Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (40 page)

“What are you carrying?” he asked.

“Rain capes, for you and your men.” She found her voice at last. “This one is for you—” She lifted the topmost from the pile. “If you will feel along the top you will find the sigils of protection I have embroidered there. And the images of the powers. I have put a swan on it for the emblem of your band.”

“Oh Goddess, yes—” He laughed. “Do you remember the time that Ai-Akhsi boy—I can’t remember his name—tried to rob a swan’s nest and the male broke his arm with a sweep of one wing?”

“He went home soon after,” Tirilan recalled. If she kept talking, she might be able to resist the urge to take his hand. What was wrong with her? In the stories it was always the man who made the advances. But Mikantor had clearly gotten it into his head that she was as sacrosanct as Anderle herself.

“This place seems so peaceful and secure,” he said slowly, “but it has its own dangers for those who are not meant to be here. Or at least that is what I keep telling myself,” he added, “when I think about Galid coming to Avalon.”

“My mother faced him down before,” said Tirilan. “I believe in her magic.”

“If he finds us here we will fight, and blood must not be shed on Avalon. And so I am right to go, though it feels like deserting in the face of the enemy.”

“You are right to go—” She echoed as the silence deepened.

“And they will all look to me, once we are out in the marshes. Here at least I can turn to Velantos or Anderle, but what will I do if they ask questions I cannot answer?”

“What you do already,” she answered, knowing he did not realize how often she had watched him unseen. “Call the others to council. You are beginning to know already the strengths of each man. Living in the wilds will confirm that knowledge.”

“Of course—I have done that—and knowing I value their opinions seems to please the men . . .” He sighed. “Thank you. To talk to you is like giving my own soul a voice to answer me, Tirilan.”

She repressed her own sigh, realizing that was true. He
was
talking to himself, not to a living, breathing human being with needs like his own. And yet if this was all she could do for him, she should count herself blessed.

“My spirit will go with you, Mikantor,” she said softly. “Every day and every night, my prayers will shelter you. Talk to me whenever you have need, and in the silence of your heart I will answer you.”

“And so I will have my very own protecting goddess? It is you who will be the swan, Tirilan, sheltering us beneath your wings . . .”

“Be it so—” she murmured, though her heart was crying out to him to take her with him. But what use would she be in the wilds? Better by far to let his belief in her give him strength than to weaken him with her fallible reality.

“Mikantor—” came a call from within. “Mikantor, where are you, man? The sun will be rising soon and we must go!” It sounded like Ganath.

Looking up, Tirilan saw that the sky was fading to gray. She could see Mikantor’s face. Better that she should go now, before he got a good look at hers and realized that her cheeks were wet with tears. She rose quickly and stepped behind him, spreading the cape across his shoulders as if she were indeed shielding him with wings. He sighed again, and let his head rest back against her breast. For a moment she allowed herself to hold him, breathing in the scent of his hair. Then she kissed the top of his head and let him go.

“May Manoah light your way,” she whispered, “and may Ni-Terat support you, and may all the gods and goddesses of this land grant you guidance and aid until we meet once more.”

Before he could turn, she gathered up the other capes and sped back across the garden. Ganath called him again, and the sky grew bright with the coming of the day.

From somewhere back down the line, Romen, as usual, was singing.

“Hush up there, man, d’ye want Galid to hear ye?” called Pelicar.

“Water we’ve got in plenty, and food, if this sack I’m bearing does not lie, but places to sleep look less numerous, and as for women, where we’re going, the marsh wives are all we’re likely to see, and their beds are too damp for me!” Adjonar added cheerfully.

They all seemed cheerful, thought Mikantor. They sounded like a band of boys heading out on an adventure, as blithe as he and Beaver and Grebe had been when they explored the marshes so long ago.

“And speaking of love, that’s a fine cape you’re wearing,” added Adjonar. “All prettied up with embroidery—”

Mikantor flushed. Even though it was not raining, he had worn the cape when they left. He had not seen Tirilan among those who waved good-bye, but he hoped that she had been watching from somewhere. He had felt her presence, and wondered if it was imagination that made him feel her near him still.

“The lady Tirilan made it,” he said repressively, “and I’ll thank you to respect her name.”

“Oh, aye,” Adji answered, sobering, “and we all are grateful for the capes, even without the fancy stitchery. A good and fair lady is that one, and we are glad of her blessing.”

“We have it,” said Mikantor through a throat that had gone oddly tight. That predawn conversation had left him shaken. Why had he never found time to talk to her? It occurred to him now that she had said very little to him during the time he had been at Avalon, though she had always greeted him with a smile. Perhaps her vows forbade it, he thought with an unexpected flicker of resentment. But absorbed in work with his men, he had not even tried to meet her, and now the chance was gone.

“But I suppose sleeping places are fair game for discussion,” Adji said then. “D’ye have a plan for tonight, or are we to splash about until we trip over solid ground?”

“That is not fair—” objected Grebe, pointing to the wooden trackway that led to the higher ground to the south and west and the path around the edge of the lake. “Are you not still dry shod?”

“Aye well, that’ll not last for long. . . .” mourned Adji, but he was grinning.

“The boats had better be waiting where your people hid them,” added Pelicar. “I have never learned to swim.”

“
You
don’t need a boat, tall one,” grunted Grebe. “You go like the heron, stalking through the reeds!”

Mikantor released a breath he had not realized he was holding as others joined in the joking and they continued on.

 

 

 

THREE CROWS HAD SETTLED on the oak tree at the corner of the garden. Every so often one of them cawed in a demanding, minatory tone.

“Galid is coming,” muttered Velantos. “Yes. Thank you. We know.” The Lake Village scouts who had been watching the roads for the past moon had brought word that the Ai-Zir were on their way, and the people of Avalon were waiting. Velantos hitched up the robe of undyed wool in which they had dressed him and wondered if Galid would recognize him. When he had looked into the waters of the reflecting pool, he had scarcely recognized himself. With his beard shaved and hair trimmed short enough to release its curl, the face that looked back at him was one he had not seen since his beard began to grow. Only the silver streaks that Anderle had painted into his hair belied that youthfulness. His lips twitched in amusement as he remembered that the priests at the healing shrine in Korinthos had worn their hair this way.

The only priesthood to which he had ever aspired was that of the Lady of the Forge. But if Galid’s men searched, they would see the smithy on the Maiden’s Isle, and to find him there would have identified him as the smith from whom the usurper had stolen those spearheads. Galid would not have left him free to make more for his enemies. And so here he was on his knees in the garden, hoping that he had not pulled up the sprouting lettuce instead of the weeds. Anderle had chosen to pretend that they had had no warning, as well as nothing to hide, and everyone had a task. With any luck, their foe would pay no attention to him at all.

From the passage between the dormitory of the priestesses and the Hall of the Sun came the sound of voices and then the scrape of footsteps. Velantos dug his fingers into the soil, waiting. The clouds left from yesterday’s rain passed overhead, sending patterns of light and shadow among the leaves.

“As you can see, I have no army hidden here—” That was Anderle’s most astringent tone. Velantos felt a sour satisfaction to hear it directed at someone else for a change.

“That is quite apparent. But why this demure hospitality? At the least I expected shrouding mists or lightning! I mistrust this face of innocence, my lady, even more than the defiance with which you usually greet me.”

It was the gravelly voice of the man Velantos had met on the road. Surely it would be in character to turn and stare as the priestess and her unwelcome guest followed the path into the garden. This was certainly the same man, but he seemed older. Though his tunic was dyed a rich red, it bore old stains, and he had a nervous twitch Velantos had not noticed before. Or perhaps it was simply a response to Anderle. Galid sat down on the bench, and after a moment’s hesitation the priestess joined him.

“The sooner you look at everything the sooner you and your bullies will be gone,” the priestess said tartly.

“Who is that fellow?” Galid asked then. “I do not recall seeing him before.”

“Do you not?” Anderle’s tone was offhand and Velantos forced himself to turn to the lettuce again. “He is a minor priest, left with speech and wits impaired by a fever, but very strong in body, as you can see.”

“Is he now? Perhaps I should take him off your hands—” Galid said pleasantly.

“That would be unkind, since as you have seen we are mostly a community of women and old men, and need someone who can carry heavy burdens. Besides, his illness has left him subject to fits when no strength of men will hold him. At other times he babbles nonsense, and can only be calmed when I speak a Word of Power.”

Was that a sudden inspiration, my lady?
wondered Velantos, moving from the lettuce to the climbing beans, through whose screen he could watch the bench,
or did you have that explanation planned? Babbling like a barbarian indeed!

“Enough of the fool—” Galid’s scabbard scraped the stone as he turned. “I can see that your young cousin is not here, but it is also obvious that you sheltered him. This will not happen again.”

“
Will
not?” asked Anderle. “You forget that
I
am the mistress here.”

“Only so long as I allow it. Be grateful that I do not burn your temple to the ground and take your priestesses to grind my corn! As for you”—his voice deepened—“you are still young enough to serve me in my bed . . .”

Velantos’ fingers closed convulsively on some plant and wrenched it from the soil. He told himself that the priestess was in no danger. Whatever happened to the others, surely she could summon a dragon chariot like Medea and fly away.

“Or your lovely daughter might do—” From Anderle came a sharp hiss and Galid laughed. “Though she is rather too sweet for my taste.”

“Galid—” Anderle’s voice shook with wrath, not fear. “What in the name of all that’s holy do you
want
? Have you dedicated yourself to evil for amusement or revenge? Who could have hurt you so badly that you must make the rest of the world suffer? Do you not fear the gods?”

The hair rose on the back of Velantos’ neck at the usurper’s laugh, and the crows began to caw once more. He parted the leaves. Galid was staring at Anderle. Still grinning, he reached out and took up a lock of her curling hair. “Lady,” Galid said with bleak assurance, “do you think the world would be dying around us if there were gods? There is only this life, and the sensations we can force it to yield. Your calm is death in life. I could pierce that detachment . . .” His grip tightened on her hair. “They say that your bed has been empty since I killed that fool Durrin all those years ago. Have you found no man to be your match, or your master?”

His voice grew harsh, and Velantos saw that he was looking at Anderle as a woman, not as an opponent. Now, thought the smith, might be a good time to summon those dragons. Anderle’s eyes blazed. Velantos felt a familiar stirring in his own flesh, knowing exactly what the other man must feel. And Galid had no inhibitions, no honor, no fear.

One of the crows flapped down to the trellis where the bean vines twined, head cocked as if to ask what Velantos was waiting for. Would a lunge reach Galid before he could draw that sword?

“Let me go!” snapped Anderle, and Galid reached for her with his other hand.

Help me, holy gods!
Velantos started to rise.

“Paion!” squawked the crow.