He thanked the gods that such moments came rarely. Everything here—trees and flowers, the very shape of the hills, and the scent of the air—was so different from his homeland that he could go for days at a time without remembering. And then some chance sight or scent, like the smoke of Velantos’ smithy, would overwhelm him, and for a moment he would be lost.
“You! Mooncalf! What are you staring at?” The servant’s voice seemed to come from some great distance. When the man slapped him, his cheek barely felt the sting. “Do you think—”
“Estaros!”
The deep voice that overrode the man’s next words brought the boy around, flushed with mingled embarrassment and apprehension. Velantos filled the doorway, heavy brows meeting as he frowned. His forehead and cheekbones had the strong lines of cast bronze above the short black beard. Estaros flinched, and Woodpecker braced himself for a blow. This morning Velantos wore the long linen tunic appropriate to his rank, but when Woodpecker saw the prince stripped and sweating over the forge, he had been amazed at the strength those muscles implied.
“How should the lad know what to do when he never saw my belongings before? We do not leave for two days. Give him time.”
Woodpecker flushed again, hearing beneath the rough timbre a warmth that he found oddly comforting. He brought his fist to his forehead in salutation, then, with nimble fingers, finished folding the robe.
BEYOND THE CURVE OF the road Anderle glimpsed a glitter of blue water and the pointed top of the isle that guarded the bay. It was time for the festival that welcomed summer in Belerion, and the clouds had lifted at last. Creamy primroses were blossoming beneath the oak trees, and the hedges were starred with hawthorn blooms. But the cheerful sparkle of the blue waters before her seemed a mockery. In that sea all her hopes had drowned. Ellet tried to console her with the memory of the prophecy that had come from her own lips after they heard that Mikantor was lost, but the words the others had taken down were no more than a disjointed rambling, and she herself had no memory of what she had seen. A great clanhold of stone? What could that have to do with them here? And as for the Sword, if the hero who was to wield it was dead, what use could it be?
But even to her priestesses, she could not admit how completely her faith had failed. And so when the king of the Ai-Utu sent to tell her that Kaisa-Zan had died and a priestess was needed for the rites, she had agreed to come herself. If the queen had been young, she and her consort would have performed the ritual that welcomed summer in, but she was failing. Kaisa should have been able to take her place until it was her daughter’s turn to rule. The sudden fever that had carried the priestess off was no more than the latest disaster. King Sakanor did not need to know that Anderle had begun to doubt that even the magic of Avalon would stop the storms or drain the sodden fields. She would go through with the ritual, and trust that the gods had hope even though she had none.
That night they were guests in the house of the family that guarded the stone circle called the Maidens. Near the house was a mound where a thorn tree grew. Beneath it a long chamber had been carved. In the old days it had been a place of initiation, sunk into the earth where the power flowed from the stone circle north and eastward across the isle. That night she took a lamp and made her way down the slope past the stone where a carven warrior warded the opening, and settled to open her awareness to the spirits of the land.
The stones of Belerion had been old when the priests from the Drowned Lands raised the trilithons of the great henge. The earth energies that they channeled flowed strongly, and would continue to flow no matter how much rain might fall. Anderle sat up straighter and let her breathing deepen, sensing the loves and lives of the people whose spirits had become part of this land. Ancestors, she prayed, watch over your descendants. Give us the wit to change what we can, and the strength to endure what we cannot change. And in that confined space it seemed to her that the pressure of the air grew greater, as if a crowd of invisible companions had joined her there. And though no clear message had come to her, when at length she left the chamber to seek her bed, she found that her spirit had been eased.
The next day was the eve of the festival. She spent it in seclusion, and when the day drew to an end, Ellet and the local women bathed her and set a hawthorn crown above her veil and led her down the road to the circle of stones. From ahead she could hear drumming, and knew that the king awaited her there. Compared with the great henge these stones were modest—no more than waist to chest high. But they were far older, and on this night Anderle could feel the energy that sparked from one to the next. Perhaps, she thought as she entered the circle and felt that power shock through her, the gods have not abandoned us. Holy Caratra, bless the work we do.
The part of her mind that was still her own noted that King Sakanor’s beard was growing gray. But her body was swaying to the beat of the drum. She sensed the glow of power begin to gather around him as it must be limn ing her. Laughing, she led the maidens weaving in and out among the stones of the circle, and when men and women came together at last, the king was no longer a middle-aged man with arms a little thinned and belly broadened by the years, but the virile protector, and she, no longer small and dark, but the glowing lady of the land. Man and maid surrounded them, singing, as they lay down together, and Anderle felt the power she had sensed in the underground chamber surging upward, to be intensified and channeled in a river of light to bless the land.
It was not until the next morning that she was able to talk to the king, when the Powers that had worked through them had departed and they were no more than man and woman once more.
“Lady Anderle, I thank you. Kaisa-Zan was a fine woman and a strong priestess. She was taken from us too soon. The girl she was training is still young. We would be grateful if you would take her with you when you return to Avalon and finish her teaching there.”
“I will take her,” said Anderle, “for the land must be served, even though each time I see her I will remember what happened to the boy I sent to you.”
King Sakanor sighed. “That Galid could send his wretches to carry off a lad from the midst of my country was a great shame to us all, and yet I am not entirely satisfied by his story. We lose a fishing boat from time to time, and the sea eventually sends those that drown in the bay to shore. But your boy’s body was never found, and I assure you, my lady, the fisher folk searched long and well.”
“I believe Galid capable of any lie,” the priestess said sourly. “But if the sea did not take him, where is the boy?”
“The ships from Tartessos left on the morning tide. And I’ve heard that Galid’s creature Izri was seen with a shiny new southern dagger at his belt the next day. The traders buy slaves, my lady, though I forbid it. It’s possible that Galid’s men sold him to them instead.”
Anderle realized she had seized the king’s arm and let go, seeing the prints of her fingers white on his arm. She became aware how heavily her heart was thumping when he reached out to steady her in turn.
“This is truth?” she breathed.
“As much truth as I know,” he replied. “It is always hard to lose a youngster, but why should you care so much about this boy?”
“Mikantor was King Uldan’s son, my own cousin’s child—let that be enough reason for his fate to matter to me.”
“Uldan’s boy!” The king’s eyes widened. “The child of the prophecy?”
“You have heard it?”
“The whole land has heard it,” he replied. “This is heavy news indeed, for whether he has been taken to Tartessos or the Land of the Dead he is equally lost to us.”
“Maybe . . .” Anderle said slowly, “but if the gods are good, from Tartessos, he might someday return.”
IN THE END VELANTOS’ new servant spent more time organizing his master’s belongings than he did learning smithcraft. For that, as the boy diffidently told him, there would be time, whereas the king wanted them on their way to Mykenae now. Velantos was surprised to find himself responding wit
h amusement to the boy’s insistence. His other servants, more used to growls than smiles, decided to treat the newcomer as an ally rather than a competitor for his favor. That surprised the smith as well. Accustomed to doubting his own status at Tiryns, had he been so thoughtless a master? Velantos was still mulling over the question as they turned off the main road across the plain and started the climb to the Overking’s citadel.
As they ascended the last slope and rounded the bend, he was recalled to himself by Woodpecker’s whistle of surprise. The boy was staring at the fortress that seemed to have grown from the summit of the hill before them, an eminence that would have been called a mountain in most lands. Here, it was only an outcrop, dwarfed by the sheer peaks that rose behind it. Walls of massive honey-colored stones wrapped it round, tier upon tier, crowned by the royal halls, their russet crenelations glowing in the afternoon sun.
“Impressive, aren’t they?”
“Tiryns is mighty,” breathed the boy, “but Mykenae greater still. Giants moved those stones?”
“That is what they say.” Velantos smiled. “It was built by the Cyclopes for King Persaios, when Tiryns was no longer enough for him. Of course that was before Odikeos put out Polyfemos’ eye on his way home from Troia. Even for a son of the Cloud Gatherer I do not think the Cyclopes would be so helpful now. Have they no such mighty stoneworks in your own land?”
“Not for the living,” the boy said, frowning. “I . . . remember a thing like a great stone table, where a flood washed the grave mound that covers it away. There’s great stones in the Henge where priestesses do sacred rites, sung into place by masters of magic who come to my land from across the sea. But that was many lives of men ago. My people live in houses roofed with thatch and surrounded by wooden walls—easy to burn.”
He stopped, the emotion leaving his face as a sculptor smooths the clay of an image. Velantos did not press him. For all his uncertainty about his status, the smith had never doubted his physical security. Not until now.
DUST ROSE FROM THE plain in swirling clouds, through which the shapes of the maneuvering chariots appeared and disappeared like images in a dream. The walls of Mykenae, three times the height of a tall man, topped a hillside that already loomed above the sloping plain. From here you could see all the way to the hills that sheltered Argos, which was no doubt why Persaios had chosen it for the site of his citadel.
The area where the chariots were training was closer, just beyond the road that carried the trade through the mountains from Korinthos down to Tiryns by the sea. From his place near the king, Velantos squinted to see their movements, memory imaging the braces and hinges, buckles and bits and all the other hardware that passed through his workshop. When the warriors boasted over their wine in the hall, it had always amused him to reflect that no amount of courage could save a man from being dumped in the dust if he lost a wheel.
“Look at them go!” King Tisamenos leaned over the wall. “We had so much rain this winter, the pastures are still green, and the horses are fat and feisty. They can run rings around any enemy!” He straightened, laughing, a tall young man with wildly curling black hair.
“How can you tell?” Velantos softened the comment with a laugh. “Dust clouds are all I can see—” Folk sometimes wondered how he could stand the heat and smoke of the smithy, but the dust of a battlefield was thicker. And he could strip to his loincloth to do his work while the chariot fighters sweltered in leather coats sewn with plates of bronze.
“Ah, but there are patterns in that dust,” observed the Master of Chariots, “that the experienced eye can see . . .”
That puts me in my place, the smith thought wryly. The night before they had sat late in council, and the warrior had clearly wondered what Velantos was doing there, much less why the king paid him any attention. It had ended with a bland assurance that Mykenae could not be taken. Tisamenos promised to call for men and supplies to withstand a siege, but it was clear that he did not expect to need them. To each man his craft, Velantos thought then. I can tell when to put the bronze in the fire by looking at the color of the coals, where you would only know not to put in your hand.
“If they send chariots, your men will surely prevail. But they won’t. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” muttered the man from Korinthos as if he didn’t care whether anyone heard him. Thersander was his name. Certainly the king did not seem to have been listening so far.
“Tell me—” said Velantos, taking his arm. “And since neither of us seems to be wanted here, perhaps we could go somewhere cooler to talk.”
They made their way along the wall, almost as wide in places as it was tall. The chariots might fail, but when Tisamenos said that Mykenae could not be taken, Velantos believed him. No human force could dislodge those mighty stones. Just past the grave circle from which the spirits of the mighty dead continued to watch over their descendants, a stair led down to the granary.
The guards at the Lion Gate saluted as Velantos passed and Thersander lifted an eyebrow.
“My apologies, Prince—I had understood you were a bronze smith serving the court at Tiryns.”
“Can I not be both?” Velantos decided not to go into the details of his parentage. “In my land, the crafting of bronze is one of the royal Mysteries, and the kings are required to know something of its lore. It is tradition for at least one son in each generation to become a master, and I was the one whom Potnia Athana called.”
“And you are a master of the craft?” the other man asked as they climbed the road, taking the left-hand way that led to the workshops and other buildings on the other side of the palace, where guests were lodged whose standing did not require they be given beds in the xenonas near the megaron.
“They call me so,” Velantos said curtly. It still felt like hubris, to claim mastery when he knew he had so much to learn. “And what is your skill, man of Korinthos, beyond the bringing of news that no one wants to hear?”
That made the messenger laugh. “My father trades in wine and often sends me abroad. I am only a middling hand with a spear, but I have seen a great deal. My kings thought that I might be able to explain what is happening in words that King Tisamenos would understand. They do not expect you to help us, but even if we fall to these barbarians, our people will not be entirely without leadership if the heir of Agamemnon survives.”
That made Velantos stare. The Danaans had not been able to agree on the price of olive oil, much less obedience to an Overking, since Agamemnon led the hosts to Troia.
“Are they really barbarians?” he asked as they passed into the shade of the colonnade that surrounded the courtyard. “I had heard they call themselves the Eraklidae—the Children of Erakles, and speak some northern dialect of our tongue.”
Thersander shrugged. “Who knows?” He eased down on one of the benches with a sigh. “By all accounts, Erakles was a bull who sired as many sons as Diwaz Himself. It was only his legitimate children by Deianeira who took refuge in Athina. Erakles may be a god now, but he made a lot of enemies while he was a man.”
Velantos twitched, hearing an echo of Queen Naxomene’s words.
“I suppose his get took after him. Tiryns was not the only city where his offspring were not welcome. So they went north—some of them, anyway—to the lands where men are as lawless as they are,” Thersander went on.
“Even if they were all as potent as Erakles himself, they could not have bred the hordes you’re speaking of.” Velantos took the other end of the bench and signaled to a passing servant for wine.
“Tell them! Don’t you see? This man Aletes who is attacking Korinthos says he’s a grandson of Thestalos son of Erakles. Other cities have been attacked by Shardana from some island to the west of here, or men of the north beyond Olympos. It doesn’t matter who they really are—they have convinced themselves that they are something more than greedy barbarians out for loot—these freebooters have a story! They are the Children of Erakles, and they have returned!”
“Like o
ur grandfathers, when they went to Troia . . .” Velantos said slowly. “They swore they went to avenge the honor of Menelaos and recover Helena.”
Thersander nodded. “But they looted and burned the city all the same.”
But they were Danaans, thought Velantos. If our warriors could take Troia, so far from home, how much stronger we will be when we are defending our own land! “They haven’t burned Korinthos—” he said aloud.
“Not yet. I got out just before they laid siege to the citadel. The city below could not be defended, and most of the people have fled. But the akropolis has a good spring, and a lot of stored grain. King Doridas thinks that disease and boredom will make Aletes give up before hunger forces us to give in. King Hyanthidas is less hopeful, but then he was always less bold than his brother.” He sighed. “The thing that your king does not seem to understand is that when they came marching up to the city, we sent out our chariots to destroy them, and they defeated us.”
“They came marching. . . . They were on foot, then.” Velantos frowned. “Every army has some foot soldiers to skirmish in rough country and clean up after the chariots, but how could they get close enough to do massed chariots any harm?”
“They’ve learned a new way of fighting,” Thersander said solemnly. “Even if we survive, we will never make war in the same way again.”
“What do you mean? No warrior on foot can stand against a chariot . . .”
“Separately, that’s so. The runners that go out with our chariots are there as backup, to finish off enemy wounded or help get our wounded to safety. Caught in the open, they can be run down. But Aletes’ men fight in units. Their round shields are big enough to fend off arrows, and one of their heavy javelins can bring down a horse. Then they charge in and hamstring the others with one slash of the sword.”
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon Page 14