“The summit of that island is so pointed, it looks man-made,” Micail said to Galara, in an attempt to distract his mind from the rocking of the fish-smelling round coracle in which they were being ferried out to the Emerald.
“Maybe so,” said the native boy, as a skillful dip of his paddle sent them shooting forward. “Has beacon up top. Light it when tin ships come. But now, no traders,” he added sadly.
“Take nothing for granted,” advised Micail, thinking of what Tjalan had told him of his plans for this new country. But did it really matter? Was there any point in trying to build a new Atlantis if Tiriki was lost?
He clutched the side of the coracle as the sea grew even more lively, astonished that the boy could govern the motion of so unlikely a craft. But as the oddly pointed islet drew nearer, Micail became aware of another sensation, a kind of subaudible humming that he instinctively associated with the flow of power . . . He touched Galara’s shoulder.
“Do you feel it?”
“I feel sick.” She looked pale and queasy. He remembered hearing her say that she did not like the sea. That must be why she did not notice the thrumming in the water.
Tiriki would have felt it. Awkwardly he patted Galara’s arm and then closed his eyes, swamped by a new wave of sorrow. Without her, I am crippled, he thought. The gods will not want me.
When they came aboard at last, they found the deck of the Royal Emerald swarming with soldiers. Micail had not realized that Tjalan had brought not only his bodyguard, but a contingent of regular guards as well.
The soldiers remained on deck throughout the three days it took to sail north and east along the coast to Belsairath. The cabins below were reserved for noble and priestly passengers such as himself. That first night, however, he encountered only the acolyte Elara. He had been told that she had ended up on Prince Tjalan’s ship, but had not seen her until now. Micail, glad to leave her with Galara, went in search of his cabin, where he fell into sleep as a rock into an abyss.
The second day was well advanced when he awoke to the discovery that he shared the cabin with Ardral, who had also let his friend Jiritaren into the room. Jiritaren was not about to allow Micail to wallow in self-pity in his bunk on such a beautiful day.
“You have to admit, Alkonans build good ships,” Jiritaren commented as they came on deck, running his hand along the polished wood of the rail. The wind put color into his sallow skin and lifted locks of his lank black hair back from his brow.
“I suppose,” said Micail, gazing up at the bravely fluttering green banner whose ring of falcons seemed to flap their golden wings. “After all, here we are.”
Jiritaren gave him a troubled look. They had been friends for a long time, and usually did not need to speak to know each other’s hearts. After a moment, he put one arm around Micail’s shoulder, and raised his other hand to point at the wingbirds that followed them, particularly one a little longer and leaner in construction, with an orange banner at its mast.
“That’s the Orange Swift,” said Jiritaren, “from Tarisseda! They arrived with a few empty cabins, so some of our people are with them. Good thing, too, or I’d probably be sleeping on deck with the spearmen.”
Micail managed something like a smile. “What’s that ship?” he pointed.
“Ah—that is the Blue Dolphin. An older ship but solid. There’s a gaggle of folks on it, some from our Temple.”
“My fellow acolyte Cleta is on the Dolphin, my honored lords,” said Elara, moving forward to join them, “with her brother Lanath and Vialmar as well.” She looked up at Micail with a smile that seemed rather too warm, considering that except for Damisa, whom he had often seen with Tiriki, he hardly knew the acolytes at all.
But few as they were, strangers or not, they would be the foundation of the new Temple, and they were his responsibility now. He managed to return Elara’s smile. She was a pretty girl, old enough not to be flustered by the attention of two senior priests. She was only of middle height, but her features were good, and her curly black tresses, barely secured against the wind with a filigreed hairpin, had a glossy sheen like a raven’s wing.
“You are promised to Lanath, are you not?” he murmured. “I am sorry. It must be hard for you to be separated . . . At least Cleta and Vialmar are together.”
She lowered her eyes. “All thought of marriage must wait, my lord,” she said. “We are far from completing our training. I—I wanted to say, it is a great honor to be here, my lords, where I may hope to take instruction directly from you.”
To reach the trading port of Belsairath took two days. It lay on the southern coast of the land that the native inhabitants called the “Isle of the Mighty.” It had been established when Alkonath first sought supremacy over the trade routes of the Sea Kingdoms, but since then had lingered in obscurity.
As at Beleri’in, a small islet stood a little way offshore from the port, surrounded not by ships at anchor, but by a line of long sandbanks that guarded the shore from storms. As the Royal Emerald headed past it, the soldiers rushed to the side to get a glimpse of their destination. Even Micail felt a faint stirring of curiosity.
He shivered and rewrapped himself in his newly acquired cape of Alkonan green. It was warmly lined, but it felt odd to him to replace his family’s ceremonial crimson with this color. But what does it matter? he asked himself. There is neither Ahtarra nor Alkona anymore. Even the gods seem far away . . .
The clouds were drawing in again, foreshadowing rain, and the scene unfolding before him became a mural painted in greys and browns. The low delta at the back of the bay was dotted with pools and reed beds, as if the land had not entirely won its argument with the ocean. . . . He guessed that storms might occasionally rearrange this landscape entirely. He hoped the Alkonans had built their port on solid ground.
Word of their arrival spread fast. He glanced about and saw that most if not all of the passengers had emerged onto the deck. Elara and Galara stood quite close to him, their attention focusing, it seemed, upon the soldiers rather than the view.
A feather floated landward past them, and Micail realized that the tide was on the flow. Straining his eyes, he looked farther inland toward the rising mainland, a dim bulk of thickly forested hills. At their center he could see a single thin streamer of smoke, rising and curling in the wind. Perhaps that is from the port, he thought. What do they call it? Belsairath? “Point something port . . .”
Captain Dantu’s voice rang out above the hubbub of passengers, calling out orders. The soldiers went to the other side of the ship to balance it, as the helmsman guided the wingbird’s sharp prow through an inlet that opened into a foggy, quiet cove where the river at last made its peace with the sea. A bank of efficient-looking docks had been built out into the harbor, but Micail guessed that even so, at low tide the larger ships would all be aground.
This, then, is journey’s end, he thought. A fine place for dying.
Close against the docks stood a palisaded enclosure. Behind it, a string of buildings, at first grey and indistinct, meandered away along the riverbank. Masses of weathered wood, faded paint, and worn-out thatchings suddenly appeared in his vision, and he realized that each building in one way or another reflected the standard Atlantean forms: here an arch, there some balconies, and even, a little way uphill, a newer structure that looked like the beginning of a seven-walled courtyard. The outskirts of the old town were a sprawling expanse of new-looking villas, built in the aristocratic Alkonan style, with much of the building hidden underground. As elsewhere, wood seemed to be the primary material of construction, but the terraces and foundations at least were all stone, ornamented with the usual carvings and painted plaster. The alien mists made everything look vaguely ominous, but he smiled in spite of himself.
The fit of amusement did not last. Rajasta the Wise had said that the new Temple would be built in a new land, but Belsairath looked old, even neglected.
Prince Tjalan had arranged for Micail to stay in an inn on the water, as Mic
ail wished to watch for ships arriving and any news of Tiriki.
Yet before he could rest, Prince Tjalan summoned Micail to a reception at his villa. As he stood in the midst of a brightly dressed throng, he found himself wishing that he had stayed in his bed at the inn.
“Prince Micail—you are most welcome!” a woman said behind him. “I met you once, that year you spent with Tjalan in Alkona, but of course you would not remember me; I was the merest child then. . . .”
Her voice had that throaty quality that so many found seductive, and her perfume, which Micail perceived even before he turned to see who had spoken, was blended from the most expensive spikenard. In truth, he needed no other senses to recognize Tjalan’s wife, Princess Chaithala. Tjalan had told him that she had sailed from Alkonath well before the Sinking, bringing their three children here to safety. But he would have guessed that, too, for her hazel eyes, artfully highlighted by kohl, were wholly unshadowed by the grim memories that haunted all who had watched the old world die.
Micail’s royal upbringing had trained him in all the right responses. He bowed just so far and spoke softly of the impossibility of forgetting such beauty, but his mind and his heart were far away.
“You are too kind,” said Chaithala with equal composure. “I do the best I can. My lord says we must keep up our standards—” She glanced around to make sure that the servants were keeping every cup, goblet, and plate full.
“You have done very well,” he answered automatically. The constant clamor of conversation made his head ring. Worse, he had taken a polite drink with almost everyone so far and strongly suspected he would not remember anyone’s name by morning.
“There is a great deal to do,” the princess said. “But I wished to speak with you because, in a way, we are both faced with the same task.” She beckoned him to follow her into a long gallery that looked out on a pleasant courtyard open to the sky.
“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “I am afraid I find these underground rooms a little constricting, even with all the light-wells and ventilation shafts—”
“A style,” the princess observed softly, “which shielded fair Alkonath from the fierce summer sun will serve well here to conserve heat.”
“No doubt you are right,” Micail demurred. The same tubes of polished bronze that brought in what sunlight there was would also keep out the winds that scourged these cold grey shores. “But I am too much a son of the Sun,” Micail finished, with the necessary flourish, “to thrive where its presence is seen less often than it is implied by shadow.”
“That may be so, but you will find no more sunlight in the windows of the port precinct than you do here.” Chaithala smiled. “My lord has told me it is your wish to remain in Domazo’s Inn, rather than to lodge with us here. It is your choice, of course, but still I hope you will visit often. I, too, have some need of your counsel.”
“So you said.” Micail tried to look attentive.
“It concerns the education of my children. My lord has so many responsibilities—their upbringing has been left to me.”
“Madam, forgive me, but I know nothing of teaching children,” Micail stammered, suppressing a pang of sorrow as he remembered the babies Tiriki had lost. All my house is dead, he thought. What can I teach the living?
“You misunderstand me, my lord. They already have a most satisfactory tutor, a learned and patient man. No, rather it is of the content of their education that I wished to consult you, for the acolytes are given into your training—is it not so?”
“I—” He paused and looked at her closely. “You are entirely correct, madam, but I have had little chance to fulfill my duty to them. The House of the Twelve was moved to Ahtarrath only last year. And only four of them are with us now—” For a moment grief for all those lost closed his throat once more.
“Yes,” said Chaithala brightly. “But at least those four are here. Do you think they might visit us from time to time? The gods know we shall have priests enough!” She gestured back toward the main hall with a rueful smile. “But it seems to me that most of them have become far too holy to remember how to speak with children. With only their example, I fear that my three will grow up with no appreciation for the true meaning of our religion.”
“I will gladly ask if they are willing,” Micail said slowly. “Certainly I myself have not yet given them much to do.” His mind whirled with guilt and speculation. The princess had said before that they faced the same task, and he saw now that it was true. How could the acolytes preserve the wisdom of Atlantis if he did not instruct them? But without Tiriki it seemed that the only thing he could teach was failure and despair.
“That is all I ask, Sir Prince.” Chaithala favored him with another charming smile and laid her hand upon his arm, gently drawing him back toward the swirling crowd. In a moment, she let go of him in order to introduce the priestess Timul, who had served the High Priestess of the Temple of Ni-Terat in Alkonath, and was now the head of the Blue Order in Belsairath. Like the princess, Timul had come to the new land a little more than a year ago and seemed to have transplanted very well.
Tiriki would like her, Micail thought sadly.
Somehow he kept his eyes open and greeted everyone. Some were from Ahtarrath, among them his own older cousin Naranshada, the Fourth Vested Guardian. There was also old Metanor, who had been Fifth Vested Guardian in the Temple, and of course Ardral, whose position as Seventh Vested Guardian came nowhere near reflecting his actual prestige.
As the son of a royal house, Micail had been brought up to function in gatherings like this one. He knew that he ought to be moving around, establishing relationships, distinguishing the powerful from the merely influential, but he could not summon the energy. He had never realized how much he depended on Tiriki in situations like these. They had worked as a team, supporting each other.
A servant came by with a tray of ila’anaat liqueur in ceramic cups as fine as shell, and Micail grabbed two, downing the first in a single swallow. The stuff was tart and sweet and left a trail of fire from throat to belly.
“Yes, might as well enjoy that while we can,” said a wry voice. “The ila berry can’t be grown in this latitude.”
Through his watering eyes Micail recognized the bronzed and mustachioed face of Bennurajos, a muscular, middle-aged priest. Originally from Cosarrath, he had long served in Ahtarrath, and Micail remembered him as a strong singer and a specialist in the art of growing plants.
Micail took a smaller sip from his second cup and let the fire within build and diffuse through his limbs. “Pity. But I suppose you would know.”
Bennurajos wobbled his head from side to side. “There are some vines that look promising,” he said, “but I won’t be able to tell what they’re good for until they ripen.”
“I’m not even sure what season it is,” Micail murmured.
“Yes, it makes an interesting problem. At home, the sun was constant and we prayed for rainfall. Here it must be sunshine men dream of, the gods know there’s all the rain they need!”
Micail nodded. So far, it had rained every day. “If this is springtime, I dread the winter.” He blinked, suddenly queasy, and shook his head sharply, but the odd feeling would not go away. Is it the heat in the room, the noises, smells, liquors—?
Bennurajos stepped back, sensing that Micail had lost interest in the conversation. Micail tried to say something courteous and friendly—he had always been fond of Bennurajos—but his self-control was eroding. He shook his head again, tears burning in his eyes.
“You must forgive him.” It was Jiritaren, appearing as if from nowhere. “Lord Micail suffered a severe fever on the voyage here and is not yet entirely well.”
“Where were you? Were you watching me?” Micail accused.
“Come away, Micail,” Jiri said softly. “There are too many people here. It will be cooler in the garden. Come outside with me.”
They pushed past a cluster of priests from Alkonath. He ought to know them—memory supplied
the names of First Guardian Haladris, a rather proud and pompous man, and the famous singer Ocathrel, who held the rank of Fifth Guardian. And there were survivors from the Temple on Tarisseda, the priestess Mahadalku and Stathalkha the psychic. A gaggle of lesser priests and priestesses moved about on the fringes. More than a few seemed familiar to him, but that, he decided, was only because they looked so obviously to be priests of Light. But none of them interested Micail. There could never be a big enough crowd until it included the one person he wished for so desperately.
Seven
How could I possibly know whether I like it here?” Grimacing, Damisa swatted a midge from her arm. “Ask me tomorrow!” “Will your opinion have changed?” Iriel’s words came muffled through the veils she had swathed around her face and throat to protect herself from the midges and other insects that seemed to swarm everywhere along the river. Reeds edged the shore and willows hung over the brown waters of the channel that the Crimson Serpent was following. Yesterday they had seen the sun and felt a promise of warmth in the air. But today the sky was as gloomy as their spirits, and mists hid the line of hills they had glimpsed from offshore.
“Not at all,” Damisa denied, with an envious eye for Iriel’s veils, “but I can’t help thinking, if you had asked me yesterday whether it wouldn’t be better to go back out to sea, I would have called you an idiot—”
“You’re the idiot,” said Iriel automatically, her own eyes still fixed upon the lush riverbank that was slowly passing beyond the railing. Damisa shook her head, suspecting she was not seeing whatever it was the younger girl was staring at.
To Damisa one meandering stretch of marshland was quite indistinguishable from another. If tangled willow trees weren’t overhanging a stretch of murky water, there were tall spiky reeds or thorny stunted shrubs. Either way, they couldn’t get anywhere near the solid ground. The interior is probably all just foggy undergrowth anyway, she thought. For three days, they had been misled by the numerous rivers that fed into the estuary, each broad and promising at its mouth, but becoming too choked with half-submerged oaks, willows, and vines for the ship to do anything but retreat. She hoped someone was making a map.
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