Compared to the massive edifices of Atlantis, it was not particularly impressive. For one thing, these stones still were shaped as the gods of earth had made them, the tallest scarcely breast-high. But the very fact that such a thing could exist here forced her to a sudden re-assessment of the skills, or perhaps the will, of the people who had made it.
The real question, she thought then, is why? She straightened and took a deep breath, remembering her own skills. Near the center of the stone circle she could see a darkened area and the remains of a fire. Moving sunwise around the perimeter of the circle, she entered through a slightly wider gap on the eastern side. With the first step, she knew she had been right about the power here; as she continued inward, her awareness of the energy in the earth grew even stronger, increasing yet again as she reached the circle’s center. Only her training enabled her to stay upright.
Closing her eyes, she let her senses seep into the earth, rooting herself ever more deeply, and feeling the swirling currents of power as they rayed out in every direction, but most powerfully to the southwest and northeast. Yet more strongly still she felt the vitality that surged in the ground beneath her, flowing upward through her body until her arms again rose by themselves and stretched toward the heavens, making herself a living conduit between earth and sky.
Tiriki had thought to use this moment to lay claim to the new land, but instead she found herself surrendering.
“Here I am . . . Here I am!” she cried. “What would you have me do?”
Keen as the wind, radiant as the sun, steady as all the earth below, the answer came.
“Live, love . . . laugh . . . and know that you are welcome here. . . .”
Tiriki’s eyes flew open in shock, for the voice was not that of her spirit. She was hearing it with her physical ears. For a brief and angry moment she thought that someone had followed her uphill from the encampment, but the woman before her, clad in garments of sunlight and spiderweb, was no one she had ever seen before.
Noting the slender limbs and cloud of dark hair, she thought this must be another of the marsh folk. But there was something in the line of the cheek and brow, and even more in the way the slanting light played about the figure—at times shining on her, and at other moments glowing through her—that proclaimed this was no being of the mortal world.
Tiriki bowed her head in instinctive reverence.
“That is well,” said the woman, with a wry but gentle smile, “yet I am not one of your gods, either. I am . . . what I am.”
“And that is—” Tiriki’s mind raced, her heart pounding so that she could hardly speak. In the Temple they had called such beings devas, but here it seemed more natural to echo Taret’s words—“You are one of the Shining Ones . . . ?”
The woman’s strange eyes widened, and she seemed to dance a little above the ground. “So some say,” she allowed, still with that faint air of amusement.
“But what shall I call you?” There was a pause, and Tiriki felt a tingle as if a delicate hand had brushed her soul.
“If a name is so important, you may call me—the Queen.” She lifted a hand to her hair and Tiriki realized that the Lady’s brows were crowned with a wreath of white hawthorn bloom. “Yes,” she added with a hint of laughter, “thus I may be sure you will respect me!”
“Assuredly!” Tiriki breathed, kneeling; spirit though the woman might be, she had the stature of the Lake dwellers, and it seemed discourteous to look down at her. “But what should I offer you?”
“An offering?” The Queen frowned, and for a moment Tiriki felt that glancing touch upon her soul once more. “Do you think I am one of your . . . merchants . . . requiring payment for the gifts I bring? You have already offered yourself to this land,” she said more kindly. “What else could I ask of you? What do you desire?”
Tiriki felt herself flushing. “Your blessing . . .” she said, her hand over her womb. Surely the best safeguard she could have would be the favor of the power in this land. “I ask your blessing on my child.”
“You have it—” The answer came soft as the fragrance of flowers. “And so long as they shall remain true to the hallows here, I promise you also that your line shall never fail.”
“This hill?” Tiriki asked.
“The Tor is only the outward semblance, as your womb is the shelter for your child. In time you will learn to know the Mysteries that lie within the Red Spring and the White, and the Crystal Cave.”
Tiriki’s eyes widened. “How shall I learn about these things?”
The Queen lifted one dark eyebrow. “You have met the wisewoman. She will teach you. You have been a servant of the sun, but now you shall learn the moon’s secrets as well. You . . . and your daughters . . . and those who come after. . . .”
She smiled, and the radiance around her intensified until Tiriki could see nothing but light.
Eight
The days since Micail’s arrival in Belsairath stretched into weeks, and still Tiriki did not come. He had always thought of himself as the strong one, but he was beginning to realize that despite her apparent fragility, her bright spirit had supported his. By day, he participated in rituals and attended meetings, hoping to hear some word of her or persuade the Alkonans to mount a search, though he had no idea where the other refugees might be found. Every night in his dreams he retraced the bygone streets of Ahtarra, searching for Tiriki as the light went out of every shop and home and temple.
Sometimes, for a moment, she seemed so close he thought he touched her. And then he would wake and realize that she never drew away because she was always gone.
The days were almost as depressing. The existence of Belsairath proved that Atlanteans could indeed survive, even thrive in a new land, but somehow the number of new buildings going up, with their grandiose imitations of antique architectures, only contributed to Micail’s deepening gloom.
Tjalan would have installed Micail in his villa, indeed in his own suite, but Micail protested in the strongest terms. Belsairath was noisy and less than sanitary, and the inn was at the center of it, but he needed to be able to see the harbor.
“Tiriki might come. If I were somewhere I could not see her ship, then—” He shook his head. “She might leave. Some of the ships that come here do not stay. No, I need to be here.”
After that, Micail was exempt from the council meetings at Tjalan’s villa. Of course he was glad enough to miss the unending scholarly debates over astral influences and power flows in the land. It was certainly not difficult to enjoy the regular temptation of the finest foods, spiced with loore, marinated in raf ni’iri . . . Still, Micail would have preferred more solitude. Continually, it seemed, there was a soldier nearby to protect him, a Blue Robe or other healer looking after him, Jiritaren or even Bennurajos visiting, offering heady liqueurs and a steady stream of quips and diversions.
Stoically, Micail had tolerated the special treatment and endless interruptions, for at some level he knew he walked close to madness . . . Perhaps most difficult of all were the bracing visits from Tjalan, who repeatedly made it known that he was prepared to provide anything that might break through Micail’s lethargy, up to and including fetching young women for his diversion.
His cousin Naranshada came once or twice, but Micail could never decide whether Ansha’s visits brought comfort or more pain. When they had been junior priests he and Ansha had been close, but as Ansha moved more deeply into the engineering studies that were his specialty, they had grown apart again. Now what they had in common was their loss, for in the chaos of the escape from Ahtarrath, Ansha’s wife and children had drowned. The Royal Emerald, searching for survivors, had found him clinging to a spar, half mad with grief.
At times Micail envied his cousin, who could put aside the vain torment of waiting for news and move on. But then he would see again the mute pain in Ansha’s eyes and realize that the slightest hope was better than a certainty of despair. If he had seen Tiriki sink beneath the waves, he would not have survived.
Late one afternoon, Ardral came unexpectedly to call on Micail, offering a jar of honey wine from Forrelaro’s cellars and a platter of succulent roast pig direct from Tjalan’s personal chef. The day was warm, but less than sunny, so they dragged a low table and a pair of benches closer to the open balcony and attacked the repast fiercely.
Some little while later, mere appetite sated, they began to speak of plans for the new Temple.
“You ought to attend some of those meetings, my boy. Haladris and Mahadalku make a formidable team, and you’re the only priest with the rank to challenge them,” said Ardral, seriously. “If they have their way, the new Temple will faithfully reproduce all the flaws of the old.”
“Isn’t it a little soon to be worrying about who will be in charge of the new Temple? After all, we can hardly decide without Tiriki and Chedan—”
“And in which lifetime will they rejoin the debate?” Ardral’s dry response shocked Micail upright. “Ah, lad, I’m sorry,” said the adept more gently, “but you have met every ship, boat, and seal that comes into this cove since we got here, and for three new moons now there has been no sign nor word. There comes a time—”
“I know!” Micail shook his head. “I know. It is foolish of me, and stubborn. But still—how can this be all of us? I cannot believe it, that would be too cruel a jest. I will not believe that my dearest—that they are all gone, the best of us—leaving only a handful of obscure priests and a lot of prideful nobles, a gaggle of scribes and chelas, and all too many soldiers! And so many of them hardly more than children.”
“Listen, Micail.” Ardral’s voice grew softer, his tone almost comforting. “You are not wrong to keep hoping. I often heard Reio-ta say the two of you were as one soul—and he understood such things. If you believe she lives—then I believe it, too. But remember—all will be as it is meant to be. Perhaps Tiriki’s work and yours, so long performed in parallel, must for a while run in separate courses.” The adept paused, measuring his words. “And when it comes to establishing a worthy Temple, consider this—it is not for our talents or our numbers that we will be held accountable. Only one righteous spirit is needed to preserve all the ways of Light.”
“So I have heard,” Micail rejoined, “but to preserve the priestly skills we need more, and the simple fact remains, of the Chosen Twelve, we have saved only four. Four.”
Ardral nodded. “More?” he asked, and sighing, Micail allowed his goblet to be refilled. Again the wood-aged liqueur of the Ancient Land rippled over his palate, leaving a delicately dusty savor.
“Yes, we have left much behind,” Ardral murmured. “Of course I don’t know precisely what you expected—”
“Expected?” Micail’s laughter rang with a tinge of hysteria. “I can’t even remember what I expected! Though I know Rajasta always seemed to be describing—something more primitive than—this.” He waved one arm toward the crumbling buildings of Belsairath.
“A savage land would be easier,” Ardral agreed, as he sliced off another hunk of ham. “The uncivilized are usually willing to be taught.”
The four survivors of the Chosen Twelve often found themselves dependent on their own resources. The acolytes were not even lodged together, but lived in various places in and around Belsairath. Princess Chaithala’s villa, well heated and spacious, had rapidly become the favored gathering point for all of the younger Atlanteans. The acolytes themselves, of course, should have been occupied with meditation and study. There were a few elder priests who could have taken them in charge, but those priests were the ones most deeply involved in disputes and studies of their own. Time dragged on, and though Micail had not formally set aside his responsibility to supervise their training, he never seemed willing to begin. Elara, who had once wondered if she might be reassigned as his acolyte when they reached the new land, thought they might be better off without him. She had seen enough of him on the journey from Beleri’in to Belsairath to question whether he could manage his own life right now, much less theirs.
“It’s a pity, really,” she said to Lirini, the great singer Ocathrel’s middle daughter, who at seventeen was the closest to herself in age. “I would enjoy learning from him. When my lord is himself, he’s a charming man.”
“Charming! I think he’s the handsomest of all the priests. Do you suppose he will ever marry again?”
Elara raised one well-shaped eyebrow. Lirini did not seem to be mourning her betrothed, who had not escaped the Sinking, but then Elara doubted that she herself would have been devastated had Lanath not survived. At the moment, he seemed to be undergoing complete devastation in the game of Feathers he was playing with Vialmar, but that was not unusual. Lanath looked even pudgier than usual as he frowned at the pattern the tiles made on the board, while Vialmar, tall and lanky, with unruly black hair, drummed his fingers impatiently on the curving arm of his chair.
“Surely it is a little premature to think of such things,” Elara said repressively, though she had wondered herself what would happen if Tiriki never arrived. But what right had Lirini to gossip? She was only a chela, and even more neglected by her master, the priest Haladris, than the acolytes were by Micail.
Hearing footsteps and shrieks, Elara reached swiftly to rescue her bowl of tea as Prince Baradel raced by, hotly pursued by Princess Cyrena, whose scarf he waved above him like a captured prize. The nine-year-old princess was the last survivor of the royal family of Tarisseda, and tended to hide her sorrows by bullying her betrothed, two years younger.
“What a little brat,” sniffed Lirini. “Thinks he’s High Prince already. But he has two sisters and a baby brother, and then there’s Galara, from your island,” whispered Lirini. “She’s Lord Micail’s cousin twice over. It seems to me there’s plenty of royalty here, and precious little for them to rule over.”
“Even more priests and priestesses,” Elara sighed, “and no temples for them to serve.”
“There’s Timul—” Lirini reminded her.
“That’s true.” Elara frowned, remembering the strong-bodied, strong-willed woman she had met shortly after arriving. “I’m an initiate of Ni-Terat—well, a novice.” She blushed. “At home, I was apprenticed to Liala—” She paused a moment, remembering the Blue Robe with regret, for Liala, though firm, had always been kind to her. “The Mother smile on her. But doesn’t Timul seem to you—a little overwhelming?”
Lirini shrugged. “She doesn’t have any use for men, but she has endless patience for women. She has some kind of chapel set up. A lot of women from the town go there.”
“Perhaps I should pay her a visit,” Elara said thoughtfully. It might be well to expand my options, she decided, silently, but not, of course, if it means giving up men . . . at least not before I find someone worth giving up!
She suppressed a grin. Lanath, as her future husband, wasn’t available to her yet. Again she looked speculatively at Vialmar, who had just won the game of Feathers and was cracking jokes as he tried to persuade Karagon, a quiet young man who was chela to the Grey Adept Valadur, into a game . . . Either one might be glad of a dalliance with someone less sober than Cleta. For that matter, Karagon had already attempted a flirtation, although she hadn’t realized it at the time. She smiled again. Life might become quite interesting, even on this desolate shore.
There was a stir at the doorway, and everyone rose as Princess Chaithala swept into the room.
“No, no,” the princess said graciously. “Do not disturb your games for me.” Pale green draperies floating behind her, she moved about the room, chatting with the young people. Elara noticed that she had approached first Cleta, then Lanath and Vialmar, so she was not surprised when the princess began to waft her way.
Elara turned toward Lirini, saying, “I suspect that duty is about to call me. I’m glad we had the chance to talk like this.” Before the chela could reply, Elara detached herself and was joining the other acolytes in Chaithala’s train.
“I have been thinking about your situation,” said the prin
cess, “and wondering if we might invite Prince Micail to join you, and see if we can resolve the question of your boredom and idleness. But we may need a pretext. What do you think? Perhaps a small dinner party? Nothing formal, of course—but it might make it easier for him to recognize, without embarrassment, that he has been neglecting your training . . .”
And how much of that training would just happen to involve giving some special lessons to your children? Elara wondered. Still, it might not be too high a price to pay, if participating in Chaithala’s machinations brought about the resumption of a proper regime of studies. It was fine to sit about, talking and playing games, but Elara feared that the acolytes were becoming like overripe apples, beginning to spoil from within.
“Micail! I am so glad you could join us! You are looking much better than when I saw you last.”
Micail winced as Tjalan laid a brawny arm across his shoulders and squeezed. The receiving room of Tjalan’s villa was crowded with priests and priestesses. The light from myriad hanging lamps set their shadows to leaping against the frescoed walls. Micail allowed himself to be shepherded to a bench beside Haladris and Mahadalku.
“You are all aware of the efforts which Naranshada and Ardral have been making to identify the ideal site for our new Temple,” said Tjalan. “We have called this meeting because it has been finally demonstrated that an energy flow does indeed run up from Beleri’in and continue across the main part of this land. Is that correct?” The prince looked to Naranshada.
“Good enough for our purposes,” Ansha said with a smile. “The theory of such forces is well known to most of us, but even on the larger islands, we were only able to identify a few very localized examples. Here it would appear that the networks are much more extensive and may provide a power source we can use. But—there are some unanticipated problems.”
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