Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Seventeen

  Did you hear the news? Anet is back from the Lake lands—”

  The voice was that of one of the native slave women the Alkonans had recently bought to help with the work of the new community.

  Micail, passing behind the kitchen hut on his way to the gate, could not help hearing them.

  “Is she?” another slave said. “Did she bring her bow and arrows? That’s the only way she will capture Fire-hair!”

  Micail felt a slow flush burn his cheeks as the women laughed. He had been aware of his nickname, but he had not realized that Anet’s interest in him was common knowledge.

  The first voice spoke again. “The news is she travels with strangers. More Sea People—different ones.”

  “Where do they come from?” someone asked.

  “Somewhere in the marshes. They have been there for years, they say. I hear they don’t look much like the new masters; they dress like marsh people. But taller, so maybe.”

  “Say, I heard one of them is—”

  “Hush,” a new voice interrupted, probably a supervisor. “Anyone could hear you shrieking. We will know all about it soon enough. No doubt the Falcon lords will want to see them.” The scrape, scrape, scrape of the grinding stones never ceased, but otherwise, there was deafening silence from within the kitchen hut.

  Presently Micail turned away and began to walk back toward the central court. With a detached curiosity he realized that his heart was still pounding heavily, though he had been standing still. Perhaps, he thought, I had better stop in and see Tjalan . . .

  By the time Anet and her traveling companions arrived, everyone in the community had heard that they were coming. Rumors flew wildly, some less absurd than others. Mahadalku and most of the senior priesthood declined to join the crowd waiting on the commons, but Haladris was there.

  A second drop of water struck Elara’s head and she frowned up at the sky. More clouds were rushing in to blot out the morning’s fragile blue. The natives counted the beginning of summer from a point halfway between equinox and solstice, but one shouldn’t try to tell the season by the weather, Elara thought grimly. She pulled her shawl up over her head as the first spatterings turned into a light rain.

  Someone at the front was pointing, and Elara realized that she had arrived just in time. A group of people was approaching across the plain. Even at a distance she recognized Anet’s dun hair and her easy way of moving, and the two Blue Bull warriors that always escorted her. Behind them she could see a knot of tall, bronze-skinned men in wool and leather, and gleaming from among them, one head of long auburn hair that had never been born to the tribes.

  “Who is that?” asked Cleta, stretching on tiptoes beside her and wiping rain out of her eyes. “Can you see?”

  “They are Atlanteans, that’s for sure . . . Heart of Manoah! I think it’s Damisa!” Elara blinked, trying to reconcile her memories of a gawky adolescent with the young goddess who was striding toward them.

  As Anet’s group reached the crowd, Micail stepped forward from his place beside Prince Tjalan as if unable to stand still any longer. Some of the stiffness seemed to leave his shoulders, but there was still tension in his stance. Elara felt her heart wrench with pity, then noticed that Anet was watching Micail as well, her expression like that of a fox who eyes a cock pheasant, wondering whether it will be able to fly away. You still do not see he is not for you, Elara thought grimly. Or for me . . . she reflected ruefully. His rejection of her offer had been polite, but clear. If Tiriki lives, he will go to her. And if she does not . . . I think he will remain as he is.

  Tjalan, too, stepped forward now, all smiles. Seeing him, Damisa bent in the salutation due a reigning prince, her face radiant. She then performed the proper obeisances to Ardral and to Micail, as lords of the Temple, but her gaze, it seemed, could not quite tear itself away from the Prince of Alkonath.

  “Why, it is my little cousin!” exclaimed Tjalan. “Praise to the God of Roads for your arrival! Now enter in a good hour, and let no fear trouble you while you are in my domain. Welcome! Welcome indeed, cousin. This is joy beyond imagining.”

  As Damisa straightened, her blushes barely contained, Elara saw her surreptitiously tug down the skirts of her gown and suppressed a grin. She has grown taller, too!

  “My prince,” Damisa was saying, “I am grateful indeed to find you here. I bring greetings from the Summer Country, and from the leaders of our community—the Guardian Chedan Arados and the Guardian Tiri—Eilantha.”

  As Damisa spoke her gaze had gone to Micail. Help him, someone! thought Elara as she saw the color leave his face entirely. And Ardral stepped forward, his hand gripping Micail’s elbow.

  “We rejoice to see you, O acolyte. Your message of hope heals our hearts.” Ardral’s words flowed smoothly, but was there an unaccustomed roughness in his voice? Eyebrows quirking, his piercing gaze darted to the young man who stood behind Damisa.

  She did not wait for him to ask. “I present to you Reidel, son of Sarhedran, formerly captain of the Crimson Serpent, and consecrated now to the Sixth Order of the Temple of Light—” Under the shocked stares of the clergy, Reidel’s weathered face grew even more impassive, but he managed a fairly graceful bow.

  Cleta leaned close to Elara, murmuring, “If they’ve taken a commoner in, their group must be even smaller than ours.”

  “Come now,” said Tjalan warmly, reasserting control of the situation with a gesture. “You shall come in from the rain and claim the rewards of your journey. And when you are refreshed and fortified, perhaps you will tell us something of your adventures in the Lake lands.”

  Atlantean tradition required that new arrivals be welcomed with food and drink. Micail was reminded of the feast after Tjalan had brought his ships to Ahtarrath, another occasion on which the superficial courtesies had been like a lid on a cauldron seething with unspoken agendas. Damisa was quick to list those who had found safety at the Tor and to assure Micail that Tiriki was well. But once or twice in her account of how they had discovered the Tor and founded the settlement she showed a certain hesitance or made an overly hasty reply that led Micail to suspect that there might also have been a few things that they had been instructed not to speak of.

  Tiriki was alive! Micail’s mind seethed with questions he could not ask here. Had Tiriki felt as empty all these years as he had? What pains and sorrow had she suffered when he was not there to comfort her? Damisa said she was in good health—why had she not come with them? It was all he could do not to rush off in search of those Blue Bull warriors and demand that they take him to the Summer Country immediately. But they were with Anet. At the thought of asking her to take him to the woman she must see as a rival, he quailed. Perhaps it would be better to see what Tjalan intended to do.

  Tjalan’s cheerful summary of events was even less candid. Good manners prevented Micail from interrupting to ask about Tiriki; he waited impatiently for a moment when he could speak with Damisa alone. But before he could do so, the prince effectively ended the session by suggesting that the newcomers might wish to go to the dwellings that had been made ready for them and rest. Reidel seemed unhappy about being separated from Damisa, but once Damisa realized that the facilities included a proper Atlantean bath, she allowed herself to be led away by Tjalan’s servants without a backward glance.

  Meanwhile, the prince insisted that Ardral and Micail accompany him into the innermost chamber of his fortress, where the other Guardians already sat waiting on benches with richly carven backs ranged around a blazing hearth. Micail had not been in this room before, but he found it entirely unsurprising that even here in savage Azan, where there was a floor of packed dirt under the mats and carpets, Tjalan had somehow managed to surround himself with luxuries. There was even a sort of throne, a good-sized chair, whose posts were carven falcons.

  As the servants of the prince bustled about the room, making sure that everyone had a drink or food to eat, Micail allowed Ardral to guide him to a seat closer
to Naranshada than to Haladris.

  “I am glad we could have this meeting,” Mahadalku was saying, her smile as chilly as the rain that was battering the roofs. “Chedan Arados is reputed a very strong singer, and I have heard much the same of your princess—” She nodded to Micail. “They will be most welcome additions, and I do not doubt we will find use for many of the others—although I am not so certain about this . . . sailor . . . Reidel.”

  “He seemed a pleasant young man,” offered Stathalkha.

  “Yes, he was pleasant enough,” rejoined Mahadalku coldly, “but he has not been Temple-trained since childhood. How can he hope to channel any real power?”

  Naranshada shrugged. “There are always a few among the Chosen Twelve who did not have lifelong training, and they have done well enough. This new land is not exactly overpopulated with Atlanteans of any caste. We will face the same problem eventually—even if we find a dozen lost shiploads. And I for one cannot imagine that Master Chedan Arados, of all people, would allow anyone to be initiated who had no potential.”

  “I can assure you he would not,” Ardral put in, and there were more than one or two other mutters of assent, for Chedan’s fame had been no small thing.

  “They have been there all this time,” Micail said suddenly, “just over the hills. Why didn’t you see them, Stathalkha? I was assured that your sensitives had searched near and far—why didn’t you find them?”

  “Perhaps we did.” Stathalkha’s faded eyes blinked at him, and she wrenched her withered body around a little so as to confront him more directly. “We found several points of power in use where the energy felt—familiar. I believe that a hill such as the girl described figured prominently at one of them. But we were looking for a place to build our Sun Wheel. Mahadalku and I felt that if more of our people were here we would locate them in time. And now, you see, we have!” she finished triumphantly.

  Micail realized that Ardral was gripping his shoulder, and his fingers slowly unclenched. To strangle the fragile Tarissedan priestess would do no one any good.

  “Yes, indeed,” Tjalan murmured thoughtfully, his strong features glowing bronze in the firelight. “And now that we know where they are, we ought to bring them here.”

  “If I might say so,” observed Ardral, “it is never good to move too quickly. There might be some virtue in developing another port on the opposite coast. They are plainly somewhat closer than Belsairath.”

  “I doubt it would be suitable,” Haladris countered. “From everything I have heard, conditions there are—primitive, at best. What use could such a place be?”

  Ardral smiled grimly. “A refuge, if things go wrong here?”

  Tjalan frowned. “What do you mean? It is true that the tribes are restless, but they will not be able to organize any move against us for some time. By then the Sun Wheel will be ready, and we will be able to direct a lethal strike to any point on the plain, and beyond. The Ai-Zir will fall into line fast enough then.”

  Micail felt suddenly dizzy. “What do you mean? The power is to be used to build the Temple.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Delengirol gruffly, “but we can hardly build anything else without an increased labor force.”

  Haladris added coolly, “And the power of the circle may need to be demonstrated . . . in order to suitably impress the tribes.”

  “To impress?” Micail’s skin prickled as if lightning were about to strike from the clouds. Ardral straightened, eyeing him with concern.

  Mahadalku nodded vigorously. “Yes, surely you recognize that we must be able to keep the natives under control. At least, until they have—achieved their potential.” Her practiced grin was heavy with condescension.

  Micail fought down rage, his consciousness quivering. Astonished, he recognized the familiar fire—not in all the empty years since he had fled from dying Atlantis had his inherited powers awakened within him—but there was a strange twist to everything that was not the same.

  How could he touch powers that were his—not as a Guardian of Light but as Prince of Ahtarrath—when the island was gone? As he struggled for control, the tension in the room grew palpable. From outside, the heavens echoed the thunder within and a gust of wind slammed rain against the walls.

  Of all those gathered in that room, only Tjalan, unfamiliar with the tradition of Ahtarrath, did not understand the meaning of that distant roll of thunder. In the eyes of the other priests amazement mingled with speculation as they too realized that the powers of Ahtarrath had been restored.

  As the Guardians stared at Micail, Tjalan took a sip of wine, and his smile was indulgent. “I know, I know, it seems so contradictory. In the name of Light, we impose a burden of sweat and suffering. But it is a temporary burden. As they see what we are truly capable of, they will acclaim us. For indeed, how else do you suppose the temples of Atlantis were built, cousin? As you have witnessed, even the greatest mages require the assistance of ordinary men.”

  It is Tiriki, Micail thought, scarcely hearing Tjalan. Simply knowing that she lives makes me a whole man once more. I thought my powers came from my land, yet I have carried them with me. But I will have to be careful.

  Mistaking Micail’s silence for assent, Tjalan continued, “Micail, old friend, after all this time do you not sense the infinite possibilities in this land? With its resources, its population—this place could become greater than all the Sea Kingdoms combined!”

  Micail sat motionless, his pulse still racing as he restored control. At the moment, it was not the potential in the land that concerned him, but his own. But perhaps coming here had changed it somehow. His joy chilled.

  Tjalan added persuasively, “All of the temples of Manoah, even the one that you served in Ahtarrath, were modeled after the first Temple in the city of the Circling Serpent in the Ancient Land. You were born there, Micail—surely you remember the marble pillars, the golden stairs? It is your destiny to rebuild that Temple in all its glory. In this place you and I can rekindle all the greatness of the Bright Empire!”

  But should we? Micail wondered. His inner turmoil prevented him from answering. Was he questioning Tjalan’s motives or his own? Only Naranshada seemed to really share Micail’s unease. The faces of Mahadalku and Haladris were composed and serene. When he turned to Ardral, he saw in the senior Guardian’s grey eyes a gleam that he could not interpret.

  “So long as we do not repeat their mistakes,” Naranshada was muttering. “There were reasons why the Bright Empire fell . . .”

  “And the Sea Kingdoms,” Micail muttered, finding his voice at last.

  “To be sure,” Tjalan said pleasantly.

  “Surely, though, we can agree that we should not make a final decision now,” Ardral temporized. “Perhaps Tiriki and Chedan are creating something that will contribute to what we hope to achieve. The gods work in mysterious ways.”

  “Yes—” Naranshada agreed. “We are not speaking of a few wayward chelas to be swept back into the fold. Chedan is a mage, and Tiriki, a Guardian. They have ruled their own Temple for five years. We need to hear what they have to say.”

  “Which is why they should be here!” exclaimed Tjalan, turning to Micail. “Gods, man—you are Tiriki’s husband! Where else should she be but with you?” The prince shook his head.

  “Of course I want to be with her!” Micail snapped. And he did not—could not—doubt that she would want to be with him. But the thought of ordering Tiriki to do as he wished appalled him. They had always acknowledged each other as equals.

  “Whether or not she wishes to join us, for the good of all, she must be compelled to do so,” said Mahadalku grimly. “With all due respect, Lord Micail—your wife is not a senior Guardian.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Micail gritted.

  “That it cannot be left solely to her decision,” Haladris answered. “This very equality of which you speak requires that she must take her proper place in our hierarchy. Only the traditional disciplines can preserve our way of life.
Otherwise, our numbers are too few to ensure the survival of our caste. If the great Chedan Arados were here instead of there, I do not doubt he would tell you the same thing.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ardral soothingly, “we are anticipating a few troubles more than there are. The community at the Tor may be eager to join us—why upset them with threats and demands? Why not wait until we have had a chance to speak with them? Chedan is my nephew, but more than that, I have found him to be a man of no small wisdom. I think we can be sure he will choose a course that will be beneficial to all.”

  This time it was Micail’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. Ardral’s usual response to strife was simply to be elsewhere. But whatever the adept’s reasons for repeatedly calming the gathering today, Micail was grateful. In all his dreams, finding Tiriki again had only brought joy, but this discussion had made him very uneasy. With the exception of Tjalan, these people, too, were all Guardians, dedicated to the same ideals, oath-sworn to the same gods as himself. Why then did he find himself feeling as if he were among enemies?

  As Ardral began to move toward the door, Micail rose to follow him, but Tjalan took his arm gently.

  “I sense that this evening’s events have upset you.”

  Micail stared at him, not daring to let himself be drawn into further discussion. The surge of power he had experienced earlier had shaken his spirit even as it reinvigorated his body, and he no longer trusted his self-control.

  “These people can be difficult—as I know to my own pain,” Tjalan went on. Subjected to the full force of Tjalan’s charm, Micail found himself relaxing, just a little. The prince went on earnestly. “Remember, they are old—would that they had hearts as youthful as yours!” he added warmly to Ardral.