Storm? wondered Tiriki, gazing at the cloudless sky. But the old ship gong was ringing to announce the noonday meal, and her belly told her it would be welcome.
Long red rays from the westering sun slanted through the trees above the hedges. To the east, a sliver of moon was rising over the Tor. Damisa stood in the pool of the Red Spring, ladling water with her hands and then letting it pour down over her body. The iron-rich water had passed first through a shallow pool where it absorbed some slight heat from the sun, but its chill still set goose bumps in her flesh.
Taret had taught them to seek the spring, weather permitting, on the day after their monthly courses were done. This, too, was a rite of passage. “Women are like the moon,” the wisewoman would say. “Every month we start new.” Damisa hoped it was true. Sometimes she felt that she would like to start her whole life over. It was all wasted anyway. She had been born into the luxuries of Alkonan nobility and trained to serve the Temple of Light, not to work herself ragged in the gritty world of hoes and cookpots.
For a time, at least, she had found some hope for joy—or at least a little happiness—but that was plainly over now. Not only was Selast lost to her, fixated on her approaching child, but Damisa herself had driven Reidel away. She liked to think that it was honor that kept her from seeking him out again when all she had desired was the comfort of someone’s arms. But in all this time, she had found no one else to whom she was willing to turn. She dribbled more water over her head and watched the drops catch like jewels, twinkling red and gold in her long auburn hair.
On impulse, she turned and kissed her hand to the slender rind of pearl that floated in the twilit sky.
“New moon, true moon—
Bring me new luck soon!”
A silly child’s rhyme, Damisa thought with a smile, wondering what the moon would have wanted to teach her today.
A sudden burst of wind stirred the treetops and she shivered. As she turned toward the bank where her clothing waited, she remembered that she had promised to bring Alyssa some water from the spring. She stretched to hold a ceramic jug beneath the little waterfall that fed the pool, then climbed out and began to scrub her skin vigorously with a woolen towel.
By the time Damisa reached the hut where the seeress lived, dusk was laying gentle blue veils across the land. She tapped gently on the doorpost, but heard no answer. These days the Grey Adept slept a good deal, but one or another of the saji women who tended her should have been somewhere near. She was tempted to simply leave the jug by the door and go away, but as she bent, she heard an odd sound from within.
Hesitantly she drew aside the hide that curtained the door and saw what she at first took to be a pile of grey cloth heaped beside the hearth. Then she realized that it was shaking and from it came the strange noise. A swift step brought her to Alyssa’s side.
“Where are your helpers?” Damisa said, as she carefully plucked the cloth away from the old woman’s face and tried to straighten her contorting limbs. It occurred to her that whoever had been here had probably already gone to summon assistance. “It’s all right now—be easy—I’m here,” Damisa said, knowing even as she murmured the words that they were untrue. Alyssa was most definitely not all right.
“The circle is unbalanced!” the seeress muttered. “If they use it they will die . . .”
“What? Who will die?” Damisa asked desperately. “Tell me!”
“The Falcon of the Sun runs like a serpent in the sky . . .” Alyssa’s eyes blinked open, staring wildly. “The circle is square, but the sun goes round, while the stone unbound grows round with sound . . .”
For a moment then Damisa saw a plain where three vast squared arches stood within a circle of mighty pillars, as if Alyssa had somehow transmitted the image mind to mind. Then the woman’s head began to twitch and Damisa had to struggle to keep her from battering it against the hearthstones.
She heard muffled voices and looked up in relief to see Virja pull back the curtain. Then Chedan came limping in, with Tiriki following.
“She has not wakened?” the mage asked sharply.
“She has spoken,” answered Damisa. “She even made me see what she . . . was looking at! But I couldn’t understand it.”
The ruddy light cast by the fire on the Grey Adept’s face created an illusion of health. But her closed eyes were sunken pools of shadow. She looked like a dead woman already, save that she was breathing . . .
Chedan lowered himself carefully to a stool and, leaning his weight on his carved staff, bent to take Alyssa’s waxen hand in his own. “Alyssa of Caris!” he said sternly. “Neniath! You hear my voice, you know me. Out of space and time I do summon you, return!”
Virja was whispering to Tiriki, “All day she was sleepy. First I could not get her to eat, and then I could not wake her—”
“I hear you, son of Naduil—” The words were strong and clear, but Alyssa’s eyes remained tightly shut.
“Tell me, seeress, what do you see?”
“Joy where there has been sorrow—fear where there should be joy. The one who will open the door is among you, but look beyond him. Little singer—”
They all looked at Tiriki, since that was the meaning of her name. Quickly she knelt between Chedan and Alyssa.
“I am here, Neniath. What would you say to me?”
“I say beware. Love is your foe—only through loss can that love be fulfilled. You preserved the Stone—but now it becomes the seed of Light. That must be planted deeper still.”
“The Omphalos Stone,” breathed Chedan, as if unaware that he had spoken the words aloud. He had once said he still had nightmares in which he alone had to wrestle it down to the ship . . .
With all else that was lost, thought Damisa, why could not the Stone too have slipped beneath the sea?
“You spoke of—a foe—disguised as love?” Tiriki was saying, with confusion. “I do not understand! What must I do?”
“You will know . . .” Alyssa’s voice weakened. “But can you risk all . . . to gain all . . . ?” They listened tensely, but there was only a rasping as the seeress struggled to breathe.
“Alyssa, how do you fare?” Chedan asked, after a little while had passed.
“I am weary—and Ni-Terat awaits. Her dark veils wrap me round. Please—give me leave to go—”
The mage passed his hands above Alyssa’s body, but his smile was sad. For a moment dappled light swirled above the body of the seeress, then faded away.
“Stay but a little while, my sister, and we will sing you on your journey,” the mage said gently.
Tiriki touched Damisa’s arm. “Go now and fetch the others—”
As Damisa ducked through the door, she heard Chedan’s voice begin the Evening Hymn.
“Oh Maker of all things mortal,
We call Thee at Day’s ending.
Oh Light beyond all shadows,
This world of Forms transcending . . .”
For many hours, the priests and priestesses sang in shifts to ease Alyssa’s passing, but Chedan and Tiriki stayed with the Grey Adept until the end, hoping for another moment of clarity. Even when they were not seers, the sight of those who stood on the threshold of death often extended far indeed; but when she did speak again, Alyssa seemed to think she was on the isle of Caris where she had been born. It would have been cruelty to call her back again.
They agreed that Alyssa’s body would be burned the next night, on top of the Tor. Until then, work on the path had been suspended. Domara was sent off with the village children to gather wildflowers to adorn the bier. It relieved the child from the sorrow of her elders, but Tiriki thought the house seemed very silent without her. With no other duties to keep her occupied, Tiriki decided to join Liala on her afternoon visit to Taret’s hut, slowing her swift steps to match the careful progress of the other priestess, who could not get around these days without a walking stick.
“We have suffered other deaths, of course,” said Liala heavily as they made their way alon
g the path, “but she is the first of her kind to go.” Tiriki nodded. She knew what the older woman meant. Even poor sad Malaera had been only a simple priestess, with no special talents or powers. Alyssa was the first seeress to die in the new land. Would her troubled soul find rest or continue to wander, caught between the past and the future?
“It was that last Temple ritual, with the Omphalos Stone.” Without meaning to, Tiriki found herself glancing back toward the hut where that egg of ill-omen now lay. “Something in her mind broke, even before Ahtarrath did. After that . . . she was never the same again.”
“Caratra rest her!” Liala made the sign of the Goddess on her breast and brow.
“Yes, she walks with the Nurturer now,” said Tiriki, but her thoughts were far away. She had thought to come along to help Liala, but now realized that she very much needed the comfort of Taret’s wisdom. The old wisewoman had served the Great Goddess for longer than she could imagine. She would help them to understand.
The door to Taret’s house was propped open, and as they approached it, they could hear her saying, in the tongue of the Lake tribe, “You see, she is here now, just as I told you . . . Come in, my daughters,” Taret added. “My visitor has a message for you.”
Seated on the far side of the fire was a young woman wearing a short, sleeveless tunic of blue-dyed wool. She was slim and supple, and her dun-colored hair was caught up in a tail at the back of her head. She had taken off her journey shoes, and her feet were those of a dancer, high-arched and strong.
Seeing the blue tunic, Liala offered the salute of one priestess of Caratra to another—as did Tiriki. The stranger’s dark eyes grew wide.
“They both serve the Mother, too, yes,” said Taret, her birdlike glance darting between them. “This is Anet, daughter to Ayo, Sacred Sister for the people of Azan. They send her with news they cannot entrust to other messengers.”
Rising from her bench, Anet bent with liquid grace in the salutation a neophyte makes to a high priestess. Tiriki raised one eyebrow. Did the girl think they would doubt her credentials, or did she have some other reason for wanting to impress them?
“Heralding Stars, child, you need not be so formal!” said Liala with a smile.
“I would not wish to presume,” Anet replied as she settled gracefully into her cross-legged pose once again. Tiriki had a sense that whatever had motivated that salutation, it had not been humility. “The other Sea People are very ceremonious, especially with us. Very proud.”
Tiriki felt the blood pound suddenly in her ears. “Sea People? What do you mean—?”
“The strangers,” Anet said simply. “The priests and priestesses who came in winged boats from the sea. People of your kind.”
Tiriki barely stopped herself from seizing the girl’s arm. “Who were they? Can you tell us any names?”
“When they first came we thought the old shaman was their leader. The one they call Ar-dral.”
Tiriki gasped. “Ardral?” she echoed. “Not Ardral of Atalan! Seventh Guardian of the Temple at Ahtarrath? Ardravanant?”
“I have heard him called that. But we do not see him so much anymore, since their prince—” Anet grimaced. “Tjalan—with his soldiers, brought the other priests to sing up the stones. But I see now that you two dress much the way some of their priestesses do. Maybe you know them too. There is Timul, and Elara—”
“Elara!” It was Liala’s turn to be excited. “Do you mean the acolyte Elara?”
“Yes, that is familiar . . .” Anet nodded slowly, eyes wide.
“And she’s a healer? I knew it!” Liala exclaimed with a grin.
“That’s—” Tiriki’s voice wavered. “You said there were other priests. What are their names?”
“Oh, so many—” The girl paused, blinking prettily. “There is Haladris, and Ocathrel, and Immamiri—many. I regret I did not get to know all their names, because my father so much wished me to marry their other prince to bring his blood into our line.” Anet gave Tiriki a sidelong smile. “A tall and handsome man with hair like new fire. Lord Micail.”
It was a pity, thought Chedan, that this news should come just now. Poor Alyssa had not even received their full attention at her funeral.
It did not take long to call the community together, nor much longer to hear what the Ai-Zir girl had to say about the Atlanteans and their plans to build a great circle of stones in Azan. Tiriki wanted to set off on the journey at once, and when they sought to restrain her, she had collapsed. It was ironic, considering how well she had coped with their countless perils, that she should be undone by joy. But it was often so, he remembered, after a long period of mourning.
Once Tiriki had been put to bed, and the guests settled in shelters for the night, Chedan sat for many hours before the council fire. The heavens wheeled above him, revealing both familiar and still unknown stars in the unusually clear night sky. Tiriki had been given herbs to make her sleep, but one by one the others came to join him, minds too awhirl with speculation for speech. By the time the fire had sunk to a smolder of coals and some white curls of smoke, each face could be clearly seen, for it was dawn.
“We must join them,” Rendano was saying, “and the sooner, the better. These Ai-Zir tribes clearly command more resources than the natives here. We would have some hope of reestablishing our own way of living.” The glance he cast toward the rude structures whose thatched roofs could just be seen through the trees was eloquent of disdain.
“I am not so sure,” Liala put in. “Before Alyssa died . . . she spoke of danger from circles and stones. Now we learn our compatriots are just on the other side of those hills, building—a circle of stones. Is it not possible that the danger Alyssa warned of will come from them?”
“From our own people?” exclaimed Damisa in amazement.
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but we all know Alyssa was crazy,” Reidel echoed her.
At this, Chedan looked up, but he bit back the words. Reidel had made great progress, but he understood nothing about the strange forces a seeress must contend with—no one who had not walked that path could truly understand.
“Since when did madness ever prevent one from seeing the truth?” asked little Iriel, who—Chedan suddenly noticed—was not so little any more. In the past six years she had become a woman. At home, he mused, all of the acolytes would have been advanced to full priest or priestess by now.
“Alyssa lived in her own world,” Iriel continued. “But when we could make sense of her ravings, there was usually some truth in them. So—so I think Liala’s right. What if these plains people are forcing our priests to build for them? Taret says they are a powerful tribe.”
“I think that girl did not begin to tell us all she knows,” Forolin put in unexpectedly. “Her father is the king—if Prince Tjalan has really taken over, how does that sit with the other tribes? If one of them wanted to revolt we would be valuable hostages—something of the sort happened on a trade route I used to travel when younger. I am as eager as anyone here to go somewhere more civilized,” Forolin went on earnestly, “but we shouldn’t rush in. Things are not so bad here.”
“Yes, life is hard, but we are secure.” Selast laid a protective hand over her belly. “And I can hardly go a-wandering just now.”
Chedan stroked his beard, thoughtful. He was willing enough to let the others speculate on danger from the natives, but Alyssa’s words still echoed in his memory. She had not spoken of danger from people, but from the stones themselves.
The others had grown quiet. Looking up, Chedan realized that they had been watching him. He looked from one face to another. “I sense we may be moving toward some sort of decision,” he observed, “but if experience has taught me anything, it is that someone always has a last word . . .”
Damisa’s frown had been growing. “Well, no one has asked for my opinion!” she said sharply. “How can we not go? Not only are these our own people, but Micail and a lot of other Guardians are there. Surely whatever they are building is
part of the new Temple, just as it says in the prophecy that everybody used to make so much noise about! Do you really believe a lot of savages could control so many adepts and priests—especially if Tjalan is there to guard them? Or is it Tjalan you are worrying about? He will protect us too—or don’t you trust anybody who isn’t from Ahtarrath?”
“No, no, no,” Chedan said soothingly. “Dear Damisa, where does this come from? Selast and Kalaran are hardly Ahtarrans. Indeed I am Alkonan myself, you might recall . . . No, for good or for ill, my friends, we are all Atlanteans together in this new land.”
“It is not Prince Tjalan we doubt,” said Kalaran, “but the people between us and him.”
Liala nodded. “Forolin made an important point. If Tjalan has enough men to threaten the tribes, the natives may indeed think of using us as a shield against them. And if Tjalan is not strong enough to deter them—need I say more?”
“Why not send a few to make contact?” Liala suggested. “Some of the younger folk, who can go swiftly. If all is well, the prince can send an escort for the rest of us. After so long a separation, surely we can wait a little longer to rejoin our friends and countrymen.”
“I have been thinking much the same thing.” Dannetrasa nodded.
“So it seems that most of us agree,” observed Chedan. “Perhaps Damisa should be one of the party, since she is familiar not only with the ways of the local wildlife, but is also Tjalan’s cousin. Damisa? What do you say?”
“I will go with some of my men to guard her,” Reidel offered when he saw Damisa’s eager nod.
“But should we not send someone—more senior?” asked Rendano.
“I hope you don’t mean me.” Chedan shook his head. “Do you wish to go? Besides, Damisa is the eldest of the Chosen Twelve, and thus under law has rank and standing in any Atlantean court or temple.”
“But what about Tiriki?” asked Damisa. “She’ll want to go—”
“But she should not just now, I think. She needs time to recover,” Chedan responded. Alyssa’s words still bothered him, and it would hardly be tactful to point out that the high priestess was not expendable . . . “But somehow I doubt that she will agree with me. I suggest that you and Reidel gather some men and supplies and leave, soon—as soon as possible,” he added wryly, “preferably before she awakens. I do not wish to have to tie her up to keep her from following you.”