“When I was Micail, I tried to rule this land with magic, and repented it,” he whispered. “This time what is needed is a warrior with a sword.”
“You shall have the Sword,” said the dark woman, rising and coming around the fire to gaze down at him, speculation and wonder warring in her eyes.
“It is done,” said Fox. The wounds stung as the old man poured clear water over them and blotted the blood away.
The sensation divided his memories and sent him whirling back to awareness of his body once more. He blinked, and knew that he was Mikantor, but that other was still awake within him, just as he still saw the woman he had loved as Tiriki looking out of Tirilan’s eyes. He lifted his arms and saw the dragons outlined in drops of blood darkened by the dye.
“I give you herbs to put on it. They will help to heal, take pain away.” The old man spilled the remaining dye into the fire and began to pack up his gear.
“Can you sit up?” asked Tirilan.
“I think so,” he replied, flexing stiffened muscles and rejoicing in the strength of a young man’s body as he came upright. Micail, he remembered, had died old.
His men set up a cheer as he got to his feet, but the sound faltered as they met his eyes, sensing that the man who now bore the dragons was not entirely the same as the one who had lain down by the fire. He reassured them with Mikantor’s crooked grin. The queens returned his smile with appreciation, their kings, more warily.
They too know that something has changed, thought Mikantor. Was this why Anderle had never suggested giving him the dragons? Had she known the ordeal would waken knowledge that would transform him from the boy she had raised to a man?
The only thing that had not changed, he realized, was his love for Tirilan. To the accompaniment of more cheers, he turned, though at each movement the wounds on his arms throbbed and stung, gripped her shoulders and kissed her, long and hard.
ANDERLE LOOKED BACK OVER her shoulder at the southern circle of stones within the Carn Ava Henge, where the long shadow of the great central standing stone lay across the green grass. When the sun came up at dawn, that shadow had pointed at Mikantor. He still blazed in her memory, standing like a young god in the first light of the longest day with the royal dragons coiling around his arms. The people had seen that as an omen and hailed him as Defender of the land. The gods had given her what she had worked for, and if things had not worked out precisely as she had planned, she would be a fool to complain. But she was finding it hard to enjoy her victory.
“Mother—”
She allowed herself a sour smile as she saw Tirilan standing there.
“Mother, I thought we would have time to talk at the festival, but they tell me you are planning to leave this morning . . .” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
“I was not aware that there was anything to say,” answered Anderle as they continued across the grass toward the causeway. “You have what you wanted. You get to be with Mikantor and still be some kind of priestess, though it is not clear whether you will end up as high queen or the servant of them all.”
“I will not be with Mikantor while I am finding out which it is to be, and he will be fighting a war of raids and ambushes until he can command the kings with the iron sword,” Tirilan said unhappily. “They tell me that Velantos has built a smithy near the old tomb in the White Horse Vale. I thought you would be helping him.”
Anderle glared, but Tirilan did not appear to realize what a shrewd blow she had struck just now. They were nearing the ditch that surrounded the Henge, with the white chalk of the bank bright in the sun beyond it.
“He is not a man to be driven,” she said at last, “and I do not understand his craft. The best thing I can do for now is to leave him alone, and pray that the Lady of the Forge will inspire him.”
“I will pray as well,” said Tirilan. “Mikantor has impressed the kings, but without the Sword it will be hard to gather the force we need to strike Galid down. And we cannot even begin to address all the other things we need to do until he is gone.”
Anderle looked at her daughter, young and strong and hopeful, and her anger went out of her in a long sigh. She had been that eager, long ago, and what had she been striving for, if not for the day when her children would fly free?
They crossed the ditch and started back to the camp.
“Good-bye, Tirilan. May the Goddess shelter you in Her mighty wings.” Anderle lifted her hands in blessing. As she went down the path she looked back once more and saw Tirilan still standing there, bright as a primrose in the morning sun. But she kept walking.
TWENTY-FOUR
This is the heart of Azan,” said Cimara, pausing as they topped a small rise. Tirilan nodded, eyes widening as she took in the undulating expanse of green. They had left Carn Ava the day before, matching their pace to that of the old pony that drew the cart with their gear, and picked up the track that ran beside the Aman river. Here it turned south across the plain.
“It is beautiful,” she replied. “The sky seems huge above all this open land.” She had heard that this was the greatest expanse of grassland in the Island of the Mighty. It was certainly the largest she had ever seen. Winding bands of darker green and the occasional silver gleam of water showed where rivers had cut through the chalk to the clay. Here and there she could make out a pond, or a dark mass of foliage, or a spiral of smoke that marked a farmstead amid its fields. But for the most part the plain was pasture for the red cattle that had given the tribe its name. Fescues and oat grass trembled in the wind that stroked across the plain, with here and there a patch of golden or purple flowers. And unlike most places in the island, it was good country for wheeled vehicles, which was why Cimara had a pony cart, which Tirilan had rarely seen in use before.
“Have you never been here?”
Tirilan shook her head. “I have only been to Carn Ava a few times, and we took the road from the west.”
“It is shorter, and these days, safer for you as well.” Cimara sighed. “When I was a girl the people of Avalon usually traveled to the festival by way of Azan-Ylir. They would rest and break their journey, and we would finish the trip together. Our families were close in those days. There have been many marriages between our lines, and we have sent many to train at the Tor.”
“When Mikantor has dealt with Galid, those days will come again,” said Tirilan stoutly.
“May the gods grant it be so—” Cimara started walking again and her servant tugged on the rein of the pony to set the cart creaking forward, with the rest of her people coming along behind.
Tirilan followed, still thinking about Mikantor. The motion stretched sore muscles and she felt her face heat as she remembered the vigor of their farewell. Carn Ava at festival time did not offer much privacy, but he had found a clearing within a thicket of hawthorn that could be reached at the cost of a few scratches, and proceeded to make sure she would not forget him with an afternoon of lovemaking intensified by several weeks of deprivation and the anticipation of several more.
As if I ever could forget him . . . she thought fondly. If the memory of a boy’s smile was enough to hold my heart throughout those years when he was gone, I will not forget now, when his touch burns in my flesh as vividly, if not as visibly, as the dragons mark his.
She smiled, remembering how he had lain, taut and quivering, while she had kissed every part of his body, as if thus she could armor him against all harm. And then he had made love to her with a focused passion that she had not known in him before. It seemed to her that everything he had done since receiving the dragon tattoos had an extra measure of authority, as if by remembering that other life he had reclaimed a part of himself that had been missing until now. By the time she saw him again, what other qualities might that new knowledge reveal?
And could she recapture the memories of the woman he had loved then, and match him?
It was a little past noon when they heard the drumming of hooves upon the plain. Tirilan wondered if wild ponies roamed t
he grasslands as they did the moors and turned to ask the queen, but the words died on her lips as she saw the other woman stop short in the road, her face suddenly aged by despair.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Chariots—” said Cimara. “Get back among my servants and pull your shawl over your hair. Perhaps he will not notice—oh Goddess, I never thought—Go, Tirilan! Go!”
None of this made sense, but the queen’s urgency was clear. As the hoofbeats grew louder, Tirilan hurried back to take her place with the two women who waited on the queen.
“What is the matter?” she whispered. “Why should chariots make her so afraid?”
“Are you stupid, child?” the woman replied. “Only one man in Azan keeps chariots. It is Galid who is coming up the road so swiftly, and you had better pray he does not know you are here.”
Tirilan felt suddenly ill. They had not hurried their departure. There would have been time for a runner to tell Galid what the queens were planning. But did he know that she would be staying with Cimara? The usurper had seen her at Avalon, but now she was wearing a linen tunic and a brown-striped skirt kirtled up for walking, not the blue robes of a priestess. She pulled down her veil to hide the blue crescent tattooed on her brow. If this was a chance meeting, he might not recognize the daughter of the Lady of Avalon.
Goddess be with me! She drew up strength from the earth and forced her breathing to slow, wondering if this was how Mikantor felt before a battle began. Whatever happens, I must not let him know I am afraid.
She could see the horses now, with the men standing in the chariots behind them, swaying easily as the carts bounced along the road. One pair of horses swung out to each side while the third pair galloped straight toward them. Mikantor had told her of the terrifying charge of the chariots at Tiryns, and now she began to understand. To face them must be like trying to stand against an avalanche.
Just when she thought the leader was going to run the queen’s party down, the charioteer reined his pair to one side and brought them to a halt with the chariot blocking the road. A quick glance identified the warrior who stood behind the charioteer as Galid.
“Midsummer greetings, Lady of Azan—” Galid’s smile did not reach his eyes. “They say you have had a busy festival, you and the queens. But you should not have made so many decisions without my counsel, my dear.”
“What business of it is yours? You are not my king—” Cimara’s voice had a slight tremor, but she had not moved.
“I am something more important,” Galid said softly. “I am your master. Every bite you eat, every breath you take, is by my mercy.”
“You do not dare to kill me! The land itself would turn against you!”
“I do not have to. Clearly I have been too generous—a horse and cart, and all these servants . . . what need has a beggar queen for these? Soumer, Keddam”—he motioned to the warriors in one of the other chariots—“cut the pony loose and bring it along. And the men—” He pointed to the two male servants. “I need more labor for the Little Down farm. Take them too.”
“What are you doing?” exclaimed the queen. “My women cannot manage the heavy work of the farm! If you take the horse, how shall we get our belongings home!”
“You should have thought of that before you started plotting against me.” Galid sneered. “If your Goddess is so powerful, let Her help you!”
Well, that answered the question of whether Galid had had a spy at the festival. The oldest of Cimara’s female servants had sunk sobbing to the road. Tirilan bent to put her arms around her.
“Be grateful I leave you your women—”
Tirilan heard the creak of wood and then footsteps as Galid descended from the chariot and came toward them. She tried to spin mist around her, but she had waited too long.
“The old ones, anyhow. I’ve no use for them . . . but this one has good legs; she might brighten things up at home. What do you say, lads—shall we take her along?”
Tirilan squeaked as a hard hand closed on her arm and hauled her upright.
“What are you good for, eh, girl?” He pulled her close, eyes glinting with amusement. His breath was foul. “Can you grind grain? Can you spin? Are you good for anything but to spread your legs for Uldan’s brat?” he added more softly. “You should never have left your bitch of a mother, little girl.”
Tirilan glared at him, clutching at her shawl. “I am a priestess of the Lady, and if you hurt me, you will feel Her wrath.”
“But you gave all that up when you ran away, did you not? Still, I’ve no intent to harm you. In fact, I think you may be very valuable indeed. . . .”
The color left her cheeks at the thought of what Mikantor would risk to reclaim her. She tried to pull away, and cried out as Galid’s fingers dug into her arm. His warriors stood grinning, leaning on their spears.
“Come along then, little bitch—”
As he dragged Tirilan toward the chariot, Cimara stepped into his path, and for the first time since they had met, she looked like a queen.
“The girl is under my protection. Let her go—”
“And your protection is worth what? You should have accepted my service when I offered it all those years ago.” With one blow of his free hand Galid knocked the older woman to the ground. “But I’ll not leave you entirely without attendance. Keddam—stay with them. Escort the queen to her farm. And make sure they all remain there—I’ll have no tales told of this day’s work until I choose!”
Then he grabbed Tirilan’s waist and swung her into the chariot. The lurch as the charioteer started the horses threw her to her knees. All she could do was to hang on to the rail while Cimara’s curses faded and Galid laughed.
THE CENTRAL ROUNDHOUSE AT Azan-Ylir was a place of half-light and flickering shadow. The meager fire in the center of the great hearth did little to dispel the chill, or the gloom. Tirilan stood with her back to the fire and her shawl wrapped tightly around her, legs locked as if by refusing to let her body yield she could armor her soul.
“You take after your father—” She twitched as Galid walked around her and tipped up her chin. “I only knew him briefly, but you might say we made a powerful connection—”
Tirilan stared past him, nostrils flaring. Was this the scent of evil, or simply the odor of the refuse that she could see beneath the benches? As they drove in she had seen a dog gnawing what looked like a human hand. She doubted that the depressed-looking slatterns she glimpsed peering through the door felt much motivation to keep the place clean.
Once, if her mother could be believed, this had been a handsome hall. Galid had rebuilt it after the burning, and filled it with the spoil of a thousand raids. But twenty years of soot had dimmed the colored carvings on its pillars and the moth-eaten rugs that kept drafts from the walls. There might well be twenty years of dirt on the floor.
“Aren’t you going to question me?” Galid’s teeth were bad as well. “Don’t you want to know how your father died?”
“He sacrificed himself so my mother could escape you. That is all I need to know about him, or about you.” Everyone said that Durrin had been handsome, and her mother must have loved him, for she had never chosen another man, although Tirilan sometimes wondered whether Anderle had sacrificed her capacity for love to her need for the strength she must have to lead Avalon.
“So cold!” Galid rasped. “So cold and fair. I struck your father down with a sword of bronze. Shall I find a warmer weapon for you?”
This time the tone of his laughter left her in no doubt about his meaning. The thought of his hands upon her in obscene parody of Mikantor’s lovemaking made her skin crawl. She closed her eyes, drawing up earth power for protection.
“I am a priestess of Avalon. I give myself as the Goddess wills.”
“Was it the Goddess who sent you like a bitch in heat to Mikantor’s bed?” Galid grinned. “I think not, little slut. If you moaned for him, I will make you scream.”
“I suppose you do not care what
men would say if you raped a priestess,” she said defiantly, “but you might fear what the Goddess will do . . . Will your men still follow a leader whose prong has become a rotting reed?”
“Why should I bother with a pallid slug of a girl?” he replied after a pause. “Your mother, now—there is a woman with fire in her belly. If I threw her down she would claw and scream!”
“That’s what you need, isn’t it?” Tirilan frowned thoughtfully. “You can’t get it up unless a woman fights you. I’m safe then! Do what you will, I won’t oppose you, won’t respond, unless it is to vomit at your stench. Speaking of which, do you enjoy living like a pig in a wallow, or do your servants have no idea how to clean a hall?”
“Perhaps”—his voice overrode hers—“I’ll give you to my men—”
Tirilan forced a shrug. “Will they obey you? They may still value their manhood, especially when I tell them you are not taking me yourself because I have already blasted yours . . .” Living with Mikantor and his Companions, she had come to understand that for some men that was a very real fear.
“Cleanliness, eh?” His gaze shifted away from hers to survey the room. “If that’s what concerns you, go ahead and clean. If you can get those sluts in the cookshed to help you, use them with my goodwill. If you earn your keep I may even feed you. When your back is aching and your fingers are raw, you may prefer to earn your dinner on your back instead.”
“I am not afraid of honest work,” she said quietly, suspecting that her fragile looks had deceived him. She was surprised to realize that though she had many fears, just at this moment anxiety for herself was not among them.
That night, a messenger came, and Galid drove off with his warriors in the morning. He had left three hard-eyed men to guard her, and when she found they could not be bribed to let her go she turned to cleaning the hall. She grew accustomed to the smell, but the spiritual miasma of Galid’s hold could only be endured by strengthening her mental shielding. She dared not let down her guard enough to ride the spirit road to her mother or Mikantor.