Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  As the first anniversary of their arrival in Belsairath came and went, even the dead winter foliage seemed to celebrate, giving way to brilliant green, filling the world with a sweetness that seemed to linger in the air. The cycles of the sun, which at home had been measured and perceptible only to priests, were the very heart of the native religion in this northern land. Certainly Micail had never before been so aware of the lengthening days. Caught up in preparations for the expedition to the country of the Ai-Zir, he found himself too busy for much brooding, but that was not the only reason.

  His grief was not gone, but it had grown distant. He was beginning to accept that Tiriki was lost to him. He had spoken to traders who came to the town, and even persuaded Prince Tjalan to send a ship around Beleri’in to check the more likely landfalls, but there had been no word. Though Micail mourned for the form of flesh in which he had loved her, he told himself that in another life they would come together again. And sometimes he even believed it.

  The day of departure came, and Micail stood on the docks with his white robes girdled up for walking, stout sandals on his feet, and a staff in his hand that could be used for more than magic. Behind him he could hear a confusion of voices as the column formed, the white robes of the acolytes who had been selected to go with them pale against the green tunics the soldiers wore. The waves were blue today, with sparkles of foam. His gaze caught a gleam of reddish gold and he stiffened for a moment, sure that he saw a wingbird rounding the point, heading in . . . But the wind shifted, flattening the waves. It had only been a trick of the sunlight.

  Do not mistake the signpost for the destination, old Rajasta murmured in his memory.

  “Micail! Come on, man, we can’t leave without you!” The voice of Jiritaren roused him.

  “Farewell,” he whispered, lifting his hands in salute to the glimmer of light on the waves. Then he turned and strode away from the harbor to take his place in the column beside Prince Tjalan.

  For the first hour of that first day’s journey the rutted road was all Micail saw, and he paid little heed to anything he heard until someone behind him exclaimed in surprise. Micail looked up to see a turf-covered embankment along the side of a hill to the left of the road.

  “The natives here built that?” he asked Tjalan. “I would not have thought them capable of it.”

  “They built it,” responded Tjalan, “or rather their ancestors did. And they lived in it, until we came. My great-grandfather established the port—” He gestured, thumb over his shoulder. “My father regarded the Tin Isle ports as a total loss, but in local terms, they’ve done well. In fact, Domazo, who runs that inn you like so well, is the direct descendant of that chief. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t have as much real authority there as I do! Anyway, as you can see, nobody lives here now. It gives us plenty of space for expansion . . .”

  “Impressive,” Micail said at last.

  “Yes, it is. We should not forget that when properly led and motivated, these people can accomplish a great deal.”

  Micail looked at him sharply but Tjalan only walked on, scanning the horizon. Surely Tjalan did not mean what he seemed to be suggesting, that the native people wanted only for a strong leader. Himself, perhaps? In their planning, they had only discussed scouting the Ai-Zir lands and asking the native king for permission to build there. Micail did not recall an Atlantean empire built on the labor of subject peoples as being part of Rajasta’s prophecies.

  On the morning of the second day, Micail dropped back far enough to join the younger members of the expedition. He was far from sure what kind of welcome to expect—they were often rather stiff and uncomfortable in his presence—but today all seemed glad to see him.

  After his recent exposure to the prickly vanities of his fellow priests, he was glad to see that the acolytes were making no attempt to lord it over the chelas who served the other priests and priestesses. Li’ija and Karagon were not being treated as anything less than equals, and neither Galara’s semiroyal status nor the fact that she was Micail’s sister-in-law won her any favors. But the boy, Lanath, worried him. He continually lagged a little behind the rest, his eyes vague, as if remembering some evil dream. Micail stepped off the rutted road and bent, pretending to retie his sandals.

  “You look tired,” he said, straightening as Lanath started to pass him. “Did you not sleep well?”

  Startled, Lanath peered up at him. “W-well enough,” he stammered, hand going to his chin in the nervous habit he had developed since his beard had finally started to come in. “Last night, anyway . . .”

  Micail nodded. “We all dream of what we have lost. But we have to go on,” he said, knowing he was speaking to himself as well. “I dream of my lost wife. Last night I saw her as if she were here before me.”

  “When I’m not having nightmares, and I can never remember them, thank the gods!” said Lanath haltingly. “I dream of Kanar—the Temple astrologer on Ahtarrath. You know.”

  “Yes?” said Micail, with an encouraging lift of his eyebrows.

  “Well, I had just been apprenticed to him—I’ve always been good at numbers. But in the dreams, I—it’s nothing too strange at first, I mean I just see him in his observatory or walking on the beach. But then he gets—it’s like he’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t quite seem to understand . . .”

  “Yes, but aren’t the stars usually counted among the things no one can really understand?” Micail replied. Suddenly his mind was whirling with a hundred self-doubts that were not his own. Lanath was broadcasting his feelings. No wonder the others seemed uncomfortable when he was around.

  The boy needed training. Micail cleared his throat. “Well, Lanath, if you are called to the star lore, you really ought to talk to Ardral—or Jiritaren,” he went on, as Lanath flinched. “You should not fear the Seventh Guardian. His jokes can teach you more than the sober wisdom of many, but I imagine you’ll find Jiri more approachable. But right now, there is another thing you need to learn. Your voice has finally finished changing, is it not so?”

  “Yes—I’m going to be a tenor, they say.” Lanath flushed. “Like you.”

  “Very good,” said Micail, “and that is no mere polite encouragement. When it comes time to build the new Temple, we will need trained singers—so I think you ought to begin working with me now. What do you say?”

  “Right now? I mean, I have a lot of trouble concentrating.” Lanath reddened again. “Especially in public like this. But—but I would be happy to try!”

  Micail nodded. “That is all I ask. Let’s start with a basic centering exercise. Can you intone the fifth note and hold it? Yes, yes, that’s good, but now listen, very carefully—”

  “It’s so beautiful!” exclaimed Elara. The road along which the native trader Heshoth led them wound north-eastward. To their left rose a line of low, tree-covered hills. Even the turf between the deeply cut wheel ruts was brilliantly green, starred with spring flowers. “Our journey must have been blessed by the gods!”

  “Which gods,” muttered Lanath, “ours or theirs? I still hurt from yesterday’s walking!” Galara and Li’ija groaned agreement.

  “If you had got off your rear end more often when we were in Belsairath you would be in better shape now,” snapped Elara, surveying him with disfavor.

  Almost without warning, Lanath had grown taller than she, but what muscle he had was still overlaid with a layer of what she could only describe as “pudge.” His dark brown hair still flopped over his eyes like a child’s, but he had the beginnings, finally, of a beard. Elara was resigned to their betrothal, but in no hurry for marriage, not when there were so many other interesting men around.

  “Lord Ardravanant kept me more than busy enough,” Lanath was saying, self-righteously. “Studying the stars mostly requires you to sit still.”

  “And to sleep late,” added Cleta rather wistfully. She was sturdily built, and sober and smart, and when she had had a full night’s sleep, she was good-tempered, too. . . .


  “I expect the journey will toughen us all,” said Li’ija brightly.

  Karagon, who had joined the expedition with his master Valadur, snorted disdainfully. “Just a pleasant stroll to you, is it?”

  “Absolutely. If we were not tied to the pace of those Ai-Zir ox carts,” Li’ija persisted, with a smile that suggested she might not be entirely serious, “then we could go twice as fast!”

  Lanath groaned at the thought, but the others laughed. Ardral was riding in one of those ox carts with their supplies and baggage, and Valadur to keep him company. Everyone else walked, as in fact they would have done at home, where only the powerful, or the aged and feeble, rode in sedan chairs.

  Considering the state of the road, she wondered how long it would be before the Seventh Guardian was walking along with the rest of them, despite his advanced years . . . however many they might be.

  She had inquired more than once, but no one seemed to know how old Ardral was. “Old enough to know better—and how I wish I did!” was his usual answer to anyone bold enough to ask. And there were other, darker, rumors about him. Some said that in his younger days Ardral had used his powers to kill. He himself denied it, or rather, he would say, no, his enemies only went mad and ran away . . . which was not exactly reassuring. Still, the densely forested hills they were passing through might conceal any number of dangers, from wild animals to bandits. She was glad to be traveling with any sort of mage.

  Of course there were the soldiers, too. Half of them brought up the rear, while the others formed a protective vanguard around Heshoth, a pair of native guides, and Prince Tjalan. Micail walked sometimes with the prince and his bodyguards, but no less often with the other priests. There were the engineers, Naranshada and Ocathrel, and Jiritaren, whose job, Elara suspected, was partly to nursemaid Micail, but mostly to assist Ardral with his astronomical calculations . . .

  Elara was much less sure what the priestess Kyrrdis was doing there. If they wanted a singer, she’s good, but Mahadalku is better; and if they just wanted a woman along they could have brought one of the sajis. . . . She blushed.

  Then there was Valadur. She was entirely mystified as to his function. The Grey Order had a very mixed reputation. . . . Ardral will keep him in line, she decided. That leaves . . . Valorin. Of course.

  She slowed her steps, looking about, but still did not see Valorin anywhere. A priest from Alkonath who had been selected because of his vast knowledge of growing things, Valorin was continually leaving the beaten path to investigate some unfamiliar shrub or flower.

  “Look—is that a village over there?” Galara exclaimed, pointing toward an irregular collection of carefully laid-out plots radiating out from a round hut with a roof of green turf. At one end of the field a long green mound seemed to stand guard.

  “A farm, at least,” Cleta ventured, “though it does not look like the ones at home.”

  “Several farms,” observed Karagon as they crested the road and more fields and buildings came into view. The plots were small, divided by hedges or ditches, and as they drew closer they saw the dirty brown backs of a flock of sheep being driven along by a small boy in a brown tunic with a stick and a yapping dog.

  “There’s water in those ditches!” Lanath said in surprise. “Just lying there.”

  As they drew closer, a man hoeing between rows of young grain called out a greeting in the local tongue, and Greha, one of the ferocious-looking native guides, replied. Both natives had the curly brown hair and grey eyes typical of these people, though Greha was both exceptionally broad and tall.

  “You’ve learned a few words of the local patois, haven’t you, Cleta?” Galara asked. “What are they saying?”

  “Something about shepherds and sheep. I think they are talking about us!” Cleta’s round face grew slightly pink. “Oh my. I hope the prince didn’t hear that!”

  With his bodyguard prowling around him, Prince Tjalan strode forward as boldly as the falcons that fluttered on his banners.

  Behold the great lord of Atlantis, taking possession of the new land, Elara thought, but what will the new land take from him?

  The journey took on a rhythm of its own as the days passed. They rose early and walked, with occasional pauses, until the middle of the afternoon, when the vanguard would seek out a campsite with good water. One night they were troubled by the howling of wolves, and more than once Lanath woke them with his nightmares, but otherwise all seemed peaceful. The acolytes and chelas soon grew accustomed to the exercise, and once they lost their fear of the unknown terrain, they were eager to go exploring.

  Micail had not wanted them to go off on their own, but the trader Heshoth assured them that the folk here were not only peaceful but timid. When the natives saw the Atlanteans coming, with their brilliant white tunics and brightly colored mantles, not to mention the banners, spears, and swords, the pigherds and woodcutters of the forest ran away even faster than had the lads tending sheep or cattle in the meadows.

  The next day the expedition turned gradually northward, tediously following the road around the end of a line of densely wooded hills. By late afternoon, the travelers approached a solitary hill with the oblong hump of an old barrow on its top, commanding the countryside.

  “We should probably stop here—” Heshoth pointed to a broad clearing between the road and the stream. “Once people came to this hill for the summer’s-end ceremony, but then there was a war. No one left to come here now but us.”

  The day had been fair, and the long afternoon gave way to a lingering sunset as Prince Tjalan’s servants prepared the pavilions and gathered wood to cook the evening meal. Until they had finished, there would be little for the acolytes and chelas to do. Meanwhile the hill beckoned, with its leafy slopes and dark hints of ancient tragedies.

  “Let’s climb it,” Karagon suggested. “From the top we should get a fine view of the countryside.”

  “Haven’t you had enough walking today?” Elara grumbed; but except for Lanath, who was muttering something about ghosts, the others seemed eager for the adventure. Li’ija and Karagon soon found a path that led almost directly up the hillside to the summit, and they made good progress. Presently they came to a ditch and a low bank, both quite overgrown. Oddly enough, the ditch had been dug in segments, with a walkway of solid ground left between them.

  “Neither ditch nor bank seems very defensible,” Karagon observed. “There must be another purpose here than fortification.”

  On the north face they found the timber posts of a gatehouse, still leaning against each other although the roof must have fallen in long ago.

  “If it’s not a fort,” asked Li’ija, “what was this for?”

  “It feels . . . odd . . .” Lanath shivered, then hastened to add, “Not unfriendly-odd, just very ancient. There’s an echo of many voices—”

  “Yes,” agreed Li’ija, “I can hear them too—”

  “It’s wind. But something has been digging in one of those pits,” said Cleta. She moved closer and squatted down, brushing away the soil. “There’s a quern here, like the ones the native women use for grinding grain. But it’s broken.”

  “Smashed,” volunteered Elara.

  “Sacrificed,” Karagon whispered dramatically.

  “Is that a pot?” Galara leaned over to see.

  “It’s a skull,” Elara answered. “Maybe the woman who used the quern.”

  “Let’s see what’s inside,” suggested Karagon, picking his way through the ruins of the gatehouse. Lanath and Galara protested again, then shrugged and followed the others.

  “It’s a stone circle!” said Elara, and stopped only a few steps inside, testing that expectant stillness as she had been trained to do, but there was no altar, only grasses waving in the twilit breeze and a few sapling hazel trees.

  “I think,” said Galara tremulously, “we’ve found their cemetery.”

  “Then why wasn’t that body buried?” Li’ija pointed to the interior of the circle, where bleached
bones lay scattered on the grass.

  “Could have been burned,” Cleta mused. That was done in Atlantis, in hope of loosening the ties of karma that bound the spirit and freeing it to seek a higher path; but there were no marks of charring on these bones.

  “They laid the bodies out here so the birds and beasts could receive the flesh,” Lanath said then, in a strange still voice. “The skull was placed in the family’s pit with the offerings.”

  Elara looked at her betrothed in surprise. Lanath had never been able to read the history of a place this way before. She glanced at Li’ija as if to say, I thought this kind of thing was your talent?

  Ocathrel’s daughter shrugged and turned away.

  “It’s getting really late,” said Galara with an exaggerated shiver. “Shouldn’t we be going back? That slope will be harder going down.”

  Once outside the gatehouse, they all felt better, but the path that they took down the hill did not lead back to the encampment. Instead they found themselves entering what was obviously another enclosure, much more extensive than the first. Tangled vegetation covered fallen house-posts, and a series of overgrown hedges marked out paddocks for animals, and plots where a few sparse stalks of native wheat still grew.

  “This one only seems deserted,” Lanath said, “like somebody’s about to come back. But at the same time—it’s like it was never really lived in.”

  “Perhaps they were temporary dwellings,” Elara suggested. “The guide said people came here for a festival . . .”

  “They should have stayed away, if they wanted to live,” said Li’ija in an odd voice. Elara turned and saw her standing very still, staring at something in her hand.