Ancestors of Avalon Read online

  “Those who choose to remain need not fear idleness,” said the priestess Mesira, unexpectedly. “Not all who are of the Temple believe that disaster is inevitable. We will continue to work with all our powers to maintain the balance here.”

  “That, I am glad to hear,” came a sardonic voice from the western quarter. Micail recognized Sarhedran, a wealthy shipmaster, with his son Reidel behind him. “Once Ahtarrath ruled the seas, but as my noble lord has reminded us, our gaze turned inward. Even if people could be persuaded to go to these foreign lands, we have not the vessels to carry them.”

  “That is just why we come now, with half the fleet of great Alkonath, to offer help.” The speaker was Dantu, captain of the ship in which Tjalan had arrived. If his smile was less tactful than triumphant, there was reason for it. The traders of Alkonath and Ahtarrath had been fierce rivals in the past.

  Now Tjalan spoke. “In this time of trial, we remember that we are all children of Atlantis. My brothers remain to supervise the evacuation of Alkonath. It is my honor and my great personal pleasure to commit eighty of my finest wingbirds to the preservation of the people and the culture of your great land.”

  Some at the table looked a little sour still, but most faces had begun to blossom in smiles. Micail could not repress a grin at his fellow prince, though even eighty ships, of course, could not save more than a tithe of the population.

  “Then let this be our resolution,” Micail said, taking charge again. “You shall go back to your districts and followers, and give them this news in whatever manner you see fit. Where needed, the treasury of Ahtarrath will be opened to secure supplies for the journey. Go now, make your preparations. Do not panic, but neither should anyone needlessly delay. We will pray to the gods that there is time.”

  “And will you be on one of those ships, my lord? Will the royal blood of Ahtarrath abandon the land? Then we are lost indeed.” The voice was that of an old woman, one of the principal landowners. Micail strove to remember her name, but before he could, Reio-ta stirred beside him.

  “The gods ordain that Micail must . . . go into exile.” The older man took deep breaths to control the stammer that still sometimes afflicted him. “But I too am a Son of the Sun, blood-bound to Ahtarrath. Whatever fate befalls those remaining here, I will remain and share.”

  Micail could only stare at his uncle, as Tiriki’s shock amplified his own. Reio-ta had said nothing of this! They scarcely heard Chedan’s concluding words.

  “It is not for the priesthood to decide who shall live and who shall die. There is no one fit to say whether those who depart will do better than those who stay. Our fates result from our own choices, in this life and every other. I bid you only remember that, and choose mind-fully, according to the wisdom that is within you. The Powers of Light and Life bless and preserve you all!”

  Chedan took off his headdress and tucked it under his arm as he emerged from the Council Hall onto the portico. The wind from the harbor was a blessed breath of coolness.

  “That went better than I . . . expected,” said Reio-ta, watching the others streaming down the stairs. “Chedan, I thank you for your . . . words and efforts.”

  “I have done little so far,” said Chedan, with a wave toward Tjalan, who had come out to join them, “but even that would have been impossible without the limitless generosity of my royal cousin.”

  Prince Tjalan clenched his fists to his heart and bowed before replying. “My best reward is the knowledge that I have served the cause of Light.” Suddenly he grinned at the mage. “You have been my teacher and my friend, and have never led me falsely.”

  The door opened again and Micail, having calmed the immediate fears of the most anxious councillors, joined them. He looked worried. Until he actually set foot on board ship, he would carry the responsibility not only for the evacuation but also for the welfare of those who decided to stay behind.

  “We thank you, my lords,” Micail said, with a gesture. “I know I would not wish to endure such a council after a sea voyage. You must be weary. The hospitality of Ahtarra can still provide a bit of food and shelter—” He managed a smile. “If you will come with me.”

  I think you need the rest more than I do, boy, thought Chedan, but he knew better than to show his pity.

  The rooms allotted to the mage were spacious and pleasant, with long windows to admit a cooling breeze from the sea. He sensed that Micail would have liked to linger, but Chedan pretended exhaustion and was soon left alone.

  As the sound of footsteps receded, the mage unstrapped his bag and rummaged within it for a pair of brown boots and a dull-colored robe such as any traveler might wear. Donning them, he briskly descended to the street, taking care to remain unnoticed, and set off into the murky twilight with such calm self-assurance that any who saw him pass would have thought he was a lifelong denizen of the tangled alleys and byways of the Temple precincts.

  In fact, Chedan had not visited Ahtarra for many years, but the roads had changed little. Every other step he took was dogged by echoes of lost youth, lost love, lost lives . . . Chedan paused alongside the vine-draped northern wall of the new Temple. Hoping he was in the right place, he swept aside a handful of vines and found a side door. It opened easily enough. It was more difficult to close it again.

  Inside it was dark, save for a faintly glowing line of stones in the floor that delineated the way through a narrow service corridor lined with unmarked doorways. Chedan was able to move along the path quickly, until he suddenly came to the low stone archway at its end.

  I am getting too old for such shortcuts, the mage thought ruefully as he rubbed his head. I might have gotten there faster by the front door.

  Beyond the archway was a cramped, vaulted chamber, lit by the glowing steps of a spiral stair. Chedan carefully ascended two flights and emerged through another arch to reach the common reading room, a broad pyramidal room almost at the top of the building. Designed to catch the maximum daylight, it was now almost entirely in shadow. Only a few reading lamps burned here and there.

  Beneath one such glow, the Vested Guardian Ardral sat alone at a broad table, examining the contents of a wooden chest. Moving closer, Chedan could hardly see the tabletop for the clutter that covered it: tattered scrolls, fragments of inscribed stone tablets, and what looked like strings of colorful beads.

  Ardral’s attention was bent upon the prize of the collection, a curious sort of long, narrow book made of bamboo strips sewn together with silken threads.

  “I didn’t know you had the Vimana Codex here,” Chedan commented, but Ardral ignored the attempt at polite interruption.

  With a grimace, the mage appropriated a small bench nearby and dragged it noisily to a spot beside Ardral. “I can wait,” he announced.

  Ardral looked up, with an outright grin. “Chedan,” he said softly, “I really was not expecting you until—”

  “I know.” Chedan looked away. “I suppose I should have waited, but I’ve just come from the council meeting.”

  “My condolences,” Ardral interjected. “I hope I succeeded in providing everyone with whatever information they needed.”

  “I thought I saw evidence of your work,” Chedan put in.

  “But I simply could not face another rehearsal of the inevitable platitudes.”

  “Yes, there was a lot of that. They’re afraid,” said Chedan.

  Ardral rolled his eyes. “Afraid they might remember why they still aren’t ready? This has been coming for a long time, nephew. And it’s just as Rajasta predicted—even if he was a little wrong about the date. With the best will in the world, in the Temple as on the farmstead, most people simply cannot go on year after year, looking for a way out of an impossible situation that fails to develop at the expected time! The urge to resume the routine of life—” Ardral broke off. “Well, there, you see, even I do it. Speaking of which, I have something put aside that you used to enjoy very much. Perhaps we could go solve the world’s problems in private, eh?”

&n
bsp; “I—” Chedan blinked, then looked about the gloomy chamber. For a moment, seeing his uncle, he felt very young again. “Yes,” he said, with a chuckle, and then a real smile. “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Ardral approved, and standing up, he proceeded to put the strange book into the wooden chest. “Just because eternity is trampling our toes, doesn’t mean we can’t live a little before—” Locking the chest, he gave Chedan a wink. “We do whatever dance comes next.”

  During Chedan’s last visit, Ardral had occupied a rather decrepit dormitory, some little distance from the temple. Now, as curator of the library, he had a spacious room within its very walls.

  A fire blazed up in the hearth as they entered, or perhaps it had already been burning. Chedan glanced at the sparse but tasteful furnishings, while Ardral brought out two filigreed silver cups, and opened a black and yellow jar of honey wine.

  “Teli’ir?” the mage exclaimed.

  Ardral nodded. “I daresay there are no more than a dozen bottles in existence.”

  “You honor me, Uncle. But I fear the occasion will not be worthy of it.” With a sigh, Chedan settled upon a cushioned couch.

  In his uncle’s company, drinking teli’ir, it was almost as if the Bright Empire still ruled both horizons. Time had hardly passed at all. He was no longer the learned Chedan Arados, the great Initiate of Initiates, the one who was expected to set forth answers, solutions, hope. He could be himself.

  Although the two had not been particularly close before the fall of the Ancient Land, Chedan had known Ardral all his life—indeed, years before he became an acolyte, his uncle had briefly been his tutor. Many years had passed since then, yet Ardral seemed no older. There were, no doubt, new lines and creases in the mobile, expressive face, and the shock of brown hair had faded and thinned . . . If Chedan looked closely, he could find such marks of age, but these slight details did not change his inner identity, which had somehow remained exactly the same.

  “It is good to see you, Uncle,” he said.

  Ardral grinned and refilled their cups. “I am glad you got here,” he answered. “The stars have not been reassuring for travelers.”

  “No,” Chedan agreed, “and the weather is little better, though Tjalan tells me not to worry. But since you raised the subject, let me ask you—your head is always clear—”

  “For another moment only,” Ardral joked, and quickly sipped more wine.

  “Hah!” Chedan scoffed. “You know what I mean. You have never been one who is easily misled by presumptions or legends. You see only what is actually before you, unlike some—but never mind that.

  “Once, years ago,” Chedan persisted, “you spoke to me of Rajasta’s other prophecies, and your own reasons for believing them. Have those reasons changed? . . . Have they?” he repeated, leaning closer to his uncle. “No one living knows Rajasta’s works better than you.”

  “I suppose,” said Ardral distantly, as he ate a bit of cheese.

  Undeterred, Chedan continued, “Everyone else has focused on the tragic elements of the prophecy. The destruction of Atlantis, the inevitable loss of life, the slim chance of survival. But you if anyone understands the larger scale of the prophecy—what was, and what is, and—”

  “You are going to be a pest about this, aren’t you?” Ardral growled, without his usual smile. “All right. Just this once, I will answer the question you cannot bring yourself to ask. And then we will put the matter aside, for this night at least!”

  “As you will, Uncle,” said Chedan, as meekly as a child.

  With a sigh, Ardral ran his fingers through his hair, further disarranging it. “The short answer is yes. It is as Rajasta feared. The inevitable is happening, and worse, it occurs under just the sort of conditions that give mediocre horologers fits. Bah. They’re so easily distracted from the many positive influences—it’s as if they want to think the worst. But yes, yes, we can’t deny it, Adsar the Warrior Star has definitely changed its course toward the Ram’s Horn. And this is precisely the alignment the ancient texts call the War of the Gods. But the ancients plainly do not say that such a configuration will mean anything to the mortal world! The usual human vanity. So predictable.”

  For some moments there was silence, as Ardral once more refilled his cup and Chedan tried to think of something to say.

  “You see?” said Ardral, rather gently. “It does no good to think on such things. We only see the hem of the garment, as they say. So let it go. Things are going to be hectic enough in the next few days. There won’t be a lot of time for sitting quietly and doing nothing. And yet”—he raised his cup, mock-solemn—“in times like these—”

  Laughing in spite of his dark thoughts, Chedan joined him in the old refrain, “There’s nothing like nothing to settle the mind!”

  Three

  How does one pack a life?

  Micail looked down at the confusion of items piled upon his couch and shook his head. It seemed a sad little assortment in the early morning light. Three parts need to one part nostalgia?

  Every ship, of course, would be provisioned with practical items such as bedding and seeds and medicines. Meanwhile, the acolytes and a few trusted chelas had been given the task of packing scrolls and regalia, using lists the Temple had prepared long ago. But those items, really, were all for public use. It was left to each passenger to choose as many personal belongings as would fit into a sack to go with him or her across the sea.

  He had done this once before, when he was twelve, leaving the Ancient Land where he had been born to come to this island that was his heritage. Then he had left his boyhood behind.

  Well, I will no longer need to lead processions up the Star Mountain. For a moment longer, he examined the ceremonial mantle, beautifully embroidered with a web of spirals and comets . . . With the merest twinge of regret, he cast it aside and began to fold a pair of plain linen tunics. The only mantle of office he packed was one woven of white silk, so fine that it was luminous, and the blue mantle that went with it. With the ornaments of his priesthood, it would suffice for ritual work. And without a country I will no longer be a prince. Would that be a relief, he wondered, or would he miss the respect that his title brought him?

  The symbol is nothing, he reminded himself; the reality is everything. A true adept should be able to carry on without any regalia. “The most important tool of the mage is here,” old Rajasta used to say, tapping his brow with a smile. For a moment Micail felt as if he were back in the House of the Twelve in the Ancient Land. I miss Rajasta sorely, thought Micail, but I am glad he did not live to see this day.

  His gaze drifted to the miniature feather tree in its decorous pot on the windowsill, pale green foliage gleaming in the morning sun. It had been a gift from his mother, Domaris, not long after he had arrived on Ahtarrath, and since then he had watered it, pruned it, cared for it. . . . As he picked it up he heard Tiriki’s light step in the hall.

  “My darling, are you really planning to take that little tree?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” Micail returned the pot to the window and turned to Tiriki with a smile. “It seems a pity to abandon it after I have watched over it for so long.”

  “It will not survive in your sack,” she observed, coming into his arms.

  “That’s so, but there might be room for it somewhere. If deciding whether to bring a little tree is my hardest choice . . .” The words died in his throat.

  Tiriki raised her head, her eyes seeking his and following his gaze to the window. The delicate leaflets of the little tree trembled, quivering, though there was no wind.

  Sensed, rather than heard, the subsonic groaning below and all around them became a vibration felt in the soles of their feet, more powerful by far than the tremor they had felt the day before.

  Not again! Micail thought, pleading, Not yet, not now . . .

  From the mountain’s summit, a trail of smoke rose to stain the pale sky.

  The floor rolled. He grabbed Tiriki and pu
lled her toward the door. Braced beneath its frame, they would have some protection if the ceiling fell. Their eyes locked again, and without need of words, they synchronized their breathing, moving into the focused detachment of trance. Each breath took them deeper. Linked, they were both more aware of the unraveling stresses within the earth, and less vulnerable to them.

  “Powers of Earth be still!” he cried, drawing on the full authority of his heritage. “I, Son of Ahtarrath, Royal Hunter, Heir-to-the-Word-of-Thunder, command you! Be at peace!”

  From the empty sky came thunder, echoed by a rumble that sounded far away. Tiriki and Micail could hear the tumult and outcry in the palace and the sounds of things crashing and breaking everywhere.

  The shaking finally ceased, but the tension did not. Through the window, Micail could see that the Star Mountain’s summit was gone—no, not gone, displaced. Smoke, or dust, rose all about the distinctive little pyramid as, still lighted, it slid slowly toward the city.

  Micail closed his eyes tight and reached beyond himself again as a roiling onslaught of energies whipped through him. He tried to visualize the layers of rock that made up the island, but the restraining vision only flickered and shifted, until finally it became the image of the crossed arms of the faceless man, bound and chained but stirring, that had haunted their dreams. His muscles flexed and links popped as the man strained against his bonds.

  “Who are you? WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?” He did not realize he had been shouting until he felt Tiriki’s thoughts within his own.

  “It is—the Unrevealed!” came her mental cry. “Dyaus! Do not look at his eyes!”

  At this, the vision rose, snarling. The floor shook anew, more roughly than before, and would not stop. Micail had grown up with the whispered tales of the god Dyaus, invoked to bring change by Grey Mages of the Ancient Land. Instead, he had brought chaos whose reverberations had eventually destroyed that land and now seemed about to destroy Atlantis as well. But Micail had never been to the crypt where that image was chained.