Mikantor looked up and felt the tightness in his chest begin to ease as he met the older man’s grim smile. “That’s so . . .” he breathed. “But I promise you this. Next time I meet that man I will have a sword in my hand!”
SEVENTEEN
Mikantor had risen as soon as it was light enough to load the pony and roused the others, protesting and grunting, to pull on whatever clothing they had not slept in and get on the road. He himself took the lead rope to haul the beast along.
“At least you might have let us eat some breakfast,” muttered Ganath, who was marching beside him. “Why the hurry? If the Tor has not moved in all the time you’ve been gone, it is not going to vanish today.”
Like the land of the queen of the Hidden Folk? Mikantor shrugged. He himself did not understand his urgency. It had been almost seven years since he left the Tor. It felt like forever. It felt as if it had been a single day. Will I wake again to find this all a dream and myself fourteen years old once more? Even if he could have spent them at Avalon, he did not want to go through those years again.
“If we get there early enough, perhaps they will give us breakfast, and a far better one that we would have on the trail,” he said consolingly. “It cannot be more than two leagues away.”
They had spent the night on the last of the high ground to the east of the Vale of Avalon. The track they were following now wound through a mixture of pasture and woodland. As the sun rose, the sky before them warmed gradually from a misty gray to pale gold, deepening to pink with a nacreous shimmer like the inside of a shell.
The pony shied as something flapped among the trees. Two white swans lifted suddenly into the air, their first flurry becoming a smooth stroke that bore them skyward. In the next moment the travelers came out from beneath the branches and saw the Tor. Mikantor stopped short, gazing at the perfect cone that rose above the mists, silhouetted against the rosy sky.
After what seemed a long time he became aware that Velantos was standing beside him.
“Is that your home?”
“It was once . . .” Mikantor answered him, and did not know whether he was referring to his boyhood or to that other lifetime about which the queen of the Hidden Realm had told him.
“It is very beautiful,” the older man said quietly.
Mikantor nodded. “It holds my heart, though I do not think I am destined to dwell there for very long.”
Velantos gripped his arm with sudden strength, speaking swiftly in Akhaean, as he still did when moved. “Then do not go there! The gods gave Akhilleos his choice of fates, to die young and gloriously, or old and content. Have they given such a choice to you? We can leave this land and make our way south once more—”
Mikantor shook his head and covered the other man’s hand with his own. “Be easy—the gods have given me no warning. But Avalon is for priests, and in this life, at least, my fate is to be a warrior. I do not know whether my time will be short or long, but it is in the country of the Ai-Zir and the lands beyond that I must fight my battles, and if I win them, it is there that I will make my home.”
“That is the choice of a king,” said Velantos.
“Or a Defender. This land is not like your own—here it is the queens who reign and the kings who guard them, so what Galid is doing is doubly a sin. But Avalon stands above all the tribes. Lady Anderle is the head of the Sisterhood of High Priestesses, an adept of great powers. Without her support I cannot even begin.”
“She sounds like that witch Medea about whom we have so many tales.” Velantos’ lips twisted in what might have been a smile.
“Nothing so sinister! But she is a strong woman, to be sure.”
“I look forward to meeting her . . .”
Mikantor laughed. Caught up in his own concerns, it had not before occurred to him to wonder what the smith would make of the Lady of Avalon, or she of him.
“The sooner we get there, the sooner you will,” he said, starting down the hill.
The steepest side of the Tor faced eastward, rising from a tangle of wood and meadow. The path that led to it followed a ridge of slightly higher ground that stretched from the hills to the isle. Where the marsh had overtaken it, a trackway of split logs filled in, but most of it was on solid ground.
Now he could see the standing stones that crowned the summit. Below the smooth slope a band of trees separated it from a meadow where sheep grazed. On their left the marsh drew in. Swans floated on the open water beyond the fringe of reeds, perhaps the two they had seen before. The travelers fell silent. Even the birds had ceased their chattering. The sheep moved slowly across green grass jeweled with golden flowers.
Where the ground rose, the path divided. One fork would take them around the isle to the Hall of the Sun and the other buildings. The other led to the Tor. A bench stood at the turning. Mikantor glanced past it, then looked again. Someone was sitting there—one of the priestesses—why had he not noticed that blue robe before?
Had Anderle seen their coming by her arts and come out to meet them? As the woman rose, her veil slipped back, and he saw the sunlight blaze golden on her hair. Mikantor felt his heart stop and then begin a swift beat that shook his chest.
The woman came forward, her feet leaving dark prints on the dew-pearled grass. She was human, then, but why had he doubted? He knew those bright eyes and that curling hair.
She held out her hand. “You who have wandered, here is your goal. You who have been exiled, this is your home. Be welcome to Avalon . . .”
He knew that smile. But the child he remembered had gone. This was a woman, breast and hip neatly defined by the woven cord that cinctured her blue gown. Why had it not occurred to him to wonder how the years might have changed Tirilan?
“The blessing of the Goddess be on you, Lady, and on this isle—” said Ganath when it became apparent that Mikantor was incapable of producing words.
She drew nearer, her gaze passing from one to another, eyes widening a little as she looked Mikantor up and down. What must she think of him, with the dust of half the island ground into his skin and clothes?
She took each one by the hand as Ganath introduced them, coming last to Mikantor. For a moment she simply looked at him, then set her hands to either side of his face and drew his head down to kiss him on the brow.
“Son of a Hundred Kings,” she whispered, releasing him, “I dreamed your coming. Be welcome to Avalon.”
His eyes were stinging. The spot where she had kissed him burned like fire. Mikantor found that his knees would no longer support him. He knelt, and moved by an instinct he could not explain, kissed the ground.
“Lady, I salute you—” Words came to him at last. “I salute the Goddess whose image you are. I salute the holy earth of Avalon. . . .”
HE HAS GROWN . . . THOUGHT Anderle as the travelers made their way toward the Hall of the Sun where the Lady of Avalon and her priests were awaiting them. Her lips twitched as she remembered how many times she had thought that before. This time, though, it was easy to think of him by his true name. He has grown into it—he really is Mikantor now.
But was he the Son of a Hundred Kings, the destined Defender who would restore law and life to the land? The people seemed to think so. Word of his coming had run with the speed of sunlight across the land.
She had to admit that he looked the part—taller than his father, who in his youth had been a big man, with shoulders in proportion. The bare legs below his tunic were hard muscled as well, as they ought to be, after all the walking he had done. In the shadow his hair seemed dark, but it caught little fiery glints when he passed into the sunlight, and there was a coppery sparkle along his shaven jaw. Stronger suns than this one had turned his skin a ruddy bronze. From the priestesses behind her came a sigh of appreciation—yes, this was a man that women would favor. At the thought, she turned to see how her daughter was reacting to the return of the young man about whom she had made such a fuss not so long ago.
Tirilan’s face was serene. I do not believe that look of inno
cence, my girl, Anderle thought dryly, wondering if her daughter had already managed to see Mikantor somehow.
If so, he did not seem to have been much affected. His gaze passed along the line of priestesses without pausing and returned to Anderle. Leaving his companions, he mounted the three steps to the portico and made the obeisance proper to her rank and grade with faultless grace, and if she found herself missing the enthusiasm with which he had hugged her as a child, she could hardly fault his self-control.
“My duty and love to the Lady of Avalon—” The pleasant deep voice was another surprise.
“Mikantor son of Irnana, Avalon welcomes you.” It did no harm to remind him that here, his rank derived from the lineage of Avalon. Anderle held out her arms and offered first one cheek, then the other, in formal embrace. “You have long been lost to us. It is with joy that we welcome you home.”
Mikantor ducked his head in acknowledgment, and oh, that was a heart-stopping smile, which a chipped tooth only made the more appealing. When he straightened, there was a light in his eye that lifted her spirits. With proper guidance, he might well have it in him to become a king.
“My dear, it is a good thing word of your coming came before you. We would hardly have recognized you,” she said then.
“You have not changed,” he replied, with another of those smiles, “nor has Avalon. But the holy isle is eternal.”
Anderle shook her head, looking up at him. “Do not try to flatter me, my lad.” And yet, on learning he had arrived she had put on her best robe and taken special care with the fall of her veil, and she did not think she was the only one. We all have our vanity, she thought ruefully, knowing he would probably not notice. “And who are these whom you have brought with you? The messages said you had a following, but not who they were.”
“Ganath and Beniharen, you know—” He cocked his head at the two young men, who made the proper obeisance in their turn, “though there may be rather more of Beni than you remember. And these are Buda and her son Aelfrix from the City of Circles—” He motioned to the woman and boy to come forward. “They took us in when we arrived on the north coast of the Great Land. Her brother Bodovos trained me in the use of arms.”
And thank the gods for that, thought Anderle. She had been wondering how a man who had never had a chance to use weapons could become a war leader. She looked forward to hearing the tale of his wanderings.
“And this is Velantos . . .” Some change in the timbre of Mikantor’s voice focused her attention as the powerfully built black-bearded man who had stood behind the others came forward. Bent brows kept her from seeing his eyes, but he seemed to be somewhere in his late thirties, nearly her own age.
Stronger suns than theirs had browned his skin indeed. Everything about him, from the way he held himself to the gold rings in his ears, proclaimed that he came from a place of which she knew nothing. But whatever he was, she thought as he bent in a bow that, if not what she was used to, was clearly meant for someone of high degree, he was no barbarian. Rising, he intoned a resonant phrase in some foreign tongue.
“He does not speak our language?”
“Not much, great queen, but I learn—” His voice was very deep.
“We shall be glad to teach you.” She smiled. With approval she noted the hard swell of muscle beneath the tunic. He must be a warrior of some note. With those arms and shoulders, anything he hit was not going to move again.
“Velantos and I have rescued each other from a thousand scrapes,” Mikantor went on. “He has become my brother and my friend. But when I was first given to him as his slave, he was a prince of the great city of Tiryns, and a master smith of Akhaea.”
A smith! The words took her breath. At that moment Velantos looked up and met her searching gaze. Without warning her other senses opened and she saw both body and the soul light that pulsed around him like the heat off a hearth. She knew this man! She had seen him—her cheeks heated as she remembered the dream in which she had embraced him in the fire of the forge.
And from the shock in his brown eyes, it seemed that he remembered it too . . .
Anderle’s heart beat, slow and heavy as a ritual drum. Goddess, her soul cried, what have you forged?
“A master smith—” she managed to say aloud, for whatever his arrival might mean for them, it was not something to discuss before all the world. “Then you are doubly welcome. Our own smith has lately passed on and the smithy stands empty. Use it as you will.”
Mikantor was asking about breakfast. Anderle hardly heard. She smiled and nodded as the party was introduced to the rest of the priests and priestesses and herded toward the dining hall, her inner sight still blinded by the vision of a flaming sword.
VELANTOS STOOD IN THE smithy on the Maiden’s Isle, unable to believe that his journey had at last come to an end. The smithy was built to a familiar pattern, with three walls and a fourth that could be blocked by screens. In a niche set into the wall he saw a leaden image of the goddess of the forge, her crudely depicted garments reminding him of those worn for ritual by the ladies of his own land. He lifted the lid of the chest that had accompanied him for so many miles and released from her wrappings the clay image that lay atop his tools. He had been right—there was just room for his own image of the goddess beside the northern one.
As he stepped back, he heard a rustle of cloth from the doorway. He turned to see the Lady of Avalon standing there, sunlight shining through her veiling so that she seemed surrounded by a haze of light.
“Is permitted?” he pointed at the images.
“Oh yes—” Smiling, she put back the veil and came in. “Now we shall have two Maidens to guard the isle.”
He bowed to cover the uneasy awareness she had produced in him since their first meeting the day before. She reminded him of Naxomene, but he had understood the source of the queen’s magic. He knew nothing of Anderle’s. Medea. . . he thought again. She had been useful too . . . and dangerous. He did not think Anderle would harm Mikantor—she was the boy’s Dark Mother and would protect him, at least so long as he did her will.
I am the one who must be wary, he thought then. She wants something of me. Growing up in a royal hall he had learned to be careful with powerful people who wanted things.
“I see you have your own tools,” she said pleasantly as he began to lay them on the workbench. “Is there anything else you will need?” Her voice made him think of honey warmed by the sun, but the lovely line of her lips gave nothing away.
He directed his gaze back to the smithy. Everything seemed to be of good quality, and had been well maintained. The firepot was set in a stone hearth. It too was hollowed from stone. A pipe of fired clay led from its side through the wall of the hearth and out to connect to the wind channel and the two bellows bags.
“Deerskin on bellows is old—” He pointed to the stiff leather. “Need make new.”
“I will see about getting you appropriate hides. The hunters of the Lake Village can kill a doe, and their women sew leather well.”
He nodded, deliberately not meeting her eyes. Had Medea looked like that, he wondered—small and pale, with a mass of dark hair whose tendrils escaped the braids wound around her head as if their power was too great for such bindings? What would that hair look like unconfined?
He thrust the image away and counted the fire tools, neatly racked in a wooden stand. The space in his chest had barely been enough for his hammers and other tools. And there too were a stout oaken bucket for water, a quenching tank, and a tightly woven basket for ashes, lined with clay. The charcoal would be kept in the shed outside. He hoped the shed might also contain clay for making molds.
Between the hearth and the workbench stood the anvil, a block of granite set into a section cut from the trunk of a mighty oak. He had brought with him a selection of smaller anvils made of bronze that he used for fine work, but for large pieces, the granite would do well.
“What will you make first?” asked Anderle.
“Spearhe
ads,” grunted the smith. “Galid steals mine.” That memory burned in his belly, though not as badly as his brief return to slavery must trouble Mikantor.
Velantos still shuddered when he remembered how close the younger man had come to snapping. If Mikantor had fought, Galid’s minions would have brought him down. And me, as well, he thought grimly, for no amount of sense would have kept me from trying to defend him. Which would at least have solved the problem of how he could survive without Mikantor in this strange land. Or whether I would even want to . . . he thought wistfully. Already Galid’s threat was forcing them apart, he to the smithy and Mikantor to the training field, but at least here he would have work to do.
“Galid . . .” echoed the priestess. Her voice thinned, and Velantos felt that thrill of danger once more. He grimaced. She was half his size and weight—he could break her—so why did tension stiffen his limbs? All of his limbs, he realized, turning abruptly so she would not see how his body had responded. He set a piece of scrap bronze on the anvil and picked up the square-headed hammer, channeling his arousal into a blow that made the metal ring.
If this is what the woman’s presence does to me, he thought ruefully, I predict I will be working long and hard. . . . And that was just as well, for Mikantor’s men would need arms.
“Galid needs killing,” he growled. “You find me bronze and I make spears.”
“You will make swords . . .” she corrected softly. She had come so close he could smell her scent, like warm earth and flowers. “You will make the Sword, for Mikantor.”
He jerked as Anderle’s small hand gripped the hard muscle of his forearm, and turned despite his resolve, falling into the darkness of her eyes.
“A sword for a king . . .” she whispered, “and you are destined to make it. I have seen the Sword, Velantos, forged in fire!”
He could feel that fire blazing between them. With an oath he pulled away, breathing hard.
“Go!” he said harshly. “Send me workmen; I say what I need. But you go now—this is not your Mystery!” He twitched to the breath of air as she went by.
Sword of Avalon: Avalon Page 28