Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (40 page)

“You wandered in the spirit while you slept on the mountainside,” Rendano said with a thin smile.

“No, I believe her,” objected Liala. “I followed her into the passage made by the waters of the White Spring and went back to the entrance to wait for her when my hip pained me. She did not emerge that way, and we found her on top of the Tor.”

“Then there was another exit—”

“The acolytes have scoured that hill by daylight and found none,” observed Chedan. “I have myself explored the passage to the spring, without finding the tunnel—I believe it is there, though I find no rationale for it.

“You have spoken much with Taret, lately . . .” Chedan turned to Alyssa. “What does she say?” Washed, combed, and dressed in her ceremonial garments, the seeress seemed to have recovered some degree of mental and emotional stability. They might as well take advantage of her fleeting moments of clarity.

“Much that I may not tell,” answered Alyssa with a smile that reminded them of the woman they had known in Ahtarrath. “But I have
seen—
” Her voice wavered, and Liala put out a hand to steady her. “I have seen a crystal hill with the pattern of the maze gleaming with light.” She shuddered and looked around as if wondering what she was doing there.

Liala cast an accusing glance at Chedan and then handed Alyssa an earthen mug of water.

“Thank you, Alyssa,” Tiriki said softly, patting her shoulder. “That is what I was trying to say.” She turned to the others. “Perhaps it was some rare conjunction of the stars that opened the way, or perhaps it was only meant for me. But I wonder—if we were to cut the pattern of the maze upon the outside of the hill, somehow I feel—that we might learn how to reach the Otherworld by walking it. And who knows what we might learn then?”

“Fancies and notions,” Rendano muttered, not so softly.

But Chedan frowned thoughtfully. “For so long, our work here has been directed toward mere survival. Is it time now to build on that foundation, to gather our singers together and create something new?”

“Do you mean we should raise stones and build a great city around the Tor? I do not think the marsh folk would be very comfortable there . . .” Liala said dubiously.

“No,” Chedan murmured. “Cities arise for a reason. I think this place will never be able to support such a population, nor should it. I am beginning to glimpse something different. Perhaps . . . Let us begin by simply tracing the maze upon the surface of the hill and learning to walk that spiral path . . . I think that what we have been granted is an opportunity to create in this place the kind of spiritual harmony that once existed on the Star Mountain.”

“A new Temple?” asked Rendano doubtfully.

“Yes, but it will be unlike anything that has gone before.”

A dozen voices joined in as Otter rose from his bench and gyrated around the circle, pretending to pounce on one or another feaster as he passed.

In honor of the wedding, the marsh folk had brewed a quantity of something they called heather beer. It was only moderately alcoholic, but as the Atlanteans usually abstained from alcohol, and the natives drank only at festivals, even a little went a long way. Though she had at first grimaced at the mix of herbal flavors only slightly lightened by a hint of honey, Damisa had progressed to an expansive enjoyment that kept her going back to the skin that hung from the oak tree for more. After cup number four she had stopped counting.

She noted without surprise that the singers had run out of villagers to tease and were starting on the Atlanteans. Such foolishness would never have been tolerated at home. Nor would there have been so public a celebration after a mere wedding. It was a measure of the degree to which the new and the old inhabitants of the Tor had become one community that the villagers had offered to prepare a feast for the newlyweds in the broad meadow by the shore. Tiriki and Chedan had accepted only after some serious debate with the others. In Atlantis, the matings of the priestly class had been occasions of high ceremony, not of bad jokes and strong drink.

But why should I care?
Damisa asked herself as the buzz in her ears grew louder.
Neither by the old custom nor the new will there be a mate for me . . .

The game required that the person being “honored” get up and dance around the circle. Liala, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, made a slow circle and then, to the accompaniment of enthusiastic cheering, bestowed a hearty kiss on the leader of the singers, a grey-bearded elder who was the closest thing the villagers had to a bard.

Not anymore . . .
thought Damisa, glumly.
She’ll be hobbled now, at Kalaran’s beck and call . . .

The brilliance of the long summer’s day was softening now to a luminous twilight. Treetops edged the clearing with an interlace of branches, black against the shell pink of the western sky, but eastward, the long slope of the Tor still caught the light. For a moment it seemed to Damisa that the glow came from within. Or perhaps it was only the drink, she told herself then, for when she blinked and looked again, all she could see was a dim bulk above the trees.

Someone called out in the marsh folk tongue and was answered by cheers and laughter. It took Damisa a few moments to realize they were calling for volunteers to escort the bridal couple to their bedding. She allowed herself one look at her beloved. Selast’s flower crown was askew, her eyes bright with mingled excitement and apprehension.

“Go with your
husband
. . .” she muttered, lifting her cup in ironic salutation, “and when you lie in his arms, may you wish that you were still in mine.”

The escort returned and the dancing started up once more. Reidel had taken over one of the drums. His teeth flashed white in his dark face as he grinned, his fingers flickering above the taut skin. She observed a little resentfully that he seemed to be having a good time. Some of the sailors whirled by hand in hand with village girls. Iriel was sitting with Elis on a log at the edge of the clearing. Otter stood by them, and as Damisa watched, Iriel laughed at something he said and allowed him to lead her into the dance.

As Damisa got up to refill her cup, she encountered Tiriki, who was getting ready to leave the celebration, holding a sleepy Domara by the hand. Chedan and the other senior clergy had already gone.

“It is well past her bedtime,” said Tiriki with a smile, “but she did want to see the dancing.”

“It certainly is different from the way we celebrated things in the Temple,” Damisa answered sourly, remembering the exquisitely prepared meals and the stately dances.

“But you can see why. Survival is so uncertain here. It’s no wonder that when people have food and fire in abundance they revel in it. It’s an affirmation of life for them, and for us, as well. But now it’s time for sleep, isn’t it, my darling?” Tiriki added as Domara yawned. “Will you walk with us back to the Tor?”

Damisa shook her head. “I’m not ready to seek my bed.”

Tiriki eyed the cup in Damisa’s hand and frowned, as if considering whether or not to exert her authority. “Don’t stay here and brood. I know that you and Selast were close, but—”

“But it is possible to live unmated, you would say? Like you?” Even as Damisa spoke she knew the beer had betrayed her.

Tiriki straightened, eyes flashing, and Damisa took an involuntary step backward.

“Like me?” Tiriki spoke with quiet intensity. “Pray to the gods that you never know the joy I had, lest you also one day feel my pain.” She turned abruptly and strode away, leaving Damisa staring stupidly.

Events after that became a little hazy. At one point she looked up to see Otter and Iriel heading for the bushes, arms entwined. She got to her feet, blinking. Only a few people were left beside the fire. Reidel was one of them.

“My lady, are you well?” He came quickly toward her. “Can I help you back to the House of Maidens?”

“Well? Very well . . .” Damisa giggled and steadied herself against his shoulder. He smelled of heather beer and sweat. “But I’m . . . a little drunk.” She hiccuped and laughed again. “P’raps we’d better wait . . . a while.”

“Walking will help,” he said firmly, tucking her arm in his. “We’ll take the path that circles the Tor.”

Damisa was not entirely sure that she wanted to lose the warm buzz of the beer. But she had noticed before that Reidel’s arm was strong and comforting. Holding on to him did make her feel better, and when they sat down to rest on a grassy bank with a view of moonlight on the water, it seemed natural to rest her head against his shoulder. Gradually her dizziness began to ease.

It took a little while for her to notice that fine tremors were shaking the hard muscle beneath her cheek. She straightened, shaking her head.

“You are trembling—are you cold, or was I too heavy for you?”

“No . . .” His voice, too, seemed strained. “Never. I was foolish to think I could . . . that you would not know . . .”

“Know what?”

He released her abruptly and turned away, his body a dark shape against the stars. “How hard it is for me to hold you and do no more . . .”

That heather beer has loosened your control too,
she thought then,
or you would not dare to say so!
But why should she deny him, she wondered then, since Selast was lost to her?

“Then do it—” she said, grasping his arm and drawing him back to face her.

Reidel came closer in a single smooth movement that took her by surprise, one arm tightening around her waist while the other lifted to tangle in her hair. In another moment he had pulled her against him and his lips sought hers, at first tentative, then hard as her own need responded to his. The stars whirled overhead as he bore her down upon the grass, his hands first questioning, then demanding, as lacings and pins gave way.

Her breath came faster as a slow fire that owed nothing to the heather beer began to burn beneath her skin. In those moments when his lips were not otherwise busied, Reidel’s voice was a whispered accompaniment of wonder and adoration.

This is not right,
thought Damisa in a moment of clear thought as he released her in order to pull off his tunic.
I am only driven by lust, and he by love . . .

But then Reidel rolled back and his wandering hand found the sanctuary between her thighs. Desire descended upon Damisa like the coming of a goddess, melting all her thoughts of restraint, and she welcomed his hard strength as his body covered hers.

 

Tiriki lay wakeful upon her narrow bed, but sleep would not come. She could hear the drumming from the fire circle like the throbbing pulse of a man and woman in the throes of love. Her lips twitched with wry amusement. There had been gasps and laughter from among the bushes as she carried Domara back to bed, and she had been grateful the child was not awake to ask her what was making the noise. Weddings were celebrated at times propitious for matings, so it was no wonder if others found themselves stirred by the same energies.

Unfortunately she could feel that yearning as well as anyone else, and she was alone. She could imagine herself in Micail’s arms, but the stimulation of memory was no substitute for the exchange of magnetism that took place with a physical partner.

From beyond the curtain Tiriki could hear Domara’s regular breathing, and an occasional snore from Metia, who still served as the child’s nursemaid. Moving softly so as not to wake them, Tiriki got up and pulled a shawl over the shift in which she slept.

She would go and see if Taret, who customarily kept late hours, was also wakeful. The older woman’s wisdom had supported her through many crises—perhaps Taret could teach her how to survive the endless loneliness of the coming years.

 

“Will it be permitted . . . do you think they will they let us marry?”

Damisa came back to full awareness with a start as she realized that Reidel was talking to her. He had been speaking for quite some time, actually, words of love which she had ignored as she tried to understand just what had happened between them and why.