And the Wheel turns.”
Chedan frowned, then smiled more broadly than before. The old song seemed newly appropriate. But then the seeds of the future are always found in the past, he reminded himself. The father is not dead if his wisdom survives . . .
“Are you all right? Shall I lend you my cloak? Do you need to lean on me on the way down?” Damisa’s words were kind, but underneath them Tiriki could hear exasperation mingled with concern.
She shook her head. It had been embarrassing enough to lumber through the ritual dance like a foundered pony! Next someone would be offering to carry her around in a sedan chair . . .
“My lady?” Damisa pressed. “Shall I—?”
“I’m fine!” Tiriki snapped.
“I’m sure you are!” The girl’s tone sharpened as well. “I was only trying to help!”
Tiriki sighed. She was growing tired of Damisa’s erratic alternation between leisurely distraction and solicitous concern, but she knew that expending energy as they had done in the ritual often left tempers thin. She took a deep breath, gasped at the icy quality of the air, and tightened her hold on her own composure.
“I thank you,” said Tiriki courteously. “I’ll come down in my own time, and meet you there. Go on—the feast that Reidel and the sailors promised will probably be ready by now!” She lifted her torch, which flared wildly in the fierce wind that had begun to blow as soon as the ritual ended.
“Oh, Reidel!” Damisa tossed her head. “I suppose sailors must learn to do for themselves at sea, but I haven’t found their cooking to be anything worth hurrying for . . .”
“Perhaps not,” Tiriki said dryly, “but I am sure you are hungry, so run along.”
Damisa looked taken aback, but if she was insulted it was not enough to prevent her from taking Tiriki at her word. As the girl proceeded down the path, Tiriki sighed and, much more carefully, followed. At least going downhill she would have her torch to light the way.
The next step went wrong, and her foot came down strangely across a little hollow in the rocky ground. Her breath caught, the muscles of her belly cramped, and she stopped again, leaning on her staff, remembering once more the babes she had been unable to bring to term. With this thought a little fear came, a horror that perhaps she had harmed the child . . .
Nearby, a boulder poked out from the turf. She considered sitting down, but her instinct was to keep in motion. Surely, she told herself, it is not so serious. Once I have warmed up a little, the ache will go away.
Taking another deep breath, Tiriki started out again. She could hear happy laughter from below, and one or two voices still above, but for the moment she was quite alone on the path. As she angled toward the lower slope, the shrubbery on each side grew thicker. Soon she would be among the trees. And not too soon—it’s coming on to rain, she thought as a hint of dampness kissed her cheek.
Once again, dense clouds obscured the stars. A fine mist was falling, laying a veil of crystals across the rough weave of her shawls. She tried to hurry her pace, but the ache in her back had become a beating pulse of pain.
The imperceptible condensation of the mist became a steady patter as the rain began in earnest. Her torch hissed as heavy droplets filtered through the leaves, soaking her clothing and making the path treacherous. She would have to move even more slowly to avoid a fall. If only I had not sent Damisa away, she thought. I might be willing to accept a little assistance now . . .
Sighing, she told herself to breathe carefully and, for a little while, it helped to manage the pain. Then another loose stone turned beneath her foot and sent her reeling, torch and staff alike flying from her flailing hands. Icy water splashed her face and arms as she struck the ground, and in the same moment she felt a gush of warmth between her thighs. Her breath burst from her in a sob as her belly clenched harder.
The child! she thought in panicked understanding. The child is coming . . . now . . . She should have taken more care, so close to her time. In such bitter cold, she had been mad even to climb the hill for the ritual.
She reached for the fallen torch, still dimly glowing; but before her fingers could close on the stock, it sputtered and went out. She could not restrain a curse. Faint as that light had been, without it the darkness seemed impenetrable.
“Liala!” she breathed, for though there was no House of Caratra here, the blue-robed priestess had promised to see her through her labor. “Someone! Help me!”
She took another breath, teeth chattering, and fought for control. She had a little time—the tales she had heard of childbirth said that a first babe always took many hours. The thought offered little consolation. Shivering, she heaved herself up onto hands and knees, wondering if she could make it to her feet, and whether it would be safe to walk if she could. Crawling is better, she told herself. At least this way I can feel my way along the path. It was a painful mode of progression, however, and before she had gone very far she wanted nothing more than to curl into a moaning ball of pain.
Tiriki forced herself to keep moving. “D-darling child! I m-m-mean to see you alive!” Strangely, her resolve made her feel a great deal warmer. I’ll be fine. And if all else fails, Chedan and Liala will surely find me when they come downhill . . .
The rigorous disciplines of the Temple had made her certain she would have the strength to endure whatever might come, but she had never before realized how much she had depended on the army of servants ever present in Ahtarrath. In the world of the spirit she could face all dangers, but this was a challenge of the flesh, and she found herself unexpectedly weak, alone, and in pain.
And worst of all, she realized, as she came up against a sodden tree in the middle of what she had thought was the path, she was lost.
Clinging to the tree trunk, she hauled herself upright. “Halloo!” she yelled, but the wind tore her breath away. It seemed to her that she could hear someone else shouting from higher on the hill. Were they looking for her? Surely by now someone must have noticed that she was missing. She tried to call again, but her shrieks were muffled by the drumbeat of wind-driven rain.
This child was a miracle, she thought numbly, surely the Powers that sent me this joy will not allow it to be destroyed . . . not in this senseless way! She rested on hands and knees, breathing cautiously as the pain rolled through her body again.
I am a Guardian, said that part of her mind that was still capable of thought. Surely I can summon someone, even if my body is trapped here . . . The Lady! The Queen! She gave me her blessing! But when she gathered her forces to focus the call, another contraction scattered her concentration and forced her back into her body again.
In the end, all she could do was seize the moments between the pangs and continue dragging herself slowly downhill.
“Get up.”
The simple animal awareness of pain to which Tiriki’s consciousness had retreated took in the words without understanding them. Half conscious, she had continued to crawl. Now small hands were gripping her arms with surprising power, pulling her to her feet.
“That’s it—you can walk! I will show you the way.”
“Who are you?” Tiriki moaned, as warm energy flowed into her through those small, strong hands.
“Keep your mind on your feet!” came the terse reply, as Tiriki stopped to let another contraction pass.
“Good!” said her helper. “Now breathe into the pain!” It was a woman’s voice, and from the size of her hands, probably one of the marsh people. Perhaps, Tiriki thought dimly, one who had come to the Tor to observe the lighting of the solstice fire . . . She had no idea where they were going in that wilderness of whipping branches and showering rain, nor how long they made their way through the forest. But presently her mysterious companion led her into a clearing beyond the trees. Tiriki’s feet felt level ground. She could smell wood smoke, and sensed rather than saw the bulk of a dwelling.
Her guide called out then, in a string of liquid notes like a birdcall, but Tiriki realized they were actually
words.
Flickering light spilled out as a leather door flap whipped open. The stranger’s hands released her, and Tiriki fell forward into the wisewoman Taret’s arms.
Perhaps mercifully, the next few hours would remain forever unclear in Tiriki’s memory, but interspersed with bouts of shocking pain was an awareness of warmth, and the brightness of Taret’s wise old eyes, and the comfort of her hands. Later, Liala’s face was there also, but she knew that it was Taret whose strength was supporting her.
As the pangs peaked, she lost awareness of her surroundings entirely. It seemed to her that she was back in her bed in the palace of Ahtarra, cradled in Micail’s arms. She knew that it could only be a dream within a dream, for according to the traditions of the Temple no male, not even the father of the child, would have been allowed anywhere near a birthing chamber, nor would he even know if mother and child had survived until his wife was able to bring the babe herself from the House of Caratra.
But perhaps in the Otherworld the rules were different, for surely he was with her, murmuring encouragement as her flesh was wracked by pain after pain. And she remembered being lifted, and another woman’s soft breasts and belly bracing her back as strong hands bent and parted her thighs.
“One more push—” Did the words come from Taret or Micail? “Draw strength from the earth . . . Scream! Shout! Push the baby into the world!”
Of course. She must call on the power of the land. For a moment Tiriki was in clear control. She remembered how the forces at the Tor had fountained through her, and she drew upon them anew, until she felt as though she was the earth. With a shout that seemed to reverberate in every land she pushed her child into the world of humankind.
The leather door flap was wide open, making a bright triangle against the darkness.
Consciousness, awakening gradually, recognized it as a pale sky, tinted with all the pearly hues of a winter dawn. Tiriki realized with surprise that although she was weak, she was not in pain. Indeed, her dominant sensation was of radiant contentment, and as she realized that a small life lay nestled in the crook of her arm, gurgling and burrowing against her, she understood why.
In wonder she examined the smooth curve of the head, crowned with a wisp of fiery hair, and then, as the baby moved, she saw the tiny features, closed in sleep like the bud of a rose.
A shadow fell across her field of vision. Looking up, she met Liala’s smile. “He is whole?” Tiriki whispered.
“She is perfect,” came the voice of Taret from her other side.
Tiriki’s gaze returned to her child. Not a son, then, to inherit Micail’s powers—if indeed those powers meant anything in this new land. A daughter, then, to inherit—what? Silently, unable to voice the questions that whirled through her, she looked up at Taret.
“Daughter of holy place,” said the wisewoman cheerfully. “She be priestess here, someday.”
Tiriki nodded, only half hearing, yet feeling all the scattered pieces of her soul slip back into place. But it was not quite the same configuration. There was a part which linked her to the child at her side, and another that touched the earth on which she lay, and something else that she could not have defined or named. She knew only that with this birth, the process that had begun with the ritual on the top of the Tor was complete. Now she would always belong to this land.
With that thought came another. “Thank you,” she said to Taret, “and you must take my thanks to the woman who brought me here. Without her help I would have died. Was it you, Liala? Or Metia? Or—?”
“What?” Liala’s brows wrinkled with confusion. “I did little enough. It was Damisa who grew worried when you did not join us at the feast, and then could not be found. So I came to Taret, hoping she might be able to help. I had only just gone inside when we heard your cries and let you in—but I thought you came alone!”
Taret’s smile had become a grin. “The Queen of the Shining Ones, it was,” she said proudly. “She takes care of her own.”
Ten
Micail sighed in his sleep, reaching out to Tiriki with an instinct that even the loneliness of the last nine months had not been able to destroy. And this time it seemed to him that his arms closed around her. He felt the hard round of her belly contract, and with the certainty of dream knew that she was giving birth to his child.
She moaned in pain and he held her more tightly, murmuring encouragement, and then, abruptly, they were on a grassy plain in the grey hour before dawn. As his wife’s belly heaved, the earth was also heaving, but not with the fires of destruction. Everywhere new life was springing from the soil. Tiriki’s struggles grew harder until, with a cry, she pushed the child into the world. As she lay back, gasping, he reached down to take the babe and saw that it was a girl, perfectly formed, with an unruly wisp of hair like a new flame.
Laughing, he held her high. “Behold the child of the prophecy, my pledge to this new land!” As all the beings gathered on that plain, both human and other, shouted in enthusiastic welcome, waves of contentment lifted him and carried him away.
Micail fought free from his blankets, blinking as he realized that he was still hearing cheering and the sound of voices raised in song.
Was it a dream, he wondered, or is all I remember of the past year only a nightmare? But the dim outlines of the room around him were only too familiar, and they belonged to no memories that included Tiriki or a child.
It was a dream, then—a lie. But strangely that realization did not fill him with the despair he usually felt when the bright promises of the night were snatched away. If it had been an illusion, at least it was a good one.
The tumult outside was getting louder. He lurched out of bed, stumbled across the woven mat, and fumbled open the shutters that kept out some of the damp night air. To the west a new storm front was rolling in, trailing streamers of rain behind it, but the new moon, Manoah’s messenger, slid among the streamers of clouds, seeking rest beneath the horizon, and the stars shone cold and dim.
All the world was at rest, dark and silent—except for Belsairath. The muddy crossroads outside the inn were alive with torches, and in the square an immense bonfire blazed. People were dancing around it, shouting.
Has another ship come in? He strained to see the harbor, but the docks were dark and still. He rubbed his eyes, unable at that moment to imagine what other reason people might have for such frenzied celebration.
The door to his chamber opened and he saw Jiritaren’s angular shape against the light of the lamp that was always left burning in the hall.
“You are awake! I thought you must be, with all the racket outside!” As usual, Jiritaren sounded as if he were on the brink of laughter.
“Did I have a choice?” Micail gestured toward the window. “What in the name of all the gods is that commotion about?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you? This is how they celebrate midwinter here!”
“Oh.” Micail shrugged and pulled the shutters closed, which dulled the noise slightly. He had known it was the winter solstice and had chosen not to attend the ritual of the New Fire at Prince Tjalan’s villa. . . . “I haven’t been myself lately.”
“You sound a lot better than you have in some time. Let’s have a little light!” Jiritaren thrust a splinter into the flame and brought it back to kindle the lamp in Micail’s room.
“Ye-e-s,” he said then, as he looked into Micail’s ear. “Someone home there, all right, and just in time.”
“Oh stop!” Micail aimed a mock punch at his friend and turned, looking for his cup and the water he hoped was still in it. “But I am glad you’re here. I’m even glad for the damned festival! It’s high time something cheerful happened around here.” He stopped, peering at Jiritaren. “In time for what?”
“Haladris and Mahadalku have called a special meeting—relax, they won’t actually start until after dawn prayers. But since I just got back from the ritual and happen to know you’re often up late, I thought you’d like to know—”
“Indee
d I would,” Micail growled, “if you’d be so kind as to tell me anything!”
Jiritaren’s dark eyes glowed. “What I was about to say is that the Tarissedan psychics that Stathalka has been working with have found the place, and it’s not too far away.”
“The place?”
“The power source we need to build our Temple! Naranshada has been able to confirm that the energies probably coordinate, too. It’s in the place Prince Tjalan was talking about, the Ai-Zir lands.”
Micail frowned, his mind beginning to engage as it had not for many moons. “If Ansha agrees it’s the right place, then we should start planning—” He stopped short at Jiritaren’s laughter.
“No, no, go on—it’s just that you sound more like yourself than you have in, oh, far too long.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Even if his dream were only illusion, Micail blessed the gods for sending it to give him the strength to fulfill his responsibilities. If Tiriki should sail into the harbor today, he thought, he would be almost too ashamed to face her. I have done nothing, he told himself sternly, but that will end now.
Jiritaren nodded, sober again. “They want you to lead the expedition. Tjalan says he means to go with you, but he will almost certainly have to return here, just to keep an eye on things. You are the only one with both the rank to command a detachment of soldiers and the status to control the priests they will guard.”
Micail shook his head in wonder. What Jiri was saying surprised him less than the fact that for the first time since the Sinking he found himself genuinely interested.
Micail lay awake for what seemed a long time after his friend had left, listening to the noise of the revelers outside. The rain that presently began to rattle against the tiles of the roof dampened their spirits not at all. It reminded him of waves on the shore of Ahtarrath, and he found himself smiling.
He closed his eyes at last, going over the bright images of his dream once more. And just as the first birds were beginning to herald the day, the vision changed. He heard a voice proclaiming, “The Daughter of Manoah brings life back into the world!” and from the babe he held grew a blaze of light as the midwinter sun began to rise.
Ancestors of Avalon Page 18
