Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (52 page)

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 the 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.

When her guards commented on the improvement, she began to nag them to help. By the time Galid returned, a fortnight had passed. By then they were ready to beg him to take her away. That, it would appear, had already been his intention. Several of his men had come back with wounds, so they must have been fighting somewhere. Had they encountered Mikantor? No one would say. But Azan-Ylir was clearly no longer a secure location. On the second morning after his return, Galid hustled Tirilan into the chariot once more and bore her off across the plain. This time she was able to stand, although by the time they came to a stone shepherd’s hut by a dewpond, her legs were trembling with the strain.

As the chariot came to a halt she jumped down, stumbling as she tried to force her legs to run. Foolish hope, for in three steps he had her. She saw his fist blur toward her; then pain exploded in her head. Half conscious, she was thrust into the dark interior. A bag of bread and a skin of water came after her.

“I understand that you holy fools sometimes feel the need to retreat from the world,” said Galid, slamming the door. “Enjoy your solitude!” She heard the sound of a bar being dragged across, leaving her in the dark.

 

 

 

THE FIRST NIGHT SEEMED endless. Tirilan tried to send her spirit in search of Mikantor, but Galid’s blow had left her too concussed to focus her will. She jerked awake at every squeak and rustle, her head throbbing so badly that by the time dawn lent a faint light she could no longer distinguish nightmare from reality. The ground seemed to rock beneath her . . . her stomach roiled but there was nothing in her belly to cast out. Cold and damp set her shivering, but far worse than any physical pain was the knowledge that she had lost Mikantor . . . no, it was Micail. The man he was then had been taller, with hair like a new-kindled flame.

But I found him again,
she thought, fighting her way back to awareness.
I’m remembering the Sinking.
She trembled as her mind filled with the image of a great mountain exploding in flames.
We lost our world then, too, and yet we survived!
Was that why Eilantha and Osinarmen had been born together once more?

She slept at last, and when she woke once more the glimmer through the thatch had the golden glow of afternoon. The air smelled of damp earth and moldy straw, and a rustle of movement in the corner indicated she was not entirely alone. Her head still hurt, but it was becoming possible to think again. On her hands and knees she set herself to learn the limits of her prison. A faint illumination came through the thatching, but the stone walls were too high for her to claw her way out through the straw. She forced herself to eat the bread the mice had left her, and drink from the waterskin, wondering how long it would be before someone brought her food again.

As the light faded Tirilan found herself weeping, afraid to endure another night like the one before. To her surprise, it was a memory of one of her mother’s scoldings that enabled her to regain control. There was no human experience, Anderle had told her once when she had skinned her knee, that could not serve as either a lesson or an opportunity. She had not appreciated the advice at the time, and she was sure that by calling this prison a retreat Galid had meant to mock her, but perhaps she could make it true. Then she would not be ashamed to face her mother and Mikantor when she saw them again.

After casting a circle to discourage any vermin who might misinterpret her immobility, Tirilan settled herself cross-legged on the damp ground and began the counted breathing that would carry her into trance. From somewhere nearby came an intermittent rustling. Probably a mouse, she thought, and let the awareness fade away. The wind that always seemed to blow across this open country whispered and moaned in the thatching. This too she noted before letting the awareness go.