Ancestors Of Avalon - Ancestors of Avalon Part 21
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Ancestors of Avalon Part 21

"You have grown soft! Besides," Tiriki added more soberly, "if Iriel needs us, she cannot wait for us to find them." Not waiting to see if Liala followed, she started forward along the edge of the stream.

The stones, whitened by the lime-rich waters, glistened in the torchlight. In some places the minerals had crystallized in midflow and hung from the ceiling of the tunnel in an irregular series of upside-down pyramids. At their tips, drops of water formed and fell. When she reached out to steady herself against the sloping wall, the rock was cold and damp beneath her hand.

Was this passage natural, or had it been shaped by men? In most spots the stone had been worn smooth by water, but there were places overhead that seemed to have been chipped away. Curious, Tiriki quickened her pace, somehow keeping her footing on the slick stones. It was not until a sudden turning stopped her that she realized that Liala was no longer behind her. Softly she called the woman's name, but the sound was soon swallowed in the whisper of water over stone.

For a moment she stood, considering. There had been no divergence in the passageways, so Liala could not have gotten losta"and she would have heard the splash if she had fallen from the slippery rocks. More likely, the older priestess had simply given up and turned back again. Pulling her shawl more tightly around her, Tiriki started forward once more. She was no more alone than she had been before, of course, but after a few steps she realized that knowing Liala was not behind her had made her more wary. She noticed that there was a secondary passageway on the far side of the stream, leading off to her left. As she raised the torch, she could see the sensuous curves of a running spiral pecked into the stone around the opening. Damisa had said that Iriel might be looking for a temple hidden in an ancient cave. With her lips tightening in decision, Tiriki bent and drew a leftward-pointing arrow in the mud to show where she was going, and then stepped across the glittering stream.

To the eye, there was little difference between this passage and the one she had been following, but she could sense a definite change. Frowning a little, she put a fingertip to the carving and began to trace the spiral inward to the center and then out again.

She stood, transfixed by the pattern, until suddenly she realized that her arm had dropped to her side and the torch was flaring dangerously near to her skirts. Startled, she jerked it away, peering around her.

How long had the pattern held her in trance? How far had she come? Tiriki shook her head; she ought to have known better than to touch the spiral. Taret had warned her that there was, somewhere on the island, a maze which would lead to the Otherworld if one trod it to the end.

The curved passage before her seemed less shadowed, but she could see neither very far ahead, nor back the way she had come. I am not lost, she told herself firmly. She had only to follow the spiral back to find the stream. And with that self-assurance, she set her hand to the stone and went forward once more . . .

In the next turning she found herself under open sky.

The torchlight seemed suddenly pale and she blinked at the light around her. Could it be morning already? The sky had all the silver pallor of dawn, but mists swathed the base of the Tor, and its slope hid the horizon.

Tiriki continued climbing, but when she reached what appeared to be the top she saw only the ring of stones, taller than she remembered, and glowing as if with their own light. The sun was not the source of that illumination, for the eastern sky was no brighter than the west. The air was not cold, but a shiver passed through her as she scanned the horizon. I am no longer in the world I know . . .

Shifting veils of mist drifted across the land, but not the smoke from the settlement's morning cookfires; indeed there was no sign of any habitation whatsoever . . . and yet the mists themselves were luminous, as if whatever they concealed was lit from within. Holding her breath, Tiriki strained to focus her eyes.

"You strive too hard," said a soft, amused voice behind her. "Have you forgotten your training? Eilantha . . . breathe out . . . and in . . . open your inner vision, and see . . ."

Not since childhood had anyone had the power to command her perceptions, but before Tiriki could think to resist, she responded, and instead of trees and meadows saw glimmering lattices of radiance. Dazzled, she turned and perceived the Tor itself as a single crystalline structure through which currents of energy, spiraling around the peak of the Tor, formed a dazzling circle ascending to the sky. Tiriki lifted her hand and saw instead of a human arm, a dragon dance of radiance that refracted and interacted with all the rest in turn, as intricately interconnected as the serpents on her ring.

"Why are you surprised?" She could no longer tell if the thought came from without or within. "Did you not know that you are also a part of this world?"

The truth of it was evident. Tiriki was simultaneously aware of her own being and of a myriad of interlocking lattices of light, layered from one dimension to the next, and containing every entity from pure spirit to stone and dust. She was aware of Alyssa's disorderly spirit as a scatter of sparks, Chedan's steady glow of faith and power, and the bright flicker that was Iriel, her soul-spark so close to that of Otter that they were nearly one. The power of the Tor rippled through the landscape in rivers of light. Her excitement rose as she extended her perceptions, for here, where all planes of existence were one, was where she might surely find Micail . . .

And for a moment, then, she touched his spirit. But the surge of emotion was too great, and Tiriki plunged dizzily back into her bodya"or rather, to whatever form her body had here, for her own flesh glowed like that of the woman whom she saw standing before her, robed in light, crowned with stars.

"Micail lives!" Tiriki exclaimed.

"All things live," came the answer, "past, present, future, each in its own plane."

Beneath the leathery leaves of unknown plants, monstrous forms moved; but also ice covered the world, and nothing grew. She saw the Tor at once tree-clad and cleared, a slope of close-cropped grass crowned with standing stones, and also a strange stone building which in the same moment fell, leaving only a tower. She saw people dressed in skins, in blue robes, in garments of many colors, and buildings, fields, and pasture overlaying the marshes that she knew . . . Her perceptions overwhelmed her, and she felt as though she knew nothing at all.

"All of them are real," the voice in her mind explained. "Each time you make a choice, the world changes, and another level is revealed."

"How shall I find Micail?" Tiriki's spirit cried. "How shall I find you?"

"Only follow the Spiral, up or down . . ."

"My lady, are you all right?" a man's voice inquired.

"Tiriki! What are you doing here?"

The voices converged, distinct, but with an underlying harmony. Tiriki opened her eyes and realized that she was lying on the grass just inside the circle of stones at the top of the Tor. She struggled to sit up, squinting against the light of the rising sun.

"Were you out wandering all night too?" A sturdy figure she recognized as Reidel reached out to help her to stand.

"Wandering indeed," said Tiriki giddily, "but where?"

"My lady?"

"Never mind . . ." She was stiff in every joint, but though the thick grasses were damp with dew, her clothing was almost entirely dry. Blinking, she looked about again, comparing what she saw with her memories.

"She seems dazed," Damisa said with an undertone of exasperation. "Best get her downhill as soon as we can."

"Come then, my lady," said Reidel softly, "you can lean on me. We may not have located Iriel, but at least we have found you."

"Iriel is safe . . ." Tiriki's voice was a croak and she tried again. "Take me to Chedan. What I have seen . . . he needs to know."

Fourteen.

Apillar of dust was moving across the plain, marking the progress of yet another mighty piece of stone. Micail climbed up on the embankment that circled the henge and gazed northward across the ditch, shading his eyes with his hand to make out the line of sweating men who hauled it. Others ran ahead, ready to dart in and replace anyone whose strength failed, clearing the track ahead for the rounded wooden runners that carried the load.

A stand of singers could lift such a stone for a short time; seven times that number might even transport it overland if the distance was not too great, but there were no longer enough singers left in all the world to levitate one of the great sarsens all the way across the plain. And to raise the stones once they had been brought to the circle would require the talents of all the trained singers who remained.

They had tried moving the stones with oxen, but men worked harder and longer, and they were easier to train. King Khattar seemed unable to comprehend why Micail thought that a problem. For generations, once the emmer wheat and barley were well up and the cattle had been driven to the hill pastures in the care of girls and young men, the king would call out the levy. One able-bodied man from each farmstead or hamlet was expected to report for community labor. That was how the great ditched enclosures had been made, and the barrows, the wooden henges, and probably the older circles of standing stones as well.

There is still so much that we do not know, thought Micail. I only hope we do not come to rue the gaps in our knowledge. Turning, he surveyed the five pairs of sarsen stones that already stood within the circle. Despite his misgivings, he felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sight of those sharply hewn shapes against the sky. Atlantean magic could not do all the work, but it had certainly helped speed it. It was beginning to seem as if a task that would have taken the entire labor force of all the tribes dominated by King Khattar nearly ten years to accomplish was going to be finished in less than three. In a single year they had prepared five pairs of monoliths for the inner semicircle. The great lintels too were ready, and lay waiting.

When the rest of the singers arrived from Belsairath, and the lintels were raised to their places on wings of sound, then the shamans would understand the need to work with, rather than against, this new power. And after that, we will be able to complete the new Temple without further interference. It occurred to Micail that he had been so focused on the construction of the stone circle for the last two and a half years that he was finding it difficult to envision the work that would follow.

"My lord?" A touch on his elbow roused him from his reverie and he saw Lanath waiting there.

"What is it?"

"Will it please you to inspect the third stone now?" The acolyte's bronze skin had a healthy glow in the summer sunlight, and the rigorous work had made the boy a man. It had been quite some time, Micail reflected, as he followed Lanath back into the semicircle of stones, since he had to rouse the lad from a nightmare.

The third stone was surrounded by a timber framework, from whose top a native workman was grinning down.

"Is like the other side, aye? You look and seea""

Micail walked around the stone once, then again, comparing its sides with each other and with the second stone as well. All of the monoliths had been roughly dressed before being erected, and each had one side that had been made particularly smooth, and slightly concave. But not until such a stone had been raised could the narrowing of top and bottom which made the sides appear straight be adjusted to perfection.

"Yes, it is good. You may come down now. Tell them I said to give you an extra ration of beer." He smiled genially.

Micail laid a hand against the rough surface. Whenever he touched a dressed sarsen he could feel the subtle thrum of energy within it. When the construction was complete, he suspected, he would be able to sense its power without touching it.

Common people might think of stones as lifeless things, but within these stones he sensed a potential for far greater cumulative power. Already it could be perceived somewhat at dawn and sunset. Many of the native workers refused to come into the site at those times. They said the stones had begun to talk to one another, and Micail half believed it.

"Soon all shall hear you," he murmured to the monolith. "When you are joined to your brother and the others stand beside you, we will invoke your spirit, and all will understand . . ." And for a moment, the subliminal vibration became an audible hum. He started, and noticed that Lanath had heard it too.

"It is easy in this savage place to forget all the glories that are gone," he told the boy, "but our true treasure was always the wisdom of the stars. We shall make in this place a monument that will, when the very name of Atlantis is forgotten, still proclaim that we were here."

"There it is!" Elara pointed past the line of trees that marked the river Aman's winding course. "You can see the timbers of the palisade."

Timul shaded her eyes with her hand. "Ah, yes. At first I thought those posts were more trees . . . What's that atop them? Bull's horns? Ah. Barbaric, but effective."

The others, too, were chattering with relief and curiosity as the rest of the Ai-Zir village came into view. Micail had sent word that work on the circle of stones was reaching a stage where everyone would be needed, and even those who until now had remained in Belsairath had answered his call.

Elara glanced back down the line. Ocathrel had returned, this time with all three of his daughters and Micail's cousin Galara as well. There were the great singers Sahurusartha and her husband, Reualen, along with Aderanthis and Kyrrdis and Valadur and Valorin with their various chelas, most of whom had been here at least once before. But now the senior Guardians were with thema"grim Haladris and stern Mahadalku, and even, riding in sedan chairs, frail Stathalkha and old Metanora"and there was Vialmar, almost at the end of the line, looking about nervously as if he expected at any moment to be attacked by something, despite the presence of Tjalan's men-at-arms.

Almost every priest and priestess who had sailed to Belsairath was presenta"at least those who had also survived last winter's coughing sickness. Prince Tjalan's wife and two of his children were among those who died. Elara had been in Belsairath when the epidemic began, and Timul had immediately pressed her into service as a healer. For so long, it seemed, the acolyte had been facing misery and death; she found herself surprisingly eager to see the village of Azan again. Poor Lanath, he must have been bored to tears. I wonder if he ever convinced Micail to learn how to play Feathers.

"I know it looks small compared to Belsairath," said Elara, "but the other tribal centers are no more than a few houses near the barrows, although tents and reed huts spring up all over the hillside during the festivals. Azan is the only place here that could even qualify as a village."

"Quit babbling, girl. I understand." Timul's dark eyes continued to flick alertly over the scene.

Micail's letter had summoned all the singers to help him complete, consecrate, and activate the Sun Wheel. It had apparently become an event of some importance for the tribe as well. She wondered if the queen would be there. At the time Elara left, Micail had been putting off all talk of marriage by protesting that he must remain celibate in order to work with the stones. She wondered if anyone would ever manage to get into Micail's bed.

Micail surveyed the assembled priests and priestesses who sat waiting beneath the willow trees by the river. How is it that we have become so strange to one another? He sighed. Or is it only I who have changed?

Once, presiding over such meetings had been part of his daily routine. He found himself mentally rehearsing the traditional salutations, the little compliments and discreet formalities that had been his best tools in administering the Temple and the city of Ahtarrath, then winced, as if the memories were muscles gone stiff from disuse. These days he was more accustomed to the rough courtesies of the Ai-Zir, or the easy cameraderie of Jiri and Ansha.

He took another breath and began, "I thank all of you for answering my call. In truth I did not know how many of you would be able to make this journey, but it is most important that we successfully demonstrate our power to move the stones." He turned to Ardral. "My lord, is there anything you would like to add?"

The old adept arched one eyebrow and shook his head. "No indeed, dear boy. Now that we are at the stage of physical manipulations, I am happy to defer to you."

Micail suppressed another sigh. The other thing that he had not really considered when he had sent his message was that, in general, Guardians did not attain their rank until middle life. Most of the men and women who sat with him here were old. Fortunately, the Temple disciplines had kept them relatively healthy, and a good night's rest had eased some of their fatigue. Ardral, of course, was evidently ageless, but old Metanor was looking more than ordinarily greya"they would have to watch out for his heart if the work grew heavy. Stathalkha too seemed halfway to the Otherworld, but then she was a farseer.

Haladris of Alkonath and Makadalku of Tarisseda, on the other hand, presented a curiously solid front that reminded him of the sarsen stones, though why that simile should occur to him he did not know, since they had not shown themselves to be particularly stubborn, obstinate, or inflexible . . . There is so much that I do not know, he repeated to himself with a wry smile. But even great Guardians did not always guard their tongues around the junior priesthood. He made a mental note to ask Elara what she had heard; or Vialmar, who had been in Belsairath since their arrival in the new land . . .

"Of course we had to come," Mahadalku was saying now, her demeanor as majestic as if she addressed them from beneath the portico of the Temple of Light on Tarisseda, not a thatched sunshade in Azan. "The trade town offers only . . . survival. Here is where you are building our future. We would not wish to be elsewhere."

Most of the crowd murmured polite agreement.

"Yes, wella"" Micail struggled to recollect the high temple formula for what he wanted to say, but could not. He bit his lip and settled for a gesture that signified a lack of time for a more exacting presentation. It would open the subject for general discussion, but he had expected that anyway.

"If we all come together, along with the acolytes and chelas, we should be able to raise three stands of singersa"which should be more than enough to lift the lintels for the trilithons. My lord Haladris will act as director."

"Oh, Haladris could probably lift the stone all by himself," Ardral interjected.

Haladris shook his head, his eyes hooding as he frowned. "Noa"I can fully levitate a boulder the weight of a small woman, no more, and I must confess I am exhausted thereafter. I will be very glad of the help, I assure you."

Micail pursed his lips, thoughtful. He had remembered the Alkonan First Guardian's talent for telekinesis. What he had forgotten was that the man had no sense of humor at all.

"We will first complete the tallest trilithon, which represents King Khattar's tribe," Micail continued.

"Which the king believes to represent his tribe," Mahadalku corrected, in a voice like silk.

"Which does not affect the outcome," Micail interrupted. "I pray thee forgive my impertinence, Most Honored Lady, but it would serve us well to remember how they will think. We are no longer in the Sea Kingdomsa""

"As if anyone could forget," Mahadalku exclaimed, and turned to glare across the river, where the grass-lands rolled away to disappear in a golden haze . . . "But the Wheel turns."

There was a little silence then, broken only by a rueful cough from Ardral.

"I do agree that what Khattar believes should not be discounted," Naranshada said at last. "We are few and they are many. It is their land, and we build using their labor, their stones . . ."

"Technically, yes, of course," Haladris answered coolly. "I am not suggesting that we cast him aside. He seems a useful allya"there is no need to insult him. But surely these barbarian warriors would be no match for Tjalan's spearmen. However, you are correct, my lord Micail. Whatever the native folk think the stones mean, the circle will still be a device to amplify and direct the vibrations of sound. Once the Sun Wheel is completed, we will be able to use its powera"howsoever we will."

Haladris had spoken as if there could be no possible objection to his assessment of the situation. Micail caught Ardral's eye, pleading for further intervention, but the adept shook his head.

In any case, Micail sighed, we need Haladris to move the stones. No one can match his focus. The question of who was using whom, and for what purpose, could wait until after the work was done.

"How long do we have," Mahadalku asked quietly, "until this . . . king's festival . . . when you intend to raise the stones?"

"I rely on my lord Adravanant's figures, which I have always found to be precise. The festival will begin in half a moon, when the herds will be driven back down from the hills. It is the custom of the tribes to gather at the henges at that time. There is a cattle fair and races, and offerings are made to the ancestors. All their shamans will be therea"" And the Sacred Sisters from Carn Ava as well, Micail thought uneasily. He had met Anet's mother on more than one occasion, but so far had avoided more than superficial conversation. Since the dinner where Micail first laid eyes on Anet, she made him uneasy.

"So, we will not only raise the stone, we will be seen to do soa"" There was no warmth in Mahadalku's smile. "I like that," she said. "It should serve us very well."

Timul gazed with interest at the people who thronged the great fair that was held here at the end of summer every year. "I think I understand the folk who visit the Temple in Belsairath a little better," she said, "now that I see them in their native habitat, as it were."

Elara smiled dutifully, thinking that she had always rather enjoyed the various tribal celebrations even though the noise and bustle made her homesick for Ahtarra on market day. For all of them, she supposed, the inevitable memories of the Sea Kingdoms were becoming less poignant. A sudden scent or sight still had the power to pierce her heart with its deceptive familiarity, but such moments came less often. And today there were many sights, sounds, and smells the like of which she was sure she had never encountered before.

The lonely plain beyond the henge had been transformed by the influx of people. The five tribes had raised their circles of skin tents and made booths of woven branches, each marked by a pole topped with the horned skull of a bull, and painted in the colors of the tribe: red, blue, black, yellow-ochre, or white, which had seemed redundant until she had seen it. King Khattar's people followed the red bull, and his standard, like the pillars of his chosen trilithon, stood the highest.

"Where are we going?" Timul asked, as Elara led her through the chattering hordes that were gathering where the craftsmen displayed their wares: pottery cups and bowls and beakers, fine leatherwork and wood carving, fleeces and bundles of carded wool, stone axes and arrowheads and blades for plows. But there was no bronze. The highly prized metal weapons were owned and distributed solely by kings.

"To the Blue Bulla"" Elara pointed toward the woad-stained skull just visible over the heads of the crowd. Hanks of blue-dyed wool hung from its base, lifting gently in the breeze. The horns were twined with summer flowers. "They are the northernmost tribe of the Ai-Zir. Their sacred center is Carn Ava."

"Ah. Where the priestess lives." Timul nodded, with barely suppressed excitement. "I had hoped she would be here. Lead on."

Ayo's tent was easy to finda"it was as large as a chieftain's. The posts were richly carved, and the hide cover was painted with sacred signs in blue woad. The eyes of the Goddess above the entrance watched as they drew closer. A young woman who had been grinding grain in a quern by the doorway rose.

"Enter, honored ones. My lady expects you."

The day was warm and the sides of the tent had been tied up to let in light and air. The girl who had welcomed them now motioned for them to sit on leather cushions stuffed with grass, and she offered them cool water in clay cups imprinted with cord marks that made them easy to hold. As she eased back out again, the curtain that separated the front part of the tent from the private area was pulled aside and Ayo herself appeared.

Like her attendant, the priestess wore a simple sleeveless garment of blue fastened at the shoulders with pins of bone. Her hair was coiled in a net held across the forehead by a band. Unlike every other woman of rank Elara had seen, Ayo wore no necklaces. She hardly needed thema"she bore a mantle of power that reminded Elara of Mahadalku or even Timul. Micail's wife, Tiriki, had looked that way when she was leading a ritual, Elara remembered sadly.

Timul offered the other woman the salutation due a high priestess of Caratra and, smiling, Ayo made the appropriate response.

"It is true what they say. You are of the sisterhood of the far lands." Ayo was older than she had at first seemed, but she took her seat with a supple grace that reminded Elara of her daughter Anet.

"But our land is no more," Timul answered flatly. "We must learn which face the Lady wears in this one or She may overlook us."