“There it is!” Elara pointed past the line of trees that marked the river Aman’s winding course. “You can see the timbers of the palisade.”
Timul shaded her eyes with her hand. “Ah, yes. At first I thought those posts were more trees . . . What’s that atop them? Bull’s horns? Ah. Barbaric, but effective.”
The others, too, were chattering with relief and curiosity as the rest of the Ai-Zir village came into view. Micail had sent word that work on the circle of stones was reaching a stage where everyone would be needed, and even those who until now had remained in Belsairath had answered his call.
Elara glanced back down the line. Ocathrel had returned, this time with all three of his daughters and Micail’s cousin Galara as well. There were the great singers Sahurusartha and her husband, Reualen, along with Aderanthis and Kyrrdis and Valadur and Valorin with their various chelas, most of whom had been here at least once before. But now the senior Guardians were with them—grim Haladris and stern Mahadalku, and even, riding in sedan chairs, frail Stathalkha and old Metanor—and there was Vialmar, almost at the end of the line, looking about nervously as if he expected at any moment to be attacked by something, despite the presence of Tjalan’s men-at-arms.
Almost every priest and priestess who had sailed to Belsairath was present—at least those who had also survived last winter’s coughing sickness. Prince Tjalan’s wife and two of his children were among those who died. Elara had been in Belsairath when the epidemic began, and Timul had immediately pressed her into service as a healer. For so long, it seemed, the acolyte had been facing misery and death; she found herself surprisingly eager to see the village of Azan again. Poor Lanath, he must have been bored to tears. I wonder if he ever convinced Micail to learn how to play Feathers.
“I know it looks small compared to Belsairath,” said Elara, “but the other tribal centers are no more than a few houses near the barrows, although tents and reed huts spring up all over the hillside during the festivals. Azan is the only place here that could even qualify as a village.”
“Quit babbling, girl. I understand.” Timul’s dark eyes continued to flick alertly over the scene.
Micail’s letter had summoned all the singers to help him complete, consecrate, and activate the Sun Wheel. It had apparently become an event of some importance for the tribe as well. She wondered if the queen would be there. At the time Elara left, Micail had been putting off all talk of marriage by protesting that he must remain celibate in order to work with the stones. She wondered if anyone would ever manage to get into Micail’s bed.
Micail surveyed the assembled priests and priestesses who sat waiting beneath the willow trees by the river. How is it that we have become so strange to one another? He sighed. Or is it only I who have changed?
Once, presiding over such meetings had been part of his daily routine. He found himself mentally rehearsing the traditional salutations, the little compliments and discreet formalities that had been his best tools in administering the Temple and the city of Ahtarrath, then winced, as if the memories were muscles gone stiff from disuse. These days he was more accustomed to the rough courtesies of the Ai-Zir, or the easy cameraderie of Jiri and Ansha.
He took another breath and began, “I thank all of you for answering my call. In truth I did not know how many of you would be able to make this journey, but it is most important that we successfully demonstrate our power to move the stones.” He turned to Ardral. “My lord, is there anything you would like to add?”
The old adept arched one eyebrow and shook his head. “No indeed, dear boy. Now that we are at the stage of physical manipulations, I am happy to defer to you.”
Micail suppressed another sigh. The other thing that he had not really considered when he had sent his message was that, in general, Guardians did not attain their rank until middle life. Most of the men and women who sat with him here were old. Fortunately, the Temple disciplines had kept them relatively healthy, and a good night’s rest had eased some of their fatigue. Ardral, of course, was evidently ageless, but old Metanor was looking more than ordinarily grey—they would have to watch out for his heart if the work grew heavy. Stathalkha too seemed halfway to the Otherworld, but then she was a farseer.
Haladris of Alkonath and Makadalku of Tarisseda, on the other hand, presented a curiously solid front that reminded him of the sarsen stones, though why that simile should occur to him he did not know, since they had not shown themselves to be particularly stubborn, obstinate, or inflexible . . . There is so much that I do not know, he repeated to himself with a wry smile. But even great Guardians did not always guard their tongues around the junior priesthood. He made a mental note to ask Elara what she had heard; or Vialmar, who had been in Belsairath since their arrival in the new land . . .
“Of course we had to come,” Mahadalku was saying now, her demeanor as majestic as if she addressed them from beneath the portico of the Temple of Light on Tarisseda, not a thatched sunshade in Azan. “The trade town offers only . . . survival. Here is where you are building our future. We would not wish to be elsewhere.”
Most of the crowd murmured polite agreement.
“Yes, well—” Micail struggled to recollect the high temple formula for what he wanted to say, but could not. He bit his lip and settled for a gesture that signified a lack of time for a more exacting presentation. It would open the subject for general discussion, but he had expected that anyway.
“If we all come together, along with the acolytes and chelas, we should be able to raise three stands of singers—which should be more than enough to lift the lintels for the trilithons. My lord Haladris will act as director.”
“Oh, Haladris could probably lift the stone all by himself,” Ardral interjected.
Haladris shook his head, his eyes hooding as he frowned. “No—I can fully levitate a boulder the weight of a small woman, no more, and I must confess I am exhausted thereafter. I will be very glad of the help, I assure you.”
Micail pursed his lips, thoughtful. He had remembered the Alkonan First Guardian’s talent for telekinesis. What he had forgotten was that the man had no sense of humor at all.
“We will first complete the tallest trilithon, which represents King Khattar’s tribe,” Micail continued.
“Which the king believes to represent his tribe,” Mahadalku corrected, in a voice like silk.
“Which does not affect the outcome,” Micail interrupted. “I pray thee forgive my impertinence, Most Honored Lady, but it would serve us well to remember how they will think. We are no longer in the Sea Kingdoms—”
“As if anyone could forget,” Mahadalku exclaimed, and turned to glare across the river, where the grass-lands rolled away to disappear in a golden haze . . . “But the Wheel turns.”
There was a little silence then, broken only by a rueful cough from Ardral.
“I do agree that what Khattar believes should not be discounted,” Naranshada said at last. “We are few and they are many. It is their land, and we build using their labor, their stones . . .”
“Technically, yes, of course,” Haladris answered coolly. “I am not suggesting that we cast him aside. He seems a useful ally—there is no need to insult him. But surely these barbarian warriors would be no match for Tjalan’s spearmen. However, you are correct, my lord Micail. Whatever the native folk think the stones mean, the circle will still be a device to amplify and direct the vibrations of sound. Once the Sun Wheel is completed, we will be able to use its power—howsoever we will.”
Haladris had spoken as if there could be no possible objection to his assessment of the situation. Micail caught Ardral’s eye, pleading for further intervention, but the adept shook his head.
In any case, Micail sighed, we need Haladris to move the stones. No one can match his focus. The question of who was using whom, and for what purpose, could wait until after the work was done.
“How long do we have,” Mahadalku asked quietly, “until this . . . king’s festival . . . when you int
end to raise the stones?”
“I rely on my lord Adravanant’s figures, which I have always found to be precise. The festival will begin in half a moon, when the herds will be driven back down from the hills. It is the custom of the tribes to gather at the henges at that time. There is a cattle fair and races, and offerings are made to the ancestors. All their shamans will be there—” And the Sacred Sisters from Carn Ava as well, Micail thought uneasily. He had met Anet’s mother on more than one occasion, but so far had avoided more than superficial conversation. Since the dinner where Micail first laid eyes on Anet, she made him uneasy.
“So, we will not only raise the stone, we will be seen to do so—” There was no warmth in Mahadalku’s smile. “I like that,” she said. “It should serve us very well.”
Timul gazed with interest at the people who thronged the great fair that was held here at the end of summer every year. “I think I understand the folk who visit the Temple in Belsairath a little better,” she said, “now that I see them in their native habitat, as it were.”
Elara smiled dutifully, thinking that she had always rather enjoyed the various tribal celebrations even though the noise and bustle made her homesick for Ahtarra on market day. For all of them, she supposed, the inevitable memories of the Sea Kingdoms were becoming less poignant. A sudden scent or sight still had the power to pierce her heart with its deceptive familiarity, but such moments came less often. And today there were many sights, sounds, and smells the like of which she was sure she had never encountered before.
The lonely plain beyond the henge had been transformed by the influx of people. The five tribes had raised their circles of skin tents and made booths of woven branches, each marked by a pole topped with the horned skull of a bull, and painted in the colors of the tribe: red, blue, black, yellow-ochre, or white, which had seemed redundant until she had seen it. King Khattar’s people followed the red bull, and his standard, like the pillars of his chosen trilithon, stood the highest.
“Where are we going?” Timul asked, as Elara led her through the chattering hordes that were gathering where the craftsmen displayed their wares: pottery cups and bowls and beakers, fine leatherwork and wood carving, fleeces and bundles of carded wool, stone axes and arrowheads and blades for plows. But there was no bronze. The highly prized metal weapons were owned and distributed solely by kings.
“To the Blue Bull—” Elara pointed toward the woad-stained skull just visible over the heads of the crowd. Hanks of blue-dyed wool hung from its base, lifting gently in the breeze. The horns were twined with summer flowers. “They are the northernmost tribe of the Ai-Zir. Their sacred center is Carn Ava.”
“Ah. Where the priestess lives.” Timul nodded, with barely suppressed excitement. “I had hoped she would be here. Lead on.”
Ayo’s tent was easy to find—it was as large as a chieftain’s. The posts were richly carved, and the hide cover was painted with sacred signs in blue woad. The eyes of the Goddess above the entrance watched as they drew closer. A young woman who had been grinding grain in a quern by the doorway rose.
“Enter, honored ones. My lady expects you.”
The day was warm and the sides of the tent had been tied up to let in light and air. The girl who had welcomed them now motioned for them to sit on leather cushions stuffed with grass, and she offered them cool water in clay cups imprinted with cord marks that made them easy to hold. As she eased back out again, the curtain that separated the front part of the tent from the private area was pulled aside and Ayo herself appeared.
Like her attendant, the priestess wore a simple sleeveless garment of blue fastened at the shoulders with pins of bone. Her hair was coiled in a net held across the forehead by a band. Unlike every other woman of rank Elara had seen, Ayo wore no necklaces. She hardly needed them—she bore a mantle of power that reminded Elara of Mahadalku or even Timul. Micail’s wife, Tiriki, had looked that way when she was leading a ritual, Elara remembered sadly.
Timul offered the other woman the salutation due a high priestess of Caratra and, smiling, Ayo made the appropriate response.
“It is true what they say. You are of the sisterhood of the far lands.” Ayo was older than she had at first seemed, but she took her seat with a supple grace that reminded Elara of her daughter Anet.
“But our land is no more,” Timul answered flatly. “We must learn which face the Lady wears in this one or She may overlook us.”
“That is good.” Ayo smiled. “You speak our language well, but with the accent of the Black Bull tribe. I had heard that someone was offering service to our sisters when they visit the strange stone houses by the sea. It is a pleasure to meet you. But I wonder, why do you come here?”
“The priests of my people will perform a great magic tomorrow. I was called to attend.”
“And you, child? You are skilled in healing, I understand.” Ayo’s grey gaze had shifted and Elara found it hard to look away.
“I am also a singer,” she answered. “And I will be helping build the stone circle.”
“Ah. And this magic will serve what ends?”
Elara bit her lip, uncertain how to answer. The acolytes and chelas had not been told everything, but she had heard enough to know that the Guardians did not believe that King Khattar understood the purpose of the circle and that they preferred that things remain that way. And this was Khattar’s wife, however independent of him she might be. Elara did not like to lie, so she was going to have to choose her words carefully.
“I am a servant of the Light,” she said slowly, “and I believe that when the circle is completed, the stones will bring light into the land.”
“Light is in the land already. It runs like a river. The souls of the ancestors ride its currents to the Otherworld and then return to the wombs of our women once more.” Ayo frowned thoughtfully.
“I have heard that the shamans are not happy with what we do,” Timul said suddenly, “and they would stop the work except that our priests are supported by the king. Do you too think we are—wrong?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are few,” said Ayo, “and there are many things you do not understand.”
“What do you mean?” Elara eyed her uncertainly.
“If I could tell you, I would not need to.” Ayo smiled. “But we will all become one people in time.”
“Are you speaking of a marriage between your daughter and Lord Micail?”
Ayo laughed. “It is Khattar and Queen Khayan who want that mating. But my daughter is not destined for the hearth of any man. She will give herself as the Goddess bids, not the king. Is it not so with you?”
Timul nodded. “In my order, yes, we are free.”
“Khattar wishes only to bind your people to him,” said Ayo. “If not through the marriage bed, he will seek his goal by other means. His hopes may be too high, but look you to your own,” she said, grinning.
Is that a threat or a warning? thought Elara, shocked. At that moment, the attendant came in with a basket of flat cakes glazed with honey and the conversation became self-consciously social. But afterward, as Elara escorted Timul back to the Atlantean encampment, both were still puzzling over the meaning of Ayo’s enigmatic smile.
On the day chosen to raise the stones, the people gathered outside the ditch that encircled the village, humming like a gigantic beehive. Facing the entrance, a bench had been set for King Khattar.
For Micail, it was wrenching to see and greet the singers who awaited within the circle like so many ghosts of his past life, their fine white garments still redolent of the distinctively Atlantean spices in which they had been packed. His own garb, a very beautifully made but rather large robe borrowed from Ocathrel, drew exclamations of admiration from the others and even a number of reminiscent tears. But soon most of the singers settled back into their places, ranked according to voice range.
When the silence was complete, Micail nodded and cast a handful of frankincense into each of the three incense pots on tripods at the place
of Nar-Inabi, in the eastern quarter. The hot coals blinked like red stars as the resin began to melt, releasing the fragrant smoke to billow upward into the air. The familiar heavy sweetness caught in his throat, and for a moment, Micail was again in the Temple of Light on Ahtarrath; but at the same moment Jiritaren, standing in the south, whispered the other Word of Fire and his black torch burst into light.
Sahurusartha knelt before a small marble bowl set on a low altar in the west and intoned the Alkonan form of the Hymn of Placation to Four-Faced Banur, Destroyer and Preserver, God of Winter and of Water, while the Tarissedan priest Delengirol twice raised and then lowered a filigreed platter of salt to the north, for Ni-Terat was honored without words.
Micail strode to the southern edge of the embankment, his staff held high. The orichalcum knob on its head blazed like a star in the noonday sun.
“By the power of Holy Light let this place be purified!” he cried. “By the wisdom of Holy Light let it be warded! By the strength of Holy Light let it be secure!”
He turned to his right and slowly began to pace around the circle as the other three followed, purifying each quarter with the four sacred elements. As they did so, the other priests and priestesses softly sang—
“Manoah’s rising frees the world
From darkest night;
From age to age we are reborn,
And greet the Light!”
Micail could feel the familiar slip and shift of gravity that told him the warding was rising around them. It was not only the copious incense smoke that caused everything beyond the circle to waver as if seen through water. The singers were separating the stones from the ordinary world . . .
“Within this holy fane we see
With spirit sight—
Ye Lords of Faith and Wisdom come
And bless our rite!”
He completed the circuit as the chant ended and stood for a moment, listening. They had shaped the stones well to contain both sound and energy. Whatever noise the Ai-Zir might be making outside the circle was less than the whisper of wind in the trees. He let out his breath in relief. Speaking with the native workers, he had grown accustomed to thinking of the stones as a Sun Wheel, but what they had designed was intended to function as a resonator, amplifying soundwaves into a force that could be directed along the lines of energy that flowed through the land. With that power at their command they could build a new Temple to rival the old. Strictly speaking, so powerful a warding should not be necessary for this sort of Working, but he had enough respect for the power of Droshrad’s shamans to take precautions against any chance of magical interference.