Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Damisa clutched at another branch as her foot slipped again, and clung, catching her breath in hoarse gasps. Above her the slope of the Tor bulked like the Star Mountain against the night. She let out a little shriek as hard fingers closed on her arm.

  “It’s just me,” Reidel murmured in her ear. She relaxed against his strong arm with a sigh, a little surprised at the sense of security his support gave her. Their torches had failed some time ago, and the world had relapsed into a jumble of shadows. Reidel’s arm was one point of certainty in all the wild world.

  “Has the Tor gotten bigger, or are we covering the same ground over and over again?” she asked, when she could speak again.

  “It does seem that way,” Reidel said ruefully. “All these trees—they make me nervous. Almost makes me wish I were back at sea!”

  “At least we can see the stars.” She could feel no wavering in his arm. “Will they not guide you as well on land as on sea?”

  “That’s true—” He tipped his head skyward, where an interlace of branches seemed to net the gleaming Wheel. “And in truth . . .” He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again there was a constraint in his voice that had not been there before. “In truth, I do not wish myself anywhere but here.” Very gently he released her. “I hope Selast and Kalaran have fared better than we,” he added, and looked upward once more, not giving Damisa a chance to reply.

  What should I have said? she wondered. How can I ask him what he means when I already know? In the old world, even if she had not been destined for the Temple of Light, a girl of her rank might never have spoken to someone like Reidel, much less wondered what it might be like to lie encircled by those strong arms. She felt his warmth again, as he stopped to help her cross a fallen tree. She dreaded the necessity of mating, but for the first time it occurred to her that it might not be so terrible after all. Smiling in the darkness, she followed Reidel uphill.

  “Poor old Alyssa . . . Yes, I know what you’re thinking!” The seeress parted the frizz of unkempt hair that veiled her face and peered at Tiriki with a skewed smile. “If I am crazy, though, why ask me if you’ve lost another acolyte? And if I am sane—why wait until midnight to ask me?”

  Tiriki could find no answer. Her startled gaze sought Liala, who only shrugged and shook her head. The seeress was usually washed and combed whenever Liala brought her to any event, but apparently Liala’s control did not extend to Alyssa’s own dwelling, which was a mess of half-eaten foodstuffs, with bits and pieces of strange keepsakes from the Ancient Land lying alongside oddly shaped rocks and strange constructions of twigs and pinecones . . .

  “Sanity is not the issue here—I need your vision!” Tiriki stopped short, realizing how anxiety had betrayed her. Ordinarily, she weighed her words more carefully. She relaxed a little as Alyssa began to laugh.

  “Oh yes. Madness sees clearest when fate costs dearest. And since the Omphalos Stone never stops speaking to me—” She gestured toward the wall beyond which the Stone rested, swathed in silks in its wooden cabinet in the hut built to house it.

  That was another thing, Tiriki realized with a shudder, that she had not thought about for far too long. She held Alyssa’s gaze with her own, waiting.

  Alyssa closed her eyes and looked away. “The girl is unhurt. I cannot say if she is safe.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Seek the heart of the hill. You will learn your fill.” Her hair swung forward over her face once more as she resumed slowly rocking back and forth on her stool.

  “What do you mean? What do you see?” Tiriki demanded, but Alyssa’s only answer was a wordless crooning.

  “I hope that was helpful,” said Liala with a sigh, “because you will get no more from her tonight.”

  “It gives me an idea,” said Tiriki after a moment. “Others have searched the caves, but perhaps I will see signs they could not . . .” She gasped as her eye was drawn again to the strange assembly of stones, twigs, and oddments on Alyssa’s floor. They were, she suddenly understood, a model of the Tor as it must look from high above . . . “If someone has not already seen them,” she added, with new confidence.

  “I will go with you.” Liala arose and reached for her shawl. “Happily Teviri the saji is here, and can keep watch. Ordinarily, Alyssa passes from this state into deep sleep and will not wake till after noon.”

  As Tiriki and Liala approached, torch flames wavered sharply in the chill current of air from the mouth of the cave. Taret had told her many things about this place, but Tiriki had always found herself too busy to take time to explore. Or perhaps she had been afraid. She peered with mingled excitement and apprehension into the darkness.

  “Perhaps we should leave this for one of the younger folk.” Liala eyed the uneven footing dubiously.

  “You have grown soft! Besides,” Tiriki added more soberly, “if Iriel needs us, she cannot wait for us to find them.” Not waiting to see if Liala followed, she started forward along the edge of the stream.

  The stones, whitened by the lime-rich waters, glistened in the torchlight. In some places the minerals had crystallized in midflow and hung from the ceiling of the tunnel in an irregular series of upside-down pyramids. At their tips, drops of water formed and fell. When she reached out to steady herself against the sloping wall, the rock was cold and damp beneath her hand.

  Was this passage natural, or had it been shaped by men? In most spots the stone had been worn smooth by water, but there were places overhead that seemed to have been chipped away. Curious, Tiriki quickened her pace, somehow keeping her footing on the slick stones. It was not until a sudden turning stopped her that she realized that Liala was no longer behind her. Softly she called the woman’s name, but the sound was soon swallowed in the whisper of water over stone.

  For a moment she stood, considering. There had been no divergence in the passageways, so Liala could not have gotten lost—and she would have heard the splash if she had fallen from the slippery rocks. More likely, the older priestess had simply given up and turned back again. Pulling her shawl more tightly around her, Tiriki started forward once more. She was no more alone than she had been before, of course, but after a few steps she realized that knowing Liala was not behind her had made her more wary. She noticed that there was a secondary passageway on the far side of the stream, leading off to her left. As she raised the torch, she could see the sensuous curves of a running spiral pecked into the stone around the opening. Damisa had said that Iriel might be looking for a temple hidden in an ancient cave. With her lips tightening in decision, Tiriki bent and drew a leftward-pointing arrow in the mud to show where she was going, and then stepped across the glittering stream.

  To the eye, there was little difference between this passage and the one she had been following, but she could sense a definite change. Frowning a little, she put a fingertip to the carving and began to trace the spiral inward to the center and then out again.

  She stood, transfixed by the pattern, until suddenly she realized that her arm had dropped to her side and the torch was flaring dangerously near to her skirts. Startled, she jerked it away, peering around her.

  How long had the pattern held her in trance? How far had she come? Tiriki shook her head; she ought to have known better than to touch the spiral. Taret had warned her that there was, somewhere on the island, a maze which would lead to the Otherworld if one trod it to the end.

  The curved passage before her seemed less shadowed, but she could see neither very far ahead, nor back the way she had come. I am not lost, she told herself firmly. She had only to follow the spiral back to find the stream. And with that self-assurance, she set her hand to the stone and went forward once more . . .

  In the next turning she found herself under open sky.

  The torchlight seemed suddenly pale and she blinked at the light around her. Could it be morning already? The sky had all the silver pallor of dawn, but mists swathed the base of the Tor, and its slope hid the horizon.

  Tiriki continued cl
imbing, but when she reached what appeared to be the top she saw only the ring of stones, taller than she remembered, and glowing as if with their own light. The sun was not the source of that illumination, for the eastern sky was no brighter than the west. The air was not cold, but a shiver passed through her as she scanned the horizon. I am no longer in the world I know . . .

  Shifting veils of mist drifted across the land, but not the smoke from the settlement’s morning cookfires; indeed there was no sign of any habitation whatsoever . . . and yet the mists themselves were luminous, as if whatever they concealed was lit from within. Holding her breath, Tiriki strained to focus her eyes.

  “You strive too hard,” said a soft, amused voice behind her. “Have you forgotten your training? Eilantha . . . breathe out . . . and in . . . open your inner vision, and see . . .”

  Not since childhood had anyone had the power to command her perceptions, but before Tiriki could think to resist, she responded, and instead of trees and meadows saw glimmering lattices of radiance. Dazzled, she turned and perceived the Tor itself as a single crystalline structure through which currents of energy, spiraling around the peak of the Tor, formed a dazzling circle ascending to the sky. Tiriki lifted her hand and saw instead of a human arm, a dragon dance of radiance that refracted and interacted with all the rest in turn, as intricately interconnected as the serpents on her ring.

  “Why are you surprised?” She could no longer tell if the thought came from without or within. “Did you not know that you are also a part of this world?”

  The truth of it was evident. Tiriki was simultaneously aware of her own being and of a myriad of interlocking lattices of light, layered from one dimension to the next, and containing every entity from pure spirit to stone and dust. She was aware of Alyssa’s disorderly spirit as a scatter of sparks, Chedan’s steady glow of faith and power, and the bright flicker that was Iriel, her soul-spark so close to that of Otter that they were nearly one. The power of the Tor rippled through the landscape in rivers of light. Her excitement rose as she extended her perceptions, for here, where all planes of existence were one, was where she might surely find Micail . . .

  And for a moment, then, she touched his spirit. But the surge of emotion was too great, and Tiriki plunged dizzily back into her body—or rather, to whatever form her body had here, for her own flesh glowed like that of the woman whom she saw standing before her, robed in light, crowned with stars.

  “Micail lives!” Tiriki exclaimed.

  “All things live,” came the answer, “past, present, future, each in its own plane.”

  Beneath the leathery leaves of unknown plants, monstrous forms moved; but also ice covered the world, and nothing grew. She saw the Tor at once tree-clad and cleared, a slope of close-cropped grass crowned with standing stones, and also a strange stone building which in the same moment fell, leaving only a tower. She saw people dressed in skins, in blue robes, in garments of many colors, and buildings, fields, and pasture overlaying the marshes that she knew . . . Her perceptions overwhelmed her, and she felt as though she knew nothing at all.

  “All of them are real,” the voice in her mind explained. “Each time you make a choice, the world changes, and another level is revealed.”

  “How shall I find Micail?” Tiriki’s spirit cried. “How shall I find you?”

  “Only follow the Spiral, up or down . . .”

  “My lady, are you all right?” a man’s voice inquired.

  “Tiriki! What are you doing here?”

  The voices converged, distinct, but with an underlying harmony. Tiriki opened her eyes and realized that she was lying on the grass just inside the circle of stones at the top of the Tor. She struggled to sit up, squinting against the light of the rising sun.

  “Were you out wandering all night too?” A sturdy figure she recognized as Reidel reached out to help her to stand.

  “Wandering indeed,” said Tiriki giddily, “but where?”

  “My lady?”

  “Never mind . . .” She was stiff in every joint, but though the thick grasses were damp with dew, her clothing was almost entirely dry. Blinking, she looked about again, comparing what she saw with her memories.

  “She seems dazed,” Damisa said with an undertone of exasperation. “Best get her downhill as soon as we can.”

  “Come then, my lady,” said Reidel softly, “you can lean on me. We may not have located Iriel, but at least we have found you.”

  “Iriel is safe . . .” Tiriki’s voice was a croak and she tried again. “Take me to Chedan. What I have seen . . . he needs to know.”

  Fourteen

  Apillar of dust was moving across the plain, marking the progress of yet another mighty piece of stone. Micail climbed up on the embankment that circled the henge and gazed northward across the ditch, shading his eyes with his hand to make out the line of sweating men who hauled it. Others ran ahead, ready to dart in and replace anyone whose strength failed, clearing the track ahead for the rounded wooden runners that carried the load.

  A stand of singers could lift such a stone for a short time; seven times that number might even transport it overland if the distance was not too great, but there were no longer enough singers left in all the world to levitate one of the great sarsens all the way across the plain. And to raise the stones once they had been brought to the circle would require the talents of all the trained singers who remained.

  They had tried moving the stones with oxen, but men worked harder and longer, and they were easier to train. King Khattar seemed unable to comprehend why Micail thought that a problem. For generations, once the emmer wheat and barley were well up and the cattle had been driven to the hill pastures in the care of girls and young men, the king would call out the levy. One able-bodied man from each farmstead or hamlet was expected to report for community labor. That was how the great ditched enclosures had been made, and the barrows, the wooden henges, and probably the older circles of standing stones as well.

  There is still so much that we do not know, thought Micail. I only hope we do not come to rue the gaps in our knowledge. Turning, he surveyed the five pairs of sarsen stones that already stood within the circle. Despite his misgivings, he felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sight of those sharply hewn shapes against the sky. Atlantean magic could not do all the work, but it had certainly helped speed it. It was beginning to seem as if a task that would have taken the entire labor force of all the tribes dominated by King Khattar nearly ten years to accomplish was going to be finished in less than three. In a single year they had prepared five pairs of monoliths for the inner semicircle. The great lintels too were ready, and lay waiting.

  When the rest of the singers arrived from Belsairath, and the lintels were raised to their places on wings of sound, then the shamans would understand the need to work with, rather than against, this new power. And after that, we will be able to complete the new Temple without further interference. It occurred to Micail that he had been so focused on the construction of the stone circle for the last two and a half years that he was finding it difficult to envision the work that would follow.

  “My lord?” A touch on his elbow roused him from his reverie and he saw Lanath waiting there.

  “What is it?”

  “Will it please you to inspect the third stone now?” The acolyte’s bronze skin had a healthy glow in the summer sunlight, and the rigorous work had made the boy a man. It had been quite some time, Micail reflected, as he followed Lanath back into the semicircle of stones, since he had to rouse the lad from a nightmare.

  The third stone was surrounded by a timber framework, from whose top a native workman was grinning down.

  “Is like the other side, aye? You look and see—”

  Micail walked around the stone once, then again, comparing its sides with each other and with the second stone as well. All of the monoliths had been roughly dressed before being erected, and each had one side that had been made particularly smooth, and slightly concave. But not until
such a stone had been raised could the narrowing of top and bottom which made the sides appear straight be adjusted to perfection.

  “Yes, it is good. You may come down now. Tell them I said to give you an extra ration of beer.” He smiled genially.

  Micail laid a hand against the rough surface. Whenever he touched a dressed sarsen he could feel the subtle thrum of energy within it. When the construction was complete, he suspected, he would be able to sense its power without touching it.

  Common people might think of stones as lifeless things, but within these stones he sensed a potential for far greater cumulative power. Already it could be perceived somewhat at dawn and sunset. Many of the native workers refused to come into the site at those times. They said the stones had begun to talk to one another, and Micail half believed it.

  “Soon all shall hear you,” he murmured to the monolith. “When you are joined to your brother and the others stand beside you, we will invoke your spirit, and all will understand . . .” And for a moment, the subliminal vibration became an audible hum. He started, and noticed that Lanath had heard it too.

  “It is easy in this savage place to forget all the glories that are gone,” he told the boy, “but our true treasure was always the wisdom of the stars. We shall make in this place a monument that will, when the very name of Atlantis is forgotten, still proclaim that we were here.”