The Fall of Atlantis
Table of Contents
BOOK ONE
Micon
Chapter One
EMISSARIES
Chapter Two
OF DISTANT STORMS
Chapter Three
THE LOOM OF FATE
Chapter Four
THE HEALER'S HANDS
Chapter Five
THE NIGHT OF THE ZENITH
BOOK TWO
Domaris
Chapter One
SACRAMENTS
Chapter Two
THE FOOL
Chapter Three
THE UNION
Chapter Four
STORM WARNINGS
Chapter Five
THE SECRET CROWN
Chapter Six
IN THE SISTERHOOD
Chapter Seven
WHAT THE STARS REVEALED
Chapter Eight
THE NAMING OF THE NAME
Chapter Nine
A QUESTION OF SENTIMENT
Chapter Ten
MEN OF PURPOSE
Chapter Eleven
OF BLESSINGS AND CURSES
Chapter Twelve
LIGHTS HOSTAGE
Chapter Thirteen
THE CHELA
Chapter Fourteen
THE UNREVEALED GOD
Chapter Fifteen
THE SIN THAT QUICKENS
Chapter Sixteen
THE NIGHT OF THE NADIR
Chapter Seventeen
DESTINY AND DOOM
BOOK THREE
Deoris
Chapter One
THE PROMISE
Chapter Two
THE FEVER
Chapter Three
CHOICE AND KARMA
Chapter Four
THE SUMMIT AND THE DEPTHS
Chapter Five
WORDS
Chapter Six
CHILDREN OF THE
UNREVEALED GOD
Chapter Seven
THE MERCY OF CARATRA
Chapter Eight
THE CRYSTAL SPHERE
Chapter Nine
THE DIFFERENCE
Chapter Ten
IN THE LABYRINTH
Chapter Eleven
THE DARK SHRINE
BOOK FOUR
Riveda
Chapter One
A WORLD OF DREAMS
Chapter Two
THE BLASPHEMY
Chapter Three
DARK DAWN
Chapter Four
THE LAWS OF THE TEMPLE
Chapter Five
THE NAMING OF THE NAME
Chapter Six
THE PRICE
Chapter Seven
THE DEATH CUP
Chapter Eight
LEGACY
Chapter Nine
THE JUDGMENT OF THE GODS
Chapter Ten
BLACK SHADOWS
Chapter Eleven
VISIONS
BOOK FIVE
Tiriki
Chapter One
THE EXILE
Chapter Two
THE MASTER
Chapter Three
LITTLE SINGER
Chapter Four
THE SPECTRE
Chapter Five
THE CHOSEN PATH
Chapter Six
WITHOUT EXPECTATIONS
Chapter Seven
THE UNFADING FLOWER
Chapter Eight
DUTY
Chapter Nine
THE SEA AND THE SHIP
Chapter Ten
KARMA
Afterword
The Fall of Atlantis
Marion Zimmer Bradley
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1983 by Marion Zimmer Bradley
Formerly published in parts as Web of Light and Web of Darkness
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Book
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 0-7434-7157-1
Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet
First hardcover printing, September 2003
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Bell Road Press, Sherwood, OR
Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgments
First, to my dear friend and mentor Dorothy G. Quinn, who, more years ago than I like to think about, explored the past with me, and wrote, with me, a thin sheaf of handwritten scenes exploring the characters of Domaris and Micon. The book has been through four rewritings since, and Dorothy would probably not recognize her brainchild; but it was in her company that I first trod this path, and the debt is inestimable.
Second, to David R. Bradley, my son, who prepared the final draft of this manuscript for publication and who provided, from various sources, including the unpublished writings of his late father, Robert A. Bradley, the philosophical excerpts which appear at the head of each section.
—Marion Zimmer Bradley
BAEN BOOKS
by MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY
The Fall of Atlantis
Glenraven
(with Holly Lisle)
In the Rift: Glenraven II
(with Holly Lisle)
BOOK ONE
Micon
"All events are but the consummation of preceding causes, clearly seen but not distinctly apprehended. When the strain is sounded, the most untutored listener can tell that it must end with the keynote, although he cannot see why each successive bar must lead at last to the concluding chord. The law of Karma is the force which leads all chords to the keynote, which spreads the ripples from the tiny stone dropped into a pool, until the tidal waves drown a continent, long after the stone has sunk from sight and been forgotten.
"This is the story of one such stone, dropped into the pool of a world which was drowned long before the Pharaohs of Egypt piled one stone upon another."
—The Teachings of Rajasta the Mage
Chapter One
EMISSARIES
I
At the sound of sandaled feet upon stone, the Priest Rajasta raised his face from the scroll he held open on his knee. The library of the Temple was usually deserted at this hour, and he had come to regard it as his peculiar privilege to study here each day undisturbed. His forehead ridged a little, not with anger, for he was not given to anger, but with residual annoyance, for he had been deep in thought.
However, the two men who had entered the library had aroused his interest, and he straightened and watched them; without, however, laying aside the scroll, or rising.
The elder of the two was known to him: Talkannon, Arch-Administrator of the Temple of Light, was a burly, cheerful-faced man, whose apparent good nature was a shrewd dissemblance for an analytical temperament which could turn cold and stern and even ruthless. The other was a stranger, a man whose graceful dancer's body moved slowly and with effort; his dark smile was slightly wry, as if lips shut tight on pain could grimace more easily. A tall man, this stranger, deeply tanned and handsome, clad in white robes of an unfamiliar pattern, which glimmered with faint luminescence in the sunlit shadows of the room.
"Rajasta," the Arch-Administrator said, "our brother desires further knowledge. He is free to study as he will. Be he your guest." Talkannon bowed slightly to the still-seated Rajasta, and, turning back to the
stranger, stated, "Micon of Ahtarrath, I leave you with our greatest student. The Temple, and the City of the Temple, are yours, my brother; feel free to call upon me at any time." Again Talkannon bowed, then turned and left the two men to further their acquaintance.
As the door scraped slowly shut behind the Arch-Administrator's powerful form, Rajasta frowned again; he was used to Talkannon's abrupt manners, but he feared that this stranger would think them all lacking in civility. Laying down his scroll, he arose and approached the guest with his hands outstretched in courteous welcome. On his feet, Rajasta was a very tall man, long past middle age; his step and manner disciplined and punctilious.
Micon stood quite still where Talkannon had left him, smiling still that grave, one-sided smile. His eyes were deeply blue as storm-skies; the small creases around them spoke of humor, and a vast tolerance.
This man is one of us, surely, thought the Priest of Light, as he made a ceremonious bow, and waited. Still the stranger stood and smiled, unheedful. Rajasta's frown returned, faintly. "Micon of Ahtarrath—"
"I am so called," said the stranger formally. "I have come here to ask that I may pursue my studies among you." His voice was low and resonant, but held an overlay of effort, as if kept always in careful control.
"You are welcome to share in what knowledge is mine," Rajasta said with grave courtesy, "and you are yourself welcome—" He hesitated, then added, on a sudden impulse, "Son of the Sun." With his hand he made a certain Sign.
"A fosterling, only, I fear," said Micon with a brief, wry smile, "and overly proud of the relationship." Nevertheless, in answer to the ritual identifying phrase, he raised his hand and returned the archaic gesture.
Rajasta stepped forward to embrace his guest; they were bound, not only by the bonds of shared wisdom and search, but by the power behind the innermost magic of the Priesthood of Light: like Rajasta, Micon was one of their highest initiates. Rajasta wondered at this—Micon seemed so young! Then, as they stepped apart, Rajasta saw what he had not noticed before. His face shadowed with sorrow and pity, and he took Micon's emaciated hands in his and led him to a seat, saying, "Micon, my brother!"
"A fosterling, as I said," Micon nodded. "How did you know? I was—told—that there is no outward scarring, nor—"
"No," Rajasta said. "I guessed. Your stillness—something in your gestures. But how did this come upon you, my brother?"
"May I speak of that at another time? What is—" Micon hesitated again, and said, his resonant voice strained, "—cannot be remedied. Let it suffice that I—returned the Sign."
Rajasta said, his voice trembling with emotion, "You are most truly a Son of Light, although you walk in darkness. Perhaps—perhaps the only Son of that Light who can face His splendor."
"Only because I may never behold it," Micon murmured, and the blank eyes seemed to gaze intently on the face they would never see. Silence, while that twisted and painful smile came and went upon Micon's face.
At last Rajasta ventured, "But—you returned the Sign—and I thought surely I was mistaken—that surely you saw—"
"I think—I can read thoughts, a little," Micon said. "Only a little; and only since there was need. I do not know, yet, how much to trust to it. But with you—" Again the smile lent brilliance to the dark, strained face. "I felt no hesitation."
Again the silence, as of emotions stretched too tightly for speech; then, from the passageway, a woman's young voice called, "Lord Rajasta!"
Rajasta's tense face relaxed. "I am here, Domaris," he called, and explained to Micon, "My disciple, a young woman—Talkannon's daughter. She is unawakened as yet, but when she learns, and is—complete, she holds the seeds of greatness."
"The Light of the Heavens grant knowledge and wisdom to her," said Micon with polite disinterest.
Domaris came into the room; a tall girl, and proudly erect, with hair the color of hammered copper that made a brightness in the dark spaces and shadows. Like a light bird she came, but paused at a little distance from the men, too shy to speak in the presence of a stranger.
"My child," Rajasta said kindly, "this is Micon of Ahtarrath, my brother in the Light, to be treated as myself in every respect."
Domaris turned to the stranger, in civil courtesy—then her eyes widened, a look of awe drew over her features, and with a gesture that seemed forced, as if she made it against her will, she laid her right hand over her breast and raised it slowly to forehead level, in the salute given only to the highest initiates of the Priesthood of Light. Rajasta smiled: it was a right instinct and he was pleased; but he let his voice break the spell, for Micon had gone grey with a deep pallor.
"Micon is my guest, Domaris, and will be lodged with me—if that is your will, my brother?" At Micon's nod of assent, he continued, "Go now, daughter, to the Scribe-Mother, and ask her to hold a scribe always in readiness for my brother."
She started and shivered a little; sent a worshipful glance at Micon; then inclined her head in reverence to her teacher and went on her errand.
"Micon!" Rajasta spoke with terse directness. "You are come here from the Dark Shrine!"
Micon nodded. "From their dungeons," he qualified immediately.
"I—I feared that—"
"I am no apostate," Micon reassured firmly. "I served not there. My service is not subject to compulsion!"
"Compulsion?"
Micon did not move, but the lift of his brows and the curl of his lip gave the effect of a shrug. "They would have compelled me." He held out his mutilated hands. "You can see that they were—eloquent in persuasion." Before Rajasta's gasp of horror, Micon drew back his hands and concealed their betrayal within the sleeves of his robe. "But my task is undone. And until it is completed, I hold death from me with these hands—though he companion me most closely."
Micon might have been speaking of last night's rain; and Rajasta bowed his head before the impassive face. "There are those we call Black-robes," he said bitterly. "They hide themselves among the members of the Magician's Sect, those who guard the shrine of the Unrevealed God—whom we call Grey-robes here. I have heard that these . . . Black-robes—torture! But they are secret in their doings. Well for them! Be they accursed!"
Micon stirred. "Curse not, my brother!" he said harshly. "You, of all men, should know the danger of that."
Rajasta said tonelessly, "We have no way of acting against them. As I say, we suspect members of the Grey-robe sect. Yet, all are—gray!"
"I know. I saw too clearly, so—I see nothing. Enough," Micon pleaded. "I carry my release within me, my brother, but I may not yet accept it. We will not speak of this, Rajasta." He arose, with slow carefulness, and paced deliberately to the window, to stand with his face uplifted to the warm sunlight.
With a sigh, Rajasta accepted the prohibition. True, the Black-robes always concealed themselves so well that no victim could ever identify his tormentors. But why this? Micon was a stranger and could hardly have incurred their enmity; and never before had they dared meddle with so highly-placed a personage. The knowledge of what had befallen Micon initiated a new round in a warfare as old as the Temple of Light.
And the prospect dismayed him.
II
In the School of Scribes, Mother Lydara was in the process of disciplining one of her youngest pupils. The Scribes were the sons and daughters of the Priest's Caste who showed, in their twelfth or thirteenth year, a talent for reading or writing: and thirty-odd intelligent boys and girls are not easy to keep in order.
Mother Lydara felt that no child in all her memory had ever been such a problem to her as the sullen little girl who faced her just now: a thin angular girl, about thirteen, with stormy eyes and hair that hung dishevelled in black, tumbled curls. She held herself very stiff and erect, her nervous little hands stubbornly clenched, taut defiance in her white face.
"Deoris, little daughter," the Scribe-Mother admonished, standing rock-like and patient, "you must learn to control both tongue and temper if you ever hope to serve in th
e Higher Ways. The daughter of Talkannon should be an example and a pattern to the others. Now, you will apologize to me, and to your playmate Ista, and then you will make accounting to your father." The old Priestess waited, arms crossed on her ample breast, for an apology which never came.
Instead the girl burst out tearfully, "I won't! I have done nothing wrong, Mother, and I won't apologize for anything!" Her voice was plangent, vibrating with a thrilling sweetness which had marked her, among the children of the Temple, as a future Spell-singer; she seemed all athrob with passion like a struck harp.
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