Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (7 page)

“Who comes in arms to disturb the peace of Avalon?” The old man’s voice still had power. “Lay aside your weapons, men of blood, or depart, for you will find no answers here.”

Galid’s grin broadened, but the men behind him were glancing about uneasily. “Do you think such tricks will scare me?” he began, then realized that his warriors had begun to edge away. “Still, I believe that we are more than a match for women and old men,” he added swiftly. “We will put down our weapons if they make you afraid.”

“They will be safe here—” Belkacem said pleasantly, indicating a bench set in the hillside. “I will appoint a worthy guardian.” He gestured again, and Linora, who at seven was the youngest of the maidens they were training, came gravely forward and seated herself on the grass.

The warriors looked faintly scandalized as they unbuckled sword belts and laid their spears beside her upon the ground.

Anderle bit her lip to hide laughter. “If you come in peace, you are welcome.” Linora’s older sister offered them a golden cup that brimmed with ale. “Drink without fear,” the priestess said sweetly, though she could see that it was amusement, not anxiety, that glinted in Galid’s eyes. But it did not matter what the traitor thought if they could overawe his men.

Galid handed back the cup, his scarred features as carefully grave as those of the child. When Anderle looked at him, she saw that face overlaid by the soot-streaked image of the man who had laughed as Irnana burned, and struck Durrin down. For a moment she closed her eyes, knowing that she had to deal with the man he was
now.

His frame was heavy with muscle, and the frustrated hunger in his pale eyes had become a wary confidence. The cruel droop of his dark mustache had not changed. He had dressed for this meeting like a king, though the Ai-Zir queen had refused to make him one. How badly did that eat at his soul? His kilt was of fine russet wool, the mantle that covered his sleeveless tunic of the same weave. Heavy golden bracelets circled his forearms, and cloak and belt were clasped with gold.

But if he had changed, so, she thought, had she. No longer ungainly with pregnancy, she stood straight as an image in the formal robes, her face a pure oval within the draped veils and the headdress that added a handspan to her height, bearing the triple moon of Avalon. Galid eyed her as if he would like to unveil the woman behind those stiff folds.

Imagine what you will,
the priestess thought with bitter amusement.
I am not a woman now, but the Voice of the Goddess, and
She
will make you hear. . . .

“Come—” With the graceful, gliding tread she had learned when she was no older than Linora, Anderle led the way to the hall.

“We are honored by your greeting,” said Galid when they had been seated near the hearth. “But you need not have taken the trouble. Our errand is simple. Now that the country is becoming more peaceful, we have come for Uldan’s child.”

Anderle met his gaze without blinking, glad her veils hid the racing pulse at her throat. “And what would you do with the boy if he was here?”

“Queen Zamara has asked us to find her nephew,” answered one of the warriors, “so that we may raise him as heir to the Ai-Zir.”

He might even believe what he was saying, thought Anderle as she considered him. But she had not missed the cynical glint in Galid’s eye. “Alas, this is only Avalon, not the Otherworld,” she replied bitterly.

“Do not play with me!” Galid’s tone sharpened. “Irnana passed the baby to you and I saw you carry him away. It is known that you brought an infant with you when you returned to the Tor.”

“Both those things are true, but the one does not guarantee the other,” Belkacem said sadly. “Irnana’s child never reached Avalon. The infant of whom you have heard is the Lady’s own child.”

If they had not stood on the knife-edge of disaster, Anderle would have laughed at the confusion of frustration, uncertainty, and disbelief in Galid’s eyes.

“You may understand why I did not understand that you were searching for us so that you might care for the boy,” she said tartly. “But the way was hard, and we had no milk for him. My own babe was not born until we were nearly here or I would have fed him at my own breast. I am sorry . . .” she added with lowered gaze.

“I don’t believe you!” Galid snapped.

Anderle looked up at him. “Do you not? Ellet, bring Tirilan to us here—”

They sat in stiff silence until Ellet returned with the baby, awake now and fussing softly, in her arms. At three months old her hair was a golden halo. Anderle had not known many infants, but surely it was not only a mother’s partiality that saw beauty in the tiny features despite the dubious gaze with which the baby was regarding all these strange men.

“This is my daughter, the heir of Avalon,” Anderle said calmly. “Would you like me to undo her clout so that you may assure yourselves that she is indeed a maid?”

One of the men flushed and the others had the grace to look emba rassed. It was clear to all that this delicate child could not be Uldan’s strong redheaded son.

“That will not be necessary,” Galid said stiffly. For a moment longer his gaze held Anderle’s, an odd mixture of lust and respect in his eyes.

Tirilan’s face reddened and Ellet thrust her into her mother’s arms, where she began to rootle against the heavy fabric, and then to cry. Abruptly Anderle realized that there was no opening in the ceremonial robes through which she could nurse her, and in a moment her breasts were going to begin leaking in response to the baby’s cries.

“You may search the isle,” Belkacem offered earnestly, “but I swear by the Light that this is the only infant of either gender to be found among us here.”

“Search if you will—” Anderle rose, settling the baby against her shoulder. “But for this child, at least, I have milk, and I had better feed her before she deafens us all!”

“If you swear to it, then I am sure it is true, but even truth can sometimes lie.” Galid lifted his hand like a fighter saluting his foe. “I will not forget, Lady—” Their eyes met, and she heard the unspoken words
“And I will be watching you . . .”

 

 

 

AS A CHILLY WINTER unwillingly gave way to an equally wet spring, the people of the village reported an unusual number of strangers in the area. Galid was keeping his word, thought Anderle, and denied her heart’s craving to go to the Lake Village to visit Mikantor, whom Redfern, following Village custom, called Woodpecker. Thus, it was not until just after the boy’s first birthday, when the priesthood on the Tor had finished the ceremonies surrounding the summer solstice, that she crossed the lake to preside over the villagers’ Midsummer Festival.

Anderle sat on the platform on which the headman’s house was built, helping Willow Woman to plait wreaths for the evening’s dancing from flowers and leafy branches the children had brought in from the marsh. Tirilan lay sleeping in a cradle by her side.

“If I did not trust our observations of the heavens, I would think we were celebrating the Turning of Spring.” She threaded a few primroses among the yellow cresses already twined into the braid of bullrush with a sigh.

“It’s so—” the older woman agreed. “Many trackways through the marsh are underwater still.”

“This year the isles of the Summer Country are islands indeed.” Beyond the platform sunlight glittered on the open waters of the Lake and the channels that wound through the reeds.

“The water meadows are still water. Not many places for the sheep and goats to graze, or gather seeds. Next winter I think we will live on dried fish and waterfowl and berries.”

“Be thankful you have them,” Anderle said grimly. “They tell me that it has been too cold to grow much on the old farms on top of the downs, and those that lie too low are so wet the cattle are getting hoof rot and the seeds drown in the fields.”

She turned as a trill of laughter rippled up from below. One of the older girls was watching over the toddlers as they played on the ground that had been bared beneath the pilings as the waters receded. Mikantor was among them, walking already and tall and strong.

“The boy looks well, and he has grown. If anyone asks, we can say he is a year older than his milk-brother, Grebe.”

“Redfern’s milk is good,” Willow Woman replied. They both laughed as he sat down suddenly in the mud, brows lifting in an expression of comical surprise. In the next moment he was pulling himself upright once more. The sun struck rusty glints from his dyed hair. “She loves Woodpecker as if he’s her own.”

“I know, but we cannot keep him here forever. Tiny children all look much the same, but as he grows older, even the hair dye will not be enough to make people think he comes from here. Already there are legends that Uldan’s son was reborn from the fire.”

“To take Woodpecker while he is young will be very hard on both him and Redfern,” the older woman said slowly.

“I will wait as long as I can.” Anderle sighed. “It may be safest to move him from one village to another.”

“Maybe, but that is the future,” Willow Woman replied. “We have to keep him safe now or he has no future.You still know mighty magic—protect the Lake Village and he will stay safe within.”

Anderle stared at her, the new wreath into which she was plaiting purple loosestrife and flowering rush trembling in her hands. “Not just the village. When we make the circuit of the seven sacred islands,” she said slowly, “then I can weave the spell.”

 

 

 

THE ALLIANCE BETWEEN THE people who had once hunted the marshes and the sun-haired priests and priestesses who had come from across the sea had endured for a thousand years. Each race had its own Mysteries, and the two strains, mingling, had given birth to a tradition that drew on the powers of both the earth and the stars. From this had come the spiral path that linked the inner and outer realities of the Tor itself, and knowledge of the paths the earth energies followed as they flowed through the land.

The Tor was linked to several of the smaller hills that rose above the fens. A map of these islands formed a shape that they also saw in the stars. The priests knew it as the Chariot of Light, or Caratra’s Wain, but the people of the marshes saw in that constellation the upper part of a bear. To honor that protecting power it had become the tradition to follow the path from isle to isle upon Midsummer Day.

The long low boats set forth at midnight. When the boats moved from marsh to river, she could feel the difference in their motion, but beyond that, it was as if they floated between the worlds. By the time the sound of voices roused her, the sky was growing lighter. Before them rose the tree-clad hump of the Watch Hill. Already the birds were chorusing their own salutation to the coming day. As the first sliver of gold edged the eastern hills, the boatmen flung their torches into the water and Anderle began the song—

She bent, hands moving in the Sign of salutation.
Hail to thee, Manoah, Lord of Light.
She called on the god by his ancient name.
Touch the path we take today with power, that we may be protected from those who would wish us harm.
Slowly her arms lifted as she stretched to embrace the light that spilled down the hillsides and lit the waters as if the torches had set them aflame.

Her breath caught as she felt that same fire ignite within her. Only afterward did she learn that to the others she had seemed limned in light. She turned to the north.

“As light blesses the land I invoke the spirits of this hill to ward against all foes.”

As she went back down the path, Anderle could feel the power she had raised spinning out behind her like a thread of light.

Men from the settlement below the hill waited to pole them on the return journey. This first leg was the longest, following the winding course of the river. To either side long grasses waved from a raised bog, interspersed with heather and a tangle of birch and alder. Dragonflies were already flitting above the water, and now and again a fish would leap to greet the day.

By the time they reached the low isle where once a great warrior had fought a spirit of darkness, the sun was halfway toward noon. They left an offering and made the short crossing to the hill of the wild powers. This place also was not meant for human habitation, though hunters came here sometimes to keep vigil and beg the favor of the powers who guarded the game. Some, it was said, came away with the favor of those powers, but others fled, maddened by sudden fears, and ran until they collapsed from exhaustion or the bog sucked them down.

Anderle sensed the spirit of the hill as a chaotic but not unfriendly energy. As she drew the sunfire past she felt it waken.
If enemies come, fill them with your terror,
she prayed.
Witless and wandering may they find their doom!
And it seemed to her that something on the island grinned in answer.

Now they wound their way southward through level lowlands. Herons stalked where the petals of the yellow flag curled on their proud stalks and the blue flowers of brooklime captured bits of sky. Just at the hour of noon they came to the Isle of Birds. Badger’s village was just beyond it, built out into the marsh to leave the solid ground for growing crops and grazing sheep.

The only structure on the hillock was a shrine. Flocks of clamoring waterfowl sought the air around her. As she scattered the grain that was their offering, they settled once more, gabbling in satisfaction. Anderle gazed back at the way they had come, strengthening her hold on the thread of power. She stood, hands lifted to the sky.