Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (47 page)

T
iriki was wearing blue.

In the dreams that had haunted his sleep since her messenger arrived, Micail had imagined her wearing, if not the pristine vestments of a Guardian of Light, at least the simple white robes of the Temple. Still, even at a distance, there could be no question that it was her. No one else in these lands had such golden hair.

But she was not alone. Four others advanced up the hill beside her, a balding middle-aged priest in a rather threadbare white robe trimmed with faded red, and two strong commoners in boots and hide tunics, armed with orichalcum-tipped pikes. There was also another woman in blue.
Perhaps Elis?
Micail wondered.
Damisa said Selast was pregnant . . .
He shook his head at the thought of any of them pregnant. He remembered the lost acolytes as mere children, but of course five years would have changed that.

Had Tiriki changed? Had
he
?

Micail’s heart pounded in his chest. Were the five figures really alone? From what hidden place in the wilderness of misty hills ahead had they come? A dense grey haze veiled the plains behind him, even this slope where he and Tjalan stood waiting, as if this spot with its enigmatic overgrown earthen walls were no more than a way station in the mists of the Otherworld.

The wind picked up, and suddenly they were close enough for their faces to be clear. Tiriki looked not so much older as stronger, as if hardship had emphasized the fine bone structure of her face and given tone to her musculature. In fact, she looked, if possible, more like
herself
than ever. Whatever she had been through, it seemed to have done her no harm. She moved with the grace of one at ease in her flesh, and her skin had the healthy glow that comes from being much outdoors.

And now Tiriki was near enough for their eyes to meet—and what he saw in hers made him start to close the remaining few feet between them.

Tjalan laid a hand on his arm. “Wait! I thought we agreed—”

Micail turned, almost snarling, “She is my
wife
!”

The prince’s bodyguards were just out of earshot, but they tensed and bent closer like falcons catching sight of prey.

“Indeed,” the prince murmured, one hand still lightly gripping Micail’s arm. “But Damisa has had a lot to say about how closely Tiriki has been working with Chedan. He kept her from coming to you before. Would it be so surprising if a woman—left alone—were to transfer her loyalty?”

“Ever since we left Azan you have been pouring this poison into my ears,” Micail growled.

“Just look at her robes,” Tjalan tried again. “If she has turned away from Manoah, why not from you? I warn you—we should not trust her any more than we do Khayan-e-Durr—or that firebrand Timul!”

“Unless you propose to stop me with that fancy blade on your belt, I am going to talk to her—alone if I may—with you, if I may not!”

Tiriki could not but notice the tension between the two men, the anxious hovering of Tjalan’s swordsmen. Micail saw her gaze grow even more expressionless as he frowned.

“My lord Tjalan!” she said, with a formal nod. “May I present my companions, the acolyte Elis and Rendano, formerly a priest of the Temple on Akil.”

I am not frowning at you, my darling!
Micail thought desperately.
What are you feeling?
Look
at me!
For five years he had lived within an invisible wall. When he learned Tiriki still lived it had begun to crumble. Now he could feel the pressure of his need for her about to burst within him like a rushing flood.

“It is not for me to welcome you to this land, where we are all only travelers . . .” Tiriki went on. “I perceive that the Great Mother rules here, as at home. Therefore we greet you in Her name—in the name of Caratra, whom we called Ni-Terat in the old land.”

Surely this formality is a defense . . . perhaps I appear equally cold to her,
Micail told himself as Tjalan began to reply with something about honor and fortune and meetings.
I dreamed of this day, but there was never any dream like this. How can she be so controlled? She is my beloved! Yet she is like a stranger . . .

“Tiriki—” It was less a greeting than a groan, but he no longer cared. She looked at him then, and he felt the jolt of contact between them.
It’s all right,
he thought in relief.
Words can wait . . . the bond between us is still here!
He stepped forward to take her in his arms, seeking her lips as a man dying of thirst seeks a well.

After an endless moment he realized that Tjalan was speaking once more, and reluctantly he let Tiriki go, though he still kept his arm linked through hers.

“My lady—let me say first that I am very sorry for any misunderstandings that may have clouded what should only be the most joyful of reunions. I am sure that your messenger Reidel was a fine ship’s captain, and he is no doubt possessed of other talents as well— but I suspect he may not quite be up to the nuances of communication at the higher levels of society.”

The touch of Tiriki’s spirit warmed Micail as if he stood beside a flame, but her expression was contained once more. Tjalan took it as a sign of Tiriki’s agreement, and gestured toward the group of folding stools and tables that had been set beneath an awning. On a pole beside it, a circle of falcons fluttered on a banner of Alkonan green.

“Please, let us sit for a while and talk quietly as friends should, for surely that is what we are. We have provided some good local cheese and fine waybreads for your refreshment, along with a bottle of Tarissedan wine.”

“Your hospitality is most welcome, my lord,” said Rendano, and sat down almost eagerly. Elis uneasily took a seat next to him and toyed nervously with the food.

“This is . . . pleasant,” said Tiriki. “One might almost think oneself on a jaunt to the backcountry of Ahtarrath. The hills were almost this green in the spring—and as likely to be covered with ruins.”

“Indeed, there are many similarities—” Tjalan began, but her gentle voice overrode him.

“But what will you drink when this wine is gone?” She turned her silver goblet enough that the sunlight touched the ruby liquid within, then set it to her lips and drank it down.

“An interesting point,” said Tjalan. “It is true that this particular vintage is now hard to come by . . . But we shall have something not too different, once the trade routes have been reestablished. Oh yes, the wingbirds will fly again, my lady! Already we have built three fine new ships, and there are more in the making.”

“You mean to rebuild your principality, then?”

Prince Tjalan smiled. “A principality? Nay, an empire—brighter than before. The population to support it is here, and thanks to men of wisdom like your husband—the power to rule it.”

Micail suspected that he could not have spoken had he wanted to. Tiriki’s fair face—her cool eyes, grey-green as the sea—that vision was enough for him, even when her glance turned toward Tjalan.

“It is true,” said Tiriki quietly. “There is power in this land. And you have been building more than ships, I hear.”

“Yes,” the prince said, and smiled. “A Sun Circle—a henge. The stones are not yet all sung into place, but when it is finished there will be no end to what we can do. Surely you see, Tiriki, you need not fear to entrust your people to me. We have the resources to house and feed them, and useful work to do.” Tjalan glanced briefly toward Micail as he added, “This
is
the work of the prophecies, after all—your husband is laying the foundations of the new Temple.”

“Yes! You must come,” exclaimed Micail, taking refuge from his emotion in the superficial talk. “What I have heard about those marshes has filled me with horror. To imagine you, beloved, scratching for every bite of food—sleeping on straw and skins—eaten alive by insects!” He shook his head.

“Is that what Damisa tells you?”

“She has hardly needed to,” Tjalan laughed. “It was obvious from her reaction to decent food and lodgings! Yes, though I immodestly say it myself—we have already managed to reproduce most of our old way of life here. Although there will always be room for improvement, I am sure.”

Tiriki smiled politely. “That is the one thing of which we may be certain, my lord,” she said. She dipped a piece of bread in the dish of olive oil, took a slice of cheese to go with it, and tasted the combination with every evidence of appreciation, although she offered no verbal compliment. Rendano and Elis, however, had by then devoured their own share and were openly eyeing what remained.

“And you—” Tjalan turned to Elis. “Will you not be happy to join your fellow acolytes? And you, my lord, other priests of your Temple?”

Rendano only smiled politely, but Elis nodded vigorously, saying, “I would love to see Elara—
and
Cleta! Lanath, too. Are they well?”

“Very well.” Tjalan smiled. “I understand they are making great progress in their—voicing? Is that the term? They have been helping us to raise the stones.”

“It sounds quite exciting,” said Elis, with a sidelong look at Tiriki. “There is a small ring of stones on—”

“Master Chedan tells me there are standing stones and forgotten monuments all over this countryside,” Tiriki interrupted her, “but they are all rather small. Nothing sized or shaped like—what has been described.”

“I have always had a passion for colossal stoneworks,” Tjalan admitted, “but of course the circle is only a part of the complex of buildings we plan. When finished, it will be as large as the greatest temples of the Ancient Land! But soon you shall see it for yourself. I will send men to help you move your belongings, and bearers for any who cannot make the journey otherwise. I am longing to see Chedan again. I have been quite worried about his health.”

“That is kind,” said Tiriki. “He has indeed been ill. That is why he did not accompany me. In fact . . . I would not like to see him subjected to the rigors of any journey, just now.”

Micail frowned. He knew that look, as if she were staring through you into some great distance.
My darling,
he thought,
what are you trying to hide?

“Now that we have found each other,” she went on, “there is no hurry, after all. We have been working with the poor natives of the marshes, and it would be heartless to abandon them.”

“I hardly—” Tjalan’s face darkened as he restrained his temper. “I quite understand,” he muttered. “You know, you should have met my wife—she was quite sentimental too.” He took a deep breath. “Micail, I have been thoughtless. You and Tiriki must have so much to say to each other. Why don’t you walk together for a little while?” The unspoken words,
and talk some sense into her,
were as clear as a falcon’s cry.

 

Tiriki’s hands were warm, just as he remembered, but not so soft, and her fingers were lightly callused. Micail turned them upward in his own, tenderly caressing them, and frowned at each tiny cut and scar and scratch.

“Your poor beautiful hands! What have you been
doing
!”

She smiled a little. “Building something, just like you. But without as much help.”

He laid one arm about her shoulders, resisting the temptation to draw her even closer. They were well out of earshot of the others, but hardly unseen, and he was uncomfortably aware of being watched by an interested audience. It would not do for a senior priest of the Temple to tumble his wife on the hillside in front of the gods and everyone.

He fought to find words for what he was feeling. How strange that after all this time he should find it so hard.

“I keep thinking I must be dreaming,” he said after a moment. “It’s happened before . . . For most of the journey to Belsairath, and even after, really. You could hardly have called me sane. I don’t know how long I haunted the harbor, but I was there day and night, sure that your ship would come in . . . Trying to drive out the vision of the harbor in Ahtarrath where you should have been. But there was nothing! Nothing . . .”

She moved forward a little, and her eyes were as wet as his own as she put both her arms about him and held him close. At last, he began to relax.

“How,” he breathed, “how in the name of the gods did you survive?”

“By the help of the gods,” she said softly, “and Chedan. He has been a tower of strength, the architect of so much that we have done. Without his wisdom, I must often have despaired.”

“I am so glad he was with you,” Micail murmured, and he meant it sincerely.
But still,
he thought with a stab of envy,
I should have been the one to guide and protect you.

“And the people of the marshes showed us how to live in the new land . . .” she was saying.

“On roots and berries and frogs?” he asked, disdainfully. “I have heard what the natives eat in the Lake lands. Even the Ai-Zir consider them savages.”

“Well, they have not been savage to us!” Tiriki said a little tartly. “Chedan says that culture depends not on one’s surroundings, but on one’s soul. By that measure, these folk are civilized indeed.”

Chedan says . . .
It occurred to Micail that he might come to dislike that phrase quite a lot, quite soon.

“Well,” he said, calmly enough, “perhaps we can send one or two of our lesser priests to man your marshy retreat—but you and the child must join me in Azan.” Why were they talking about politics when what he wanted was to know more about her and the child in whose existence he found it hard to believe, even now.

“
Must,
Micail?” She gazed up at him soberly. “That is not a word you ever used to me—”

“We have been so long apart—I have needed you so very much! It is not an order, beloved, it is a cry from the heart.”

“Do you know how many mornings I have awakened with a wet pillow because I had been weeping in my sleep, wanting you?” she replied. “But before we took our marriage oath, we were sworn to the gods. Chedan says that to break one oath calls all of them into question. At home we worked for the gods together and surely we will do so again. But at present we have other obligations. At least
I
do. The marsh folk have given up their old ways to become part of our community and we cannot simply abandon them. If it is otherwise for you, why not leave Azan and come to live with me?”