Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (50 page)

Was she only making a virtue of necessity? Happy as she was here, she had to admit there was much about the old world that she still missed, and she knew that there were others in the community at the Tor who longed for lost customs far more than she. But Tiriki could not help feeling that those who persisted in clinging to the goals and ambitions of a vanished empire were only wasting their efforts and their resources. Even so, she would not have strenuously objected if any of her followers had chosen to leave the Tor and live as Tjalan thought best. But the prince had not offered them any choice at all.

The thought that this peaceful place might be invaded made her shudder.
That is the
only
argument for giving in to Tjalan’s demands. Then at least they would leave the Tor alone . . .
But that, she realized suddenly, was wishful thinking. Whatever the virtues of their intentions, Tjalan’s priests were power hungry, and even without the Omphalos Stone, the Tor had been a place of considerable power. The new currents that writhed about it now would call like twin beacons to Stathalkha’s sensitives. If they had ignored it before, they would not do so again. One way or another, there would be a conflict between what
they
wanted, and what she had come to believe she was destined to do here.

But even that certainly brought her little reassurance. Something Chedan had said the previous night had reminded her that the truest destiny was not a thing to be worked out in a single life, but a greater purpose that arose again and again throughout many lives. What she had begun here was right and necessary, and ultimately its promise would be fulfilled; of that she was no longer in doubt. But that fulfilment might take three days or three thousand years.

She found the wisewoman sitting on a stool before her house, using a flint knife to scrape the outer rind from water lily roots. She turned her head as Tiriki came up the path.

“The blessing of the evening be upon you.”

“The Lady give you rest,” Taret replied, with a slight smile. “I had thought you were keeping talk-fire with your people.”

“The council fire is lit,” Tiriki said with a sigh, “but nothing is being said that has not been discussed seven times since breakfast.” She sank down beside Taret and took up another flake of flint. “So I shall help you pare these roots. My mother used to say there is comfort in such ordinary tasks, an affirmation that life will go on. I did not listen to her then. Perhaps it is not too late.”

“It is never too late,” said Taret gently, “and I shall be glad of your help.”

After a few moments had passed, and she had cut several roots, she said, “I suppose that I have really come to apologize.” She admitted, “For I fear we have brought disaster upon you and your people—and that is poor thanks for all your kindness. I have warned the villagers, but they will not leave. Will you go to them and lead them out of danger?”

“This is the place where the Mother has planted me.” Taret smiled. “My roots go too deep to pull them up now.”

Tiriki sighed. “You don’t understand! Alyssa’s vision led us to move the Stone to the cave within the Tor, but if she saw how it would help us afterward, she did not say, or I did not understand. We cannot all take refuge there—even if our minds could bear to be so near it, there is not room for us all!”

“You look at the Stone. That is good. Now, look at the Tor.” Taret sliced through a root and reached for the next.

Tiriki stared at her in frustration. “But—how?”

“You can no longer go to one and not be in the wind of the other.”

Tiriki closed her eyes, wondering how her own language could be so hard to interpret.

The old woman did look up, and her eyes sparkled as if she was restraining herself from laughter. “Sun Girl, Sea Child, you ask too much of an old servant of the sacred waters. But there is one who knows all its secrets. She has blessed you before. Perhaps She will do so again . . . if you ask her nicely.” Taret chuckled. “Maybe
She
has some housework for you to do.”

Tiriki sat pensively, remembering. She did indeed have reason to know that the Tor was a place where the many worlds drew very close together.

“Yes,” she whispered, and made the gesture of a chela to an adept in the old woman’s direction. “As always, Taret, you redirect my eyes to the wisdom that lies in plain sight. That was the mistake we Atlanteans made, perhaps—to fix our eyes on the heavens and forget that our feet, like the earth on which we stand, are clay.” She set down the flint and stood up. “If any come to seek me, tell them I hope to return soon, with better news.”

Once, Tiriki had walked this way by chance, and once, by following the winding ways within the Tor. This time she walked the maze on the surface of the hill with the setting sun behind her, passing between day and night as she sought, for the first time by intention, the way between the worlds.

The summit of the Tor wavered and receded as another landscape loomed up around it, blotting out the valley she had come to know so well. Yet she perceived still the cluster of life energies at the foot of the hill, those of the villagers warm and golden, the Atlanteans at once more pale, yet brighter. Her heart seized on the tiny sparkle that was her daughter, then caught at another familiar glow, so incandescent in its purity that at first she did not recognize it as Chedan. Her eyes blurred with a surge of affection for them all.

But this vision showed her nothing she had not already known. She turned impatiently, seeking eastward for the focus of power that was Micail’s henge of stones.

Why did I never think to do this before?
she wondered then.
I have been so embedded in the daily struggle, I never made time to explore the spiritual landscape here.
She directed her attention eastward.

Most certainly the Sun Wheel was there—a circular pulsing of energy in which the white-hot sparks of the initiates dazzled amid the reddish glows that could only be Tjalan and his men.

As she watched, the ring of light grew brighter, pulsing with a rhythm that even from here she knew was based on song. They were loading the henge with power on which they might draw when the time came. And if she could see them, surely they could sense the Tor. She shivered as the distant beam rippled and quivered like the sun seen from under water.

She had hoped that Tjalan would be content to attack them physically. By the time he had marched his soldiers to the Tor, she might have been able to negotiate some accommodation, either with Micail, or with the tribes of Azan. But the prince had found a new weapon, and her vision suggested that he did not mean to wait until it was finished to try it out.

Disheartened, she sank to her knees.

“Lady of Light, Shining One, in my great need you came to me before, unsummoned. Now I call you, I implore you, hear me. Those who should have been our protectors have become our enemies. I do not know whether they will send the forces of the body or of the spirit first, but I am afraid, for my enemies are very strong. Tell me that we will be safe here, and I will believe you. But if you cannot, then I beg you, show me how I may protect those I love . . .”

The answer came as a gentle teasing. “Safe! You mortals use language so strangely. You have had bodies before this one and you will have others after. You die, or your enemy dies, but both of you will live again. Why be afraid?”

“Because—we are taught that each life is precious!” Tiriki looked around, hoping to see the one who had spoken, but there was only a shimmering, a fullness in the air. Yet that, too, was an answer. How could she explain her fears to a being whose form was never destroyed but, rather, was constantly transforming, in ways she could not even imagine? “Surely,” said Tiriki haltingly, “each life has its own lessons, its own meaning. I would not have this one cut short before I have found out what it has to teach me!”

“That is a good answer.” The voice sounded serious.

“And I do not seek destruction of our enemies, only to keep them from doing us harm,” Tiriki continued. “Please—
will
you help us?”

As if in answer, the shimmering intensified, seeming to surround her, but the brilliance was fired by a new source, blazing deep within the hill.

“The Omphalos Stone!” she whispered in awe, and saw it pulse in response to her words.

“The Seed of Light,” the voice echoed. “You have planted it, little singer. Your songs can make it grow.”

 

“I still say there is no need to do anything just yet,” Micail insisted. “The Lake people are poor, with no resources to stand against us.” But he knew all too well that he had been saying the same thing ever since they returned from the meeting with Tiriki, and with as little result. And now it was almost too late for talking. With Tjalan’s blessing, indeed, with his overt encouragement, Haladris had yet again called the entire priesthood to the henge. They meant to finish the awakening of the stones as quickly as possible. Within a day or two at the most, Micail knew there would be nothing remaining to prevent the Sun Wheel from being used in whatever way they saw fit.

“What you say would be true if they
were
marsh people,” Mahadalku observed with maddening reason-ability, “but they are in fact priests and Guardians like us. They may have gone native to some degree, but they have got
something more.
” The Tarissedan high priestess clutched her veils tightly against the wind off the plain. “Stathalkha says that over the previous days the intensity of power at the Tor has tripled. Why should that be happening, unless it is because they now know we are here? Best to deal with them before they strike at us!”

“But the Sun Wheel is not complete,” Micail objected. “We have not even had time to determine if it will—”

“Unfinished it may be,” Mahadalku interrupted, “but all preliminary tests show it to be fully capable of containing and projecting the necessary vibrations. Ardravanant and Naranshada have both affirmed this conclusion.” She spoke in a calm flat tone that discouraged objection. With a sinking heart, Micail looked around at the other priests and priestesses who, in return, discreetly avoided his eye.

No doubt Jiritaren would follow him if he walked out now, and Naranshada had expressed more than a few doubts about the wisdom of what they were doing. Bennurajos and Reualen, perhaps . . . if Micail pressed the point. He felt fairly sure that Galara and the acolytes might follow him as well. But was that the best option?

Tjalan would probably place us under house arrest, and use the threat to the other prisoners to ensure I did nothing to affect the outcome . . . But if I stay . . .
He sighed.
Then I could end up killing Tiriki myself ! And in that case I should cut my own throat and apologize to her in the afterlife . . . and be damned to the prophecies!

In the days since his meeting with Tiriki, it had often occurred to him that he ought to have gone with her, not meekly returned here. He had told himself then that Tjalan might not have permitted either one of them to leave; he had thought of his duty to the acolytes and the fulfillment of his other vows. Now, though, as he gazed at the sharp silhouettes of the tall stones standing against the blue summer sky, he realized that it was a craftsman’s love for his creation that kept him here.

“How does this preserve our traditions?” he tried again. “Tiriki and Chedan have not been charged as heretics—we have not declared war. It is simply not legitimate for us to act against our fellow priests in this way! And it is wrong at an even deeper level to give over this kind of power to such a prideful purpose.” He gestured at the line of soldiers just outside the ditch and bank that surrounded the circle. It was not clear whether they were there to protect the priests against interference from outside or to keep them in.

“Why should we help Prince Tjalan build his empire?” Micail continued.

“Because that empire will support the new Temple,” Ocathrel answered, and the rest seemed to share his exasperation. It occurred to Micail that perhaps he had better stop talking before they all decided he was not just prone to moral misgivings but actually unreliable—possibly a heretic himself. Then they would take the choice regarding whether he should stay or go out of his hands.

At least Ardral was not present to lend
his
power to this disaster. When the gong had summoned them that morning, the old adept had pleaded wine-sickness and kept to his quarters. But despite the knowing nods of the chelas, Micail knew that Ardral was rarely ill. Was he merely staying away or
going
away?

Wearily turning away from Ocathrel and Haladris and the rest, Micail sat in the shadow of one of the sarsen uprights, and let his thoughts return to the events of the night before.