Marion Zimmer Bradley's Ancestors of Avalon (53 page)

S
moke swirled westward as if driven toward the shadowed horizon by song as the flames flared beneath the funeral pyre. Everyone who could crowd onto the top of the Tor was present—priests and priestesses of Atlantis mingling with sailors and merchants and the folk of the marshes—united by a common sorrow. Tiriki had seen more splendid funerals on Ahtarrath, but never more heartfelt grief; Chedan Arados had been beloved by all.

It had seemed the most bitter of betrayals to recover from that final attack only to find Chedan’s body deserted. Most of them understood what must have happened; they knew that if Chedan had not acted they might all have died. But all their wisdom was little consolation for the loss.

On the
Crimson Serpent,
Tiriki remembered, she and Chedan had been forced to perform an amputation on a sailor whose hand had been crushed by a falling mast. The man had lived, but she remembered how wrenching it had been to see him reach out for something and then realize that his hand was gone.
Now I am as he was—
Tiriki wept—
but you are not here to make me a hook for my missing hand . . . Chedan, Chedan, I wish that I had been crippled in my body rather than being left alone without your wisdom . . . your counsel . . . your patient smile . . .

“Sun Hawk has left us!” wailed a woman of the marsh folk whose children the mage had saved from the plague. But even as the keening of the mourners faded, Otter pointed upward, and all their tears turned to wonder. A falcon—Tiriki thought it was a merlin—circled above the Tor, hovering high in the pillar of smoke as if Chedan’s spirit had taken the form of his namesake for one final farewell. And even as they gazed, the hawk abruptly angled its wings and went spiraling eastward through the brightening air.

“I understand,” whispered Tiriki, bending in salutation as if the mage himself stood again before her. She felt his warmth then, like a palpable thing. Perhaps that was why she found herself thinking about the last evening before the battle, when Chedan had spoken to her—really, had forced her to listen, as he spoke of his continued faith in the prophecy. “You were not to know, but Micail was elected as my successor,” he had told her, “and for that reason, despite everything that has happened, I still believe he is destined to establish the new Temple.”

She had not wanted to think about it, but Chedan had persisted, saying, “Of all the things we mortals are called upon to do, the most difficult is forgiveness; in order to truly do it, you will probably have to behave as if you already have forgiven for quite a while before you have actually done so.”

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.

 

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.

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 . . .

“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.”