Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (45 page)

“You were brought up to it. I think you could not choose different any more than I could choose not to defend my city. But Tirilan and Mikantor make their own path, and can you be sure that she does not also do the will of the gods?”

Anderle frowned and began to work furiously at the bellows, sending fountains of sparks toward the soot-stained ceiling. As the bronze melted, perspiration ran down her face and made damp patches on her gown.

“Let me do that for a time,” he said when he thought she had worked off some of her anger. She winced a little as she straightened, and tottered to the bench to sit down. He took her place on the stool, working the bellows with strong, efficient strokes. He could feel her gaze upon him, hotter than the fire, and was glad its glow hid his flush of response.

“And are you free now?” she asked softly.

“Are
you
?”

“For twenty years I have served my vision,” she said slowly. “I saw Azan-Ylir in flames, and that happened, so I must believe that it was a true foreseeing of what might be.”

“Tell me—” he said quietly. All the bronze seemed to be molten now, the color gradually brightening until it was hard to look at. Best to give it a little longer, he thought, retying the thong that bound back his hair and reaching for the leather wrappings that would protect hands and forearms.

“I saw enemies landing here, men of another language who will destroy all we are, because our warring tribes will not unite. But I saw the child dead, too, and yet I saved him, so I believe that future can be changed as well.”

“Then Galid is only the beginning—” Velantos said thoughtfully, “for Mikantor. For me, to wipe that smirk off his lying face is enough. To meet the man two times is enough to hate him. A third time, if the boy does not kill him, I will.”

“With the sword you are making now?”

“Not a sword—I sent a dozen blades to the moors for Mikantor’s men. I make my own weapons now. This will be the first of a pair of axes, like the ones I had in the City of Circles. Ax or hammer”—he grinned whitely—“either one fits a smith’s hand. I make the original in wax and cover it in clay; the wax runs out when I fire it. The bronze goes in at the open end.” He lifted the roughly ax-shaped clay mold from the hearth where it had stayed warm next to the firebox and smiled at the clear “tink” he heard when he gave it an experimental tap with the small bronze hammer. Carefully he positioned it, open end up, against the stone rim of the hearth.

Velantos peered at the crucible again. “The bronze is ready to pour. You must be quiet now.” He took a deep breath, damping his awareness of everything except the task at hand. He turned, lifting his hands to the two goddesses above the hearth.

“Potnia,” he murmured in his own tongue, “Spirit upwelling, Lady of all Craft. By fire and by water, grant this work your blessing!”

Thrusting his hands into rough leather mitts, he poked the coals away from the stone crucible, gripped it with the tongs, and lifted. It was only about as big as a large beaker, but heavy for its size. At the top of the vessel a gray skin covered a red glow, but the lower part was as bright as the coals. His arm trembled just a little as he used a bronze disk to skim off the dross; then, holding the tongs with both hands now, he slowly and steadily tipped the crucible over the open end of the mold.

Sun-bright bronze ran out in a glowing stream, blazing up in a spurt of flame as it hit the clay. When it overflowed the mold, Velantos tipped the rest into a corner of the hearth and set the crucible down.

“What happens now?” asked Anderle as he began to strip off his leather wrappings.

“Now we wait—” he said wryly. “Like a woman with child. The mold is a womb. You have to wait to find out what you have. But this does not take so long.”

After a few moments he took the tongs again, lifted the mold, and dropped it hissing into the quenching tub. The water bubbled like a cauldron, releasing gouts of evil-smelling steam. When it eased, he plucked the mold forth and set it on the stone slab on his workbench.

He nodded to Anderle. “If you wish, come see—” She leaned over the table as he steadied the mold with the tongs, for it was still quite warm despite its bath, and took up a small bronze hammer, the antler handle curved to fit his hand. Then, with a sudden grin, he offered it to Anderle, his excitement masking all other reactions.

“I won’t hurt it?” she asked.

“If casting is good, you cannot,” he replied, “and if not, it does not matter what you do.” She looked suddenly much younger as, biting her lip in concentration, she gave the mold a tap. “You are Lady of Avalon—” He found himself grinning. “Hit hard!” Without thinking, he set his hand over hers, and together they struck the clay.

At the contact, energy shocked through him.
Like the lightning,
he thought in confusion, dropping her hand and taking a swift step away. She swayed, holding on to the table, then turned to him with a cry of delight.

“Surely we have worked a great magic—look!”

Head still pounding, he stepped forward and smiled at the gleaming arc of straw-colored metal visible where the clay had split away. A few more taps released the rest of the ax head, straight along the top and curved below, with a pierced knob at the end to receive the haft and a blunt hammer head beyond.

“How can a thing meant to deal death be so beautiful?” she murmured as he turned it in his hands.

“The striking falcon is beautiful, and that lynx that Mikantor killed in the great mountains,” he replied. “Anything where form and action match—”
As you and I would be matched,
he thought,
if ever we should come together in love.

He turned away rather quickly, found a piece of soft leather to wrap the ax head and set it in the chest. “It must be ground and polished,” he mumbled, back still turned. “It is not done.” He remained where he was as the silence lengthened.

“Thank you for an educational afternoon,” she said finally, her tone gone as cool as the water in the quenching tub. He could hear the rustle of cloth and knew that she was putting on her shawl and the cloak she had hung by the door.

“But you never answered my question,” she said then. “What chains have
you
chosen, master smith?”

“My craft . . .” he answered slowly. “Always I can trust metal to follow its own law. If I fail, it is because I do not understand.”

“And do you understand how to forge the sword that Mikantor will need, the Sword from the Stars?”

At that, he turned to face her. “All that man can do for him, I do. What you want, Lady, must come from the gods!”

TWENTY-ONE

M
y lady is brighter than the sun . . . where she walks, she leaves a trail of flowers. My lady is the light of spring, and the world’s sweet joy. . . .” Mikantor caught sight of Ganath’s smile and stopped singing, aware that he was blushing like a maid, except that no maiden of either gender could have comprehended the mixture of sensation and memory that had prompted his song. Spring had come to the moors at long last, and though a light wind was still chasing last night’s rain clouds across the sky, the elder folk had joined with Mikantor’s band at the barrow of the Three Queens to make their offerings. Their hide tents clustered at the base of the hill. The rich odor of roasting lamb was already scenting the breeze.

“Never be ashamed of loving her, my friend,” said the priest. “The joy that you and she have found blesses us all.”

For a moment a throat gone suddenly tight prevented Mikantor from responding. He took a deep breath of the sweet air. With the Turning of Spring, the bitter storms had passed, and the moorland meadows were a vivid green. “The men are not jealous?” he managed when he could speak again.

“Of you and Tirilan?” Ganath shook his head. “They knew you had lain with her when she
was
the Goddess, in the ritual. Is this so different? You are the king. Your continued union with a priestess of the Lady of Life brings healing to the land.”

In the first rapture of his love, Mikantor had not thought of it in quite that way. Making love to Tirilan was glorious, but he thought that even if he were forbidden to touch her, the bond between them had become so strong their relationship would remain the same. Once, he had loved her as a playmate and friend. Now he was her lover. When he was with her, he sensed a different kind of connection, even stronger than his link to Velantos had been. Wherever he lived, he had felt himself a stranger. Even when he thought he was one of the Lake Folk, he had never truly belonged. In Tirilan’s heart he had found a home.

“Is that what it is?” he asked. “I kept wondering how I could lead men from so many different tribes, but Avalon serves them all, and so do I through my union with Tirilan.”

“Do not undervalue yourself as a leader.” Ganath grinned suddenly. “But it is true that Tirilan gives them a living symbol to fight for, and I think this is something that even the Lady of Avalon did not include in her plan. No one who sees your lady can doubt she brings the grace of the Goddess to us here.”

Both men looked up the slope, where the gorse was coming into golden bloom. Was it the shifting clouds or some inner radiance that made it seem that Tirilan walked in a pool of light, that her hair shone brighter than the flowers? She was leading the women of the clans up the west side of the hill, with jugs of sheep’s milk and bannocks for the offering at the barrow. She had defied the spring breezes in a wrap of pale blue, caught at the shoulders with bronze pins, that left her white arms bare.

She reached the top, paused to speak to one of the women, then turned and gestured. Mikantor stilled, listening with his heart. “I think she is calling me . . .”

“I will go with you.” Ganath smiled. “For this, the man you need at your back is a priest, not a warrior.”

 

 

 

“YOUR MAN IS A stag on the hillside—” As the old woman spoke, Tirilan realized that her gaze had been fixed on Mikantor since she sent the mental call. “A war chief for the clans too, not just the tribes.”

Not a stag, thought Tirilan as he strode up the slope, but something fiercer, for in honor of the occasion he had thrown across his broad shoulders the lynx skin he had won in the great mountains. He walked with the feral grace of some great cat, poised to leap upon his prey. . . . Her body responded as she imagined him bearing her down on her back in the new grass. With an effort she composed her features.

“My ladies—” He addressed the women with a wary bow. “Do you have need of me?”

“The Mothers need you—” the woman replied. She was a wisewoman among these people, for all that she was no taller than a child of ten among the tribes, weathered as one of the stones that studded the moors.

He glanced uneasily at the barrow behind her, a long mound covered with green turf a little more than the height of a man, showing just a rim of stone where the earth had washed away, and under it a dark opening.

“What must I do?”

“Nothing too hard for such a great warrior—” The old woman gave a wheeze of laughter. From the bag slung over her shoulder she drew a black bowl and gestured toward the water that gleamed beyond the cluster of oak trees. Tirilan’s eyes widened as she realized it was carved from jet, incised with a meander pattern around the rim. The gods alone knew how old it might be. “Take this bowl to the sacred pool, fill it with water and return.”

“Very well—” His eyes flickered to Tirilan, and she smiled encourag ingly, though she had no more idea what the woman wanted than he.

“And you,” said the wisewoman as he started off, “must sit upon the mound.”

Tirilan had already touched the powers to which this place belonged. She could feel them now, waking in response to their descendants’ summoning.

“You don’t need to fear.” The woman cackled once more. “What harm, on such a fine spring day?”

Tirilan considered her with a frown, then turned to face the barrow.
“Mothers,”
she prayed,
“you helped me before. Is this your desire?”
The answer came not in words, but in the cry of a merlin that circled three times above the mound before sliding off across the sky.

“Kneel there, just above the stone—”

One of the younger women gave her a hand and she clambered to the top, and knelt. After a moment she realized it was one of the poses in which the Goddess is portrayed, and began to understand. She loosened the pins that held her wrap at the shoulders so that the garment was held up only by her sash and her breasts were bare. Another girl climbed up with a wreath of hawthorn from the hedge below the hill, and set it on her hair.

None too soon, for Mikantor was returning, walking with careful steps as if all the waters of the world brimmed in that black bowl. Intent on his task, he did not look up until he reached the mound. His eyes widened as he saw her sitting there and he straightened, holding up the bowl in offering.

“Life comes from the womb . . .” The wisewoman’s voice seemed very far away. “Life comes back to the tomb. The Mothers give, receive, give back again. What will you give, Stag King?”

Tirilan held his gaze, hands rising to cup her breasts as he took another step forward.

“My blood and my seed—” he answered, “for You, Lady, for this land!”

“Then make your offering,” she whispered, indicating the dark opening below her thighs. Her hands touched his head in blessing as he lifted the bowl and poured. At the touch, power flared between them, through them, and into the earth of the mound.

“Now the Mothers know you!” the wisewoman cried triumphantly. “You fight with their blessing. And soon—”

Above the pounding of her heart Tirilan heard shouting. Wrenching her gaze from Mikantor’s, she looked up, saw a group of his men coming up the hill. As he turned, she began to pin up her garment, shivering with reaction as the moment of unity was replaced by a different kind of excitement. Pelicar was in the lead.