Tiriki nodded to the Power the image represented, then leaned against a nearby olive tree and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, waiting. It was not the Great Mother, but the woman who had borne her whose words interested her now.
“Your father had the most brilliant mind of anyone I have ever known. And except perhaps for Micail’s father, Micon, he had the strongest will. We never fell in love with ordinary men, Domaris and I,” Deoris added with a rueful smile. “But what you must understand first of all is that Riveda was not a destroyer. Both black and white are mingled in the grey robes his order wore. He knew from his studies and the practice of medicine that any living thing that does not grow and change will die. Riveda tested the laws of the Temple because he desired to make it stronger, and ultimately he broke them for the same reason. He came to believe that the priesthood had become so locked into ancient dogmas that it could not adapt, no matter what disaster might occur.”
“That is not so,” Tiriki replied indignantly, defending the traditions and training that had shaped her life.
“I sincerely hope that it is not.” Deoris smiled tolerantly. “But it is up to you and Micail to prove him wrong. And you will never have a better chance. You will lose much that is fair in this exile, but you will escape our old sins as well.”
“And so will you, Mother! You must agree to come away—”
“Hush,” said Deoris, “I cannot. I will not. Riveda was tried and executed not only for his own deeds, but also for much that was done by others—the Black Robes, who were only caught and punished later. It was their work that broke the bonds Riveda had loosened. They sought power, but Riveda wanted knowledge. That was why I helped him. If Riveda deserved his fate—then my guilt is no less.”
“Mother—” Tiriki began, for still she did not entirely understand.
“Give my place to your sister,” Deoris said, resolutely changing the subject. “I have already arranged for an escort to bring Galara and her baggage to your chambers the first thing in the morning, so you will have a hard time turning her away.”
“I assumed you would send her,” Tiriki said, exasperated.
“Then that’s settled. And now,” said Deoris as she got to her feet, “I think it’s time we rejoined the men. I doubt that Chedan and Micail have had any more luck in persuading Reio-ta than you have had with me. But they are two against one, and my husband may be feeling in need of reinforcement by now.”
Defeated, Tiriki followed her mother back to the porch, where the men were sitting with goblets and two small jugs of Carian wine. But Micail looked thunderous, and Chedan was also glaring at his drink. Only Reio-ta showed any sign of serenity.
Tiriki shot Micail a glance, as if to say, I take it he is also still determined to stay?
Micail nodded faintly, and Tiriki turned to her stepfather, intending to beg him to go with them.
Instead, she pointed to Deoris, exclaiming, “You would go fast enough if she decided on it! You are sacrificing each other, for no good reason. You must agree to come with us!”
Deoris and Reio-ta exchanged tired glances, and Tiriki felt a sudden chill, as if she were a novice priestess chancing upon forbidden mysteries.
“It is your destiny to carry the truth of the Guardians to a new land,” said Deoris gently, “and it is our karma to remain. It is not sacrifice but an atonement, which we have owed since—”
Reio-ta completed her thought. “Since before the . . . fall of the Ancient Land.”
Chedan had closed his eyes in pain. Micail looked from one to the other, brows knitting in sudden surmise.
“Atonement,” Micail echoed softly. “Tell me, Uncle—what do you know about the Man with Crossed Hands?” His voice shook, and Tiriki also felt a tremor in the stone beneath her feet, as if something else had heard his words.
“What?” rasped Reio-ta, his dark face going ashen. “He shows himself to you?”
“Yes,” whispered Tiriki, “this morning, when the earth shook—he was trying to break his chains. And I—I knew his name! How can that be?”
Once more an odd look passed between Deoris and her husband, and he reached out to take her hand.
“Then you unwittingly bring the clearest proof,” said Deoris quietly, “that it is our fate and our duty to stay. Sit.” She gestured imperiously. “Tiriki, I see now that I must tell you and Micail the rest of the story, and even you, Chedan, old friend. Great adept though you are, your teachers could not give you the parts of the story that they did not know.”
Reio-ta took a deep breath. “I . . . loved my brother.” His gaze flickered toward Micail in momentary appeal. “Even in the Temple of Light . . . there have always been some who . . . served the darkness. We were . . . taken by the Black Robes who . . . sought for themselves the power of Ahtarrath. I agreed to let them use me . . . if they would spare him. They betrayed me, and tried to kill him. But Micon . . . forced himself to . . . live, long enough to sire you and pass to you his power.” He looked at Micail again, struggling for words.
Tiriki gazed at them with quick compassion, understanding now why it was Micail, not Reio-ta, who held the magical heritage of his royal line. If Micon had died before his son was born, the powers of Ahtarrath would have descended to Reio-ta, and thereby to the black sorcerers who then held him in thrall.
“They . . . broke . . . his body,” stammered Reio-ta. “And . . . my mind. I did not know myself till . . . long after. Riveda took me in and I . . . helped him. . . .”
Tiriki looked back at her mother. What did this have to do with the Man with Crossed Hands?
“Reio-ta helped Riveda as a dog will serve the one who feeds him,” Deoris said defensively, “not understanding what he did. I assisted Riveda because I loved the spirit in him that yearned to bring new life into the world. In the crypt beneath the Temple of Light there was an . . . image, whose form seemed different to each one who beheld it. To me, it always appeared as a bound god, crossed arms straining against his chains. But the image was a prison that confined the forces of chaos. Together we worked the rite that would release that power because Riveda thought that by unleashing that force he could wield the energies that power the world. But my sister forced me to tell her what we had done. The wards were already unraveling when Domaris went down into that dark crypt alone, at risk of life and limb, to repair them—”
“All these things I knew,” Chedan put in quietly. “The power of the Omphalos Stone can only slow the destructive forces unleashed by these rites long ago. The disintegration has been gradual, but it is still happening. We can only hope that when Atlantis falls, there will be an end.”
“Didn’t Rajasta use to say, ‘To give in instead of fighting death is cowardice’?” Micail put in, tartly.
“But he would also say,” Deoris replied with painful sweetness, “ ‘When you break something, it is your duty to mend it, or at least sweep up the debris.’ Although we meant no evil, we made the choices that brought it forth—we set in motion a chain of events that has doomed our way of life.”
A long moment passed in silence. The four of them sat as motionless as the carven friezes that framed the doorway.
“We must stay because there is one final ritual to perform.” By Reio-ta’s steady speech, they recognized the depth of his emotion. “When the Man with Crossed Hands breaks his chains, we who know him so well must confront him.”
“Spirit to spirit we will address him,” added Deoris, her great eyes shining. “There is no Power in the world without a purpose. The chaos that Dyaus brings shall be as a great wind that strips trees and scatters seeds far and wide. You are born to preserve those seeds, my children—glorious branches from the ageless tree of Atlantis, freed of its rot, free to take root in new lands. Perhaps the Maker will understand this, and be appeased.”
Was it truly so? At this moment, Tiriki knew only that this day offered her the last sight that she would ever have of her mother. Sobbing, she moved forward and folded the older woman in her arms.
r />
Four
Although the long day had been unseasonably cool, the sunset brought winds that were warm and an ominously hot night. Most of those who actually tried to sleep tossed and turned in damp frustration. The city that had been so quiet by day became the opposite that night, as its people wandered the streets and parks. Perhaps surprisingly, few were actually looting the deserted houses and shops; the rest seemed to be searching, but for what, none seemed to know—a cooler place to rest. Perhaps the true goal was to achieve that exhaustion of the body that alone can give peace to the fevered brain.
In their rooms at the top of the palace, Tiriki sat watching her husband sleep. It was several hours after midnight, but rest eluded her. They had been up late making final preparations to sail in the morning. Then she had sung until Micail fell at last into an uneasy slumber, but there was no one to sing her to sleep. She wondered if her mother, who might have done so, was wakeful as well, waiting for what must come.
It does not matter, she told herself, looking around the room where she had known so much joy. I will have the rest of my life to sleep . . . and weep.
Beyond the open doors to the terrace the night sky was red. In that lurid light she could see the silhouette of Micail’s feather tree, which she had rescued and repotted. It was foolish, she knew, to see in that small plant a symbol of all the beautiful and fragile things that must be abandoned. On a sudden impulse she rose, found a scarf to wrap around the pot and the slender branches, and tucked it into the top of her bag. It was an act of faith, she realized. If she could preserve this little life, then perhaps the gods would be equally merciful to her and those she loved.
Except for the light that burned before the image of the Great Mother in the corner of the bedchamber, all the lamps had gone out, but she could still see the disorder in the room. The bags they had filled to take with them stood next to the door, waiting for the last frantic farewell.
The fitful flicker behind the veil of the shrine focused her gaze. Ahtarra had many temples and priesthoods, but only in the House of Caratra were a high altar and sanctuary consecrated in the Mother’s name. And yet, thought Tiriki with a faint smile, the Goddess received more worship than any of the gods. Even the humblest goatherd’s hut or fisherman’s cottage had a niche for Her image, and if there was no oil to spare for a lamp, one could always find a spray of flowers to offer Her.
She rose and drew aside the gauze that veiled the shrine. The lamp within was alabaster, and it burned only the most refined of oils, but the ivory image, only a handspan high, was yellowed and shapeless with age. Her aunt Domaris had brought it with her from the Ancient Land, and before that, it had belonged to her mother, the legacy of a lineage of foremothers whose origins predated even the records of the Temple.
From the lamp she lit a sliver of pine and held it to the charcoal that was always laid ready on a bed of sand in the dish beside the lamp.
“Be ye far from me, all that is profane.” As she murmured the ancient words, she felt the familiar dip of shifting consciousness. “Be far from me, all that lives in evil. Stand afar from the print of Her footsteps and the shadow of Her veil. Here I take refuge, beneath the curtain of the night and the circle of Her own white stars.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The charcoal had begun to glow. She picked up a few grains of incense and scattered them across it, feeling awareness shift further as the pungent sweet smoke spiraled into the air.
Bowing her head, she touched her fingers to her brow and her lips and breast. Then her hands lifted in a gesture of adoration so familiar it had become involuntary.
“Lady . . .” the word died on her lips. The time for asking that this fate should pass was gone. “Mother . . .” she tried again, and whatever words might have followed were borne away by a tide of emotion.
And in that moment, she became aware that she was not alone.
“I am the earth beneath your feet . . .” The Goddess spoke within.
“But the island is being destroyed!” A panicked part of Tiriki’s soul objected.
“I am the burning flame . . .”
“The flame will be drowned by the waves!”
“I am the surging sea . . .”
“Then you are chaos and destruction!” Tiriki’s soul protested.
“I am the night and the circling stars . . .” came the calm reply, and Tiriki’s soul clung to that certainty.
“I am all that is, that has been, that will be, and there is no power that can separate you from Me . . .”
And for a moment outside time, Tiriki knew that it was true.
When she returned to awareness of her surroundings, the incense had ceased to burn and the charcoal was grey. But as the lamp flickered, it seemed to her that the image of the Mother was smiling.
Tiriki took a deep breath and reached out to lift the image from its stand. “I know that the symbol is nothing, and the reality is all,” she whispered, “but nonetheless I will take you with me. Let the flame continue to burn until it becomes one with the mountain’s fire.”
She had just finished wrapping the image and tucking it into her bag when the chimes at the doorway rang faintly. She ran to the entry, afraid Micail would wake. A few swift steps brought her to the door, where she waved the messenger back out into the hall with her finger at her lips.
“Beg pardon, Lady,” he began, red-faced.
“No, ” she sighed as she cinctured her robe, remembering the orders she had left. “I know you would not come without need. What brings you?”
“You must come to the House of the Twelve, Lady. There is trouble—they will listen to you!”
“What?” She blinked. “Has something happened to Gremos, their guardian?” Tiriki frowned. “It is her duty to—”
“Beg pardon, Lady, but it seems that the Guardian of the Twelve is—gone.”
“Very well. Wait a moment for me to dress, and I will come.”
“Be still—” Tiriki pitched her voice to carry over the babble of complaint and accusation. “You are the hope of Atlantis! Remember your training! Surely it is not beyond you all to give me a coherent tale!”
She glared around the circle of flushed faces in the entryway to the House of the Falling Leaves and let her mantle slip from her shoulders as she sat down. Her gaze fixed on Damisa; red-faced, the girl came forward. “Very well then. You say that Kalaran and Vialmar got some wine. How did that happen, and what did they do?”
“Kalaran said that wine would help him sleep.” Damisa paused, her eyes briefly flicking closed as she ordered her thoughts. “He and the other boys went down to the taverna at the end of the road to get some. There was no one there, so they brought two whole amphorae back with them and drank all of it, as far as I can tell.”
Tiriki turned her gaze to the three young men sitting on a bench by the door. Kalaran’s handsome face was marred by a graze on one cheek, and water dripped down his companions’ necks from wet hair, as if someone had tried to sober them up by plunging their heads into the fountain.
“And did it put you to sleep?”
“For a while,” Vialmar said sullenly.
“He got sick and puked,” said Iriel brightly, then fell silent beneath Damisa’s glare. At twelve, Iriel was the youngest of the Twelve, fair-haired and mischievous, even now.
“About an hour ago they woke up shouting,” Damisa went on, “something about being stalked by half-human monsters with horns like bulls. That woke up Selast, who was already mad because they didn’t get back here until all the wine was gone. They started yelling, and that got everyone else into it. Someone threw the wine jug and then they went crazy.”
“And you all agree that this is what happened?”
“All except for Cleta,” Iriel sneered. “As usual, she slept through it all.”
“I would have calmed them down in another few minutes,” said Elara. “There was no need to disturb the Lady.”
Damisa sniffed. “We would have had to tell her
in any case because Gremos was gone.”
Tiriki sighed. For the Guardian of the Acolytes to leave her post in normal times would have been cause for a citywide search. But now—if the woman failed to take her place in the boat, it would go to someone more deserving, or luckier. She suspected that the events of the next few days would effect their own winnowing of the priesthood and test their character in ways none of them could have foreseen.
“Never mind Gremos,” she said tartly. “She will have to take care of herself. Nor is there any point in casting blame for what happened. What matters now is how you behave during the next few hours, not how you spent the last.” She looked at the window, where the approach of dawn was bringing a deceptively delicate pallor to the lurid sky.
“I have called you the hope of Atlantis, and it is true.” Her clear gaze moved from one to another until their high color faded and they were ready to meet her eyes. “Since you are awake, we may as well get a head start on the day. Each of you has tasks. What I want—”
The chair jerked suddenly beneath her. She threw out her hands, brushed Damisa’s robe, and clutched instinctively as the floor rocked once more.
“Take cover!” cried Elara. Already the acolytes were diving for protection under the long, heavy table. Damisa pulled Tiriki to her feet, and they staggered toward the door, dodging the carved plaster moldings that adorned the upper walls as they cracked and fell to the ground.
Micail! With her inner senses Tiriki felt his shocked awakening. Every fiber of her being wanted the strength of his arms, but he was half a city away. As the earth moved again she sensed that even their united strength would not have been enough to stop the destruction a second time.
She clung to the doorpost, staring outside as trees tossed wildly in the garden, and a huge column of smoke rose above the mountain. The shape of a great pine tree made of ashes, from whose mighty trunk a canopy of curdled cloud was spreading across the sky. Again and again the ground heaved beneath her. The ash cloud above the mountain sparkled with points of brightness, and glowing cinders began to fall.