Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  The Sight no longer comes to me as it did when I was young and we fought to bring the Goddess back into the world. I know now that She was already here, and always will be, but the Omphalos is the egg stone, the navel of the world, the last magic of a land sunk beneath the seas so long that even to us it is a legend.

  When I was a girl, there were tapestries in the Druids’ Temple that told the story of how it came here. They have fallen to threads and dust, but I myself once followed that passage to the heart of the hill and touched the sacred stone. The visions that came to me then are more vivid now than many of my own memories. I can see once more the Star Mountain crowned with fire and Tiriki’s ship poised trembling on the wave as the Doomed Land is engulfed by the sea.

  But I do not believe that I was on that ship. I have had dreams in which I stood, hand in hand with a man I loved, and watched as my world tore itself to pieces, just as Britannia did when Arthur died. Perhaps that was why I was sent back in this time, for Avalon is surely as lost as Atlantis, though it is mist, not smoke, that veils it from the mortal world.

  Once, there was a passage that led to the Omphalos Stone from the cave where the White Spring flows out from the Tor, but tremors in the earth blocked that way a long time ago. Perhaps it is not meant that we should any longer walk there. The Stone is being withdrawn from us, like so many other Mysteries.

  I know all about endings. It is beginnings that elude me.

  How did they come here, those brave priestesses and priests who survived the Sinking? Two millennia have passed since the Stone was brought to this shore, and five hundred more, and though we know little more than their names, we have preserved their legacy. Who were those ancestors who first brought the ancient wisdom and buried it like a seed in the heart of this holy hill?

  If I can understand how they survived their testing, then perhaps I will find hope that the ancient wisdom we preserved will be carried into the future, and that something of the magic of Avalon will endure. . . .

  One

  Tiriki woke with a gasp as the bed lurched. She reached out for Micail, blinking away tormenting images of fire and blood and falling walls and a faceless, brooding figure writhing in chains. But she lay safe in her own bed, her husband by her side.

  “Thank the gods,” she whispered. “It was only a dream!”

  “Not entirely—look there—” Raising himself on one elbow, Micail pointed to the lamp that swung before the Mother’s shrine in the corner, sending shadows flickering madly around the room. “But I know what you dreamed. The vision came to me, too.”

  In the same moment the earth moved again. Micail seized her in his arms and rolled her toward the protection of the wall as plaster showered down from above. From somewhere in the distance came a long rumble of falling masonry. They clung, scarcely breathing, as the vibration peaked and eased.

  “The mountain is waking,” he said grimly when all was still. “This makes the third tremor in two days.” He released her and got out of the bed.

  “They’re getting stronger,” she agreed. The palace was solidly built of stone and had withstood many tremors over the years, but even in the uncertain light Tiriki could see a new crack running across the ceiling of the room.

  “I must go. Reports will be coming in. Will you be all right here?” Micail stepped into his sandals and wrapped himself in a mantle. Tall and strong, with the lamplight striking flame from his red hair, he seemed the most stable thing in the room.

  “Of course,” she answered, getting up herself and pulling a light robe around her slim body. “You are prince as well as priest of this city. They will look to you for direction. But do not wear yourself out on work that can be done by other men. We must be ready for the ritual this afternoon.” She tried to hide her shiver of fear at the thought of facing the Omphalos Stone, but surely a ritual to reinforce the balance of the world had never been so necessary as now.

  He nodded, looking down at her. “You seem so fragile, but sometimes I think you are the strongest of us all . . .”

  “I am strong because we are together,” Tiriki murmured as he left her.

  Beyond the curtains that screened the balcony a red light was glowing. Today marked the midpoint of spring, she thought grimly, but that light was not the dawn. The city of Ahtarra was on fire.

  In the city above, men struggled to shift rubble and put out the last of the fires. In the shrine where the Omphalos Stone lay hidden, all was still. Tiriki held her torch higher as she followed the other priests and priestesses into its deepest chamber, suppressing a shiver as the hot flame became its own shadow, greenish smoke swirling around the pitch-soaked brand.

  The Omphalos Stone glimmered like occluded crystal in the center of the room. An egg-shaped thing half the height of a man, it seemed to pulse as it absorbed the light. Robed figures stood along the curving wall. The torches they had set into the brackets above them flickered bravely, yet the shrine seemed shrouded in gloom. There was a chill here, deep beneath the surface of the island of Ahtarrath, that no ordinary fire could ease. Even the smoke of the incense that smoldered on the altar sank in the heavy air.

  All other light faded before the glowing Stone. Even without their hoods and veils, the faces of the priests and priestesses would have been difficult to see, but as she felt her way to her place against the wall, Tiriki needed no sight to identify the hooded figure beside her as Micail. She smiled a silent greeting, knowing he would feel it.

  Were we disembodied spirits, she thought warmly, still I would know him . . . The sacred medallion upon his breast, a golden wheel with seven spokes, gleamed faintly, reminding Tiriki that here he was not only her husband, but the High Priest Osinarmen, Son of the Sun; just as she was not only Tiriki but Eilantha, Guardian of Light.

  Straightening, Micail began to sing the Invocation for the Equinox of Spring, his voice vibrating oddly. “Let Day be bounded by the Night . . .”

  Other, softer voices joined the chant.

  “Dark be balanced by the Light.

  Earth and Sky and Sun and Sea,

  A circled cross shall ever be.”

  A lifetime of priestly training had taught Tiriki all the ways of setting aside the demands of the body, but it was hard to ignore the dank subterranean air, or the eerie sense of pressure that set goose bumps in her skin. Only by supreme effort could she focus again on the song as it began to stir the stillness into harmony. . . .

  “Let sorrow make a space for joy,

  Let grief with jubilance alloy,

  Step by step to make our way,

  Till Darkness shall unite with Day . . .”

  In the desperate struggle that had caused the destruction of the Ancient Land a generation earlier, the Omphalos Stone had become, if only briefly, the play-thing of black sorcery. For a time it had been feared that the corruption was absolute; and so the priests had circulated the story that the Stone had been lost, with so much else, beneath the vengeful sea.

  In a way, the lie was truth; but the deep place in which the Stone lay was this cavern beneath the temples and the city of Ahtarra. With the arrival of the Stone, this midsize island of the Sea Kingdoms of Atlantis had become the sacred center of the world. But though the Stone was far from lost, it was hidden, as it had always been. Even the highest in the priesthood rarely found cause to enter this shrine. Those few who dared consult the Omphalos knew that their actions could upset the equilibrium of the world.

  The song changed tempo, growing more urgent.

  “Each season by the next is bound,

  Meetings, partings, form the round,

  The sacred center is our frame,

  Where all is changing, all the same . . .”

  Tiriki was losing focus again. If it was all the same, she thought in sudden rebellion, we wouldn’t be here now!

  For months, news of earthquakes and rumors of worse destruction to come had been running like wildfire throughout the Sea Kingdoms. In Ahtarrath, such terrors had at first seemed distant, but
the past few nights, Temple dwellers and city folk alike had been plagued by faint tremors in the earth, and persistent, dreadful dreams. And even now, as the song continued, she could sense uneasiness in the other singers.

  Can this truly be the prophesied Time of Ending? Tiriki wondered silently. After so many warnings?

  Resolutely, she rejoined her voice to the rising architecture of sound, whose manipulation was perhaps the most powerful tool of Atlantean magic.

  “Moving, we become more still,

  Impassioned, we are bound by will,

  Turning in perpetuity

  While Time becomes Eternity . . .”

  The shadows thickened, contorting the swirls of incense that at last spiraled into the chill air.

  The music stopped.

  Light blazed forth from the Stone, filling the shrine as completely as darkness had before. Light was everywhere, so radiant that Tiriki was surprised to find that it carried no heat. Even the torches shone more brightly. The singers released a collective sigh. Now they could begin.

  First to take off his hood and move toward the Stone was Reio-ta, governor of the Temple. Beside him the blue-robed Mesira, leader of the healers, lifted her veil. Tiriki and Micail stepped out to face them across the Stone. In that light, Micail’s red hair shone like flame, while the wisps that escaped Tiriki’s coiled braids glistened gold and silver.

  Reio-ta’s rich tenor took up the invocation . . .

  “In this place of Ni-Terat, Dark Queen of Earth,

  Now bright with the Spirit of Manoah’s Light,

  Confirm we now the Sacred Center,

  The Omphalos, Navel of the World.”

  The richness of her husky contralto belied Mesira’s age. “The center is not a place, but a state of being. The Omphalos is of another realm. Many ages the Stone lay undisturbed in the sanctuaries of the Ancient Land, but the center was not there, nor is it in Ahtarrath.”

  Micail voiced the formal response. “Mindful that all here have vowed that what is, is worth preserving, and to that end bending might and will . . .” He smiled at Tiriki, and reached again for her hand. Together they drew breath for the closing words.

  “We arrive forever in the Realm of the True, which can never be destroyed.”

  And the rest responded in chorus, “While we keep faith, Light lives in us!”

  The otherworldly illumination throbbed as Mesira spoke once more.

  “So we invoke the Equilibrium of the Stone, that the people may know peace once more. For we cannot ignore the portents we have seen. We meet in a place of wisdom to seek answers. Seeress, I summon thee—” Mesira extended both arms to the grey figure who now stepped forward. “The time is come. Be thou our eyes and our voice before the Eternal.”

  The seeress drew back her veils. In the intense brilliance of the Stone’s light it was not difficult to recognize Alyssa, her black hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her eyes already dilated by trance. With strange, half-bowing steps, she moved into the altar’s radiance.

  The singers watched nervously as the seeress rested her fingertips upon the Stone. Translucent patterns of power pooled and eddied within. Alyssa stiffened, but instead of retreating, she moved even nearer.

  “It is . . . it is so,” she whispered. “One with the Stone am I. What it knows, ye shall know. Let the sacred song bear us to the doors of Fate.”

  As she spoke, the singers began to hum softly. Micail’s voice soared in the cadence of Command, calling the seeress by her Temple name.

  “Neniath, seeress, dost thou know me?

  I, Osinarmen, do address thee.

  Part us from dreams as thou dost wake

  By the answer thou wilt make.”

  “I hear.” The voice was quite different from Alyssa’s, sharp and ringing. “I am here. What wouldst thou know?”

  “Speak if it please thee, and we shall attend.” Micail sang the formal phrase in one sustained exhalation, but in his voice, Tiriki could hear the strain. “We come because the Stone has called us, whispering secretly in the night.”

  A moment passed. “The answer, thou dost already know,” the seeress murmured. “The question lies before the truth. Yet the door that was cast open will not be shut. Stone upon stone rises higher, doomed to fall. The forests fill with tinder. The power which has waited at the heart of the world shifts . . . and it hungers.”

  Tiriki felt a momentary unsteadiness, but could not tell if it came from beneath the flooring stones, or from her own heart. She looked to Micail, but he stood frozen, his face a grimacing mask.

  Reio-ta forced out words. “Darkness has broken loose before,” he said with grim concentration, “and always, it has been contained. What must we do this time to bind it?”

  “Can you do aught but sing again while silence grows?” Alyssa shook with unexpected, bitter laughter; and this time the earth shuddered with her.

  A ripple of fright shook the singers. They cried out as one, “We are servants of Light Unfailing! The Darkness can never prevail!”

  But the tremors did not cease. The torches flickered out. Scarlet lightnings shot from the Stone. For a moment Tiriki thought the cavern around them was groaning, but it was Alyssa’s throat from which those horrific sounds came.

  The seeress was speaking, or trying to, but the words came garbled and unintelligible. Fighting their dread, the singers inched closer to Alyssa, straining to hear; but the seeress shrank away from them, arms flailing against the Stone.

  “It climbs!” Her shrieks echoed far beyond the circular chamber. “The foul flower! Blood and fire! YOU ARE TOO LATE!”

  As the echoes diminished, the strength faded from the taut body of the seeress. Only Micail’s swift movement prevented her from falling.

  “Take her—” Reio-ta gasped. “Mesira, go with them! We will f-finish here—”

  Nodding, Micail bore the seeress from the chamber.

  The alcove by the entrance to the shrine where they brought the seeress seemed strangely quiet. While the earth beneath them had finally stilled, Tiriki’s spirit was still shaken. As she entered, her acolyte Damisa, who had waited here with the other attendants during the ceremony, looked up with anxious green eyes.

  Micail pressed past her, touching Tiriki’s hand in a swift caress that was more intimate than an embrace. Eyes met in an unspoken assurance—I am here . . . I am here. We will survive, though the heavens fall.

  From the chamber beyond came a babble of voices.

  “How are they?” murmured Micail, with a nod toward the sound.

  Tiriki shrugged, but held on to his hand. “Half of them are assuring one another that we did not understand Alyssa’s words, and the others are convinced that Ahtarra is about to fall into the sea. Reio-ta will deal with them.” She looked at Alyssa, who lay upon a bench with Mesira beside her. “How is she?”

  The face of the seeress was pale, and the long hair which this morning had shone like a raven’s wing was now brindled with streaks of grey.

  “She sleeps,” Mesira said simply. In the soft light that came through the doorway, the healer’s face showed all its years. “As for her waking . . . it will be some time, I believe, before we know whether this day’s work has harmed her. You may as well go. I think we have received all the answers we are going to get. My chela is fetching a litter, that we may take her back to the Healers Hall. If there is any change, I will send word.”

  Micail had already removed his vestments and slipped the emblem of his rank beneath the neck of his sleeveless tunic. Tiriki folded her veil and outer robe and handed them to Damisa. “Shall we too call for bearers?” she asked.

  Micail shook his head. “Are you up to walking? I need to feel the touch of honest daylight on my skin.”

  The hot bright air of the outdoors was a blessing, baking the chill of the underground chambers from their bones. Tiriki felt the tightness easing from her neck and shoulders, and lengthened her steps to keep up with her husband’s longer stride. Through the red and white
stone columns of the Temple that marked the entrance to the underground shrine, she glimpsed a string of roofs tiled in blue. Farther down the slope, a scattering of newly built domes in cream and red were set amid the gardens of the city. Beyond them, the glittering sea stretched away to infinity.

  As they emerged from the portico, the sounds and smells of the city rose around them—barking dogs and crying babies, merchants calling out their wares, the spicy smell of the seafood stew that was a local favorite, and the less salubrious odors from a nearby sewer. The fires started by last night’s quake had been put out, and the damage was being dealt with. The destruction had been less than they had feared. Indeed, fear was now their greatest enemy. Even the stinks were an affirmation of ordinary life, reassuring after their confrontation with the uncanny power of the Stone.

  Perhaps Micail felt the same. At any rate, he was leading her the long way around, away from the tall buildings of the Temple complex and down through the marketplace, instead of following the white-paved Processional Way that led to the palace. The gleaming flanks of the Three Towers were hidden as they turned down a side street that led toward the harbor, where shopkeepers haggled with customers as they would on any normal day. They attracted a few looks of admiration, but no one pointed or stared. Without their ritual robes, she and Micail looked like any ordinary couple doing errands in the marketplace, though they were taller and fairer than most of the people of the town. And had anyone considered troubling them, the decision in Micail’s strong features and the energy in his stride would have been deterrent enough.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. They had fasted for the ritual, and it was now close to noon.

  “What I really want is a drink,” he responded with a grin. “There used to be a taverna near the harbor that served good wine—not our local rough red, but a respectable vintage from the land of the Hellenes. Don’t worry—the food will not disappoint you, either.”