Why did I never think to do this before? she wondered then. I have been so embedded in the daily struggle, I never made time to explore the spiritual landscape here. She directed her attention eastward.
Most certainly the Sun Wheel was there—a circular pulsing of energy in which the white-hot sparks of the initiates dazzled amid the reddish glows that could only be Tjalan and his men.
As she watched, the ring of light grew brighter, pulsing with a rhythm that even from here she knew was based on song. They were loading the henge with power on which they might draw when the time came. And if she could see them, surely they could sense the Tor. She shivered as the distant beam rippled and quivered like the sun seen from under water.
She had hoped that Tjalan would be content to attack them physically. By the time he had marched his soldiers to the Tor, she might have been able to negotiate some accommodation, either with Micail, or with the tribes of Azan. But the prince had found a new weapon, and her vision suggested that he did not mean to wait until it was finished to try it out.
Disheartened, she sank to her knees.
“Lady of Light, Shining One, in my great need you came to me before, unsummoned. Now I call you, I implore you, hear me. Those who should have been our protectors have become our enemies. I do not know whether they will send the forces of the body or of the spirit first, but I am afraid, for my enemies are very strong. Tell me that we will be safe here, and I will believe you. But if you cannot, then I beg you, show me how I may protect those I love . . .”
The answer came as a gentle teasing. “Safe! You mortals use language so strangely. You have had bodies before this one and you will have others after. You die, or your enemy dies, but both of you will live again. Why be afraid?”
“Because—we are taught that each life is precious!” Tiriki looked around, hoping to see the one who had spoken, but there was only a shimmering, a fullness in the air. Yet that, too, was an answer. How could she explain her fears to a being whose form was never destroyed but, rather, was constantly transforming, in ways she could not even imagine? “Surely,” said Tiriki haltingly, “each life has its own lessons, its own meaning. I would not have this one cut short before I have found out what it has to teach me!”
“That is a good answer.” The voice sounded serious.
“And I do not seek destruction of our enemies, only to keep them from doing us harm,” Tiriki continued. “Please—will you help us?”
As if in answer, the shimmering intensified, seeming to surround her, but the brilliance was fired by a new source, blazing deep within the hill.
“The Omphalos Stone!” she whispered in awe, and saw it pulse in response to her words.
“The Seed of Light,” the voice echoed. “You have planted it, little singer. Your songs can make it grow.”
“I still say there is no need to do anything just yet,” Micail insisted. “The Lake people are poor, with no resources to stand against us.” But he knew all too well that he had been saying the same thing ever since they returned from the meeting with Tiriki, and with as little result. And now it was almost too late for talking. With Tjalan’s blessing, indeed, with his overt encouragement, Haladris had yet again called the entire priesthood to the henge. They meant to finish the awakening of the stones as quickly as possible. Within a day or two at the most, Micail knew there would be nothing remaining to prevent the Sun Wheel from being used in whatever way they saw fit.
“What you say would be true if they were marsh people,” Mahadalku observed with maddening reason-ability, “but they are in fact priests and Guardians like us. They may have gone native to some degree, but they have got something more.” The Tarissedan high priestess clutched her veils tightly against the wind off the plain. “Stathalkha says that over the previous days the intensity of power at the Tor has tripled. Why should that be happening, unless it is because they now know we are here? Best to deal with them before they strike at us!”
“But the Sun Wheel is not complete,” Micail objected. “We have not even had time to determine if it will—”
“Unfinished it may be,” Mahadalku interrupted, “but all preliminary tests show it to be fully capable of containing and projecting the necessary vibrations. Ardravanant and Naranshada have both affirmed this conclusion.” She spoke in a calm flat tone that discouraged objection. With a sinking heart, Micail looked around at the other priests and priestesses who, in return, discreetly avoided his eye.
No doubt Jiritaren would follow him if he walked out now, and Naranshada had expressed more than a few doubts about the wisdom of what they were doing. Bennurajos and Reualen, perhaps . . . if Micail pressed the point. He felt fairly sure that Galara and the acolytes might follow him as well. But was that the best option?
Tjalan would probably place us under house arrest, and use the threat to the other prisoners to ensure I did nothing to affect the outcome . . . But if I stay . . . He sighed. Then I could end up killing Tiriki myself ! And in that case I should cut my own throat and apologize to her in the afterlife . . . and be damned to the prophecies!
In the days since his meeting with Tiriki, it had often occurred to him that he ought to have gone with her, not meekly returned here. He had told himself then that Tjalan might not have permitted either one of them to leave; he had thought of his duty to the acolytes and the fulfillment of his other vows. Now, though, as he gazed at the sharp silhouettes of the tall stones standing against the blue summer sky, he realized that it was a craftsman’s love for his creation that kept him here.
I am like a man whose son falls into evil company. Reason says he must be renounced, but the good father continues to hope that the boy will turn to the right path once more. The henge has such great potential for good . . .
“How does this preserve our traditions?” he tried again. “Tiriki and Chedan have not been charged as heretics—we have not declared war. It is simply not legitimate for us to act against our fellow priests in this way! And it is wrong at an even deeper level to give over this kind of power to such a prideful purpose.” He gestured at the line of soldiers just outside the ditch and bank that surrounded the circle. It was not clear whether they were there to protect the priests against interference from outside or to keep them in.
“Why should we help Prince Tjalan build his empire?” Micail continued.
“Because that empire will support the new Temple,” Ocathrel answered, and the rest seemed to share his exasperation. It occurred to Micail that perhaps he had better stop talking before they all decided he was not just prone to moral misgivings but actually unreliable—possibly a heretic himself. Then they would take the choice regarding whether he should stay or go out of his hands.
At least Ardral was not present to lend his power to this disaster. When the gong had summoned them that morning, the old adept had pleaded wine-sickness and kept to his quarters. But despite the knowing nods of the chelas, Micail knew that Ardral was rarely ill. Was he merely staying away or going away?
Wearily turning away from Ocathrel and Haladris and the rest, Micail sat in the shadow of one of the sarsen uprights, and let his thoughts return to the events of the night before.
He had gone to Ardral’s quarters to plead for his support and found him sorting through parchments. Some of them had been burning merrily in a charcoal brazier beneath the smokehole. That sight alone had been enough to strike Micail speechless for several moments—Ardral had been curator of the Temple library at Ahtarrath, after all.
“No, no,” the old Guardian had reassured him, “I am just clearing out a few odd notes and poems and personal musings. No ancient secrets, or at least none that I feel any obligation to pass on. One might argue that all my secrets are ancient! But after a lifetime of study, meditation and practice—all I really know is how little any of us knows.” And he had laughed.
Micail remembered the gleam of firelight on aquiline features as Ardral flipped his faintly silvered hair out of his eyes once more.
“W
ould you like to join me in the last of the teli’ir?” he’d asked then, as if they had been sitting on a gilded terrace, watching the sun set over Ahtarra’s harbor or possibly over Atalan itself. Micail had been too nonplussed to do anything but agree.
It had been a pleasant time. They had spoken of many things, most of them amusing. But by the time Micail managed to bring the conversation around to what troubled him, he’d been seeing both Ardral and the firelit room through a perfumed haze. Yet the adept’s diction had remained crisp throughout, even if his meaning was sometimes obscure.
“Do you really think my arguments might move Tjalan when yours have not? I am a fine speaker if I do say so myself, but you are his cousin and, moreover, he considers you a close friend.” Ardral shook his head. “I admit, I found Princess Chaithala and the children charming, and I enjoyed their company immensely, but the Prince of Alkonath and I have never had much to say to each other beyond the usual pleasantries. And none of them will have much to miss when I am gone.”
“Gone?” Micail had stared, wondering if the rumors of illness could possibly be true. Ardral certainly had not looked ill, but then he did not look his age either, and he had been old when Micail’s parents were babes in arms. “You are healthy!” he had exclaimed, not sure whether it was a statement or a prayer. Ardral had quirked one eyebrow and Micail flushed in confusion.
“Of course I am. That is why I must go. Every night, every day, Tjalan, or someone, thinks up another question I don’t care to answer. I suspect I have been here too long already . . . and I know too many things that man is no longer meant to know.”
Even for Ardral, Micail thought now, that had been cryptic. “Does that mean you will not join in the Working at the Sun Wheel?” Micail’s flogged wits had seemed suddenly sodden, making him wish he had not had that second glass of teli’ir.
“Oh, I will be working.” Ardral’s teeth had flashed in a wry smile as he briefly patted Micail’s shoulder. “Do not trouble yourself over me.”
Micail had retained enough wit not to say that it wasn’t Ardral he was worrying about, but Tiriki, and perhaps the rest of the world. And then the old adept was ushering him to the door.
“I suspect this will be our farewell, Micail, but who can say what fate intends? Time is a long and twisted trail, my boy, and it has many a side road. Our paths may cross again!”
Nar-Inabi in Thy splendor
Against the darkness ever rising,
Grant us tonight a restful slumber
And all Thy—all Thy—
The first verse of the evening hymn faltered, for night had fallen, fallen finally. Above it, its slayer stood, horned like a bull. Victorious darkness drenched the stars, and all had turned to dim mist and hard stone, grey substances crumbling, adrift . . .
Chedan opened his eyes with a start, surprised to see pale light shafting through the open door of his hut.
“Are you all right?” Kalaran bent over him with a frown.
“I will be,” said the mage. He rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the mists of dream sufficiently to face the day.
Kalaran still looked worried, but he held out the carven staff that had become Chedan’s constant companion. As they emerged from his hut he could see that the sky beyond the slope of the Tor was a translucent blue. It was going to be a beautiful day.
“I had a rather odd dream.”
Kalaran looked expectant, and Chedan suppressed a smile. Since he had become so lame, the young people had taken to treating him like some rare treasure that would soon fall apart. It might even be true, he thought then. Besides, talking about one’s dreams sometimes brought understanding, and this one could be a warning he should not deny.
“I was back in Ahtarra, visiting my uncle Ardral in his chambers by the library. We were drinking some exotic liqueur from the Ancient Land—that man had the most wonderful cellars. It wrenches the heart to think of those delicate vintages mingling with the salt sea. Anyway, he lifted his glass to me in a toast and said that I must go and he must stay, but that between us we had trained my heir.”
“Your heir,” echoed Kalaran, looking rather alarmed. “What did he mean?”
“What did Ardral ever mean? I would have said it was Micail, but now . . . I do not know.” He shook his head, his heart aching anew at the thought that Micail might have become their enemy. “In any case, Ardral hardly knew him. At least he didn’t then. They may have grown closer.”
“Oh . . . But Master, but when you said ‘odd’—you laughed. Well, almost.”
“Yes, I did, because I’d been remembering how Ardral finished his drink and set it down and then—he was sitting cross-legged on a low chair—he simply floated upward and out of the window and away.”
“He levitated?” Kalaran’s voice squeaked.
“Well—actually I have heard rumors that he could. But I suppose it was symbolic, in my dream. Because, you see—though Anet told us he was there, I sent him no message. I could not think what to say. And he sent me no answer. So I suppose we flew away from each other.”
As Kalaran’s brows knitted in perplexity, Chedan gave him a fond smile. “Thank you, my boy. I was afraid I had dreamed something important, and you have helped me to see otherwise. If my dream means anything, it means he has gone away—I thought he might have died, but now I rather doubt that. I think I would know. Still, I have been thinking about him. I suppose I have only made a new song out of words he used to say. When one is dreaming it often happens that way.”
“I have a lot of strange dreams,” said Kalaran, after an awkward moment, “but everything looks better after a good breakfast!”
“That I will not argue with,” said Chedan, and he permitted his acolyte to help him down the hill. As they walked, a thin trail of smoke brought the rich scent of hot meat through the trees. Certainly a good meal would help him get through this dreadful day.
“Have you heard?” Vialmar murmured to Elara. “Lord Ardral is gone!”
“What do you mean? Prince Tjalan has guards at every gate of the compound to ‘protect’ us. They would not let him simply walk away!”
“That’s the best part of it,” said Vialmar, with a grin, “and I’ve heard it from several different people now—he just came out of his doorway, floated up off the ground and over the wall—gone! Like that!”
“Does Tjalan know?” came Cleta’s awed whisper.
“If he does,” answered Elara, “he’s not letting it interfere with his plans. Look—he’s brought Damisa!”
“And Reidel,” added Cleta. “Does the prince think he can persuade them to join us, or does he simply want to show off our power?” She traded glances with Elara.
How, indeed, have we come to this? Elara wondered. Surely there are too few of us in this land to be at odds . . . But so long as her elders were in agreement, her vows required her to obey them.
She had even taken the risk of being late, going out of her way to speak to Khayan-e-Durr, but the Ai-Zir were no match for Atlantean swords or Atlantean magic. She had meant to ask their help and had ended by warning them to stay away. She was not sure, even now, if she had succeeded in convincing the queen of the danger. The shamans might be planning something. She had heard drumming from Droshrad’s big roundhouse, but now that she thought about it, that was nothing unusual.
If Tiriki dies because of this—what will Micail do then? Could he live with that? She remembered the raw pain in his face when he returned from that meeting between Tjalan and Tiriki, and knew that he could not bear a more final parting. Her own emotions twisted, and she felt an overwhelming sympathy, mixed with the unbearable thought of a world without Micail in it . . .
There was Micail, she suddenly noticed, sitting by himself against one of the stones. She had not seen that look on his face since they left Belsairath. Why didn’t he simply refuse to participate? Denounce them all?
The gleam of sunlight on an orichalcum-edged spear caught her eye. Tjalan had stationed his soldiers at regular
intervals just beyond the outer ring of stones . . . That’s one reason, I guess. Elara blushed again.
Not, she realized glumly, that her Temple vows would have allowed her to hope for Tiriki’s death even if she had thought that she had any hope of replacing her in Micail’s bed. But how they were to come out of this without serious damage to one side or the other was more than she could imagine.
Cleta tapped her on the shoulder. Haladris was summoning them all to take their places. The ordeal was about to begin.
“I don’t understand,” said Damisa. “What are you planning to do to persuade the people at the Tor to join you? What can you do, from here?” Actually, even in her gilded cage, some rumors had reached her. It was just that she found them difficult to believe.
Tjalan turned to her, his eyes gleaming more brightly than the golden dragon bracelets he wore. For a thousand generations those bracelets had been the prerogative of a prince of the royal line.
“Something I would rather not do. But birthing a new empire always requires some initial . . . adjustments,” he said. “When the Bright Empire gave way to the Sea Kingdoms it was the same. Believe me, my dear, I do regret the necessity for decisive action. But it is clear that Tiriki is going to be stubborn. Better one sharp disciplinary strike than a lingering conflict, don’t you agree? Then we can put all our energies into establishing the new order. Come now, you must agree, Damisa—for I cannot do all this alone.” His long fingers stroked along her arm. “Now that I have lost Chaithala, I will need a woman to stand beside me, to bear me sons . . . What use a crown with no heir?”
Damisa’s pulse quickened. Was he really suggesting that she might be his . . . empress . . . one day? It made sense—the royal blood of Alkonath ran in her veins too—but after all that had happened, it seemed unreal to be offered what had once been her fantasy. Suddenly she understood why Tiriki had gone back to the Tor instead of returning here with Micail. She has become a mover of events, not simply a support to her man, she thought. What could I become, on my own?
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