Marion Bradley - Ancestors of Avalon

As they emerged from the portico, the sounds and smells of the city rose around them – barking dogs and crying babies, merchants calling out their wares, the spicy smell of the seafood stew that was a local favorite, and the less salubrious odors from a nearby sewer. The fires started by last night’s quake had been put out, and the damage was being dealt with. The destruction had been less than they had feared. Indeed, fear was now their greatest enemy. Even the stinks were an affirmation of ordinary life, reassuring after their confrontation with the uncanny power of the Stone.

Perhaps Micail felt the same. At any rate, he was leading her the long way around, away from the tall buildings of the Temple complex and down through the marketplace, instead of following the white-paved Processional Way that led to the palace. The gleaming flanks of the Three Towers were hidden as they turned down a side street that led toward the harbor, where shopkeepers haggled with customers as they would on any normal day. They attracted a few looks of admiration, but no one pointed or stared. Without their ritual robes, she and Micail looked like any ordinary couple doing errands in the marketplace, though they were taller and fairer than most of the people of the town. And had anyone considered troubling them, the decision in Micail’s strong features and the energy in his stride would have been deterrent enough.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. They had fasted for the ritual, and it was now close to noon.

‘What I really want is a drink,’ he responded with a grin. ‘There used to be a taverna near the harbor that served good wine – not our local rough red, but a respectable vintage from the land of the Hellenes. Don’t worry – the food will not disappoint you, either.’

The taverna had an open loggia shaded by trellised vines. Around its edges grew the crimson lilies of Ahtarrath. Their delicate fragrance scented the air. Tiriki tipped back her head to allow the breeze from the harbor to stir her hair. If she turned, she could see the slopes of the Star Mountain – the dormant volcano that was the island’s core, shimmering in the heat-haze. Down the slope there was a band of forest, and then a patchwork of field and vineyard. Sitting here, the events of the morning seemed no more than gloomy dreams. Micail’s fathers had ruled here for a hundred generations. What power could overwhelm a tradition of such wisdom and glory?

Micail took a long swallow from his earthenware goblet and let out a breath with an appreciative sigh. Tiriki was surprised to feel a bubble of laughter rising within. At the sound, her husband lifted one eyebrow.

‘For a moment you reminded me of Rajasta,’ she explained.

Micail grinned. ‘Our old teacher was a noble spirit, but he did appreciate good wine! He has been in my mind today as well, but not because of the wine,’ he added, sobering.

She nodded, agreeing. ‘I’ve been trying to remember all he told us of the doom that claimed the Ancient Land. When the land began to sink, they had warning enough to send the sacred scrolls here, along with the adepts to read them. But if disaster should destroy all the Sea Kingdoms…where would a refuge for the ancient wisdom of Atlantis be found?’

Micail gestured with his goblet. ‘Is it not for that very purpose that we send out emissaries to the eastern lands of Hellas and Khem, and north as far as the Amber Coast, and the Isles of Tin?’

‘And what of the wisdom that cannot be preserved in scrolls and tokens?’ she mused. ‘What of those things that must be seen and felt before one can understand? And what of the powers that can be safely given only when a master judges the student to be ready for them? What of the wisdom that must be transmitted soul to soul?’

Micail frowned thoughtfully, but his tone was relaxed. ‘Our teacher Rajasta used to say that however great the cataclysm, if only the House of the Twelve was preserved – not the priesthood, but the six couples, the youths and maidens who are the chosen acolytes – by themselves they could recreate all the greatness of our land. And then he would laugh…’

‘He must have been joking,’ said Tiriki, thinking of Damisa and Kalhan, Elis and Aldel, Kalaran and Selast, and Elara and Cleta, and the rest. The acolytes had been bred to the calling, the offspring of matings ordained by the stars. Their potential was great – but they were all so terribly young.

Tiriki shook her head. ‘No doubt they will surpass us all when they complete their training, but without supervision, I fear they would find it hard to resist the temptation to misuse their powers. Even my father—’ She stopped abruptly, her fair skin flushing.

Most of the time she was able to forget that her real father was not Reio-ta, her mother’s husband, but Riveda, who had ruled over the Order of Grey Robe mages in the Ancient Land; Riveda, who had proved unable to resist the temptations of forbidden magic and had been executed for sorcery.

‘Even Riveda did good as well as evil,’ Micail said softly, taking her hand. ‘His soul is in the keeping of the Lords of Fate, and through many lifetimes he will work out his penance. But his writings on the treatment of sickness have saved many. You must not let his memory haunt you, beloved. Here he is remembered as a healer.’

A dark-eyed’ youth arrived with a platter of flat cakes and little crisply fried fishes served with goat cheese and cut herbs. His eyes widened a little as he took in Tiriki’s blue eyes and fair hair, her only legacy from Riveda, who had originally come not from the Ancient Land, but from the little-known northern kingdom of Zaiadan.

‘We must try not to be afraid,’ Micail said, when the servant had gone. ‘There are many prophecies other than Rajasta’s that speak of the Time of Ending. If it has come, we will be at great risk, but the foreshadowings have never suggested that we are wholly doomed. Indeed, Rajasta’s vision has assured us that you and I will found a new Temple in a new land! I am convinced that there is a Destiny that will preserve us. We must only find its thread.’

Tiriki nodded, and took the hand he held out to her. But all this bright and beautiful life that surrounds us must pass away before the prophecy can be fulfilled.

But for now, the day was fair, and the aromas rising from her plate offered a pleasant distraction from whatever fate might have in store. Willing herself to think only of the moment, and of Micail, Tiriki sought for a more neutral subject.

‘Did you know that Elara is a fine archer?’

Micail raised an eyebrow. ‘That seems an odd amusement for a healer – she’s apprenticed to Liala, is she not?’

‘Yes, she is, but you know that a healer’s work requires both precision and nerve. Elara has become something of a leader among the acolytes.’

‘I would have expected the Alkonan girl – your acolyte Damisa – to take that role,’ he replied. ‘Isn’t she the oldest? And she’s some relation to Tjalan, I believe. That family does like to take charge.’ He grinned, and Tiriki remembered that he had spent several summers with the Prince of Alkonath.

‘Perhaps she is a little too aware of her royal background. In any case, she was the last of them to arrive here, and I think she’s finding it hard to fit in.’

‘If that is the hardest thing she has to deal with she may count herself fortunate!’ Micail downed the last of his wine and got to his feet.

Tiriki sighed, but indeed, it was time for them to go.

When the innkeeper realized that the couple who had been occupying the best table on his terrace for so very long were the prince and his lady, he tried to refuse payment, but Micail insisted on impressing his signet on a bit of clay.