Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “I can smell the harbor,” gasped Damisa. “We’re almost there!”

  A breath of moist air blessed Tiriki’s cheeks and brow. Above the crackle of flames and the groans of dying buildings she could hear the almost reassuring sound of human shouts and screams. She had begun to fear they were the only ones left alive on the isle.

  And now they could see the water and the masts that tossed in the harbor. Boats bounded across the dark waters, heading out to sea. Two wingbirds had collided and were sinking in a tangled mass while bobbing figures swam for the shore. As they hurried forward the ground shook as if to propel them on their way. Rocks tumbled from the cliffs and splashed into the bay.

  “There’s the Crimson Serpent!” cried Selast. The lines that held it to the stanchions on the dock were still fast, and young Captain Reidel stood poised at the stern, shading his eyes with one hand.

  Micail, where are you? Tiriki sent her spirit winging forward.

  “My lady, thank the gods!” called Reidel. He jumped to the dock and caught her as she swayed. Before she could protest, strong arms were swinging her onto the deck. “All of you get on board, fast as you can!”

  “Someone, take the box,” Chedan commanded.

  “Yes, yes, but hurry—” Reidel reached out to give Damisa a hand, but the girl pulled away.

  “I’m supposed to be on Tjalan’s ship!”

  “It would seem not!” Reidel answered. “The Alkonath fleet was anchored in the other harbor—and everything between here and there is in flames.” He gestured, and one of the sailors picked the girl up bodily and tossed her into his arms.

  Tiriki struggled to her feet, trying to make sense of the confusion of people, bags, and boxes. She recognized the seeress Alyssa huddled in the healer Liala’s arms, and Iriel.

  “Where’s Micail?”

  “Haven’t seen him,” answered Reidel, “nor Galara. We can’t wait for them, my lady. If the headland collapses we’ll be trapped here!” He turned and began shouting commands. Sailors began to unwind the lines that held the ship to the harbor.

  “Stop!” cried Tiriki. “You can’t leave yet—he will come!” She had been so certain he would be waiting for her, frantic at her delay, and now she was the one who must fear.

  “There are forty souls on this ship whom I must save!” exclaimed Reidel. “We’ve already delayed too long!” He grabbed a pole and pushed them away from the dock as the last sailor leaped on board.

  The third great tower, the one that watched over the palace, was falling slowly, as if time itself were reluctant to let it go. Then, with a roar that obliterated all other sounds, it disappeared. Debris exploded into the sky and burst into flame.

  Reidel’s ship lifted and fell as the shock wave passed beneath it. Another craft, still tethered, crashed into the dock. The oarsmen heaved and struggled to pull the ship through the debris that bobbed on the dark waters.

  Above, the sky boiled in a vortex of flame and shadow and fire fell back upon the already burning city in a hail of indescribable destruction. Damisa was weeping. One of the sailors swore in a murmur of meaningless sound. They had already come far enough that the figures who were casting themselves into the water were silhouettes without faces or names. Micail was not among them—Tiriki would have known if he were that near.

  They were passing beneath the cliff now. A boulder splashed down before the bow and the deck canted over, sending Tiriki sprawling into Chedan. He hooked one arm around her and the other around the mast as the ship righted itself and leaped forward.

  “Micail will be on one of the other ships,” murmured Chedan. “He will survive—that too is part of the prophecy.”

  Through eyes that blurred with tears Tiriki stared at the funeral pyre that had been her home. The motion of the ship grew more lively as the sails filled, carrying them out to sea.

  Black smoke billowed up as the volcano spoke once more, blotting out the sky. In the moment before everything went dark, Tiriki saw the tremendous image of the Man with Crossed Hands covering the sky.

  And Dyaus laughed and stretched out his arms to engulf the world.

  Five

  Tiriki clawed her way out of a nightmare in which she was drowning. Reaching out to Micail for comfort in the dark, her fingers closed on cold wool. As she groped, the floor rolled and she tensed yet again, bracing herself for another earthquake; but no, this was too gentle, too regular a rocking to sustain her fear. Exhausted, she sank back limply upon the hard bed, thankful for woolen winter blankets, her eyes half closed again.

  A dream, she assured herself, brought on by the cool breeze through the window . . .

  For some reason, she had thought that it was spring already, and that the disaster had come—that somehow she and Micail had ended up on different boats. But here we are side by side, as we should be.

  Smiling at the foolishness of dreams, she shifted position again, trying to stay comfortable despite a vaguely dizzy feeling and a persistent chill. Something hard through the blankets . . . And then, close by, someone began to weep.

  Her own discomfort she could ignore, but not another’s pain. Tiriki forced her eyes to open and sat up, blinking at the dim, recumbent shapes all around her. Beyond them she could see a narrow railing, and the darkly heaving sea.

  She was on a boat. It had not been a dream.

  As she looked about, someone out of sight, toward the bow, began to sing.

  “Nar-Inabi, Star Shaper,

  Dispense tonight thy bounty . . .”

  As she listened, additional unseen voices joined the song.

  “Illuminate our wingsails

  As we fly upon the waters.

  The winds here are all strangers

  And we are but sailors.

  Nar-Inabi, Star Shaper,

  This night reveal Thy glory . . .”

  For a moment the beauty of the song lifted her spirit. The stars were hidden, but no matter what happened here they remained in the heavens, afloat in the sea of space as their ship floated on the sea below. Star father, Sea lord, protect us! her spirit cried, trying to feel in the uneasy rocking of the ship the comfort of mighty arms.

  But whether or not the god was listening, Tiriki could still hear someone crying. Carefully, she peeled away enough of the woolen blankets about the curled-up figure beside her to recognize the youthful face of Elis, fast asleep, her dark hair tangled, her eyes wet with unhappy dreams.

  Poor child—we have both lost our mates. Tiriki choked back her own grief before it could overwhelm her. No, she told herself sternly, though we shall surely never see Aldel again, Micail lives! I know it.

  Tenderly, she soothed Elis into deeper sleep, and only then withdrew enough to stand up. Shivering in the stiff breeze, trying not to let the continual gentle swaying underfoot disturb her stomach, Tiriki tried to will away the lingering tensions of her unrestful sleep and strained her eyes toward the foggy seascape beyond the railing. The wake of the ship glinted redly in the bloody glow that pulsed along the horizon, illuminating a vast cloud of smoke and cinders that roiled the heavens and hid the stars.

  It was not the sunrise, she realized abruptly. The raging light was from another source—it came from Ahtarrath, even in its final death throes unwilling to submit to the sea.

  As the lurid dawn light grew she recognized Damisa standing by the railing, staring forlornly at the distant flames. Tiriki started toward her but Damisa turned away, her shoulders hunching defensively. Tiriki wondered if Damisa was one of those people who preferred to suffer in privacy, and then she wondered whether she wanted Damisa’s company for the girl’s sake or for her own.

  Most of the other people huddled on the deck were strangers, but she could see Selast and Iriel not far away, lying curled together like kittens as Kalaran snored protectively beside them.

  From amidships came a quiet voice giving orders; then Reidel appeared carrying a lantern, his bare feet almost silent on the wooden deck. She nodded in automatic greeting. Since yesterd
ay he seemed to have aged ten years. For that matter, she thought, I wonder how much older I must look by now!

  Reidel returned her greeting, rather anxiously, but before they could exchange words, he was beset by a pair of red-faced merchants wanting something to eat.

  A man whom she recognized as Reidel’s sailor, Arcor, had been hovering nearby. “My lady,” he said, as she finally turned to face him, “we hoped not to trouble you while you slept, but the captain wishes you to know, there be comfortable beds for you and the young folk below. The honored ones, the adept Alyssa and the priestess Liala, rest there already.”

  Tiriki shook her head. “No—but I thank you—” She looked at him inquiringly and he murmured his name, once more touching his brow in a gesture of reverence. Living at such close quarters during this voyage, she mused, how long will the old caste distinctions last?

  “I thank you, Arcor,” she repeated, in more pleasant tones, “but so long as there is anything to see here—” She broke off. “I must go,” she murmured, and quickly made her way amidships, where she noticed Chedan standing alone, gazing at the waves and the troubled sky.

  “I am sorry. I meant to help keep watch over the Stone,” she said as she reached Chedan’s side. She intended to say more, but found herself coughing, and a sharp, growing ache in her chest reminded her that the very air they were breathing was poisoned with the ashes of Ahtarrath.

  Chedan smiled at her fondly. “You needed rest,” he said, “and should feel no shame for taking it. In truth, there has been nothing to see. The Stone is at peace, even if we are not.” He gathered her against him, and for a moment she was content to rest within the steady support of his arms, but the mage’s sparkling eyes and ash-whitened beard could not conceal his worried frown.

  “No other ships?” Her voice was a rasping whisper.

  “Earlier, I glimpsed a few sails, heading on other courses, but in this murk—” He waved at the smoke and fog. “A hundred ships might pass unseen! Yet we can be confident that Micail will direct whatever boat he may be on toward the same destination as we—”

  “Then you agree he is alive?” She gazed at him in appeal. “That my hope is not just a delusion of love?”

  The mage’s expression was solemn, but warm. “Being who you are and what you are, Tiriki—bound to Micail by karma, and more—you would surely have felt him pass.” Chedan fell silent, then grimaced and let slip a muffled oath. Following his gaze, Tiriki saw the faraway glow of the dying land rapidly expanding in a swirl of flames.

  “Hold on!” Reidel’s voice rang out behind them. “Everyone—grab something and hold on!” He already had one arm around the mainmast, but he and Chedan barely had time to clasp Tiriki between them as the ship’s stern lifted, sending unsecured gear and sleepers sliding. With a scream, someone went over the side. The masts groaned, sails flapping desperately as the ship continued to lift until it hung poised on the very crest of the swell. Behind them a long slope of shining water stretched back toward the fires of Ahtarrath, perhaps ten miles away. Then the wave passed, and the stern tipped as the ship began a long slide back down. Farther and farther yet they plummeted until Tiriki thought the ravening sea meant to swallow them whole. The ship bucked, seeking balance on the water, but the overstressed mainmast cracked and came crashing down. The Crimson Serpent shuddered as waves whipped around it.

  It seemed a long time before the ship came to rest again, rocking gently with the tide. Reidel’s lantern was nowhere to be seen. The faint phosphorescence that danced along the wave crests was the only light. There were no stars above, and the fires of Ahtarrath had sunk, finally and forever, beneath the sea.

  The next morning Chedan jerked upright with a snort and realized that, against all expectation, he had been fast asleep. It was day, and that, too, he supposed, was more than any of them should have dared to expect after the violence of the night before. It was a daylight, however, in which very little could be seen. He could hear quite clearly the omnipresent creaking of wood as the ship rolled on the swell, the gurgle of water beneath her bows, and the cries of seabirds as they bobbed like corks all around. A clammy grey fog rested between the sea and sky. It felt as if they were sailing through another world.

  Although Chedan had often enough found danger in his wanderings, he could not remember ever having been quite so uncomfortable. His back ached from the odd posture he’d slept in, and there was, he perceived, a splinter in his elbow. That’s what I get for not going below, he lectured himself as he plucked it out. He wished a lifetime of experience could help now to take him home.

  With a sigh and a yawn, he drew in his feet as four sailors, sweating even in this chilly dawn, carried the top half of the mainmast past him. The sailors had unstepped the lower half of the mast from its base and cut chunks from both broken ends so that they could be fitted back together. Spliced and splinted with rope bindings, the mast might be strong enough to support its sail.

  If the winds stay moderate. If no natural disaster comes to finish what the magic of dead men started . . . Chedan sighed. Bah! Gloomy thoughts for a gloomy day! At least Reidel has the sense to keep his men busy. He hauled himself to a standing position, just long enough to sit down on one of the row of storage chests permanently bolted to the deck.

  As he sat massaging his aching elbow, he saw Iriel moving with exaggerated caution through the broken crates and other odd items that littered the deck. Dark shadows beneath her eyes betrayed her strain, but she had put a brave face on. Indeed, her look of resolve warmed him more, he guessed, than would the bowl of steaming liquid that she carried so carefully in both hands.

  She held it out to him, saying, “They have a fire going in the galley, and I thought you might like some tea.”

  “Dear girl, you are a lifesaver!” A poor choice of phrase, he thought as he saw her blanch.

  “Are we lost?” Her hands shook with the effort she was making to remain calm. “You can tell me the truth. Are we all going to die out here?”

  “My child,” Chedan began, with a startled shake of his head.

  “I am not a child,” Iriel interrupted, a little sharply. “You can tell me the truth.”

  “My dear—all here are like children to me,” Chedan reminded her, and sipped gratefully at the hot tea. “More to the point, Iriel, you are asking the wrong question. We are all going to die—eventually. That is the meaning of mortality. But before that happens we must learn to live! So let’s not gloom about. You have made a good beginning by helping me.” He looked around, and saw a torn meal sack lying on the deck, threatening to spill what remained of its contents.

  “See if you can round up the acolytes. We’ll make that meal into porridge and spare some sailor the trouble of cleaning it up.”

  “What a good idea,” came a new voice. He turned and saw Tiriki shaking off the tangle of blankets in which she had passed the night. She rose and moved toward him, her steps somewhat uncertain on the gently rolling deck. “Good morning, Master Chedan. Good morning, Iriel.”

  “My lady.” Iriel bowed in the customary greeting, and then again to Chedan, before running off in search of the other acolytes.

  “I don’t know how she does it,” Tiriki commented, as they watched her go. “I can hardly keep my knees from knocking.”

  “Sit beside me,” Chedan invited. “You look a bit green. Would you like some of this tea?”

  “Thank you,” she said, and swiftly lowered herself onto the sea chest beside him. “But I don’t know about drinking anything. My stomach is uneasy this morning. It’s not surprising. I . . . have never cared much for the sea.”

  “The trick is not to focus on the horizon,” Chedan advised. “Look beyond that—you just have to get used to it. Putting something in your belly will steady it, believe it or not.”

  Her expression was dubious, but she accepted the tea bowl, and dutifully sipped. “I heard you talking to Iriel,” she said, soberly. “How many more of us are gone?”

  “We have be
en lucky, all in all. Two or three persons went overboard when the wave hit, but only Alammos was not recovered. He was a warder in the library. I didn’t really know him, but—” He forced his voice to steady. “Five of the acolytes made it to this ship. We must hope that the others are with Micail. And there are a few others of the priests’ caste—Liala has them all settled, or as well as can be expected. The crew is more of a problem. The greater number of them are from Alkonath and proud of it. In fact, Reidel had to break up a fistfight only a while ago.” Chedan glanced at her and, seeing that her face was troubled, watched her closely as he went on.

  “Considering how difficult that broken mainmast will make everything, we must be thankful that the Crimson Serpent has a fully trained crew. When it comes to having little experience with the sea, well, that’s one thing the priests’ caste shares with the townsfolk—we are landlubbers all, although most, at least, are relatively young and strong. No, truly things could be much worse.”

  Tiriki nodded, her features again almost as calm as Chedan hoped his were. Both of them might weep bitterly within, but for the sake of those who still depended on them, they must provide a steadfast appearance of hope.

  Looking away, he caught sight of Reidel picking his way toward them through the debris on the deck.

  “Why isn’t this stowed away already?” Reidel was muttering, with the fiercest of frowns. “The moment the mast is up—my apologies.”

  “No need,” said Tiriki quickly. “Your first duty is the seaworthiness of the ship. We are comfortable enough—”

  He gave her a startled look, and she thought again that he seemed overly stern for one so young. “With respect, my lady, it was not your pardon I asked. To see my vessel so disarrayed—my father would say it is bad luck.”