Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Ashamed, Tiriki blushed, and seeing it, Reidel shook his head and laughed. “Well, I’ve given offense again, I guess, which I didn’t intend either time. We must still learn how to work together, it seems.”

  “In regard to that—” Chedan spoke to distract the other two from their embarrassment. “Can you tell us where we are?”

  “Yes and no.” Reidel fumbled with a pouch at his belt and pulled out a rod of cloudy crystal about the thickness of his finger. “This can catch the light of the sun even in the fog, so we know fairly well where it is above us—and can roughly judge how far north or south we have sailed. But as for east and west—well, for that we await the pleasure of the Star Shaper, but he spurns us still.” He returned the crystal to its pouch. “We set sail with provisions for a moon, and that should be enough, but still, if we have a chance to go ashore, it wouldn’t hurt to take on fresh supplies. All assuming that the mast . . .” The words trailed off as he turned to watch his laboring crewmen.

  “Are we on a course toward the Hesperides?” Tiriki blurted out. More calmly, she continued, “I know that many refugees from the islands of Tarisseda and Mormallor have already gone to Khem, where the ancient wisdom has long been welcome. And others, I think, intended to seek the western lands across the greater sea. But—Micail and I planned to go north—”

  “Yes, my lady, I know. The day before—before we left—I had a few minutes with the prince. With both of them, actually. Prince Tjalan told me—” He broke off, biting his lip. “If all goes well—” Reidel paused again as one of the sailors approached, touching hand to forehead in salute. “What is it, Cadis?”

  “The lads are done binding the mast; they wait only thy word.”

  “I will come—excuse me—” Reidel inclined his head respectfully to Chedan and Tiriki, but his eyes and his attention had already returned to his ship and his crew.

  The wind never left their sails, which allowed the Crimson Serpent to make good time, and though the spliced mainmast creaked alarmingly, it held fast. But the wind also played in the overcast sky, shaping weird cloud creatures from the curtaining mists. Ahtarrath might lie broken in the deeps, but the smoke of its destruction remained in the sky, dimming the sun by day and shrouding the stars at night.

  As agreed, Reidel had set a northerly course, but many days passed and they still had not seen land. They encountered no other ships either, but with the continual fog, it was possibly just as well. A collision would have been one disaster too many.

  Tiriki made a point of spending a little while every day with the acolytes, particularly Damisa, who was still brooding over her failure to make it to the ship captained by Prince Tjalan, and Elis, whose grief for Aldel reminded Tiriki that at least she could hope that her own beloved survived. She could only counsel those who were still sunk in depression to follow the example of Kalaran and Selast, who were trying to make themselves useful, a suggestion often met with tears. Tiriki insisted, however, that they at least pursue their singing practice and other studies, even if they were not well enough to help with the chores.

  She had hoped that Alyssa, as the next-most-senior priestess on board, would be more helpful, but the seeress took full advantage of what was almost a private cabin to nurse her injured leg and meditate. Tiriki had begun to suspect her of malingering, but Liala assured her that the seeress’s leg had indeed been badly sprained during the melee of their escape.

  One afternoon, as Tiriki sat in the foredeck, wondering what, if anything, she ought to do about the lesser priest Rendano’s repetitive, pointless quarreling with a small cheerful saji woman called Metia, the dreary skies darkened, and a storm whirled down upon them. If Tiriki had thought her first night at sea terrible, by the time the tempest had blotted out even the sight of the towering waves, she was actually wishing that she had stayed in the palace. There, at least, she might have drowned with dignity.

  For an endless time of torment she clung to her bunk below deck, while the ship bucked and plunged. Selast, who had inherited at least the sea legs of the Cosarrath royal line, refilled her flask with fresh water. Mindful of Chedan’s advice, Tiriki sipped at it in the occasional gaps between upheaving seas, and tried not to watch the others merrily downing cheesebread and the last of the fresh fruit.

  Sometimes, between the almost endless sobbing of the elder priestess Malaera and the complaints of the acolytes, there came a respite long enough for her to hear the sailors shouting on the deck above, and Reidel’s strong, clear voice responding; but always, just when she was beginning to hope the worst had passed, a rising wind would overwhelm every voice, and the ship would tilt until she expected they would go completely under. Reason told her that no vessel could survive such a battering. She did not know whether to pray that Micail’s ship was faring better, or that he was already dead and awaiting her on the other side.

  Her misery faded into a stupor of endurance in which her soul retreated into an inner fastness so remote that she did not notice that the gusts were growing gentler, as the roll and pitch of the ship eased almost to normal. Exhaustion became a long-awaited, dreamless sleep; nor did she wake until morning.

  The mended mainmast had not survived the storm, but the other two remained still intact, though tall enough to support only small sails. Still, as the weather held fair and the breeze steady, they were able to move slowly forward. Yet at every dimming of the cloudy light, Tiriki stiffened, fearing disaster.

  What has become of my discipline? she scolded herself, sharply. I have been trained to face anything, even the very darkness beyond the reach of the gods, but here I sit frozen with terror while those children scuffle and chatter and hang off the railing.

  The creak of the ship’s timbers, a sudden tilting of the deck, even the scent of burning charcoal from the galley, all had the power to set her heart pounding. Yet it was also a distraction from a deeper anxiety that had set in when the storm lifted and they found themselves the only ship on the calm blue sea. Chedan had said that the other boats, having departed earlier, could have used their sails to run ahead of the storm. Did he believe that? It did no good to tell herself that the acolytes would only be more frightened if their seniors let their own fears show. The fear was there, and it made her feel ashamed.

  Tiriki took a deep breath and continued on toward the stern of the ship, where Chedan and the captain were taking sightings from the night sky. She was not alone, she reminded herself as she approached the two men. Reidel was an experienced sailor, and Chedan had traveled widely. Surely they would know how to find the way.

  “But that is just what I am saying.” Reidel’s finger stabbed upward. “In the month of the Bull, the constellation of the Changer should have risen just after sunset. By this time, the pole star should be high.”

  “You forget, we are much farther north than you have ever come.” Chedan lifted the scroll he held so that it caught the light. “The horizon is different in many small ways. . . . Well, no wonder you can’t find it. This is not the right scroll. Ardral prepared more recent charts for our use.”

  “So Prince Tjalan said, but they never reached us.”

  “What of the teaching scrolls?” said Tiriki as she joined them. “I told Kalaran to fetch them from the chests—”

  “Yes, and I thank you for remembering them,” said Chedan. “The problem is they are very old. See for yourself.”

  She peered at the scroll, which concerned the movement of the zodiac. Unhappily, it no longer seemed to her half as detailed as it had when she was a student trying to commit it to memory—and that was the last time she had given any serious thought to the stars.

  It just isn’t right, she thought angrily, as her stomach once more began to protest the unsteady movement of the sea. Of all of us, Reio-ta was the sailor! He and Deoris took that trip to Oranderis alone, only five years ago. Either one of them would be more use here than me!

  Chedan drew a deep breath. “The chief polar star is Eltanin, of course, as shown in all our charts.
But for generations now, the configuration of the stars has been changing—”

  “What?” Reidel exclaimed in shock. “We know that land and sea can change their outlines, but the skies?”

  The mage nodded solemnly. “I have many times verified it with a nightglass, and it only became more obvious with every hour. The heavens change just as we do, only more slowly. But over the centuries, the differences become clear. You must know something of the wandering stars—”

  “I know that they wander along a predictable path.”

  “Only because they have been observed for so many years. When the pole star upon which so many of our calculations are based suddenly moves—well, such a tremendous change is regarded as foreboding some equally great shift in the affairs of men—”

  “Yes. A disaster. As we have seen,” observed Reidel.

  Shielding her eyes from the glowing lanterns, Tiriki gazed upward. Mists veiled the horizon, but the moon was very new and had already set. Directly overhead the darkness was studded with stars in such profusion, it would be a wonder if she could make out any constellations at all.

  “Perhaps,” Chedan was saying, “you may have heard old folks muttering that the days of spring and winter are not as they used to be. Well, they are not forgetful; they are right. Old Temple documents have proved it. The time of the planting season, the coming of the rains, all the cosmos is caught up in some unfathomable change—and we, too, must adapt, or perish.”

  Tiriki wrenched her attention away from the confused splendor of the skies to try to make sense of his words. “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since the fall of the Ancient Land, the princes have ruled without restraint, forgetting their duty to serve as they pursued power. Perhaps we were saved so that we might revitalize the ancient wisdom in a new land. I am not speaking of Micail, of course, or Reio-ta. And Prince Tjalan, too, is—was—a great man. Or would have been—”

  Seeing Chedan’s distress, she reached to comfort him.

  “No doubt you are right,” Reidel said briskly, “but at the moment it is getting us to the new land that must be my concern.”

  “The stars may be unconstant,” Tiriki said, “but nothing has happened to the sun and moon, has it? By them we can sail east until we find land. And if there is no land—we can take further counsel then.”

  Chedan smiled at her approvingly and Reidel nodded, seeing the sense of what she said. She sat back and let her eyes drift up again toward the patch of stars. Cold and high, they mocked her and every mortal being. Rely on nothing, they seemed to say, for your hard-won knowledge will do you little good where you are going now.

  Tiriki woke to the familiar sway of her hammock and groaned from the nausea that was becoming equally familiar within. It was the third day after the storm.

  “Here,” said a quiet voice. “Use the basin.”

  Tiriki opened her eyes and saw Damisa holding a brass bowl, and the sight of it intensified her need. After several painful moments she lay back and wiped her face with the damp cloth Damisa offered her.

  “Thank you. I have never been a good sailor, but I would have thought I’d be accustomed to the motion by now.” Tiriki could not tell whether duty or liking had prompted her assistance, but she needed Damisa’s help too much to care. “How goes it with the ship?”

  The girl shrugged. “The wind has come up, and every time the masts creak someone wonders whether they will crack, but without it we scarcely seem to move at all. If the wind blows contrary they complain that we’re lost, and when it dies they wail that we’ll all starve. Elis and I have cooked up a pot of gruel, by the way. You’ll feel better for a little fresh air and a bit of breakfast.”

  Tiriki shuddered. “Not just yet, I think, but I will come on deck. I promised Chedan to help him work on revising the star maps, though the way I feel, I fear I’ll be able to do little more than make approving noises and hold his hand.”

  “He’s not the only one who needs his hand held,” Damisa replied. “I’ve tried to keep the others too busy to get into mischief, but the deck pitches too much for the meditation postures, and we can only debate the sayings of the mages for so long. They may be young,” she added from the vantage of her nineteen years, “but they were selected for intelligence, and they can see our danger.”

  “I suppose so,” Tiriki sighed. “Very well. I will come.”

  “If you spend the morning with the others, I can do a thorough inventory of the supplies. With your permission, of course,” she added reluctantly.

  Tiriki realized just how much of an afterthought that request had been and suppressed a smile. She could remember feeling a similar disdain for the ignorance of her juniors and the weaknesses of her elders when she was that age.

  “Of course,” she echoed blandly. “And Damisa—I am grateful to you for taking on this responsibility while I’ve been ill.” In the dim light she could not see if the girl was blushing, but when Damisa replied her tone was calm.

  “I was a princess of Alkonath before I was an acolyte. To lead is what I was brought up to do.”

  Damisa had spoken with confidence, but by the time she finished her survey of the supplies stored in the Crimson Serpent, she was beginning to wish she had not claimed so much responsibility. But facing unpleasant truths was also part of the job. She could only hope that Captain Reidel, though he was only a commoner, would be able to do the same.

  As expected, she found him with Chedan at the prow of the ship, calculating their position from the noon sighting of the sun.

  “Damisa, my dear,” said the older man. “You look grave. What is wrong?”

  “I have grave news.” Her gaze moved from him to the captain. “Our store of meal is going fast. At the rate we are using it,” she told them steadily, “the open bag will be empty after the evening meal, and there is only one more. I can make a thinner porridge, but that is not much nourishment for working men.”

  Reidel frowned. “Once more I wish that our cook had made it on board. But I am sure that you are doing all you can. I would welcome any constructive suggestions. Are you telling me that we can feed ourselves for only two days more?”

  “At this rate, more like one. I have noticed that certain people, and I don’t mean just townsfolk—” Damisa felt herself flushing beneath the intensity of his dark eyes. Strongly built, with bronzed skin and dark hair, he was typical of the Atlantean middle class, but she realized now that he was much younger than he had seemed from a distance, with a mouth that seemed more used to smiling than its present grim line. “Some people,” she repeated resolutely, “have been putting food aside. I know where some of it is hidden—and if your sailors helped me take it away from them, we could distribute it properly, and get at least one more meal for everyone. Perhaps more.”

  “Yes.” Reidel sighed.

  Chedan muttered, his eyes still on the curious, delicate apparatus of crystal rods connecting to cones with which he was calculating the angle from the horizon to the sun.

  “I have already discussed all this with the other acolytes,” Damisa said into the silence. “We are accustomed to fasting,” she explained, and blushed again as both captain and mage turned to look at her. “And we are not working very hard, really. It will do us no harm to go on meditation rations for a while.”

  Reidel’s eyes scanned her as if he were seeing her, as someone distinct from the rest of the priests’ caste, for the first time. Damisa felt herself blush beneath his scrutiny, but this time her eyes did not falter, and in the end it was he who looked away.

  “We will come to land soon,” he murmured, staring at the horizon. “We must. When you talk to your friends . . . tell them . . . thank you.”

  “I will,” she said. She turned to Chedan. “Come with me, Master. The acolytes are waiting in the stern of the ship. We can endure what we must, but we will do so with stronger hearts if you bring words of hope to us.”

  The mage lifted an ironic eyebrow. “My dear, I think you have words enough a
lready. No, no, it is not a reproof,” he hastened to assure her. “Truly you bring me hope, in the form of the strength you have plainly won from these hardships. We are in your debt.”

  In the middle part of the deck, some of the sailors were splicing ropes broken in the latest gale while others worked at mending a spare sail. Chedan could feel their eyes on his back as he followed Damisa toward the stern, but the rules of caste kept anyone from questioning him. The acolytes, and one or two others of the priests’ caste, sat clustered in an informal semicircle beneath an impromptu awning made from the remains of a sail too torn to be worth repairing. Their conversations came to a ragged stop as they recognized the renowned Master Chedan Arados, and he surveyed them with interest in return.

  He had first met Damisa when she was a child on Alkonath. She had been outspoken then, and if she was introducing him now as if she had gone out and captured him, he supposed she was entitled to do so. He had been too busy struggling with his star charts to pay much attention to the acolytes, but with Tiriki so ill he supposed it was his duty.

  As Damisa rather ostentatiously seated herself upon the floor mat amid her fellows, the mage settled his aching bones upon a coil of rope, gazing from one youthful face to another with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “I regret that until now I have been too busy to visit you,” he began, “but everything that I have heard in these last few days tells me that in these difficult circumstances you have made yourselves useful. Where guidance is not needed, I know better than to provide it. But I understand there are some here who feel that our situation is hopeless. Now it is only reasonable to worry—indeed it is very sensible, placed as we are—but it would be wrong to despair.”

  Little Iriel made a sound that could have been laughter or a stifled sob. “Wrong? Master, much of our training is in reading signs. When the sun begins to set, we know the dark will fall. If the stars do not shine, there may be rain. The signs I see now say we will die out here, for we have neither seen any other ship nor sighted land.”