Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (43 page)

Rising from her bench, Anet bent with liquid grace in the salutation a neophyte makes to a high priestess. Tiriki raised one eyebrow. Did the girl think they would doubt her credentials, or did she have some other reason for wanting to impress them?

“Heralding Stars, child, you need not be so formal!” said Liala with a smile.

“I would not wish to presume,” Anet replied as she settled gracefully into her cross-legged pose once again. Tiriki had a sense that whatever had motivated that salutation, it had not been humility. “The other Sea People are very ceremonious, especially with us. Very proud.”

Tiriki felt the blood pound suddenly in her ears. “Sea People? What do you mean—?”

“The strangers,” Anet said simply. “The priests and priestesses who came in winged boats from the sea. People of your kind.”

Tiriki barely stopped herself from seizing the girl’s arm. “Who were they? Can you tell us any names?”

“When they first came we thought the old shaman was their leader. The one they call Ar-dral.”

Tiriki gasped. “Ardral?” she echoed. “Not Ardral of Atalan! Seventh Guardian of the Temple at Ahtarrath? Ardravanant?”

“I have heard him called that. But we do not see him so much anymore, since their prince—” Anet grimaced. “Tjalan—with his soldiers, brought the other priests to sing up the stones. But I see now that you two dress much the way some of
their
priestesses do. Maybe you know them too. There is Timul, and Elara—”

“Elara!” It was Liala’s turn to be excited. “Do you mean the acolyte Elara?”

“Yes, that is familiar . . .” Anet nodded slowly, eyes wide.

“And she’s a healer? I knew it!” Liala exclaimed with a grin.

“That’s—” Tiriki’s voice wavered. “You said there were other priests.
What are their names?
”

“Oh, so many—” The girl paused, blinking prettily. “There is Haladris, and Ocathrel, and Immamiri—many. I regret I did not get to know all their names, because my father so much wished me to marry their
other
prince to bring his blood into our line.” Anet gave Tiriki a sidelong smile. “A tall and handsome man with hair like new fire. Lord Micail.”

 

It was a pity, thought Chedan, that this news should come just now. Poor Alyssa had not even received their full attention at her funeral.

It did not take long to call the community together, nor much longer to hear what the Ai-Zir girl had to say about the Atlanteans and their plans to build a great circle of stones in Azan. Tiriki wanted to set off on the journey at once, and when they sought to restrain her, she had collapsed. It was ironic, considering how well she had coped with their countless perils, that she should be undone by joy. But it was often so, he remembered, after a long period of mourning.

Once Tiriki had been put to bed, and the guests settled in shelters for the night, Chedan sat for many hours before the council fire. The heavens wheeled above him, revealing both familiar and still unknown stars in the unusually clear night sky. Tiriki had been given herbs to make her sleep, but one by one the others came to join him, minds too awhirl with speculation for speech. By the time the fire had sunk to a smolder of coals and some white curls of smoke, each face could be clearly seen, for it was dawn.

“We must join them,” Rendano was saying, “and the sooner, the better. These Ai-Zir tribes clearly command more resources than the natives here. We would have some hope of reestablishing our own way of living.” The glance he cast toward the rude structures whose thatched roofs could just be seen through the trees was eloquent of disdain.

“I am not so sure,” Liala put in. “Before Alyssa died . . . she spoke of danger from circles and stones. Now we learn our compatriots are just on the other side of those hills, building—a circle of stones. Is it not possible that the danger Alyssa warned of will come from
them
?”

“From our own people?” exclaimed Damisa in amazement.

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but we all know Alyssa was crazy,” Reidel echoed her.

At this, Chedan looked up, but he bit back the words. Reidel had made great progress, but he understood nothing about the strange forces a seeress must contend with—no one who had not walked that path could truly understand.

“Since when did
madness
ever prevent one from seeing the truth?” asked little Iriel, who—Chedan suddenly noticed—was not so little any more. In the past six years she had become a woman. At home, he mused, all of the acolytes would have been advanced to full priest or priestess by now.

“Alyssa lived in her own world,” Iriel continued. “But when we could make sense of her ravings, there was usually some truth in them. So—so I think Liala’s right. What if these plains people are forcing our priests to build for them? Taret says they are a powerful tribe.”

“I think that girl did not begin to tell us all she knows,” Forolin put in unexpectedly. “Her father is the king—if Prince Tjalan has really taken over, how does that sit with the other tribes? If one of them wanted to revolt we would be valuable hostages—something of the sort happened on a trade route I used to travel when younger. I am as eager as anyone here to go somewhere more civilized,” Forolin went on earnestly, “but we shouldn’t rush in. Things are not so bad here.”

“Yes, life is hard, but we are secure.” Selast laid a protective hand over her belly. “And I can hardly go a-wandering just now.”

Chedan stroked his beard, thoughtful. He was willing enough to let the others speculate on danger from the natives, but Alyssa’s words still echoed in his memory. She had not spoken of danger from people, but from the stones themselves.

The others had grown quiet. Looking up, Chedan realized that they had been watching him. He looked from one face to another. “I sense we may be moving toward some sort of decision,” he observed, “but if experience has taught me anything, it is that someone always has a last word . . .”

Damisa’s frown had been growing. “Well, no one has asked for
my
opinion!” she said sharply. “How can we not go? Not only are these our own people, but Micail and a lot of other Guardians are there. Surely whatever they are building is part of the new Temple, just as it says in the prophecy that everybody used to make so much noise about! Do you really believe a lot of savages could control so many adepts and priests—especially if Tjalan is there to guard them? Or is it
Tjalan
you are worrying about? He will protect us too—or don’t you trust anybody who isn’t from Ahtarrath?”

“No, no, no,” Chedan said soothingly. “Dear Damisa, where does
this
come from? Selast and Kalaran are hardly Ahtarrans. Indeed I am Alkonan myself, you might recall . . . No, for good or for ill, my friends, we are all Atlanteans together in this new land.”

“It is not Prince Tjalan we doubt,” said Kalaran, “but the people between us and him.”

Liala nodded. “Forolin made an important point. If Tjalan has enough men to threaten the tribes, the natives may indeed think of using us as a shield against them. And if Tjalan is not strong enough to deter them—need I say more?”

“Why not send a few to make contact?” Liala suggested. “Some of the younger folk, who can go swiftly. If all is well, the prince can send an escort for the rest of us. After so long a separation, surely we can wait a little longer to rejoin our friends and countrymen.”

“I have been thinking much the same thing.” Dannetrasa nodded.

“So it seems that most of us agree,” observed Chedan. “Perhaps Damisa should be one of the party, since she is familiar not only with the ways of the local wildlife, but is also Tjalan’s cousin. Damisa? What do you say?”

“I will go with some of my men to guard her,” Reidel offered when he saw Damisa’s eager nod.

“But should we not send someone—more senior?” asked Rendano.

“I hope you don’t mean me.” Chedan shook his head. “Do
you
wish to go? Besides, Damisa is the eldest of the Chosen Twelve, and thus under law has rank and standing in any Atlantean court or temple.”

“But what about Tiriki?” asked Damisa. “She’ll want to go—”

“But she should not just now, I think. She needs time to recover,” Chedan responded. Alyssa’s words still bothered him, and it would hardly be tactful to point out that the high priestess was not expendable . . . “But somehow I doubt that she will agree with me. I suggest that you and Reidel gather some men and supplies and leave, soon—as soon as possible,” he added wryly, “preferably before she awakens. I do not wish to have to tie her up to keep her from following you.”

D
id you hear the news? Anet is back from the Lake lands—”

The voice was that of one of the native slave women the Alkonans had recently bought to help with the work of the new community.

Micail, passing behind the kitchen hut on his way to the gate, could not help hearing them.

“Is she?” another slave said. “Did she bring her bow and arrows? That’s the only way she will capture Fire-hair!”

Micail felt a slow flush burn his cheeks as the women laughed. He had been aware of his nickname, but he had not realized that Anet’s interest in him was common knowledge.

The first voice spoke again. “The news is she travels with strangers. More Sea People—different ones.”

“Where do they come from?” someone asked.

“Somewhere in the marshes. They have been there for years, they say. I hear they don’t look much like the new masters; they dress like marsh people. But taller, so maybe.”

“Say, I heard one of them is—”

“Hush,” a new voice interrupted, probably a supervisor. “Anyone could hear you shrieking. We will know all about it soon enough. No doubt the Falcon lords will want to see them.” The scrape, scrape, scrape of the grinding stones never ceased, but otherwise, there was deafening silence from within the kitchen hut.

Presently Micail turned away and began to walk back toward the central court. With a detached curiosity he realized that his heart was still pounding heavily, though he had been standing still.
Perhaps,
he thought,
I had better stop in and see Tjalan . . .

 

By the time Anet and her traveling companions arrived, everyone in the community had heard that they were coming. Rumors flew wildly, some less absurd than others. Mahadalku and most of the senior priesthood declined to join the crowd waiting on the commons, but Haladris was there.

A second drop of water struck Elara’s head and she frowned up at the sky. More clouds were rushing in to blot out the morning’s fragile blue. The natives counted the beginning of summer from a point halfway between equinox and solstice, but one shouldn’t try to tell the season by the weather, Elara thought grimly. She pulled her shawl up over her head as the first spatterings turned into a light rain.

Someone at the front was pointing, and Elara realized that she had arrived just in time. A group of people was approaching across the plain. Even at a distance she recognized Anet’s dun hair and her easy way of moving, and the two Blue Bull warriors that always escorted her. Behind them she could see a knot of tall, bronze-skinned men in wool and leather, and gleaming from among them, one head of long auburn hair that had never been born to the tribes.

“Who is that?” asked Cleta, stretching on tiptoes beside her and wiping rain out of her eyes. “Can you see?”

“They are Atlanteans, that’s for sure . . . Heart of Manoah! I think it’s Damisa!” Elara blinked, trying to reconcile her memories of a gawky adolescent with the young goddess who was striding toward them.

As Anet’s group reached the crowd, Micail stepped forward from his place beside Prince Tjalan as if unable to stand still any longer. Some of the stiffness seemed to leave his shoulders, but there was still tension in his stance. Elara felt her heart wrench with pity, then noticed that Anet was watching Micail as well, her expression like that of a fox who eyes a cock pheasant, wondering whether it will be able to fly away.
You still do not see he is not for you,
Elara thought grimly.
Or for me . . .
she reflected ruefully. His rejection of her offer had been polite, but clear.
If Tiriki lives, he will go to her. And if she does not . . . I think he will remain as he is.

Tjalan, too, stepped forward now, all smiles. Seeing him, Damisa bent in the salutation due a reigning prince, her face radiant. She then performed the proper obeisances to Ardral and to Micail, as lords of the Temple, but her gaze, it seemed, could not quite tear itself away from the Prince of Alkonath.

“Why, it is my little cousin!” exclaimed Tjalan. “Praise to the God of Roads for your arrival! Now enter in a good hour, and let no fear trouble you while you are in my domain. Welcome! Welcome indeed, cousin. This is joy beyond imagining.”

As Damisa straightened, her blushes barely contained, Elara saw her surreptitiously tug down the skirts of her gown and suppressed a grin.
She has grown taller, too!