Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Even then, when Tiriki dared not think beyond the conflict, Chedan believed that they would survive it, and that when it was over, she would have to go to the land of the Ai-Zir and find Micail.

  She managed a smile, and said softly, “I hear you now, old friend. I only hope that this time I understand.”

  By the time the mourners came down the hill, the sun was high. Even Domara’s ebullient spirits had been chastened by the pervasive grief, but as they left the ashes of the pyre behind them, the little girl ran ahead, racing the other children down the path.

  Only a moment later, it seemed, she was bouncing back again.

  “Eggs!” she exclaimed. “Mama, come see! Big giant magic eggs!”

  Tiriki traded an apprehensive glance with Liala and hurried after her. Had the Omphalos Stone somehow burst from its hiding place beneath the hill?

  Then she realized that she was seeing whitish stones, lying scattered in the grass that grew along the slopes of the Tor—some almost the size of boulders, others as small as eggs indeed, but all of them rounded and surprisingly smooth.

  “Caratra, preserve us!” Liala exclaimed, panting as she reached Tiriki’s side. “The dratted Omphalos has littered! It’s clutched! It’s laid eggs! Don’t touch them! The gods alone know what they might do.”

  Torn between laughter and tears, Tiriki could only agree. The force that blasted from the Omphalos Stone must have somehow produced these replicas. Fortunately, there was no sign that they had inherited their parent’s power. Oh Chedan, she thought, with another red-faced glance at the sputtering Liala, is this your last joke on me?

  When Tiriki reached her dwelling she found that the saji woman Metia had prepared food for a journey and repacked Tiriki’s satchel. Dannetrasa, now the senior priest, was there as well, offering his well-reasoned protest against her plan, but none of them had authority over a Vested Guardian.

  Kalaran all but demanded to accompany her, but with the birth of Selast’s child so close at hand, she would not permit them to be separated. The merchant Forolin’s offer of help was harder to refuse; all of the sailors wanted to rescue Reidel, so she agreed they could escort her.

  In addition to these, she decided, she would take the saji women who had served Alyssa as well. When Forolin protested, she spoke to him as Chedan had once scolded her when she had admitted her own prejudice against them. “Above all, the sajis are skilled healers,” she finished, fighting back tears at the memory, “and I fear healers will be needed more than priestesses.”

  And though at first blush the idea had seemed presumptuous, she decided to take Chedan’s intricately carved staff.

  The one thing she did not want was a guide. “No,” she explained patiently to Rendano, “I no longer need one. My spirit is connected to Micail’s once again. All I have to do is to follow it.” That certainty kept her from despair, more than the knowledge that he was still living; she still was not sure what kind of man Micail had become.

  But she had been careful, and wise, for too long. Her people were safe. Whatever had happened to Micail—whatever he had done—she knew that she must seek him now.

  Micail struggled unwillingly toward consciousness. Everything hurt, even the softness of the bed on which he lay.

  “Is he awake?”

  That was Galara’s voice. He winced as a cool cloth was laid across his brow, tried to speak but could only groan.

  “He walks in a nightmare.” Elara replied. “I wish Tiriki were here!”

  Tiriki? Micail shook his head. He would not be fooled again. Tiriki was dead, drowned with Ahtarrath, her ship crushed by huge stones in the harbor—he could still see them, huge blocks tilting, hurtling through the air. People died where they fell. He had a sudden vivid image of his friend Ansha’s blood reddening the white chalk where he had been struck down, and it seemed to him too that he had heard voices raised in an Alkonan chant for the death of a prince. He had only dreamed that they escaped; now the dream was trying to drag him back into its clutches. He would not give in this time. There was no escape. They were all dead—all except him.

  I swore I would not survive her death, he told himself sternly. It was time to give up, and let darkness bear him off to the City of Bones.

  If only I could escape my dreams . . .

  Tiriki remembered the paths they had taken to their meeting with Prince Tjalan. She knew that the plain lay another day’s journey to the east, and she had only to keep walking toward the rising sun. By then she could not only feel Micail’s wavering life force, but a roil of displaced energies that could only come from the broken ring of stones. Her feet hurt, and a sun that shone with mocking cheerfulness reddened her fair skin, yet she hurried down the last hill unafraid of what waited for her—four warriors with the horns of the Blue Bull tribe tattooed on their brow, and the young woman Anet, who had finally lost her faintly mocking smile.

  “Hunters saw you coming,” Anet said, and flinched a little from Tiriki’s gaze. “My men can carry your burdens so we will go faster.”

  Tiriki nodded. It was strange, considering how she had feared this girl, even hated her, but she had no emotion to spare for Anet now.

  “I know that Micail was not killed,” she said harshly. “But he is hurt. How badly?”

  “He was struck by falling stones. He has some wounds, nothing from which he cannot recover. But he sleeps without waking. He does not wish to heal.”

  Tiriki could only give a wordless nod. She had been certain that Micail was alive—but with every step she had taken toward Azan she had wondered—what if she was wrong?

  “Who else was injured?” she asked, as they once more began to walk along the path.

  “When the stones—shattered—some flew far,” said Anet, “others fell nearer. Prince Tjalan is dead, and many of his soldiers too. The ceremonies of his pyre ended only last night. Many of the other priests and priestesses—all are dead, too, or—ran away. If they could.”

  As they crossed the plain toward it, the Sun Wheel slowly became large enough to see. Some of the trilithons still stood, proclaiming the skill of those who had raised them; others were tumbled, as if some giant child had tired of his building blocks and left them scattered on the grass.

  And there seemed to be a presence there among them, a wiry shadow like a drifting curl of smoke.

  I will deal with you later, Tiriki said silently as they passed. Ahead she could see the real smoke rising from the hearth fires of Azan-Ylir, where Micail was waiting.

  As they reached the great ditch at the edge of the village, a dark-haired young woman whom Tiriki recognized with difficulty as Elara ran out to meet them.

  “Oh my lady—” Elara stumbled as if undecided whether to make a formal Temple obeisance or throw herself at Tiriki’s feet. “How I have prayed the Mother would bring you—”

  “And by Her grace, I am here,” Tiriki answered. “I am glad to see you unhurt.”

  “Yes, well, almost,” Elara said distractedly. “It seems Lord Micail managed to direct the force away from our end of the crescent—only one of the sopranos was killed but Cleta was badly injured.”

  In his dream, Micail stood atop the Star Mountain, gazing up at the wicked image of Dyaus.

  “By the power of my blood I bind you!” he cried, but the gigantic figure of darkness only laughed.

  “I am unbound . . . and I will set the rest free . . .”

  Wind and fire whirled around him. Micail cried out as reality dissolved—but he felt a slim arm take hold of him, bracing him against the blast. Tiriki . . . He recognized the touch of her spirit, though his eyes were still blinded by chaos. Have I finally died? He had hoped for peace in the afterlife—was he condemned to keep fighting the same battles over and over again?

  Yet his heart took fire at her strength, and he looked once more for his eternal foe. The tumult around him had eased, but Tiriki was shaking him. Why was she doing that? If he let her recall him to the waking world, she would be gone . . .

&nbs
p; “Micail! Osinarmen! Wake up! I have walked for three days to get here. The least you can do is open your eyes and welcome me!”

  That did not sound like something from a dream!

  Micail realized that light was beating against his closed eyelids. He took a deep breath, wincing as his sore ribs complained, but suddenly every sense was clamoring with awareness of Tiriki’s presence. Her soft lips brushed his brow and he grabbed her and clung fiercely as her mouth moved to his.

  His heart pounded furiously as their kiss burned through his every nerve. In a rush his flesh awakened to the certainty that he was alive, and Tiriki was in his arms!

  He opened his eyes.

  “That’s better.” Tiriki raised her head just enough to let him see her smile.

  “You’re here!” he whispered. “Truly here! You won’t leave me?”

  “I will neither leave you nor let you go,” she answered, sobering. “We have too much work to do!”

  Micail felt his own face change. “I—am not worthy,” he grated. “Too many have died because of me.”

  “That is right,” she said sharply. “And all the more reason to live and do what you can to make amends. And the first step toward that is for you to get well!” She sat up and gestured to Elara, who was hovering in the doorway with a wooden bowl in her hands.

  “This is stew, and quite good,” said Tiriki. “I had some earlier. At least in this place there is plenty of food. You are going to eat it—there is nothing wrong with your jaws—and then we will see.”

  Wordless, Micail stared at her, but she did not seem to expect a reply. It seemed simpler to allow them to help him to sit upright than to argue. And when he tasted the stew he found that he was hungry.

  “Tiriki has changed,” said Galara, handing the basket of freshly chopped willow bark to Elara. “Not that I ever saw so much of her back at home. She married Micail when I was only a baby. She always seemed to me sort of fragile somehow—you know, soft-voiced and pale.”

  “I know what you mean. She has certainly taken charge!” She dipped a wooden spoon into a pot set among the coals, testing the temperature of the water there.

  In the week since her arrival, Tiriki had blown through the Atlantean compound like a summer storm, arranging for the dead to be given proper rites and reorganizing the nursing of those who lived. In the practical tasks she assigned, the survivors found a certain relief from their shock and sorrow.

  “We are so accustomed to letting men exercise authority,” Elara said, “but in the Temple of Caratra they teach that the active force is female, and that each god must have his goddess to arouse him to action. Without women, men might never get anything done at all.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true for Micail and Tiriki!” Galara agreed. “He did things—some of which I wish he hadn’t—but without her he was only half there. It’s funny. I always thought he was the strong one, but she survived without him better than he did without her! I think maybe Damisa’s right—we don’t really need men at all.”

  “Well, don’t tell them!” Elara laughed. Then she shook her head. “I, for one, would not like to live without them, though. And I suppose if we did not have them to serve as a warning, we women would go astray just as badly on our own.”

  She sobered suddenly, remembering Lanath. He had never regained consciousness after the flying stone had struck him, and she was still not sure how she felt about his loss. She had not loved him, but he had always been there . . .

  “Will you go with Tiriki to this Tor she’s been telling us about?” Galara asked. “She is still my guardian, and I suppose I will go where she says, but you are of age.”

  I do have a choice, Elara realized suddenly. For the first time since the Temple chose me, I can decide what I want my life to be. She closed her eyes, and was surprised by a vivid image of the shrine room in Timul’s temple. In memory she gazed from one wall to the next, ending at the image of the Goddess with the sword. How odd, she thought then. She had always thought she would serve the Lady of Love, but suddenly she could feel the weight of that sword in her own hand.

  “I think I will go back to Belsairath with Timul,” she said slowly. “Lodreimi is getting old, and she will need someone to help her run the Temple there.”

  “Perhaps I can visit you,” Galara said wistfully.

  “Well, you would be welcome.” Elara spooned up a little tea and grimaced at its bitter flavor, but took the dipper and began to transfer the concoction into the beakers. “Put a little honey in these,” she advised. “Cleta and Jiritaren should be ready for another dose of painkiller about now.”

  “Do you remember, my love, how you cared for your little feather tree?” Tiriki asked, keeping her voice briskly casual. “It is still alive—indeed, it is flourishing.”

  “In this climate? Impossible!”

  “Why would I lie? And after living with it for so many years,” she teased, “do you think I could mistake it for anything else? When you come to the Tor you will see. I tell you, Elis has a rare gift when it comes to plants.”

  She took Micail’s arm and drew him closer as they continued along the river path. Tiriki had gotten him out of bed the day after her arrival, and each day made him walk farther. This was the first time they had gone outside the compound, though. Imperceptibly he felt himself beginning to relax. His ribs gave a protesting twinge at every movement, but they were only cracked, and would heal.

  The greater pain was knowing that people were watching—he could feel their eyes upon him, judging, blaming him for living when so many had died—Stathalkha, Mahadalku, Haladris, Naranshada, even poor Lanath—so many. And there might yet be other victims. Jiritaren, he was told, was not nearly as well as he looked. Micail’s guilt was ever more piercing, perhaps, because his own injuries had kept him from sharing the first, anguished mourning with the other survivors. Now, they were trying to get on with their lives, while he was still trying to find a reason for living.

  As they neared the river they heard children’s voices and found a group of native boys and girls playing in the shallows, their sun-browned skins almost the same shade as their hair.

  “Ah, just to see them makes me miss Domara more. When you come to the Tor you will see,” said Tiriki again.

  “When I come to the Tor?” he echoed. “You seem so sure that I should do so. But when I have brought such bad fortune to the people here, perhaps—”

  “You are coming home with me! I am not going to raise your child alone!” she exclaimed. “Ever since she learned you were alive Domara has been asking about you. She is only a girl, not a son who could inherit your powers, but—”

  His hand shot out to grip her suddenly. “Don’t . . . say . . . that!” he groaned. “Do you think that magic matters to me?” For a moment the harsh rasp of his breathing was the only sound.

  “Everyone assures me that if you had not been able to wield those powers,” Tiriki said evenly, “the damage done by the Sun Wheel would have been far more terrible.”

  “I thought I had the strength to contain the forces Haladris was using the stones to raise—that is why I let him start,” he whispered. “This disaster came from my pride no less than Tjalan’s. My powers have led only to trouble! Because the Black Robes tried to take them, back in the Ancient Land, my father died and Reio-ta was almost destroyed. And I—I all but gave them away! Better they die with me.”

  “That is a discussion for another day—” Tiriki smiled. “You should have seen your daughter, though, standing there with feet planted and her fists on her hips, insisting that she should go along and help find her father. Yes, she has inherited more from you than magic. Only you can teach her how to deal with such pride.”

  Micail found himself smiling as, for the first time, he thought of his daughter not as a simple abstraction, nor even an inspiration, but as a real person, someone to teach, to learn from . . . to love.

  “Your people are healing,” said the Queen of Azan. It was not quite a question. S
he had invited Tiriki and Micail to take the noon meal with her beneath the oak trees by the village, where a cool breeze off the river balanced the heat of the sun.

  Micail nodded. “Yes, those who will recover have mostly done so.”

  Tiriki’s gaze sought the new mound that the Ai-Zir had raised over those who had died. She suppressed an impulse to grip Micail’s arm and reassure herself again that he was not among them. She had wanted this formal meeting to wait until Micail was stronger, but it was time to begin planning for the future.

  “And what will you do now?” Khayan asked, with a sidelong glance at the priestess Ayo that Tiriki could not interpret.

  “Our wounded are almost well enough to travel. Many of our people wish to return to Belsairath,” Micail replied. “Tjalan’s second-in-command has taken charge of the surviving soldiers, and he can be trusted, I think, to keep them out of trouble and deal with whatever ships may pass through there. But almost all of the priesthood will travel with us to the Lake lands.”

  “There are some,” said the queen, with a swift glance at the shaman Droshrad, who squatted in the shade of one of the trees, “who have suggested that you should all be slain and allowed to go nowhere. But we have taken your magic weapons, or as many of them as we could find, at least. With them in the hands of our warriors, your remaining soldiers are not enough to challenge us.”

  That news would have disturbed Tiriki more if she had not known that no matter who possessed them, within a few decades at most, the orichalcum plating on the Atlantean arrows, spears, and swords would begin to decay, and any advantage they might give would be gone. And also, she thought with a smile, we will not need them. The people at the Tor had another kind of protection.

  “Prince Tjalan and some of the others did not understand that we must learn the ways of this new land, not impose our own,” said Tiriki firmly. “But in the Lake lands, as Anet will tell you, we live in peace with the marsh folk. Indeed, we are becoming one tribe.”