Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (34 page)

“Then that is more than I can say,” Mikantor replied. “Sit down and tell me how the folk here get on. I saw the mark of fire on one of the sheds, but the farm seems prosperous. I can’t speak the local dialect well enough to ask more.”

“Oh, we’ve had enough trouble from raiders,” said Ganath, accepting a beaker from the farm wife with a smile.

“How do you deal with them?”asked Mikantor, remembering the campaigns into the countryside on which Bodovos had led the guard. “Can’t you get help from the king?”

“King Iftiken tries, but by the time word can reach him, the raiders are gone, and then when he is on the coast, Galid’s bandits attack the interior.”

“Galid!” Mikantor exclaimed, at the sound of the name aware of a sick roiling that he thought he’d outgrown. Why was he worrying about Anderle, he wondered then. Galid wanted to kill him; Anderle only wanted his soul.

“When enemy ships are sighted, the people drive their beasts to hidden pastures in the marshes and hide. They watched you for a day before sending the boy to lead you here, and they sent for me, though I don’t know what they expected me to do. I’m a healer, not a warrior, but they know I studied at Avalon.”

“And a pretty pathetic lot we must have looked,” Mikantor said ruefully. “Nice to know it was useful. Since we made contact, they have treated us like long-lost family.”

“They would, of course,” said Ganath thoughtfully, “because of the prophecy.”

Mikantor stared. “What prophecy is that?” he said at last.

“The lost prince . . . The child who was reborn from the flames and will return to heal all our ills and protect us from all our foes. Uldan’s lost son,” Ganath replied with an odd smile. “I thought that
you
would know.”

“Anderle said something once . . . but I did not understand,” Mikantor said numbly, fighting an impulse to make a dash for the shore and beg Captain Stavros to put to sea.

“I have to get to Avalon,” he said instead. “I’m glad you’re here. I doubt these folk have traveled more than a score of leagues in their lives, and I need information on the roads.”

“It is not quite that bad—they do go to the festivals at the king’s steading north of here, which reminds me that I must send a message to Lady Linne. As for the road, be easy. I’m coming with you to Avalon.”

 

 

 

NEXT TO THE HOUSE of the High Priestess there was a small garden where Anderle liked to sit on sunny days. This did not interfere much with her other duties, as the weather rarely made it a temptation, but it was sheltered from the wind, and today a few blossoms of sun’s-blood were opening, translucent red spots on the leaves glowing as five-petaled golden flowers opened to the light. It was unusual enough to see something bloom in advance of its season that she took it as an omen. Perhaps she would pick a stem and tie it over the door for a blessing, though few unfriendly spirits could penetrate the wards of Avalon.

She eased down upon the stone bench and took a deep breath, savoring the peace. The peace . . . and a relief she would have admitted to no other soul. Her daughter had taken her vows and returned from her ordeal. Tirilan was a priestess now, bound to the path Anderle had dreamed for her child . . .

The garden was also a good place for meditation. At their meeting the previous autumn, the Ti-Sahharin had agreed to go aside every day at noon and seek communication on the spirit roads. And if no one had any tidings, in these times, a period when Anderle could sit and relax was always welcome, especially if her people believed she was working.

She settled herself more comfortably, back straight, hands open upon her knees, and closed her eyes. Perhaps, she thought, she would nap, lulled by the singing of the bees. Students always thought they were the first to discover that one could sleep sitting up while appearing to meditate, but Anderle had learned that trick long ago. If she needed rest that badly, she did not think the Goddess would mind. But first she ought to see if any of the other priestesses had news.

The priestess took a deep breath and let it out slowly, drew breath once more, savoring the scents of life and growth as the garden basked in the sun. This was one of the first skills she had learned, more than thirty years ago, and it still took an effort of will to let the clamoring memories go. In . . . and out . . . the old disciplines took hold. Awareness of the bees, the garden, and Avalon itself faded, not forgotten, but no longer at the forefront of her attention. She waited, opening her soul.

Despite her preparations, the contact, when it came, nearly jolted her out of trance. Or perhaps it was the exultation, so intense she barely recognized the source as Linne.
I am not accustomed to receiving
good
news!
she thought, sending a mental plea to the other woman to calm down.

“Ganath sent a message . . .”
came Linne’s thought.
“You remember, he’s one of the lads who studied with you on Avalon. I had placed him on the coast near the river Stour where the traders from the Great Land come.”

When the raiders let them,
thought Anderle.

Once more the contact wavered as blood drained from Anderle’s head and surged back again. She trembled, caught between shock and joy.

“Where is he?”
she sent a mental cry.

As the contact broke, Anderle sank back into her body, uncertain whether to laugh or to cry. This was the confirmation of their vision on the Tor.
This
was the reward for all her labors. He was alive!

She stood, stretching limbs stiffened by sitting too long, and took a small dance step of delight. She saw a figure in priestess blue in the doorway and smiled radiantly as it moved into the light and the sun glistened on her daughter’s bright hair.

“Tirilan! Listen—”
Now
she could share her joy—

“Mother, why didn’t you
tell
me!” Tirilan’s accusation cut across her words.

“How could—I only just learned—what do you mean?”

“Ellet says you saw Mikantor in your ritual!” Tirilan exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s alive?”

Anderle’s joy congealed as she saw her daughter’s face, contorted in the image of the goddess of wrath. But
why
?

“Tirilan!”
She put all her authority into the snapped command. The girl gasped, stopped in midword, and fell blessedly still. “What do you mean?”

“Ellet told me,” Tirilan replied. “Now that I’m safely pledged, as a fellow initiate, she thought I should know about your little ritual on the Tor.”

“Yes, of course,” Anderle began, “but—”

“You saw Mikantor,” repeated the girl. “Didn’t you think what that would mean to me?”

“It was a vision . . .” stammered Anderle, wondering how her daughter had managed to put her on the defensive. “We hoped, but we didn’t
know. . . .”

“
Hope!
That’s just what it would have been! Do you think I would have shackled myself to Avalon if I had known the man I love still walked the world?”

So
that
was it. “You still fancy yourself in love with him? You were children. You have changed.
He
will have changed. What makes you think that whatever was between you will not have altered as well?”

“That’s not the point,” Tirilan countered bitterly. “By tricking me into taking vows, you have denied me the right to find out if I still love him. You denied me the right to
choose . . .
”

Anderle felt her own wrath kindling. How dare her daughter accuse her, when she had given her the greatest gift in her power?

“Until Mikantor returns, how can I know?”

“You won’t have to wait long, then,” Anderle said coldly. “He will be here before another moon grows old. Weep now if you must, but when he arrives, be ready to greet him with a smile. If Ellet has told you what we saw, you know that the gods have granted him no easy destiny.”

SIXTEEN

M
aidenhills consisted of several roundhouses clustered below a spur of the downs where a lumpy line of barrows crowned a hill. A crowd of people waited to greet them. Mikantor sighed. He had hoped that they might pass unnoticed, one more anonymous band of refugees wandering across the land, but Ganath seemed determined to turn his homecoming into a parade. In all this winter- and war-battered countryside, there were bound to be some who would report his presence to Galid and his wolves. He could only hope to outrun the rumors, which seemed to be growing with every league.

Mikantor braced himself against the naked need he read in their eyes. There were seven men and three women, a gaggle of children peeking from behind their skirts, and one individual grown genderless with age. But the buildings were in better repair than many he had seen; in fact two of them seemed to be new. An eye educated by his recent travels noted the size of the livestock pens—empty at this season, when the beasts had been driven up to graze on the hills. Beyond the houses long fields were veiled with the hopeful green of emmer wheat, and gardens sprouted poles to support the first spiraling stems of beans.

When he looked back at the people, another figure had joined them, a tall young man in a tunic like Ganath’s whom he surely ought to recognize.

“Ah,
there
he is!” Ganath was grinning broadly. “Do you remember? He always was a long lad, though we never thought he would turn into a young tree . . .”

“Beni—Beniharen . . .” the name surfaced. Mikantor’s gaze traveled up and up as the newcomer hurried toward them.
My old companions have all grown,
thought Mikantor,
but that’s excessive . . .

“So you’re back,” said Beniharen. “It’s about time. They said you’d been killed, but I never believed it.”

“Why not? There were surely enough times when I thought I was going to die—or wished I had!”

“You have luck,” Beniharen said simply. “Noticed it when we were at Avalon and you always seemed to end up with the last piece of bannock. And you usually have a plan.”

Mikantor flushed.
But perhaps it’s just as well. I think we’re going to need both luck and a plan very badly soon.

“This is your village?” he said aloud.

“This is where Lady Shizuret put me when we were all scattered after the plague. We haven’t done too badly. I thought people might be safer if we lived closer together. There’s more to tempt a robber band, but they have to be larger and better armed to take us on. It has worked so far.” He shrugged, the unspoken
“And if a real war band attacks, we are doomed anyway”
hanging between them.

“You might build a fence of brush and bramble,” Mikantor said aloud. “It would not stop a determined attack, but it would slow them.” He had seen such defenses in the countryside beyond the North Sea. “Even a poor archer can hit a man pinned by thorns.”

Beniharen nodded. “A plan—didn’t I say it? We’ll try that when summer comes. Now let me introduce you,” he went on. A wave brought forward the two couples and the extra men, and finally the elder, who proved to be an old woman, the grandmother of one of the wives.

Mikantor took her hand carefully. He did not think he had ever met anyone so old. “A blessing on you, good mother. I hope you are well.”

The woman fixed him with an eye still bright and gave a snort of laughter. “At my age, young man, to be up and moving is enough to hope for. When it is damp, my joints pain me, and in these times wet days are all we seem to have. These hands will no longer serve for spinning—” She held out fingers gnarled into claws. “But I am still lively enough to stir the pot and bore my granddaughter with tales of how much better things were when I was her age.” She gave the younger woman a gap-toothed grin. “Still, sixty-seven winters should earn one some respect.”

Mikantor nodded, remembering that Kiri had been that age when she died of the plague. They had thought her old, but she had seemed much younger than this woman appeared. He had never before appreciated the advantages of living at Avalon. Their food had been simple, but they did not have to grow or gather it themselves. Ganath and Beniharen, too, were bigger and stronger than other men their age. Perhaps there was a virtue in the very air of Avalon.

But why couldn’t everyone live so long and so well? Even when the seasons were harsh, if properly managed, the land could feed the people. At least it could if they worked together.

The granddaughter was next, a sturdy young woman with an infant held against her breast who refused to meet his eyes. Her granddam had been bolder, but perhaps the old had less to lose. Still, he did not understand why she should be afraid.

“Will you give a blessing to my babe?” she whispered.

Mikantor blinked. “Sister, you and yours have all my goodwill, but I am no priest to give blessings!”

“You are something more—” Now she did look up, and he flinched before the hope in her eyes. “You are the child of the prophecy who will lead us against the evil ones!”

I am only a man . . . I am only a man . . .
cried a gibbering voice within, but from somewhere deeper came the answer,
Only a man can help them, and if you do not stand forth, who will?
The worst that could happen was that he might fail.
At least,
he thought,
if I die helping my people, there will be a reason!

“If you believe that,” he found himself saying, “then I will try.” He touched the baby’s hand, and jumped as the tiny fingers gripped his own. “If you are as strong in manhood as you are in infancy, you will make a mighty warrior!” he said to the child. “Whatever blessings I have to give are yours with my goodwill!”