Sword of Avalon: Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Thanks to Caratra,” answered Ellet. “Or he might well have died before we found the goat.”

  “That too was a miracle,” Anderle said then. “It was all as I saw in my vision, mother, except that I was there. This child has a destiny. But until he is old enough to claim it, the world must think that he did die.”

  “Even the folk of Avalon?” The old woman’s dark eyes gleamed.

  “Especially them,” Anderle said ruefully. “The Ai-Ushen, and the traitors who aided them, will come seeking Mikantor when they hear I have returned, and those who are sworn to serve the Truth find it hard to lie.”

  “Then he must be hidden. You know Redfern, Osprey’s woman? She has new baby and much milk. She will take him if I say.” Willow Woman reached out to stroke the bright hair. “We shave his head for now. Later we use nut dye. He is big already as a child of five moons. Anyone sees him, they will think him older, and ours.”

  Anderle sank back on the cushion, only now allowing herself to recognize that the anxiety she had carried had been a greater burden than the child. She sipped gratefully at the yarrow tea the old woman ladled into a cup carved from oak wood.

  “Ellet, you go find Redfern, tell her to come—” When the girl had gone, Willow Woman turned to Anderle. “Now you tell me how it is with you.”

  For a moment Anderle could only stare. “I don’t . . . know,” she said slowly. “I have thought only about the next danger, the fear. Durrin died to save me. I want to mourn for him, but I feel nothing, not even gratitude to be alive.”

  “That will come.” Willow Woman nodded. “Now you need rest.”

  Anderle nodded. Her backache had returned, and she wriggled on the cushion, trying to ease the strain. From outside she heard laughter, and turned as Ellet pushed past the hide that curtained the doorway, followed by a round-faced woman who must be Redfern. She clearly had some of the blood of the tribes. She might even be able to pass Mikantor off as her own child. But what inspired instant trust was Redfern’s smile.

  Anderle reached out and Willow Woman passed the warm bundle across. She cuddled the boy to her breast and felt her eyes fill as he nuzzled against it, searching lips making soft sucking sounds. He began to fuss as he found nothing there.

  “After the past few days I will miss him as if he were my own child. But he needs to be fed.” She looked up at Redfern. “Willow Woman tells me that you have the milk, and the love, to take another child. All children are sacred to the ones who care for them, but the gods have told me that this boy’s life is important to all the people of this land. Do you understand this? Do you understand that because of it he has enemies? We will do all we can to protect you and him, but you could be in danger. Are you willing to run that risk and care for this child?”

  “Give me the boy—” said Redfern simply, opening the doeskin cape she wore over her skirt. Beneath it, her full breasts were bare. As she took the baby into her arms the milk began to flow. An expert adjustment popped one dark nipple into the seeking mouth, and the woman sighed. Then she looked at Anderle once more.

  “You speak true, Holy One. All children a gift of the gods. This I say to you. As I give this boy my milk he becomes my own flesh. As my own I protect him. No more can I do for any baby, no matter whose son.”

  “Yes . . .” breathed Anderle. “The Goddess speaks in me—She will watch over you, and I will come to see him when I can. Thank you!” She shifted on the cushion, felt moisture and looked down, wondering if she had spilled her tea. But the warm wetness was spreading between her thighs.

  She looked at Willow Woman in confusion and tried to rise. “I am sorry, I think I’ve wet myself and spoiled your cushion—”

  Willow Woman and Redfern exchanged glances, and the younger woman laughed. “I take this little one away now and feed him more. I think that soon you will have baby of your own to fill your arms.”

  For a long moment Anderle simply stared. Then she felt the muscles of her belly contracting and understood that her labor had begun. Durrin had promised that when the child came he would sing her past all pain. She wondered if she would be able to hear him from the Otherworld.

  “The baby is coming?” Ellet squeaked. “Now? Lady, shall I send for Kiri to come over from Avalon?”

  Unable to speak until the next contraction had passed, Anderle shook her head. “Willow Woman has helped dozens of babies into this world, and with Caratra’s blessing I trust her to deliver mine. Send no word to Avalon. They must know only that I arrived here with a baby, and I will leave as I came, with a baby in my arms. And to that, all of you can truthfully swear!”

  TIRILAN . . . THE NAME FELL from Anderle’s lips like the chiming of a sistrum. Her sign was that of the Peacemaker. Belkacem had read the stars for her and Merivel scried her future in the sacred pool. “She will be a singer, and much loved . . .”

  Anderle treasured the words. Like her father, she thought as she leaned over the cradle to tuck the blanket more closely around the sleeping infant. Like her father, the child had curling fair hair, and Anderle did not think it was only a mother’s besotted love that saw in her child’s sleeping twitches the beginnings of Durrin’s heart-stopping smile.

  Since Tirilan’s birth, thoughts of Durrin had often been with her, moments of grief alternating with a bittersweet memory, an anguished joy.

  As winter’s rain flooded the marshes, life continued at the Tor almost as before. The mist that hung above the reeds seemed to separate them from the world, as the old lore said the People of Wisdom had known how to do. But occasionally someone would come from the Lake Village with information. Even in this season when men huddled close to home, rumors still swept the land. It was said that in the fire Uldan’s son had been transformed like copper ore in the furnace and been taken up to live with the gods; it was said that the ancestors had taken him into the mounds; it was said that he was hidden in a dozen different places across the land, from which he would return to destroy his enemies when he became a man. The stories about her own journey were equally fantastic. Now they said that she had spent those four lost days in the Otherworld and given birth to her daughter there, or within a mound, which was very nearly the same thing so far as popular belief was concerned.

  They may well think you a child of the Hidden Realm, thought Anderle, bending over the cradle once more. The cradle was very old, carved with the symbol of Manoah’s winged sun that the Wise Ones had brought from the Drowned Lands. The sleeping child frowned a little in her sleep, then turned and settled once more. You are not a child of the hollow hills, her mother thought then, but of the gods. She looked up as Ellet pushed through the door.

  “Lady!” At Anderle’s frown the younger woman straightened and took a deep breath. “Lady, a boy from the Lake Village has come. He says that Galid of Amanhead is here with a dozen warriors. He demands a boat to bring them across to the Tor.”

  “Have they searched the houses?”

  Ellet shook her head. “They are only interested in Avalon. Badger told the lad to say he can hold them for a little, but they will start killing if he delays too long.”

  “Send him back,” she said swiftly. “Tell Badger to let them come.”

  ANDERLE CHOSE TO AWAIT the traitor beneath the winged sun on the pediment of the Temple of Light, with her senior clergy behind her, all of them robed in shining white, brows bound with the diadems of their grades. The robes were woven of heavy linen, bleached to the whiteness of a cloud on a sunny day and embroidered around the hems with sigils in gold. As the visitors approached, she realized that Galid was followed by men of his own clan. Belkacem stepped forward to bar their way with his staff. Carved and gilded to resemble a serpent, it was a thing of beauty, but no match for a spear.

  “Who comes in arms to disturb the peace of Avalon?” The old man’s voice still had power. “Lay aside your weapons, men of blood, or depart, for you will find no answers here.”

  Galid’s grin broadened, but the men behind him were glancing about u
neasily. “Do you think such tricks will scare me?” he began, then realized that his warriors had begun to edge away. “Still, I believe that we are more than a match for women and old men,” he added swiftly. “We will put down our weapons if they make you afraid.”

  “They will be safe here—” Belkacem said pleasantly, indicating a bench set in the hillside. “I will appoint a worthy guardian.” He gestured again, and Linora, who at seven was the youngest of the maidens they were training, came gravely forward and seated herself on the grass.

  The warriors looked faintly scandalized as they unbuckled sword belts and laid their spears beside her upon the ground.

  Anderle bit her lip to hide laughter. “If you come in peace, you are welcome.” Linora’s older sister offered them a golden cup that brimmed with ale. “Drink without fear,” the priestess said sweetly, though she could see that it was amusement, not anxiety, that glinted in Galid’s eyes. But it did not matter what the traitor thought if they could overawe his men.

  Galid handed back the cup, his scarred features as carefully grave as those of the child. When Anderle looked at him, she saw that face overlaid by the soot-streaked image of the man who had laughed as Irnana burned, and struck Durrin down. For a moment she closed her eyes, knowing that she had to deal with the man he was now.

  His frame was heavy with muscle, and the frustrated hunger in his pale eyes had become a wary confidence. The cruel droop of his dark mustache had not changed. He had dressed for this meeting like a king, though the Ai-Zir queen had refused to make him one. How badly did that eat at his soul? His kilt was of fine russet wool, the mantle that covered his sleeveless tunic of the same weave. Heavy golden bracelets circled his forearms, and cloak and belt were clasped with gold.

  But if he had changed, so, she thought, had she. No longer ungainly with pregnancy, she stood straight as an image in the formal robes, her face a pure oval within the draped veils and the headdress that added a handspan to her height, bearing the triple moon of Avalon. Galid eyed her as if he would like to unveil the woman behind those stiff folds.

  Imagine what you will, the priestess thought with bitter amusement. I am not a woman now, but the Voice of the Goddess, and She will make you hear. . . .

  “Come—” With the graceful, gliding tread she had learned when she was no older than Linora, Anderle led the way to the hall.

  “We are honored by your greeting,” said Galid when they had been seated near the hearth. “But you need not have taken the trouble. Our errand is simple. Now that the country is becoming more peaceful, we have come for Uldan’s child.”

  Anderle met his gaze without blinking, glad her veils hid the racing pulse at her throat. “And what would you do with the boy if he was here?”

  “Queen Zamara has asked us to find her nephew,” answered one of the warriors, “so that we may raise him as heir to the Ai-Zir.”

  He might even believe what he was saying, thought Anderle as she considered him. But she had not missed the cynical glint in Galid’s eye. “Alas, this is only Avalon, not the Otherworld,” she replied bitterly.

  “Do not play with me!” Galid’s tone sharpened. “Irnana passed the baby to you and I saw you carry him away. It is known that you brought an infant with you when you returned to the Tor.”

  “Both those things are true, but the one does not guarantee the other,” Belkacem said sadly. “Irnana’s child never reached Avalon. The infant of whom you have heard is the Lady’s own child.”

  If they had not stood on the knife-edge of disaster, Anderle would have laughed at the confusion of frustration, uncertainty, and disbelief in Galid’s eyes.

  “You may understand why I did not understand that you were searching for us so that you might care for the boy,” she said tartly. “But the way was hard, and we had no milk for him. My own babe was not born until we were nearly here or I would have fed him at my own breast. I am sorry . . .” she added with lowered gaze.

  “I don’t believe you!” Galid snapped.

  Anderle looked up at him. “Do you not? Ellet, bring Tirilan to us here—”

  They sat in stiff silence until Ellet returned with the baby, awake now and fussing softly, in her arms. At three months old her hair was a golden halo. Anderle had not known many infants, but surely it was not only a mother’s partiality that saw beauty in the tiny features despite the dubious gaze with which the baby was regarding all these strange men.

  “This is my daughter, the heir of Avalon,” Anderle said calmly. “Would you like me to undo her clout so that you may assure yourselves that she is indeed a maid?”

  One of the men flushed and the others had the grace to look emba rassed. It was clear to all that this delicate child could not be Uldan’s strong redheaded son.

  “That will not be necessary,” Galid said stiffly. For a moment longer his gaze held Anderle’s, an odd mixture of lust and respect in his eyes.

  Tirilan’s face reddened and Ellet thrust her into her mother’s arms, where she began to rootle against the heavy fabric, and then to cry. Abruptly Anderle realized that there was no opening in the ceremonial robes through which she could nurse her, and in a moment her breasts were going to begin leaking in response to the baby’s cries.

  “You may search the isle,” Belkacem offered earnestly, “but I swear by the Light that this is the only infant of either gender to be found among us here.”

  “Search if you will—” Anderle rose, settling the baby against her shoulder. “But for this child, at least, I have milk, and I had better feed her before she deafens us all!”

  “If you swear to it, then I am sure it is true, but even truth can sometimes lie.” Galid lifted his hand like a fighter saluting his foe. “I will not forget, Lady—” Their eyes met, and she heard the unspoken words “And I will be watching you . . .”

  AS A CHILLY WINTER unwillingly gave way to an equally wet spring, the people of the village reported an unusual number of strangers in the area. Galid was keeping his word, thought Anderle, and denied her heart’s craving to go to the Lake Village to visit Mikantor, whom Redfern, following Village custom, called Woodpecker. Thus, it was not until just after the boy’s first birthday, when the priesthood on the Tor had finished the ceremonies surrounding the summer solstice, that she crossed the lake to preside over the villagers’ Midsummer Festival.

  Anderle sat on the platform on which the headman’s house was built, helping Willow Woman to plait wreaths for the evening’s dancing from flowers and leafy branches the children had brought in from the marsh. Tirilan lay sleeping in a cradle by her side.

  “If I did not trust our observations of the heavens, I would think we were celebrating the Turning of Spring.” She threaded a few primroses among the yellow cresses already twined into the braid of bullrush with a sigh.

  “It’s so—” the older woman agreed. “Many trackways through the marsh are underwater still.”

  “This year the isles of the Summer Country are islands indeed.” Beyond the platform sunlight glittered on the open waters of the Lake and the channels that wound through the reeds.

  “The water meadows are still water. Not many places for the sheep and goats to graze, or gather seeds. Next winter I think we will live on dried fish and waterfowl and berries.”

  “Be thankful you have them,” Anderle said grimly. “They tell me that it has been too cold to grow much on the old farms on top of the downs, and those that lie too low are so wet the cattle are getting hoof rot and the seeds drown in the fields.”

  She turned as a trill of laughter rippled up from below. One of the older girls was watching over the toddlers as they played on the ground that had been bared beneath the pilings as the waters receded. Mikantor was among them, walking already and tall and strong.

  “The boy looks well, and he has grown. If anyone asks, we can say he is a year older than his milk-brother, Grebe.”

  “Redfern’s milk is good,” Willow Woman replied. They both laughed as he sat down suddenly in the mud,
brows lifting in an expression of comical surprise. In the next moment he was pulling himself upright once more. The sun struck rusty glints from his dyed hair. “She loves Woodpecker as if he’s her own.”

  “I know, but we cannot keep him here forever. Tiny children all look much the same, but as he grows older, even the hair dye will not be enough to make people think he comes from here. Already there are legends that Uldan’s son was reborn from the fire.”

  “To take Woodpecker while he is young will be very hard on both him and Redfern,” the older woman said slowly.

  “I will wait as long as I can.” Anderle sighed. “It may be safest to move him from one village to another.”

  “Maybe, but that is the future,” Willow Woman replied. “We have to keep him safe now or he has no future.You still know mighty magic—protect the Lake Village and he will stay safe within.”

  Anderle stared at her, the new wreath into which she was plaiting purple loosestrife and flowering rush trembling in her hands. “Not just the village. When we make the circuit of the seven sacred islands,” she said slowly, “then I can weave the spell.”

  THE ALLIANCE BETWEEN THE people who had once hunted the marshes and the sun-haired priests and priestesses who had come from across the sea had endured for a thousand years. Each race had its own Mysteries, and the two strains, mingling, had given birth to a tradition that drew on the powers of both the earth and the stars. From this had come the spiral path that linked the inner and outer realities of the Tor itself, and knowledge of the paths the earth energies followed as they flowed through the land.

  The Tor was linked to several of the smaller hills that rose above the fens. A map of these islands formed a shape that they also saw in the stars. The priests knew it as the Chariot of Light, or Caratra’s Wain, but the people of the marshes saw in that constellation the upper part of a bear. To honor that protecting power it had become the tradition to follow the path from isle to isle upon Midsummer Day.