Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon Read online

  “Mikantor—” the priestess whispered, reaching out to him. “They said you had died, but I knew the gods would not be so cruel! Come back to us! Come home!” Her fingers passed through his arm.

  He trembled, torn between the desire to save the people whose suffering he had seen and the memories of all his failures.

  “I am no hero—” He shook his head, not knowing whether she could hear. “I cannot help you!”

  “You are the Son of a Hundred Kings!” she exclaimed. “For this you were born! For this you have been saved!”

  He was still shaking his head. Could he persuade her that this was his ghost, returned from the Otherworld? Meeting Anderle’s fixed and glittering gaze, he suddenly doubted that even death could release him from her demands. For a little while, between his twelfth and fourteenth years, he had believed that he was destined to be a king. Instead he had become a slave. His body had been freed, but invisible shackles bound him still.

  I am not . . . I cannot . . . I am not worthy. . . .

  “Goddess!” Anderle flung up her hands. “Show us Thy will!”

  At the words, the fire on the altar blazed. Glowing within the smoke he saw the shape of a woman with laughing eyes and fiery hair. Then it thinned and sharpened, until what hovered before them was a sword. From the wonder in the eyes of the priests, it was like none that they knew. But he had seen it, or one that was similar, in Velantos’ hand. And yet not entirely like, for this blade was a brand of silver fire.

  “Will a Sword from the Stars convince you?” came her voice, sweet and low. “The priestess summons the Defender, and the Defender will bring the smith to My forge!”

  Velantos! thought Woodpecker. Had this path been laid for both of them by the gods?

  The Sword flamed wildly and he was whirled backward, outward, in an explosion of light and sound, until he found himself sitting upright in his bed, heart pounding as if he had run a league, sweating as if he stood next to a fire. Rain drummed on the roof—no, there was a sharper sound to that pounding. Someone was beating on the door.

  From below he heard voices. Aelfrix or Buda, who slept by the hearth, must have answered. He could not make out words, but the sharp tone was enough to launch him from the bed. He was already shrugging into his tunic when Aelfrix flung open his door.

  “Woodpecker!” cried the boy. “Waves have washed across the Fifth Ring, and the Fourth is in danger. They want every man who can lift a sandbag to build up the barriers and carry people to safety.”

  He finished tying his sandal and jerked his head toward Velantos, who had not stirred. “Wake him if you can—he’ll be needed. I’m on my way to the guardhouse. May Ni-Terat preserve us all!”

  It was only when the door had closed behind him that he realized he had invoked the protection of a goddess of Avalon.

  VELANTOS ROSE FROM EXHAUSTED sleep like a man fighting his way up through deep water. That was not so far from the truth, from the sound of the rain. He rubbed his eyes and recognized the fragile flicker of an oil lamp instead of the gray dawn-light he had expected. Aelfrix was standing with the lamp in his hand, mouth opened to call him again. Woodpecker’s side of the bed was empty, the covers tumbled on the floor. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on what the boy was telling him.

  Waves . . . the storm . . . He found it only too easy to interpret Aelfrix’s stammering attempt to repeat what he had heard. Swearing, he heaved himself out of the bed. Every muscle still ached from yesterday’s labors, but the storm would not wait for him to heal. By the time he had dressed and wolfed down the bannock Buda pressed into his hand, it was raining even harder, the wind howling like the Kindly Ones in pursuit of a sinful soul.

  The streets were clogged with sodden refugees bent under bundles or pulling wagons crammed with whatever they had managed to save. Velantos pushed past them, suppressing an urge to apologize. His head told him that he had done all he could; his heart cried that he should have done more. This is not my city! he told himself, but guilt rose in a tide as dark and as devastating as the sea.

  As he neared the bridge from the Third Ring to the Fourth, he saw collapsed houses, and then a section where the ground had washed out all the way to the road. Someone ran toward him, shouting that the western bridge was gone. Velantos groaned. His first home had perished in fire; this one seemed to be dissolving around him.

  He forced his way back through the crowd toward the southern bridge. Surely it would still be whole. He could see better now—the sky was growing pale. Beyond the rooftops the masts of the ships that had taken refuge in the lee of the city tossed in the swell. He hoped that Captain Stavros was weathering the storm.

  The southern bridge was blocked by a broken wagon. By the time Velantos had helped to drag it free, it was full day. When he reached the Fourth Ring, he found men knocking down houses to brace makeshift dikes with their timbers. The rain had eased up, but the sea was still rising as a strong offshore wind pushed the water higher. There had been some talk of an evil alignment of sun and moon that lent strength to the waves.

  Even as Velantos labored, a conviction was growing that the City of Circles had been abandoned by her gods. The work had left him no energy to curse them, but he vowed silently that while he had the strength to defend his new home, she would not be deserted by men. He had failed before; he would not give up again. Some distant awareness told him that this was not entirely logical. No man could fight fate. But he was too locked into the work before him—the next wall, the next piece of wood, the next dissolving bank—to care. His right arm grew weary from swinging the granite hammer and he switched to his left. It required neither precision nor skill to break down walls. With the sun invisible behind the clouds, the day seemed endless. They said that in Hades the wicked were doomed to repeat the same endless tasks. Perhaps he had died in Tiryns, and was only now receiving his punishment.

  And yet a moment came when he realized that the light was fading. The storm had driven them back to the bridge and someone was shouting that they must abandon the Ring. Shivering, Velantos thrust his hammer through his belt. Water lapped at his feet, but for a moment the wind had stilled. Beneath his feet the ground was trembling. As the road crumbled, he ran.

  The Third Ring was in chaos, even the pretense of organization maintained by those who had fought to save the outer circles gone. Velantos saw the Tuistos trying to move down the street with his guards, his elegant tunic muddy and a bruise on his brow. He was giving no orders. The smith doubted that anyone could have heard him, or would have obeyed them if he had tried.

  As he neared the bridge that led toward the center of the Third Ring, the brazen note of the lur horn cut through the moan of the wind and the clamor of the crowd. He glimpsed white robes and the glint of gold. The Sowela was coming across the causeway from the palace. Rumor said she was the real power in the family, but what in the name of the goddess did she think she could do here?

  Her attendants shared his opinion. One of the priests had knelt in the road, begging her to return to the palace. It was built of stone, proof against the sea.

  “And what of all those whose homes are not built of stone?” she said clearly. She wore no face paint now, and she looked her age. He recognized the expression he had seen when his brother faced the foe. “My place is here.” She picked her way toward the broken bridgehead. Beyond it there now lay a clear strip of tossing water that stretched all the way to the open sea. The priests fell back as she climbed to the edge of the shattered stone-work, lifted her hands, and addressed the waves.

  “Master of the Deeps, I, the Sowela of the City of Circles, stand here before you.” Her voice seemed suddenly louder, and he realized that the wind had eased, as if the gods of sea and storm were waiting to hear. “You have taken so much already, let your hunger be appeased. Spare my city! We will give you many fine bulls and stallions, and if no other sacrifice will content you, I stand ready to make the offering . . .”

  A cry of horror went up from those who
had been close enough to hear. One of the priests started toward her, but something in her stance held him still. Velantos’ stomach clenched as he realized it was not Aiaison whom she resembled now, but Naxomene. He had been amused by the pretensions of this northern royalty, but now he found himself bending in the full formal obeisance he would have offered his own queen.

  For a moment it seemed that her prayer had been heard. Then someone screamed. Velantos looked up. A surge greater than any they had seen yet was rolling in from the sea. Water crashed against the remains of the outer Rings, demolishing what was left of them in an explosion of spray. But the original wave, focused and forced inward, rolled straight toward the queen.

  Shouting, he tried to reach her, slid on a patch of mud, and went down. As the wave hit he saw the Sowela plucked from her perch; then the spray whirled around her and she was gone. In the next moment the same mighty force had seized him. He had a moment of wonder that his death should come by water instead of fire; then he was slammed hard against some unyielding surface and fell.

  VELANTOS SURFACED IN A whirl of pain, an agonizing pressure in his chest that came and went until he arched, coughing furiously, and nearly passed out again.

  “Stay with me, damn you! I won’t lose you now!”

  He looked up, saw an agonized face above him—the boy—no, the man, bright spirit shining within. Woodpecker held his face between his two hands, forcing the older man to meet his gaze, and Velantos felt his heart lurch at what he saw in those eyes.

  “You will live!”

  “You keep . . . saving . . . me. . . .” Velantos breathed.

  “You have saved me, more often than you know,” muttered Woodpecker. “Can you walk? Never mind,” he added, as Velantos winced. “I can carry you.”

  He nearly fainted once more as Woodpecker hoisted him up and got his right arm across his shoulder.

  “Where—” He grated as they lurched along. The wind seemed to have died down. In the street, people were picking through the sodden tangle of debris and belongings that the storm had left behind.

  “Stavros’ ship is waiting. Bodovos arranged our passage.”

  Velantos tried to stop. “The city—the queen—can’t desert—again!”

  “The queen is lost, and the gods know what has happened to the kings,” Woodpecker said flatly. “Her sacrifice seems to have stopped the storm, but the city is broken. Bodovos’ oath holds him here. He released me from mine in exchange for my promise to save his sister and her son. Men are looting already. Stavros wants to weigh anchor before someone else realizes the ship is a way out of here.”

  Velantos groaned as Woodpecker stumbled over a loose board and continued on more slowly. “Leave me, and go . . . while you can.” He felt the younger man shaking his head.

  “Your tools are already loaded, and you are going with us if I have to knock you out again!”

  “Where?” Velantos coughed.

  “To the Island of the Mighty . . .” The younger man’s voice wavered oddly. “There is nowhere else to go.”

  WOODPECKER WOKE TO THE sound of water and the briny scent of the sea. What dim recollection he could muster told him that this was to be expected. But it seemed odd that he should be wrapped in something soft and warm with the rank smell of cured leather, hearing voices that he ought to know above the slap of the waves against a wooden hull. His memories of the last week were a chaotic mix of heaving seas and battling winds that had tossed the ship like a toy. There was a foul taste in his mouth, his throat was raw, and the muscles of his belly sore.

  I’m in a boat, he thought, breathing carefully. The sea nearly killed me on the way to Tartessos too. And yet the surface below him was no longer moving. He seemed to be lying at an angle, and his stomach, though cramped with emptiness, was at peace. Above him a piece of tightly woven cloth stretched over hoops provided shelter. A new realization came to him. The boat has come to shore.

  The last few days were a series of distorted images, including some that must have been dreams. He hoped they were dreams. He had been in a city that was being drowned by the waves, but his most vivid images were of an island greater still, crowned with temples and palaces and a great mountain that exploded in a column of ash and flame. There was someone he had lost—the grief of that parting brought tears to his eyes, but now it was all slipping away and he could not even remember her name.

  He tried to sit up and found himself weak as a babe, but his grunt had been heard. Aelfrix ducked back under the shelter and knelt beside him, grinning triumphantly.

  “You’re awake! Velantos said that reaching solid ground would help you. He’ll be so pleased!”

  “He’s all right?”

  “His ribs still pain him, but he’s getting around,” said the boy. “When we first lifted anchor, what with him raving with fever and you puking your guts out, we wondered if either one of you would survive.”

  Aelfrix helped him to sit up and gave him some water, and he began to feel some strength coming back to him.

  “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere on your great island. Stavros says it’s a place where many ships put in to trade. If you feel up to it, come and see.”

  He nodded, and managed, though his head swam and he had to sit down several times, to crawl from his bed to the ship’s side. They were beached on a muddy shore where a broad river had cut a channel toward the sea. Tall grasses waved in the sea breeze, and beyond them the land was a mixture of marsh and meadow rising to some low hills. He looked at the blue sky beyond and realized that it was beautiful. There were huts on the shore, and from one of them smoke was rising, but at present no other ships were drawn up on the sand. At Aelfrix’s shout, Stavros and some of his crew came down the strand, with Velantos hobbling after them.

  They lifted him over the side of the ship and set him down. He took a step, breathing deeply of the sweet air.

  “Woodpecker, thank the gods—” Velantos reached out to grip his hand.

  He shook his head, a wellspring of inner joy that had been frozen for five years beginning to melt at last.

  “No—you must call me Mikantor now, for I have come home, and I will never deny my name again.”

  FIFTEEN

  Lirilan, daughter of Anderle, why have you come here?”

  She took a deep breath, feeling the wind that came through the open doorway stir her fair hair, still damp from the bath with which the ritual had begun. Mist lay heavy on the marshes around them, but the Turning of Spring had come, and the sun was shining on Avalon.

  “I seek to know in order that I may serve . . .” It was the expected answer, and Larel and Ellet, who were presiding over the ceremony, smiled.

  Tirilan stood in the Hall of the Sun before the assembled priests and priestesses of Avalon. Light shafted through the upper windows to illuminate their veiled or hooded heads and the frescoes that told the story of the People of Wisdom who had come here from across the sea. She had already demonstrated her mastery of the skills required of a priestess and been purified. At any time during that process she could have withdrawn. But there was no retreat once these vows had been sworn.

  And what if I had answered that I am here because my mother willed it, and since Mikantor is lost to me, the calling of a priestess will suit as well as any? Tirilan wondered then, but she did not say so. Those who regretted the loss of the laughing child she had been five years ago ascribed the change in her to maturity, not knowing of the grief she had not been allowed to show. At first, that had been because Anderle refused to believe Mikantor dead, and later because to mourn him openly might make people wonder why they cared so much about one Lake Village child. Although if he was dead, why did it matter if everyone knew how the Lady of Avalon had saved Uldan’s son from the fire? Confirmation of his suspicions could hardly make Galid hate her mother more. She glanced at Anderle, who presided from a great chair below the altar on which burned the eternal flame.

  The priestesses praised Tirilan’s gravity, an
d whispered that she would make a fine High Priestess when they thought she could not hear. I would have made a better wife for Mikantor, she thought rebelliously. She closed her eyes, trying to summon up his features. But by now he would look different anyway. If he lived . . . She had always thought she would know if he died, but if he was still alive, why had he sent no word?

  “Know that the vows you take here bind you to a holy calling,” the priest said then. “If you do not fulfill them in this life, you will be called to do so in another. This is not an obligation from which we can release you. Indeed, some of us fulfill that obligation by serving the gods in this life, and some have pledged themselves to serve from life to life until all others walk in the Light as well.”

  In the Light, and in the Divine Darkness, Tirilan added silently, remembering what she had been told in the women’s Mysteries.

  “When you were initiated into womanhood, you were taught that your body is the Temple of the Goddess,” Ellet said then, “and that it was your right to choose when and with whom to share it. But now we lay upon you a greater commitment, for when the will of a trained priestess is focused in the act of love it can raise a mighty power. Can you swear that you will give yourself only in the sacred times and seasons at the festivals, or as required for the good of the people and the land?”

  To lie with Mikantor would have been a holy ritual . . . thought Tirilan, but her lips moved in the required answer. Chastity was not a problem—she had no desire to lie with anyone, and if it was required of her, she could hope the Goddess would use her body and she would not remember.

  “Do you swear that you will not speak of the Mysteries to those who are unsworn?” asked Larel, and again Tirilan agreed. She hardly ever even saw anyone who was not an initiate, living here on Avalon. She looked at the faces of those who stood in the circle, old and young. They had loved and taught her. She would try not to disappoint them.