle into place.

Micail straightened and let out his breath in a long sigh. They had done it! He nodded to the singers, whose faces glowed with quiet pride. But their shoulders sagged and he knew they shared his exhaustion as well. Once more he could hear the murmur of the crowd outside, shrill now with wonder. King Khattar was grinning as though he had won a battle. Already the drums were booming. Micail winced with each beat as if the blows fell upon his very flesh, but he knew that they would not cease.
As well ask wild geese not to fly.

 

King Khattar, ecstatic at the success of the Working, was as determined to celebrate as if he himself had raised the stone. The other priests and priestesses had been allowed to retire to their dwellings, but the king had insisted that Micail stay to represent them at the feast. He yawned and tried to focus his bleary eyes. The night was fair and almost windless, and the fires at which each clan and tribal chieftain feasted glowed like scattered stars. King Khattar’s tents were closest to the henge. He was enthroned now on an oddly shaped bench over which his men had thrown a red cowhide. His nephew and heir, Khensu, sat upon a stool at his feet. For the important guests, there were other benches, but the king’s warriors lounged at their ease on hides laid upon the ground. Tjalan and Antar and their officers squatted somewhat farther off, beside the sons of the chiefs of other tribes.

Torches had been raised in front of the completed trilithon so that the king could continue to gaze raptly upon it. Red light played on the two massive uprights and the heavy lintel that crowned them, stark against the crisp stars, and Micail suddenly had the odd fancy that it had become a gigantic doorway to the Otherworld.
And what would I find if I passed between them? Does Tiriki await me on the other side?

Holding out his beaker to be refilled, he realized too late that the graceful maiden carrying the jar was Anet.

“Your magic is indeed great,” she said as she bent closer than was necessary merely to pour the beer. At least she was fully clad this time, but still Micail drew back a little, dizzied by the scent of her hair. At that, she laughed softly and, handing off her jar to one of the other girls, slid onto the bench beside him.

“Now that the stone is up, you need sleep alone no longer, yes?”

“You know my prince will not allow me to marry—”

She shook her head, eyes flashing. “I laugh! Those are words for you to say to my father, not to me. I know, in rank, you are equal. But you need not fear. Marriage was my father’s idea, not mine.” She leaned against him with an alluring smile, her flesh warm even through his rough tunic.

Micail lifted a hand to push her away, but somehow it settled instead upon her silky hair. His brows bent in confusion. “Then why—? Why are you—”
What are you doing?
was what he meant to say, but his tongue would not obey him.

“You serve the truth,” she said then. “Can you truly say you do not want me?”

He felt the blood rush to his face, and elsewhere as well, and without a conscious decision he pulled her closer and his lips met hers. Her mouth was very sweet, and he was painfully aware of how long it had been since he had held a woman in his arms.

“You have answered me,” she said when he let her go at last. “Now I will answer you. I do not wish to be your wife, O prince from the far lands. But I want to bear your child.”

Her hand drifted lower. He certainly could not deny that he wanted her now. “Not here, not yet,” he said hoarsely. “Your father is watching . . .” And, indeed, within the moment he heard King Khattar call his name.

Micail jerked around. The king was smiling. Had he seen?

“Now the stones
are
up, eh? Now all the world sees my power!” The royal laughter echoed from the walls. “Now comes time to use it!”

Micail stiffened in alarm.

Khattar leaned forward, his breath reeking of wine and meat. “We show them, aye! All people who do not follow the Bull! The People of the Hare, the Ai-Akhsi who live in the land you call Beleri’in—they defy us. And the Ai-Ilf, the Boar Tribe to the north, they steal our cows! We will attack them now, not to raid but to conquer, for we will have swords that do not bend or break in battle! Swords that cut through wood and leather and bone!”

Micail shook his head, trying to clear it of the double effect of arousal and alcohol, as Anet slid away from his side and slipped off into the crowd. Prince Tjalan was sitting up now as well, eyes narrowing as he tried to hear what was happening on the other side of the fire.

“You have good blades of strong bronze,” Micail began, but the king pounded his knee.

“No! I have seen your blades with the white edges cut wood as readily as our knives cut grass!” Khattar clapped his hand to the sheathed dagger that hung around his neck by a braided thong, making the tiny golden nails that studded its grip flash in the firelight. Khensu had risen and now loomed behind his uncle, hand on the hilt of his own blade.

Micail stifled a groan. He had counseled Tjalan against allowing his men to demonstrate the sharpness of those blades so casually. “We do not have enough of them to arm your warriors,” he began, but Khattar wouldn’t stop bellowing.

“But
you
are the great shamans foretold in our tales! We have seen it! You will make more.”

Micail shook his head, wondering if he dared admit they
could not
do so even if they willed. In time, even the orichalcum that edged the swords they had would begin to flake away, until at last it dissolved into its component minerals; and among all the priests and mages who had escaped the Sinking, there was not one—so far as he knew—who had the talent needed to forge the sacred metal anew.

“You will give your oath to do this—” Khensu’s hoarse whisper sounded in his ear, as one strong arm clamped both his own to his sides and he felt the cold kiss of metal at his throat. “Or you taste
this.
”

Micail cast a frantic glance toward Tjalan, but the Alkonan prince was nowhere to be seen. If Tjalan could reach his men, at least they would be able to protect the others. He took a deep breath, and then another, and as his pounding pulse grew calmer he thought he heard shouting from beyond the fire.
Great Maker,
he prayed fervently,
don’t let them catch Tjalan!

A crowd of men pushed forward and Micail recognized two chieftains from other tribes, with warriors behind them.

“Why does King Khattar wish to kill the stranger shaman before he has finished raising the stones?” came a girl’s voice, teasingly familiar. Was it Anet? He strained to see her, struggling to understand.

“You are high king, Red Bull, but you are not alone!” called the man who ruled the land where Carn Ava lay. “Let the outland priest go.”

Khensu’s arm tightened, muscles rope-hard beneath the skin, and Micail felt a warm trickle of blood run down his neck. The younger man smelled of wood smoke and fear.

“If you wish to be king after your father, you should obey them now,” said Micail, but Khensu was not listening. Even through the tumult and uproar, the regular tramping of feet could be heard. Tjalan had returned with his soldiers.

Micail did not know whether to be glad or sorry, but he had no time to wonder. In a disciplined rush, the spearmen forced a wedge through friend and foe—and a single javelin arced through the air.

Later, Micail thought the guardsman’s throw had been meant only to frighten the king. But Khattar, rising from his seat like an enraged bear, was caught full in the right shoulder. With a dull cry, he spun around and fell. Khensu’s grip loosened, the knife dropping away from Micail’s throat. Seizing the chance, Micail grabbed his captor’s knife hand and twisted it away, leaping free—suddenly the soldiers were all around him.

A careful swallow reassured Micail that his throat had not been cut. He saw Khensu struggling with one of the soldiers, while Khattar lay curled up on the ground, cursing and gripping his pierced shoulder. Micail broke through the protective circle of soldiers and knelt at the king’s side, prying up the man’s bloody fingers to examine the damage. Khattar gazed up at him with uncomprehending fury as Micail drove the heel of his own hand hard against the wound to control the bleeding. Turning, he drew a deep breath.

“Be still!” It was the voice that had helped raise the stone, and it shocked the crowd to silence. “King Khattar lives!”

“Return to your firesides! We will hold council in the morning—” Tjalan’s voice echoed his, and if it held no compulsion, still everyone recognized the note of command. Slowly the crowd began to disperse. Tjalan bent over and placed his hand upon Micail’s shoulder.