Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (6 page)

“The
sea
was calm enough,” Tjalan quipped wryly.

“Your lady did not want to leave Alkonath?”

Tjalan suppressed a snort of laughter. “Chaithala is convinced that the Isles of Tin are a howling wilderness inhabited by monsters. But our traders have been preparing a refuge at Belsairath for many years. She will not fare so ill. Knowing she and the children are safe frees my mind for the task here.”

“And if we are all mistaken and no disaster occurs?” asked Micail.

“Then she will have had an unusual vacation and will likely never forgive me. But I have been speaking much with Master Chedan on the voyage, and I fear your forebodings are only too sure . . .”

Damisa suppressed a shiver. She had assumed that the ritual in the deep Temple had been successful, despite Alyssa’s collapse, because the earthquakes and the nightmares had ceased. Now she was uneasy. Had such tremors been felt in Alkonath, too? It was becoming difficult to assure herself that Tjalan’s visit was no more than a social call.

“And who is this? Can this be little Damisa, grown woman-high?”

The voice brought Damisa’s head around. The third traveler stood before her with his cloak now thrown back to reveal a sleeveless tunic and kilt so emblazoned with embroidery she blinked as the bright garments caught the sun. But she knew the gaudy clothing covered a muscular body, and the long dagger sheathed at the man’s side, however ornate, was not aristocratic frippery. He was Antar, Tjalan’s bodyguard from the time they were boys.

“It
is
Damisa,” Antar answered himself, his dark eyes, as always, in constant motion, watching for any threat to his lord.

Damisa blushed, realizing that the others were now looking at her, too.

“Trust you, Antar, to see her first,” said Micail, smiling.

“I trust Antar to see everything first,” Tjalan commented, with a grin no less wide. “Damisa. What a pleasure, sweet cousin, to find a flower of Alkona amid so many lilies.” His attitude was warm and welcoming, but as Damisa walked forward she knew that the days of childish hugs were forever gone. She held out her hand, and her prince bent to it respectfully—if with a twinkle in his sea-colored eyes.

“Damisa, you are become a woman indeed,” said Tjalan appreciatively. But he let go of her hand, and turned once more to Tiriki. “You have taken good care of our flower, I see.”

“We do what we may, my noble lord. And now—” Tiriki handed the basket of fruit and flowers to Damisa as she said, in a ringing voice, “Let the officers of the city make the Prince of Alkonath most welcome.” She gestured toward the open square at the entrance to the quay where, as if by magic, crimson pavilions had sprung up to shade tables full of food and drink.

Tjalan frowned. “I hardly think we have time—”

Tiriki delicately took his arm. “We must delay all serious discussion until the lords arrive from the estates in the countryside. And if the people see us eat and drink together, it will hearten the city. Indulge us, my noble lord, I pray.”

As ever, beneath Tiriki’s words rang the cadence of a song. A man would have to be made of stone, Damisa thought, to resist the sweetness in that plea.

 

Micail glanced around the great hall to ascertain that the servants had finished setting out the earthenware pitchers of lemon water and the silver goblets, and then nodded his permission for them to retire. The last of the daylight shafted through narrow windows beneath the soaring dome of the Council Hall, illuminating the circular table and the worried faces of the traders, landowners, and leaders who sat around it. Would the strength of Atlantis ever again be arrayed in such order and dignity?

Micail arose from his couch and waited for the conversations to fade. For this meeting, he retained the regalia that marked him as a prince, although Tiriki had resumed the white robe and veil of a simple priestess and sat a little to one side. Reio-ta, robed as governor of the Temple, had taken a place on the left with the other rulers.

Once again, Micail felt acutely that he stood between two realms, the worldly and the spiritual. Over the years he had often found his identities as a Vested Guardian and as Prince of Ahtarrath in conflict, but tonight, perhaps, his royalty might give him the authority to enforce the priesthood’s wisdom.

If even that will be enough.
At the moment, what Micail felt most strongly was fear. But the die was cast. His friend Jiritaren gave an encouraging nod. The room had silenced. All eyes were on him, tensely expectant.

“My friends, heirs of Manoah, citizens of Atlantis, we all have felt the tremors that shake our islands. Yes,
islands,
” he repeated sharply, seeing the eyes of some of the landowners widen, “for the same forerunners of disaster have shook Alkonath, Tarisseda, and other kingdoms as well. So we gather together to take counsel against the threat that now faces us all.” Micail paused and looked slowly about the table.

“There is still much that we can do,” he said encouragingly, “for as you surely know, the Empire has faced circumstances no less dire, and has survived to see this day. Master Chedan Arados—” Micail paused, permitting a flurry of whispers to run through the hall. “Master Chedan, you were among those who escaped the Ancient Land’s destruction. Will you speak to us now of the prophecies?”

“I will.” Ponderously, the mage got to his feet and eyed the gathering sternly.

“It is time for the veil to be set aside,” he said. “Some secrets will be shared which have hitherto been spoken only under seal of initiation; but that was done to preserve the truth, that it might be revealed at the appointed hour. To keep these things hidden now would be the true sacrilege. Indeed, for the threat we face has its deepest roots in a sacrilege committed almost thirty years ago in the Ancient Land.” As Chedan drew breath, the bar of sunlight that had haloed his head moved, leaving him in sudden shadow. Micail knew it was only because the sun was sinking, but the effect was disquieting.

“And it was not ordinary men but priests,” Chedan said clearly, “who in the misguided quest for forbidden knowledge, destabilized the magnetic field that harmonizes the conflicting forces within the earth. All our wisdom and all our power was only enough to delay the moment when the fault gave way; and when at last the City of the Circling Snake sank beneath the inland sea, there were no few who said it was only justice. The city that had permitted the desecration
should
pay the price, they said. And when, soon after, the Ancient Land itself was swallowed up by the sea, although the seers gave us warning that the repercussions would continue, that the unraveling would expand along the fault line, perhaps to crack the world open like an egg—yet we dared hope we had seen the worst of the destruction.”

The priests looked grim—they knew what was coming. On the faces of the rest, Micail read growing apprehension as Chedan continued.

“The recent tremors in Alkonath, as here, are a final warning that the Ascent of Dyaus—the Time of Ending, as some call it—is very near.”

By now, much of the hall was in darkness. Micail signaled to a servant to light the hanging lamps, but their illumination seemed too meager for the room.

“Why were we not told?” cried a merchant. “Did you mean to keep this secret so only the priesthood might be saved?”

“Were you not listening?” Micail overrode him. “The only
facts
we had were made known as we received them. Should we have created useless panic by proclaiming predictions of a disaster that might not have come to pass for a century?”

“Of course not,” Chedan agreed. “That was in fact the mistake made in the Ancient Land. Until the foreseen is seen again, its signs cannot be recognized. This is why the greatest seers are helpless against true destiny. When men are braced too long against a danger that does not come, they grow heedless, and cannot respond when the moment does arrive.”

“If it
has
arrived,” scoffed a prominent landowner. “I am a simple man, I don’t know anything about the meaning of lights in the sky. But I do know that Ahtarrath is a volcanic island. It is entirely natural for it to shake at times. Another layer of ash and lava will only serve to enrich the soil.”

Hearing murmurs of agreement from the village lords, Micail sighed.

“All that the priesthood can do is to give warning,” he said, striving to keep rising irritation from his voice. “What you do about this is up to you. I will not force even my own servants to abandon their homes. I can only advise all here that the majority of the Guardians of the Temple have chosen to entrust ourselves and our goods to the sea, and return to land only when the cataclysm ends. As a prince of the blood I say it, and we shall endeavor to take with us as many as we can.”

Reio-ta rose, nodding affirmation. “We must not allow the truth that the Temple safeguards to . . . die. We will send forth our Twelve Acolytes and as . . . many more as we can find ships for, with our hopes that at least some of them will come safely to . . . lands where new temples may rise.”

“What lands?” someone exclaimed. “The barren rocks where savages and animals rule? Only fools trust to the wind and the sea!”

Chedan spread his arms. “You forget your own history,” he chided. “Though we have stood apart from the world since the war with the Hellenes, we are not ignorant of other lands. Wherever there are goods to be bought or sold, the ships of Atlantis have gone—and since the fall of the Ancient Land, many of our priests have gone with them. In trading stations from Khem and Hellas to the Hesperides and Zaiadan, they have endured a lonely exile, learning the ways of the native peoples, studying their alien gods in search of beliefs held in common, teaching and healing, preparing the way. I believe that when our wanderers arrive, they will find a welcome.”

“Those who choose to remain need not fear idleness,” said the priestess Mesira, unexpectedly. “Not all who are of the Temple believe that disaster is inevitable. We will continue to work with all our powers to maintain the balance here.”

“That, I am glad to hear,” came a sardonic voice from the western quarter. Micail recognized Sarhedran, a wealthy shipmaster, with his son Reidel behind him. “Once Ahtarrath ruled the seas, but as my noble lord has reminded us, our gaze turned inward. Even if people could be persuaded to go to these foreign lands, we have not the vessels to carry them.”

“That is just why we come now, with half the fleet of great Alkonath, to offer help.” The speaker was Dantu, captain of the ship in which Tjalan had arrived. If his smile was less tactful than triumphant, there was reason for it. The traders of Alkonath and Ahtarrath had been fierce rivals in the past.

Now Tjalan spoke. “In this time of trial, we remember that we are all children of Atlantis. My brothers remain to supervise the evacuation of Alkonath. It is my honor and my great personal pleasure to commit eighty of my finest wingbirds to the preservation of the people and the culture of
your
great land.”

Some at the table looked a little sour still, but most faces had begun to blossom in smiles. Micail could not repress a grin at his fellow prince, though even eighty ships, of course, could not save more than a tithe of the population.

“Then let this be our resolution,” Micail said, taking charge again. “You shall go back to your districts and followers, and give them this news in whatever manner you see fit. Where needed, the treasury of Ahtarrath will be opened to secure supplies for the journey. Go now, make your preparations. Do not panic, but neither should anyone needlessly delay. We will pray to the gods that there is time.”

“And will
you
be on one of those ships, my lord? Will the royal blood of Ahtarrath abandon the land? Then we are lost indeed.” The voice was that of an old woman, one of the principal landowners. Micail strove to remember her name, but before he could, Reio-ta stirred beside him.

“The gods ordain that Micail must . . . go into exile.” The older man took deep breaths to control the stammer that still sometimes afflicted him. “But I too am a Son of the Sun, blood-bound to Ahtarrath. Whatever fate befalls those remaining here, I will remain and share.”

Micail could only stare at his uncle, as Tiriki’s shock amplified his own. Reio-ta had said nothing of this! They scarcely heard Chedan’s concluding words.

“It is not for the priesthood to decide who shall live and who shall die. There is no one fit to say whether those who depart will do better than those who stay. Our fates result from our own choices, in this life and every other. I bid you only remember that, and choose mind-fully, according to the wisdom that is within you. The Powers of Light and Life bless and preserve you all!”

 

Chedan took off his headdress and tucked it under his arm as he emerged from the Council Hall onto the portico. The wind from the harbor was a blessed breath of coolness.

“That went better than I . . . expected,” said Reio-ta, watching the others streaming down the stairs. “Chedan, I thank you for your . . . words and efforts.”

“I have done little so far,” said Chedan, with a wave toward Tjalan, who had come out to join them, “but even that would have been impossible without the limitless generosity of my royal cousin.”

Prince Tjalan clenched his fists to his heart and bowed before replying. “My best reward is the knowledge that I have served the cause of Light.” Suddenly he grinned at the mage. “You have been my teacher and my friend, and have never led me falsely.”

The door opened again and Micail, having calmed the immediate fears of the most anxious councillors, joined them. He looked worried. Until he actually set foot on board ship, he would carry the responsibility not only for the evacuation but also for the welfare of those who decided to stay behind.

“We thank you, my lords,” Micail said, with a gesture. “I know I would not wish to endure such a council after a sea voyage. You must be weary. The hospitality of Ahtarra can still provide a bit of food and shelter—” He managed a smile. “If you will come with me.”