Ancestors of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley
“Now that we have found each other,” she went on, “there is no hurry, after all. We have been working with the poor natives of the marshes, and it would be heartless to abandon them.”
“I hardly—” Tjalan’s face darkened as he restrained his temper. “I quite understand,” he muttered. “You know, you should have met my wife—she was quite sentimental too.” He took a deep breath. “Micail, I have been thoughtless. You and Tiriki must have so much to say to each other. Why don’t you walk together for a little while?” The unspoken words, and talk some sense into her, were as clear as a falcon’s cry.
Tiriki’s hands were warm, just as he remembered, but not so soft, and her fingers were lightly callused. Micail turned them upward in his own, tenderly caressing them, and frowned at each tiny cut and scar and scratch.
“Your poor beautiful hands! What have you been doing!”
She smiled a little. “Building something, just like you. But without as much help.”
He laid one arm about her shoulders, resisting the temptation to draw her even closer. They were well out of earshot of the others, but hardly unseen, and he was uncomfortably aware of being watched by an interested audience. It would not do for a senior priest of the Temple to tumble his wife on the hillside in front of the gods and everyone.
He fought to find words for what he was feeling. How strange that after all this time he should find it so hard.
“I keep thinking I must be dreaming,” he said after a moment. “It’s happened before . . . For most of the journey to Belsairath, and even after, really. You could hardly have called me sane. I don’t know how long I haunted the harbor, but I was there day and night, sure that your ship would come in . . . Trying to drive out the vision of the harbor in Ahtarrath where you should have been. But there was nothing! Nothing . . .”
She moved forward a little, and her eyes were as wet as his own as she put both her arms about him and held him close. At last, he began to relax.
“How,” he breathed, “how in the name of the gods did you survive?”
“By the help of the gods,” she said softly, “and Chedan. He has been a tower of strength, the architect of so much that we have done. Without his wisdom, I must often have despaired.”
“I am so glad he was with you,” Micail murmured, and he meant it sincerely. But still, he thought with a stab of envy, I should have been the one to guide and protect you.
“And the people of the marshes showed us how to live in the new land . . .” she was saying.
“On roots and berries and frogs?” he asked, disdainfully. “I have heard what the natives eat in the Lake lands. Even the Ai-Zir consider them savages.”
“Well, they have not been savage to us!” Tiriki said a little tartly. “Chedan says that culture depends not on one’s surroundings, but on one’s soul. By that measure, these folk are civilized indeed.”
Chedan says . . . It occurred to Micail that he might come to dislike that phrase quite a lot, quite soon.
“Well,” he said, calmly enough, “perhaps we can send one or two of our lesser priests to man your marshy retreat—but you and the child must join me in Azan.” Why were they talking about politics when what he wanted was to know more about her and the child in whose existence he found it hard to believe, even now.
“Must, Micail?” She gazed up at him soberly. “That is not a word you ever used to me—”
“We have been so long apart—I have needed you so very much! It is not an order, beloved, it is a cry from the heart.”
“Do you know how many mornings I have awakened with a wet pillow because I had been weeping in my sleep, wanting you?” she replied. “But before we took our marriage oath, we were sworn to the gods. Chedan says that to break one oath calls all of them into question. At home we worked for the gods together and surely we will do so again. But at present we have other obligations. At least I do. The marsh folk have given up their old ways to become part of our community and we cannot simply abandon them. If it is otherwise for you, why not leave Azan and come to live with me?”
About to answer, he realized he did not know what to say. If he told her that it was not the same, that his work with the Sun Wheel was more important, she would be insulted, and rightly so. He could not leave the henge incomplete! And if he told her of the intensity of the power that he had contacted here, would she be afraid?
“You see?” She smiled a little, reading his thought as she used to do. Then her eyes sharpened. “Or do you have some other reason for wishing to remain? That girl, Anet . . . She seemed quite . . . proprietary, when she spoke of you.”
“There is nothing between me and her but wishful thinking! On her part!” Had he protested too swiftly?
“I could hardly blame you if you had given in. She is quite beautiful and you did not know I was still alive.”
“Well, I certainly might have given in, but I didn’t!” he said in a goaded tone. “But you assume I was unfaithful, don’t you? Are you trying to excuse yourself for sleeping with Chedan?”
Tiriki shrugged off his arm and faced him, eyes blazing. “How dare you?”
He glared at her, taking refuge from his confusion in anger. “What should I think, when every other sentence praises his name?”
“He is a great mage, a holy man and wise . . .”
“Unlike me?”
“You were great and wise in Ahtarrath.” Her eyes were grey and cold as a winter sea. “I do not know what you are now.”
“Come to Azan and you will find out!” He glared at her.
“It will take some time, then,” she spat back, “for the more I hear, the less reason I find to leave the Tor!”
“But Tjalan will not allow you to stay there. He—our people must be gathered so that our talents can be combined. Even together we are few—and he can protect us!”
“We do not need such protection.” Tiriki drew herself up. “I may wear the blue robe of Caratra, but I am a Vested Guardian of the Temple of Light! Neither you, nor Chedan, nor even Tjalan of Alkonath may give orders to me!”
“The temples lie beneath the waves,” he said, suddenly tired. “Until we build the new one, you and I and all the rest are Guardians of nothing. Help me, Tiriki, to make it a reality once more—”
“Nothing?” she repeated. “Do you think the gods are powerless without their stone temples, then?”
“No, of course not—but the prophecies—”
“There are many prophecies!” She waved a hand impatiently and moved another step away. “It is not important. The cult of Caratra is strong here . . . stronger than it was at home. My mother and your mother made me Her priestess long before Rajasta and Reio-ta made me Priestess of Light. I am linked to the Sacred Sisters of this land, and they believe that the Tor is where I should be.”
He stared, recognizing suddenly a resemblance between her and Anet, and quelled an odd twinge of unease. The mark of the Goddess? Ni-Terat’s temple had been of little importance on Ahtarrath. He had never really had to consider Tiriki’s other allegiance before.
“If you would keep hope alive that we may ever be together again,” Tiriki said sternly, “do not attempt to command me to your side. Join me if you will. If not—”
“I cannot—” Micail broke off. I do not dare to leave them for fear they will misuse this thing we are building! At last he understood what he feared, but shame kept him from admitting as much to her. He would make sure the Sun Wheel could not be used to serve Tjalan’s fantasies of power and then he could let it go.
“Surely you must have your reasons, Micail.” She seemed to believe in his sincerity, even if she did not understand him. “I will not question you if you truly believe that you must remain where you are—for now. Our lives are not our own,” she added, and he was relieved to hear some trace of warmth in her words once more. “You said that to me, long, long ago, and lately I have held it in my heart, for I see that it is true. We must fulfill our destinies . . . together or apart.”
“Only for a little while!” he said desperately. “I cannot explain just yet—” Micail cast a quick glance up the hill and saw Tjalan watching them. “Believe in me a little longer, as I believe in you!”
For a long moment she stared into his eyes, then at last she sighed. The prince was coming toward them.
“Tiriki,” he said swiftly, “do not disagree with me when I tell him that you will be joining us soon.” He waited until he saw the last of her anger leave her eyes. “Eilantha!” he said then. “How I love you.”
“Osinarmen, I love you.”
In the echoes of their Temple names he heard a vow. For a long moment then they gazed at each other, memorizing every feature, every line and curve, as if they might never meet again. Then she took his arm and together they started back up the hill.
Damisa was sitting beneath the ancient oak tree in the enclosed garden of Tjalan’s fortress when two of her guards announced a visitor. She grimaced with annoyance, half inclined to tell them she was not receiving and see if they obeyed her—despite their courtesy, it had become obvious that however protective it might be, she was surely in custody. But Tjalan had ridden off somewhere and she had exhausted the little garden’s potential for entertainment. Besides, it might be someone she wouldn’t mind seeing.
She half rose, her mouth opening in astonishment, as Reidel was escorted in.
“I . . . didn’t expect to see you again,” she said as the guard bowed himself backward and closed the gate. She had risked Tjalan’s anger to help Reidel. Staying saved seemed the least he could have done in gratitude.
“You should have known better.” He seated himself on one of the benches, looking around him with the self-possession that had always characterized him, even on the tossing deck of a ship in the midst of a storm.
“At least you did escape—I was half sure they’d just killed you. They showed me the wall you broke down—how did you ever—? Oh, never mind. Why in the name of all the stars have you put your head back into the noose?”
“I was sent back with a message. The prince and Micail have gone to meet with Tiriki. On neutral ground,” he added, when she started to protest again.
“Someone else could have carried it,” she muttered.
“Our community is not so large we can count anyone expendable,” he said dryly. “And I knew the way. Besides—how could you think I would leave you here a prisoner? Although”—his gaze moved from the cushions of the carven chair to the finely wrought table where a matching flagon and goblet gleamed like orichalcum in the sun—“they seem to be treating you well!”
“Oh yes, the cage is quite luxurious.” She poured wine into the goblet and held it out to him. As he leaned forward into the sunlight she saw the red mark of someone’s fist on his cheekbone.
“Are you ready to leave?” Reidel sipped and set the goblet down.
“Yes,” she said at once, but then turned away, not wanting him to see her blushes. “No,” she began again, but once more stopped short. “How can I choose when I see hazards on every road? If only Tjalan would trust me!”
“You believe him?” Reidel sprang to his feet, staring down at her.
“He wants to restore the glory of Atlantis. Don’t you?”
“Ah. Let me rephrase that . . .” Reidel paced a few steps away and suddenly turned. “Do you believe in him? Do you believe that his vision of the future is what you are meant to promote in this land?”
“I? But—” She found she could not meet his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Reidel moved closer, replying softly, “Don’t you? Then why didn’t you just tell Tjalan how to find the Tor?”
“It is not for me to make decisions for Master Chedan!” Damisa in turn paced away, covering the distance to the wall and back again before she even tried to speak again. “Or for Tiriki,” she began. “I mean . . . we all have to choose . . . I don’t know!”
“Oh, that’s clear.” Reidel leaned against the oak tree, arms crossed. She was not quite sure, but she thought that the expression on his face was a smile.
What an exasperating man, she thought. Since her cruelty to him after their encounter the year before, he had never again spoken of love to her, and yet today he was no longer radiating that horrid, resentful pain. It was as if, without a word said, they had arrived at a new relationship—or he had—and his new certainty made Damisa feel more confused than ever.
“I’ll ask you a question,” she said. “You say you came back because of me—if I decide that Tjalan’s right, will you support me?”
“You strike shrewdly,” he said, after some moments had passed. “I’d bet Tjalan has no idea how strong you are, has he? For that matter—do you? I really suspect that if need be, you could climb this tree and get over the garden wall all by yourself. I’ve seen you do things a good bit more difficult!”
Damisa blushed in annoyance as Reidel shook his head and sighed. “I give you the same answer you gave me—yes and no. What I have seen here convinces me Tjalan is no fit ruler. I do not think I wish to help him. But do not mistake me, Damisa. One way or another, I have had a lot of time to think recently. I realized finally that whether or not you ever care for me, it is my fate to love you. And to protect you, I will gladly shed the last drop of my blood.”
“We parted on terms of the highest courtesy,” said Tiriki bitterly, “but we must prepare to defend ourselves all the same. We have only purchased a little time.” She looked around her at the other members of her community, her family, who were sitting on the rough benches around the council fire.
It was midafternoon, but she had coaxed a few logs into flame, not for warmth but as a symbolic illumination. In the Temple of Light the altar had borne an eternal flame, fed by some unknown source, burning in a lamp of purest gold. It was a far cry from this simple wood fire among the trees, but the light was the same, a splinter of the sun. And I am no less a priestess, she told herself. That is something I would have expected Micail to understand . . .
“How?” asked Kalaran. “You say that Reidel is still—again—their prisoner?”
Elis nodded. “We have to assume so.”
“You think, then, that Tjalan will find someone to lead his soldiers here—to attack us?” Liala asked, in an unsteady voice.
Tiriki nodded. “And that is the least of our worries. Micail told me something of what he and the others have spent the last four years building—a structure of stones they call the Sun Wheel. According to Tjalan, it somehow controls sound.”
“Adsar’s Eye!” Chedan swore. He looked around at the circle of uncomprehending faces. “But of course you wouldn’t understand. The theory of such devices was always taught only to the highest priesthood. I don’t think anyone has actually built one for centuries.” He sighed. “You all know that the vibrations of sound can move matter . . . In a properly designed space the vibrations are amplified. A trained group of singers can focus that vibration into a pulse that will travel quite a long way.”
“To move something?” asked Kalaran.
“To destroy?” whispered Elis, her face growing pale.
“He told me it was meant as a source of power for the new Temple,” Tiriki said quietly. “But as you know, it can be directed anywhere along the network of energies that already flow through the earth . . . It is not finished. But I believe that enough stones have been placed for it to be used.”
“But they don’t know where we are!” exclaimed Selast.
Rendano sighed. “Not yet. But Prince Tjalan is quite proud of his new kingdom, and while we waited for Tiriki and Micail he boasted a great deal. For one thing, Stathalkha is with them, and she has been training other sensitives. They did a survey of all the power points in this land—”
Elis added, “Including this one. The prince said . . . they knew we were here months ago. They just didn’t think it mattered until now.”
“So you see, they don’t have to send soldiers,” Rendano said. “All they need to do i
“Does Prince Tjalan know they can do this?”
Rendano shrugged. “Not yet, I think. But I suspect he soon will.”
Chedan was shaking his head. “I do not believe it. I thought Ardral at least would be too wise to allow—”
“He is a great adept,” Rendano interrupted, “but only one among many: Mahadalku and Haladris and Ocathrel of Alkonath—even Valadur the Grey! They are Tjalan’s most ardent supporters.”
Chedan’s expression grew bleaker with each name, for he knew them all. “They support this madness?” he repeated blankly.
“I too could hardly believe my ears,” Tiriki answered, as she quickly reached to clasp his hands in her own. “But Micail is not without his supporters. Jiritaren and Naranshada are there, among others, and the acolytes seem to regard him highly. But still, they are effectively outnumbered. And Tjalan somehow dominates them all. But how can any of them truly understand what they are risking! Except for Micail, they did not see the face of the power that broke Atlantis—” Tiriki’s voice broke. “They have never seen Dyaus.”
“Hush,” said Chedan. Hauling himself upright, he took his turn in trying to comfort her . . . With a little shock she realized that his beard was now completely white. For a moment Tiriki allowed herself to rest her head against his chest, angered anew as she remembered Micail’s jealousy. It was like accusing her of sleeping with her grandfather.
Gently the mage patted her hair. “Neither Ardral nor Micail will allow them to misuse their powers in such a way.”
“Do you truly think so?” She straightened, wiping her eyes. “I wish I could be so sure. I thought I knew Micail—but there is something new in him. For four years his whole life has been dedicated to building that ring of stones. I don’t know if he can abandon it.”
“If they do use it to send power against us—what can we do?” Liala asked.