Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (51 page)

He had gone to Ardral’s quarters to plead for his support and found him sorting through parchments. Some of them had been burning merrily in a charcoal brazier beneath the smokehole. That sight alone had been enough to strike Micail speechless for several moments—Ardral had been curator of the Temple library at Ahtarrath, after all.

“No, no,” the old Guardian had reassured him, “I am just clearing out a few odd notes and poems and personal musings. No ancient secrets, or at least none that I feel any obligation to pass on. One might argue that all
my
secrets are ancient! But after a lifetime of study, meditation and practice—all I really know is how little any of us knows.” And he had laughed.

Micail remembered the gleam of firelight on aquiline features as Ardral flipped his faintly silvered hair out of his eyes once more.

“Would you like to join me in the last of the teli’ir?” he’d asked then, as if they had been sitting on a gilded terrace, watching the sun set over Ahtarra’s harbor or possibly over Atalan itself. Micail had been too nonplussed to do anything but agree.

It had been a pleasant time. They had spoken of many things, most of them amusing. But by the time Micail managed to bring the conversation around to what troubled him, he’d been seeing both Ardral and the firelit room through a perfumed haze. Yet the adept’s diction had remained crisp throughout, even if his meaning was sometimes obscure.

“Do you really think my arguments might move Tjalan when yours have not? I am a fine speaker if I do say so myself, but you are his cousin and, moreover, he considers you a close friend.” Ardral shook his head. “I admit, I found Princess Chaithala and the children charming, and I enjoyed
their
company immensely, but the Prince of Alkonath and I have never had much to say to each other beyond the usual pleasantries. And none of them will have much to miss when I am gone.”

“Gone?” Micail had stared, wondering if the rumors of illness could possibly be true. Ardral certainly had not
looked
ill, but then he did not look his age either, and he had been old when Micail’s parents were babes in arms. “You are healthy!” he had exclaimed, not sure whether it was a statement or a prayer. Ardral had quirked one eyebrow and Micail flushed in confusion.

“Of course I am. That is why I must go. Every night, every day, Tjalan, or someone, thinks up another question I don’t care to answer. I suspect I have been here too long already . . . and I know too many things that man is no longer
meant
to know.”

Even for Ardral, Micail thought now, that had been cryptic. “Does that mean you will not join in the Working at the Sun Wheel?” Micail’s flogged wits had seemed suddenly sodden, making him wish he had not had that second glass of teli’ir.

“Oh, I will be working.” Ardral’s teeth had flashed in a wry smile as he briefly patted Micail’s shoulder. “Do not trouble yourself over me.”

Micail had retained enough wit not to say that it wasn’t Ardral he was worrying about, but Tiriki, and perhaps the rest of the world. And then the old adept was ushering him to the door.

“I suspect this will be our farewell, Micail, but who can say what fate intends? Time is a long and twisted trail, my boy, and it has many a side road. Our paths may cross again!”

Chedan opened his eyes with a start, surprised to see pale light shafting through the open door of his hut.

“Are you all right?” Kalaran bent over him with a frown.

“I will be,” said the mage. He rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the mists of dream sufficiently to face the day.

Kalaran still looked worried, but he held out the carven staff that had become Chedan’s constant companion. As they emerged from his hut he could see that the sky beyond the slope of the Tor was a translucent blue. It was going to be a beautiful day.

“I had a rather odd dream.”

Kalaran looked expectant, and Chedan suppressed a smile. Since he had become so lame, the young people had taken to treating him like some rare treasure that would soon fall apart. It might even be true, he thought then. Besides, talking about one’s dreams sometimes brought understanding, and this one could be a warning he should not deny.

“I was back in Ahtarra, visiting my uncle Ardral in his chambers by the library. We were drinking some exotic liqueur from the Ancient Land—that man had the most wonderful cellars. It wrenches the heart to think of those delicate vintages mingling with the salt sea. Anyway, he lifted his glass to me in a toast and said that I must go and he must stay, but that between us we had trained my heir.”

“Your heir,” echoed Kalaran, looking rather alarmed. “What did he mean?”

“What did Ardral
ever
mean? I would have said it was Micail, but now . . . I do not know.” He shook his head, his heart aching anew at the thought that Micail might have become their enemy. “In any case, Ardral hardly knew him. At least he didn’t then. They may have grown closer.”

“Oh . . . But Master, but when you said ‘odd’—you laughed. Well, almost.”

“Yes, I did, because I’d been remembering how Ardral finished his drink and set it down and then—he was sitting cross-legged on a low chair—he simply floated upward and out of the window and away.”

“He
levitated
?” Kalaran’s voice squeaked.

“Well—actually I
have
heard rumors that he could. But I suppose it was symbolic, in my dream. Because, you see—though Anet told us he was there, I sent him no message. I could not think what to say. And he sent me no answer. So I suppose we flew away from each other.”

As Kalaran’s brows knitted in perplexity, Chedan gave him a fond smile. “Thank you, my boy. I was afraid I had dreamed something important, and you have helped me to see otherwise. If my dream means anything, it means he has gone away—I thought he might have died, but now I rather doubt that. I think I would know. Still, I have been thinking about him. I suppose I have only made a new song out of words he used to say. When one is dreaming it often happens that way.”

“I have a lot of strange dreams,” said Kalaran, after an awkward moment, “but everything looks better after a good breakfast!”

“That I will
not
argue with,” said Chedan, and he permitted his acolyte to help him down the hill. As they walked, a thin trail of smoke brought the rich scent of hot meat through the trees. Certainly a good meal would help him get through this dreadful day.

 

“Have you heard?” Vialmar murmured to Elara. “Lord Ardral is gone!”

“What do you mean? Prince Tjalan has guards at every gate of the compound to ‘protect’ us. They would not let him simply walk away!”

“That’s the best part of it,” said Vialmar, with a grin, “and I’ve heard it from several different people now—he just came out of his doorway, floated up off the ground and over the wall—gone! Like that!”

“Does Tjalan know?” came Cleta’s awed whisper.

“If he does,” answered Elara, “he’s not letting it interfere with his plans. Look—he’s brought Damisa!”

“And Reidel,” added Cleta. “Does the prince think he can persuade them to join us, or does he simply want to show off our power?” She traded glances with Elara.

How, indeed, have we come to this?
Elara wondered.
Surely there are too few of us in this land to be at odds . . .
But so long as her elders were in agreement, her vows required her to obey them.

She had even taken the risk of being late, going out of her way to speak to Khayan-e-Durr, but the Ai-Zir were no match for Atlantean swords or Atlantean magic. She had meant to ask their help and had ended by warning them to stay away. She was not sure, even now, if she had succeeded in convincing the queen of the danger. The shamans might be planning something. She had heard drumming from Droshrad’s big roundhouse, but now that she thought about it, that was nothing unusual.

If Tiriki dies because of this
—
what will Micail do then? Could he live with that?
She remembered the raw pain in his face when he returned from that meeting between Tjalan and Tiriki, and knew that he could not bear a more final parting. Her own emotions twisted, and she felt an overwhelming sympathy, mixed with the unbearable thought of a world without Micail in it . . .

There was Micail, she suddenly noticed, sitting by himself against one of the stones. She had not seen that look on his face since they left Belsairath. Why didn’t he simply refuse to participate? Denounce them all?

The gleam of sunlight on an orichalcum-edged spear caught her eye. Tjalan had stationed his soldiers at regular intervals just beyond the outer ring of stones . . .
That’s one reason, I guess.
Elara blushed again.

Not, she realized glumly, that her Temple vows would have allowed her to hope for Tiriki’s death even if she had thought that she had any hope of replacing her in Micail’s bed. But how they were to come out of this without serious damage to one side or the other was more than she could imagine.

Cleta tapped her on the shoulder. Haladris was summoning them all to take their places. The ordeal was about to begin.

 

“I don’t understand,” said Damisa. “What are you planning to do to persuade the people at the Tor to join you? What
can
you do, from here?” Actually, even in her gilded cage, some rumors had reached her. It was just that she found them difficult to believe.

Tjalan turned to her, his eyes gleaming more brightly than the golden dragon bracelets he wore. For a thousand generations those bracelets had been the prerogative of a prince of the royal line.

“Something I would rather not do. But birthing a new empire always requires some initial . . . adjustments,” he said. “When the Bright Empire gave way to the Sea Kingdoms it was the same. Believe me, my dear, I do regret the necessity for decisive action. But it is clear that Tiriki is going to be stubborn. Better one sharp disciplinary strike than a lingering conflict, don’t you agree? Then we can put all our energies into establishing the new order. Come now, you
must
agree, Damisa—for I cannot do all this alone.” His long fingers stroked along her arm. “Now that I have lost Chaithala, I will need a woman to stand beside me, to bear me sons . . . What use a crown with no heir?”

Damisa’s pulse quickened. Was he really suggesting that she might be his . . . empress . . . one day? It made sense—the royal blood of Alkonath ran in her veins too—but after all that had happened, it seemed unreal to be offered what had once been her fantasy. Suddenly she understood why Tiriki had gone back to the Tor instead of returning here with Micail.
She has become a mover of events, not simply a support to her man,
she thought.
What could I become, on my own?

But she must not let Prince Tjalan suspect her conflicting emotions. Her glance slid away from his and she saw that soldiers were bringing up Reidel, his wrists still bound. His lip was puffy where someone had hit him—hit him back, she corrected, noting the skinned knuckles on his right hand.

“My prince, you honor me,” she said a little breathlessly. “But I must not distract you with such considerations now.”

He smiled sardonically, but her answer had clearly satisfied him. His attention was already shifting to Haladris, who had begun to organize the singers within the circle of stones.

Reidel was looking at her with—anger? appeal? He had no right to either emotion. But even when she turned away, she could still feel his dark gaze.

 

Tiriki forced herself to look away from the dim haze to the east where she knew Micail and the others were preparing to strike against the Tor, and to look instead into the faces of the men and women who waited atop the Tor to defend it.

She cleared her throat and managed a smile. “The spirit of this place, the Shining One I call the Queen, has shown me what we are to do—”

“But how do we know if they will act today?” asked Elis.

“Or at all?” muttered someone else.

“I have seen the power building,” answered Tiriki. “But even if I had not, surely it will do us all no harm to practice our own skills.”

“Ah,” said Iriel archly, “more
training
!” And the tension eased a little as the other acolytes laughed.

“Yes, if you will,” said Tiriki blandly, and waited for quiet to return. “We have walked the spiral maze we cut into the hill to get here, and that puts us halfway to the Otherworld already. I would like everyone to sit in a circle and join hands—” Tiriki glanced at Chedan and he nodded.