Ancestors of Avalon Read online

  She turned to watch the group on the lawn a little distance away. Priestly inbreeding could produce weakness as well as talent. She often wondered if she herself had been chosen as an acolyte because of her royal grandmother’s influence rather than her own merit, but half the others would have run screaming had they seen those lights flickering up the passageway of the underground Temple. It occurred to her now that the guardians might have seen some benefit in adding the robust blood of Alkonath to the priestly lineage.

  But why had they decided that the detestable Kalhan, with his blunt features and equally blunt sense of humor, was a fit mate for her? Surely he would have been a better match for Cleta, who had no sense of humor at all. As a minor princess, Damisa would have expected an arranged marriage, but at least her husband should be a man of power. Tiriki had said Kalhan would probably improve with age, but Damisa could see no signs of it now.

  There he was, leaping about on the lawn, leading a cluster of other acolytes in boisterous cheers, while Aldel, who she had decided was the nicest of the boys, and Lanath, who was better with his head than his hands, wrestled fiercely. Even Elara, usually the most sensible of the female acolytes, was watching them with an amused smile. Selast, on the other hand, looked as if she wanted to join the battle. She could probably win, thought Damisa, as she considered the younger girl’s wiry frame. Damisa turned away. She could not tell if the fight was in fun or fury, and for the moment she did not care.

  They all seem to have forgotten to worry about the end of the world, she thought moodily. How I wish I was home! It’s an honor to be Chosen and all of that—but it’s always so hot here, and the food is strange. But would it be any safer there? Are we even allowed to run away? Or are we expected to just nobly stand here and let the world fall to pieces around us?

  Battling sniffles, Damisa let her wandering feet take her up the grassy slope. In moments, she emerged onto the outermost of the garden’s many terraces—a long, broad retaining wall with a sweeping view of the city and the sea.

  Only two days ago Damisa had discovered this spot, which she was certain could not be seen even from the roof of the House of the Twelve. With any luck, the others did not yet know about it.

  As always, the sea wind dispelled her ill temper. Every salty gust felt like a secret love letter from her faraway home. Minutes passed before she noticed how many boats were out on the water today—no, not boats, she realized, but ships, and not just any ships, but a fleet of three-masted wingbirds, the pride and the might of Atlantis. High in the water, their wicked prows sheathed in hardened bronze, they could be rowed to ramming speed, or ride the wind under sail. In precise formation they made the turn around the headland.

  Nestled almost directly below her vantage point was a small harbor. It was rarely used and ordinarily quiet enough for one to sink into trance while staring at its clear blue waters. But now, one by one, the tall wingbirds cast out their anchors as their brilliantly colored banners fluttered and settled to rest in the calm of the bay. The largest was already moored by the quay, furling purple sails.

  Damisa rubbed her eyes again. How can it be? she asked herself, but there was no fault in her vision. From each proud mainmast flew the Circle of Falcons, the sovereign banner of her homeland. A surge of longing brought tears to her eyes.

  “Alkonath,” she breathed; and without a second thought, she lifted her robes and began to run, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as she passed the ongoing wrestling match and flew out of the garden to the stairway that led down to the harbor.

  The largest of the wingbirds had dropped anchor at the main docks, but had not yet lowered its gangplank. Merchants and city folk had already convened on the pier, chattering excitedly as they waited to see what would happen next. But even with their servants, they were almost outnumbered by the white-clad men and women of the priests’ caste.

  Tiriki was at the very forefront, swathed in fine layers of colorless fabric, her headdress dangling flowers of gold across her hair. Her two companions were covered by mantles of Ahtarrath’s royal purple. The rubies in their diadems burned like fire in the sun. It took Damisa a moment to recognize them as Reio-ta and Micail.

  The ships were expected, then, the acolyte deduced, knowing well how long it took to put the ceremonial garments on. The fleet must have been sighted from the mountain, and a runner sent down to warn them that visitors were coming. She pressed through the crowd until she had reached her mentor’s side.

  Tiriki inclined her head slightly in greeting. “Damisa, what a sense of timing!” But before Damisa could wonder if Tiriki was poking fun at her, a collective cheer announced that the visitors had begun to debark.

  First to emerge were the green-cloaked soldiers armed with pikes and swords. They escorted two men in traveler’s cloaks of simple wool, accompanied by a priest whose robe was cut in an unfamiliar style. Reio-ta stepped forward, raising his ceremonial staff to trace the circle of blessing. Tiriki and Micail had moved closer together. Damisa had to crane her neck to see.

  “In the name of Manoah, Maker of All, whose radiance fills our hearts as He illuminates the sky,” Reio-ta said, “I welcome you.”

  “We give thanks to Nar-Inabi, the Star Shaper, who has brought you safely across the sea,” Micail added. As he lifted his arms to make a formal obeisance, Damisa caught sight of the gleaming serpent bracelets that could be worn only by a prince of the Imperial lineage.

  Tiriki stepped forward, offering a basket of fruit and flowers. Her voice was like a song. “Ni-Terat, the Great Mother, who is also called Caratra, welcomes all her children, young and old.”

  The tallest of the travelers threw back the hood of his cloak, and Damisa’s cheer became a delighted squeal. Tjalan! She could not have said if she cared more that he was Prince of Alkonath or that he was her own cousin who had always been kind to her. She had barely enough discipline to stop herself from running to him and flinging her arms about his knees, as she had done when she was a child. But she controlled herself, and it was just as well that she did, for at the moment, Tjalan was entirely a lord of the empire, with the great emerald blazing from his diadem and the royal bracelets entwined around his forearms.

  Lean and bronzed, he stood with the confidence of one who had never doubted his right to command. There was silver at his temples—that was new—but Damisa thought it added distinction to her cousin’s dark hair. Still, Tjalan’s far-seeing eyes were the same—green as the Emerald of Alkona, though there were times, she knew, when they could show all the colors of the sea.

  As the strangely robed priest came forward Tiriki laid her hand upon her heart and then her forehead in the salute offered only to the very highest of initiates.

  “Master Chedan Arados,” she murmured, “may you walk in Light.”

  Damisa surveyed the priest with interest. Throughout Atlantis, in the priests’ caste at least, the name of Chedan Arados was well known. He had been an acolyte in the Ancient Land, schooled at the same time as Tiriki’s mother, Deoris; but Chedan had carried his studies further to become a Free Mage. After the destruction of the City of the Circling Snake, he had traveled widely. But despite his several visits to Alkonath, Damisa had never seen him.

  The mage was tall with warm but piercing eyes, and the full beard of a mature man. There was already a strong hint of roundness to his belly, but he could not fairly have been called stout. His robe, made of the same fine white linen as those worn by ordinary priests of Light, was of a distinctly different design, fastened with loops and buttons on one shoulder and hanging loose to the ankle. Upon his breast was a disk of crystal, a lens in which thin blue-white glimmers darted and sparkled like fish in a pool.

  “I do walk in Light,” said the mage to Tiriki, “but too often, what I see is darkness. And so it is today.”

  Tiriki’s smile froze. “We see what you see,” she said, very softly, “but we should not speak of it here.”

  Micail and Tjalan, having completed the more formal greet
ings between princes, clasped wrists forcefully. As their bracelets clinked, the severe lines of their similarly large-nosed faces gave way to the warmest laughter.

  “You had a good voyage?” Micail asked as the two turned, arms linked, making their way along the quay-side.

  “The sea was calm enough,” Tjalan quipped wryly.

  “Your lady did not want to leave Alkonath?”

  Tjalan suppressed a snort of laughter. “Chaithala is convinced that the Isles of Tin are a howling wilderness inhabited by monsters. But our traders have been preparing a refuge at Belsairath for many years. She will not fare so ill. Knowing she and the children are safe frees my mind for the task here.”

  “And if we are all mistaken and no disaster occurs?” asked Micail.

  “Then she will have had an unusual vacation and will likely never forgive me. But I have been speaking much with Master Chedan on the voyage, and I fear your forebodings are only too sure . . .”

  Damisa suppressed a shiver. She had assumed that the ritual in the deep Temple had been successful, despite Alyssa’s collapse, because the earthquakes and the nightmares had ceased. Now she was uneasy. Had such tremors been felt in Alkonath, too? It was becoming difficult to assure herself that Tjalan’s visit was no more than a social call.

  “And who is this? Can this be little Damisa, grown woman-high?”

  The voice brought Damisa’s head around. The third traveler stood before her with his cloak now thrown back to reveal a sleeveless tunic and kilt so emblazoned with embroidery she blinked as the bright garments caught the sun. But she knew the gaudy clothing covered a muscular body, and the long dagger sheathed at the man’s side, however ornate, was not aristocratic frippery. He was Antar, Tjalan’s bodyguard from the time they were boys.

  “It is Damisa,” Antar answered himself, his dark eyes, as always, in constant motion, watching for any threat to his lord.

  Damisa blushed, realizing that the others were now looking at her, too.

  “Trust you, Antar, to see her first,” said Micail, smiling.

  “I trust Antar to see everything first,” Tjalan commented, with a grin no less wide. “Damisa. What a pleasure, sweet cousin, to find a flower of Alkona amid so many lilies.” His attitude was warm and welcoming, but as Damisa walked forward she knew that the days of childish hugs were forever gone. She held out her hand, and her prince bent to it respectfully—if with a twinkle in his sea-colored eyes.

  “Damisa, you are become a woman indeed,” said Tjalan appreciatively. But he let go of her hand, and turned once more to Tiriki. “You have taken good care of our flower, I see.”

  “We do what we may, my noble lord. And now—” Tiriki handed the basket of fruit and flowers to Damisa as she said, in a ringing voice, “Let the officers of the city make the Prince of Alkonath most welcome.” She gestured toward the open square at the entrance to the quay where, as if by magic, crimson pavilions had sprung up to shade tables full of food and drink.

  Tjalan frowned. “I hardly think we have time—”

  Tiriki delicately took his arm. “We must delay all serious discussion until the lords arrive from the estates in the countryside. And if the people see us eat and drink together, it will hearten the city. Indulge us, my noble lord, I pray.”

  As ever, beneath Tiriki’s words rang the cadence of a song. A man would have to be made of stone, Damisa thought, to resist the sweetness in that plea.

  Micail glanced around the great hall to ascertain that the servants had finished setting out the earthenware pitchers of lemon water and the silver goblets, and then nodded his permission for them to retire. The last of the daylight shafted through narrow windows beneath the soaring dome of the Council Hall, illuminating the circular table and the worried faces of the traders, landowners, and leaders who sat around it. Would the strength of Atlantis ever again be arrayed in such order and dignity?

  Micail arose from his couch and waited for the conversations to fade. For this meeting, he retained the regalia that marked him as a prince, although Tiriki had resumed the white robe and veil of a simple priestess and sat a little to one side. Reio-ta, robed as governor of the Temple, had taken a place on the left with the other rulers.

  Once again, Micail felt acutely that he stood between two realms, the worldly and the spiritual. Over the years he had often found his identities as a Vested Guardian and as Prince of Ahtarrath in conflict, but tonight, perhaps, his royalty might give him the authority to enforce the priesthood’s wisdom.

  If even that will be enough. At the moment, what Micail felt most strongly was fear. But the die was cast. His friend Jiritaren gave an encouraging nod. The room had silenced. All eyes were on him, tensely expectant.

  “My friends, heirs of Manoah, citizens of Atlantis, we all have felt the tremors that shake our islands. Yes, islands, ” he repeated sharply, seeing the eyes of some of the landowners widen, “for the same forerunners of disaster have shook Alkonath, Tarisseda, and other kingdoms as well. So we gather together to take counsel against the threat that now faces us all.” Micail paused and looked slowly about the table.

  “There is still much that we can do,” he said encouragingly, “for as you surely know, the Empire has faced circumstances no less dire, and has survived to see this day. Master Chedan Arados—” Micail paused, permitting a flurry of whispers to run through the hall. “Master Chedan, you were among those who escaped the Ancient Land’s destruction. Will you speak to us now of the prophecies?”

  “I will.” Ponderously, the mage got to his feet and eyed the gathering sternly.

  “It is time for the veil to be set aside,” he said. “Some secrets will be shared which have hitherto been spoken only under seal of initiation; but that was done to preserve the truth, that it might be revealed at the appointed hour. To keep these things hidden now would be the true sacrilege. Indeed, for the threat we face has its deepest roots in a sacrilege committed almost thirty years ago in the Ancient Land.” As Chedan drew breath, the bar of sunlight that had haloed his head moved, leaving him in sudden shadow. Micail knew it was only because the sun was sinking, but the effect was disquieting.

  “And it was not ordinary men but priests,” Chedan said clearly, “who in the misguided quest for forbidden knowledge, destabilized the magnetic field that harmonizes the conflicting forces within the earth. All our wisdom and all our power was only enough to delay the moment when the fault gave way; and when at last the City of the Circling Snake sank beneath the inland sea, there were no few who said it was only justice. The city that had permitted the desecration should pay the price, they said. And when, soon after, the Ancient Land itself was swallowed up by the sea, although the seers gave us warning that the repercussions would continue, that the unraveling would expand along the fault line, perhaps to crack the world open like an egg—yet we dared hope we had seen the worst of the destruction.”

  The priests looked grim—they knew what was coming. On the faces of the rest, Micail read growing apprehension as Chedan continued.

  “The recent tremors in Alkonath, as here, are a final warning that the Ascent of Dyaus—the Time of Ending, as some call it—is very near.”

  By now, much of the hall was in darkness. Micail signaled to a servant to light the hanging lamps, but their illumination seemed too meager for the room.

  “Why were we not told?” cried a merchant. “Did you mean to keep this secret so only the priesthood might be saved?”

  “Were you not listening?” Micail overrode him. “The only facts we had were made known as we received them. Should we have created useless panic by proclaiming predictions of a disaster that might not have come to pass for a century?”

  “Of course not,” Chedan agreed. “That was in fact the mistake made in the Ancient Land. Until the foreseen is seen again, its signs cannot be recognized. This is why the greatest seers are helpless against true destiny. When men are braced too long against a danger that does not come, they grow heedless, and cannot respond when the m
oment does arrive.”

  “If it has arrived,” scoffed a prominent landowner. “I am a simple man, I don’t know anything about the meaning of lights in the sky. But I do know that Ahtarrath is a volcanic island. It is entirely natural for it to shake at times. Another layer of ash and lava will only serve to enrich the soil.”

  Hearing murmurs of agreement from the village lords, Micail sighed.

  “All that the priesthood can do is to give warning,” he said, striving to keep rising irritation from his voice. “What you do about this is up to you. I will not force even my own servants to abandon their homes. I can only advise all here that the majority of the Guardians of the Temple have chosen to entrust ourselves and our goods to the sea, and return to land only when the cataclysm ends. As a prince of the blood I say it, and we shall endeavor to take with us as many as we can.”

  Reio-ta rose, nodding affirmation. “We must not allow the truth that the Temple safeguards to . . . die. We will send forth our Twelve Acolytes and as . . . many more as we can find ships for, with our hopes that at least some of them will come safely to . . . lands where new temples may rise.”

  “What lands?” someone exclaimed. “The barren rocks where savages and animals rule? Only fools trust to the wind and the sea!”

  Chedan spread his arms. “You forget your own history,” he chided. “Though we have stood apart from the world since the war with the Hellenes, we are not ignorant of other lands. Wherever there are goods to be bought or sold, the ships of Atlantis have gone—and since the fall of the Ancient Land, many of our priests have gone with them. In trading stations from Khem and Hellas to the Hesperides and Zaiadan, they have endured a lonely exile, learning the ways of the native peoples, studying their alien gods in search of beliefs held in common, teaching and healing, preparing the way. I believe that when our wanderers arrive, they will find a welcome.”