“It will come—you are much more fluent already,” Mikantor said earnestly. “Would it help if I sent one of the men here each day to help you?”
Velantos’ reply died on his lips as a sound or a scent or some sense beyond either turned him toward the doorway. Anderle stood there. As always, she seemed limned in light, and as always, her presence sent a flash of heat through his core.
“A man whose daughter serves in Galid’s hall has arrived with news. The usurper knows that you are here.” The priestess had clearly come in a hurry, dressed in an old gown and without her veil. Velantos noted the sparkle of perspiration at her brow and the pulse at her throat and looked quickly away.
“He’s coming?” Mikantor straightened.
“That’s a reasonable assumption,” Anderle said dryly.
“We will have to leave. We cannot risk an attack on Avalon. This is not unexpected. Grebe and I have discussed what to do. There are places in these marshes that only the Lake Folk know. We can disappear like mist in the reeds and live on the land.”
“That helps bind your men,” said Velantos with a wry smile. “I pack tools. . . .”
“But you cannot go with them!” exclaimed the priestess. “You must stay at the smithy to forge the Sword!”
“Swords—” corrected Velantos, glaring. This was becoming an old argument between them. The blade Mikantor already bore was the best he had been able to make when they were in the City of Circles. He saw no point in trying to improve on it when what was needed was more blades for Mikantor’s men.
“And be taken by Galid?” objected Mikantor.
“I can hide one,” Anderle answered, “but not a whole band.” She turned to Velantos, and her gaze was like the heat of the forge. “Swords, then. How many will you be able to make when you are skulking in the marshes?”
“But you cannot—” He looked at Mikantor and his voice failed. Cannot go without me . . . cannot leave me alone with her . . . He did not know which he feared more. But he could not say so, could not cling, could not even look at Mikantor lest the younger man see the desolation in his eyes. “Yes,” he said, keeping his voice from wavering with an effort of will. “Is true I need the forge. I stay here.”
THE NEW MOON WAS sliding toward the distant sea. Soon she would sleep beneath the waves, but on Avalon, there was no rest. Some were busy at the ovens, baking trailbread and stuffing into lengths of cured gut the mixture of pounded dried meat and berries that would stay good for moons if it was kept dry. Others were putting the last stitches into garments for Mikantor’s men. Tirilan had snatched up several lengths of felted and oiled wool and the cords and wooden toggles that would turn them into rain capes and carried them off to her cubicle, afraid that if she worked alongside the others she would start weeping and they would ask her why.
She stabbed the bone needle through the cloth to bind the cut end of the wool and felt a tear splash hot upon her hand. Would her tears add protection? If so, let them fall. Let each tear be a blessing to keep the wearer of this cape from harm. And if the tears were not sufficient, an embroidered sigil of protection would be a more visible reminder. As she finished the last of the capes, she took up another needle and threaded it with yellow wool.
In another part of the complex of buildings that housed the community someone was singing a silly song about the adventures of a cuckoo bird. Tirilan smiled through her tears. Mikantor had been the cuckoo thrust into the Lake Village nest, but he had grown up beautiful, powerful, and fierce as a swan.
She looked down, and realized that the stitches she had just put in made the beginning of the shape of the bird. Let this one be for Mikantor, then. If she could not be there to protect him with magic, let her love be bound into the cloth. Stitching more swiftly now she finished the figure and began to add more—a lightning bolt, a tree, a bull, all the symbols of strength and power she could think of, intertwining across the shoulders of the cape in a frieze of protection. Finally, she added the winged sun that their ancestors had brought from the Drowned Lands and the triple moon of Avalon.
The young moon had already set, and the air was taking on the fresh damp scent that preceded the dawn. At this season the sun would rise early, and Mikantor wanted to move out with the break of day. Tirilan gathered up the capes and made her way down the passage that would let her take the shortcut across the garden. She stopped short as she realized that someone was sitting on the bench by the sundial, and in the next moment realized that it was Mikantor.
Goddess, my thanks for this blessing! She took another step.
“Tirilan, is that you?”
She nodded. Her heart was thumping so madly she did not know if she could form words.
“Do you have a moment to talk to me?” The uncertainty in his tone wrenched her heart. Slowly she moved toward him.
“Do you remember that argument we had here about our ages? When I found out I was not who I thought I was? Now that I know, it still seems unreal. I have learned to face my own dangers, but what gives me the right to risk the lives of others?” He peered at her through the darkness, and when she did not answer, moved over and patted the bench. “Will you sit with me, or is that not permitted by your vows?”
At his words a surge of warmth freed her and she took the steps that would bring her to his side. It is discouraged, she thought, lest we fall into temptation— Temptations like the solid warmth of him, that made her want to clasp him in her arms. All the men had scrubbed themselves thoroughly that afternoon—the last chance they might have to get really clean for some time—and she could smell the scent of the bath herbs on his hair.
“What are you carrying?” he asked.
“Rain capes, for you and your men.” She found her voice at last. “This one is for you—” She lifted the topmost from the pile. “If you will feel along the top you will find the sigils of protection I have embroidered there. And the images of the powers. I have put a swan on it for the emblem of your band.”
“Oh Goddess, yes—” He laughed. “Do you remember the time that Ai-Akhsi boy—I can’t remember his name—tried to rob a swan’s nest and the male broke his arm with a sweep of one wing?”
“He went home soon after,” Tirilan recalled. If she kept talking, she might be able to resist the urge to take his hand. What was wrong with her? In the stories it was always the man who made the advances. But Mikantor had clearly gotten it into his head that she was as sacrosanct as Anderle herself.
“This place seems so peaceful and secure,” he said slowly, “but it has its own dangers for those who are not meant to be here. Or at least that is what I keep telling myself,” he added, “when I think about Galid coming to Avalon.”
“My mother faced him down before,” said Tirilan. “I believe in her magic.”
“If he finds us here we will fight, and blood must not be shed on Avalon. And so I am right to go, though it feels like deserting in the face of the enemy.”
“You are right to go—” She echoed as the silence deepened.
“And they will all look to me, once we are out in the marshes. Here at least I can turn to Velantos or Anderle, but what will I do if they ask questions I cannot answer?”
“What you do already,” she answered, knowing he did not realize how often she had watched him unseen. “Call the others to council. You are beginning to know already the strengths of each man. Living in the wilds will confirm that knowledge.”
“Of course—I have done that—and knowing I value their opinions seems to please the men . . .” He sighed. “Thank you. To talk to you is like giving my own soul a voice to answer me, Tirilan.”
She repressed her own sigh, realizing that was true. He was talking to himself, not to a living, breathing human being with needs like his own. And yet if this was all she could do for him, she should count herself blessed.
“My spirit will go with you, Mikantor,” she said softly. “Every day and every night, my prayers will shelter you. Talk to me whenever you have need, and in
the silence of your heart I will answer you.”
“And so I will have my very own protecting goddess? It is you who will be the swan, Tirilan, sheltering us beneath your wings . . .”
“Be it so—” she murmured, though her heart was crying out to him to take her with him. But what use would she be in the wilds? Better by far to let his belief in her give him strength than to weaken him with her fallible reality.
“Mikantor—” came a call from within. “Mikantor, where are you, man? The sun will be rising soon and we must go!” It sounded like Ganath.
Looking up, Tirilan saw that the sky was fading to gray. She could see Mikantor’s face. Better that she should go now, before he got a good look at hers and realized that her cheeks were wet with tears. She rose quickly and stepped behind him, spreading the cape across his shoulders as if she were indeed shielding him with wings. He sighed again, and let his head rest back against her breast. For a moment she allowed herself to hold him, breathing in the scent of his hair. Then she kissed the top of his head and let him go.
“May Manoah light your way,” she whispered, “and may Ni-Terat support you, and may all the gods and goddesses of this land grant you guidance and aid until we meet once more.”
Before he could turn, she gathered up the other capes and sped back across the garden. Ganath called him again, and the sky grew bright with the coming of the day.
“Earth and water spread below,
Light and air above,
Food to eat, a place to sleep,
And a good woman’s love!”
From somewhere back down the line, Romen, as usual, was singing.
“That’s all I need for wandering,
That’s all I need to go,
That’s all I need to carry on,
That’s all I need to know!”
“Hush up there, man, d’ye want Galid to hear ye?” called Pelicar.
“Water we’ve got in plenty, and food, if this sack I’m bearing does not lie, but places to sleep look less numerous, and as for women, where we’re going, the marsh wives are all we’re likely to see, and their beds are too damp for me!” Adjonar added cheerfully.
They all seemed cheerful, thought Mikantor. They sounded like a band of boys heading out on an adventure, as blithe as he and Beaver and Grebe had been when they explored the marshes so long ago.
“And speaking of love, that’s a fine cape you’re wearing,” added Adjonar. “All prettied up with embroidery—”
Mikantor flushed. Even though it was not raining, he had worn the cape when they left. He had not seen Tirilan among those who waved good-bye, but he hoped that she had been watching from somewhere. He had felt her presence, and wondered if it was imagination that made him feel her near him still.
“The lady Tirilan made it,” he said repressively, “and I’ll thank you to respect her name.”
“Oh, aye,” Adji answered, sobering, “and we all are grateful for the capes, even without the fancy stitchery. A good and fair lady is that one, and we are glad of her blessing.”
“We have it,” said Mikantor through a throat that had gone oddly tight. That predawn conversation had left him shaken. Why had he never found time to talk to her? It occurred to him now that she had said very little to him during the time he had been at Avalon, though she had always greeted him with a smile. Perhaps her vows forbade it, he thought with an unexpected flicker of resentment. But absorbed in work with his men, he had not even tried to meet her, and now the chance was gone.
“But I suppose sleeping places are fair game for discussion,” Adji said then. “D’ye have a plan for tonight, or are we to splash about until we trip over solid ground?”
“That is not fair—” objected Grebe, pointing to the wooden trackway that led to the higher ground to the south and west and the path around the edge of the lake. “Are you not still dry shod?”
“Aye well, that’ll not last for long. . . .” mourned Adji, but he was grinning.
“The boats had better be waiting where your people hid them,” added Pelicar. “I have never learned to swim.”
“You don’t need a boat, tall one,” grunted Grebe. “You go like the heron, stalking through the reeds!”
Mikantor released a breath he had not realized he was holding as others joined in the joking and they continued on.
THREE CROWS HAD SETTLED on the oak tree at the corner of the garden. Every so often one of them cawed in a demanding, minatory tone.
“Galid is coming,” muttered Velantos. “Yes. Thank you. We know.” The Lake Village scouts who had been watching the roads for the past moon had brought word that the Ai-Zir were on their way, and the people of Avalon were waiting. Velantos hitched up the robe of undyed wool in which they had dressed him and wondered if Galid would recognize him. When he had looked into the waters of the reflecting pool, he had scarcely recognized himself. With his beard shaved and hair trimmed short enough to release its curl, the face that looked back at him was one he had not seen since his beard began to grow. Only the silver streaks that Anderle had painted into his hair belied that youthfulness. His lips twitched in amusement as he remembered that the priests at the healing shrine in Korinthos had worn their hair this way.
The only priesthood to which he had ever aspired was that of the Lady of the Forge. But if Galid’s men searched, they would see the smithy on the Maiden’s Isle, and to find him there would have identified him as the smith from whom the usurper had stolen those spearheads. Galid would not have left him free to make more for his enemies. And so here he was on his knees in the garden, hoping that he had not pulled up the sprouting lettuce instead of the weeds. Anderle had chosen to pretend that they had had no warning, as well as nothing to hide, and everyone had a task. With any luck, their foe would pay no attention to him at all.
From the passage between the dormitory of the priestesses and the Hall of the Sun came the sound of voices and then the scrape of footsteps. Velantos dug his fingers into the soil, waiting. The clouds left from yesterday’s rain passed overhead, sending patterns of light and shadow among the leaves.
“As you can see, I have no army hidden here—” That was Anderle’s most astringent tone. Velantos felt a sour satisfaction to hear it directed at someone else for a change.
“That is quite apparent. But why this demure hospitality? At the least I expected shrouding mists or lightning! I mistrust this face of innocence, my lady, even more than the defiance with which you usually greet me.”
It was the gravelly voice of the man Velantos had met on the road. Surely it would be in character to turn and stare as the priestess and her unwelcome guest followed the path into the garden. This was certainly the same man, but he seemed older. Though his tunic was dyed a rich red, it bore old stains, and he had a nervous twitch Velantos had not noticed before. Or perhaps it was simply a response to Anderle. Galid sat down on the bench, and after a moment’s hesitation the priestess joined him.
“The sooner you look at everything the sooner you and your bullies will be gone,” the priestess said tartly.
“Who is that fellow?” Galid asked then. “I do not recall seeing him before.”
“Do you not?” Anderle’s tone was offhand and Velantos forced himself to turn to the lettuce again. “He is a minor priest, left with speech and wits impaired by a fever, but very strong in body, as you can see.”
“Is he now? Perhaps I should take him off your hands—” Galid said pleasantly.
“That would be unkind, since as you have seen we are mostly a community of women and old men, and need someone who can carry heavy burdens. Besides, his illness has left him subject to fits when no strength of men will hold him. At other times he babbles nonsense, and can only be calmed when I speak a Word of Power.”
Was that a sudden inspiration, my lady? wondered Velantos, moving from the lettuce to the climbing beans, through whose screen he could watch the bench, or did you have that explanation planned? Babbling like a barbarian indeed!
; “Enough of the fool—” Galid’s scabbard scraped the stone as he turned. “I can see that your young cousin is not here, but it is also obvious that you sheltered him. This will not happen again.”
“Will not?” asked Anderle. “You forget that I am the mistress here.”
“Only so long as I allow it. Be grateful that I do not burn your temple to the ground and take your priestesses to grind my corn! As for you”—his voice deepened—“you are still young enough to serve me in my bed . . .”
Velantos’ fingers closed convulsively on some plant and wrenched it from the soil. He told himself that the priestess was in no danger. Whatever happened to the others, surely she could summon a dragon chariot like Medea and fly away.
“Or your lovely daughter might do—” From Anderle came a sharp hiss and Galid laughed. “Though she is rather too sweet for my taste.”
“Galid—” Anderle’s voice shook with wrath, not fear. “What in the name of all that’s holy do you want? Have you dedicated yourself to evil for amusement or revenge? Who could have hurt you so badly that you must make the rest of the world suffer? Do you not fear the gods?”
The hair rose on the back of Velantos’ neck at the usurper’s laugh, and the crows began to caw once more. He parted the leaves. Galid was staring at Anderle. Still grinning, he reached out and took up a lock of her curling hair. “Lady,” Galid said with bleak assurance, “do you think the world would be dying around us if there were gods? There is only this life, and the sensations we can force it to yield. Your calm is death in life. I could pierce that detachment . . .” His grip tightened on her hair. “They say that your bed has been empty since I killed that fool Durrin all those years ago. Have you found no man to be your match, or your master?”
His voice grew harsh, and Velantos saw that he was looking at Anderle as a woman, not as an opponent. Now, thought the smith, might be a good time to summon those dragons. Anderle’s eyes blazed. Velantos felt a familiar stirring in his own flesh, knowing exactly what the other man must feel. And Galid had no inhibitions, no honor, no fear.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon Page 30