Her voice wavered, and pity wrenched Tiriki’s heart. She is too old to have to face such a trial! And Chedan . . .
“Alyssa!” Tiriki surprised even herself with the answer. “She said something in her last ravings—at least I thought she was raving at the time,” said Tiriki slowly. “She was muttering about a war in heaven and a ring of power, and then she cried out very loudly, ‘The Seed of Light must be planted in the heart of the hill!’ ”
There was silence, in which they all stared at Tiriki, plainly waiting for something more explicit.
Tiriki swallowed, and tried, “I think she meant . . . that we must use the Omphalos Stone. You said it yourself, Chedan, before I left.”
“Yes,” said the mage, taken aback, “but all it can do is balance the energies—”
“No,” Tiriki contradicted, “forgive me, but no. There is more! But how it can be achieved . . . I must rest,” she decided. “Perhaps when my head stops spinning the answer will come.”
“This is not a map of the physical landscape,” Stathalkha said haughtily, her white-robed arm gesturing at the rainbow-colored parchment scroll that lay spread out upon one of Prince Tjalan’s tables. “It shows the paths in which energy flows.” With one thin finger she identified the various local points of power. “You already know of this major flow, passing south to north through both the Sun Wheel and Carn Ava.”
Tjalan nodded eagerly. Micail’s expression was more ambivalent. It was always desirable to have accurate knowledge, but the thought of a Guardian using his magical gifts against another Guardian—even for remote viewing—filled him with revulsion. Haladris was powerful, and with the backing of Mahadalku and Ocathrel, there was little he could not do—but Micail had a deeper understanding of the stones.
“Then there is this other very powerful flow—” The old priestess traced another line on her scroll. “It continues from the southwest, roughly at the tip of Beleri’in, and then runs northeast, all across the island.”
“I still don’t quite see how this helps us put pressure on Chedan and Tiriki,” said Tjalan, with remarkable restraint.
Stathalkha tilted her head and stared at the prince, birdlike, then shuffled the pile to produce another parchment upon which a surprisingly detailed map of Azan and the Lake lands had been drawn. “Our perception puts them—just about here—” She indicated a point on the Beleri’in line.
Tjalan peered at the parchment, then touched two points on the map, asking, “This is Azan? And this other, the Summer Country?”
Tjalan peered at the map again, angled his head, then examined it more closely. At last he looked up again with a wide smile. “This”—he held up the map—“this gives us a significant tactical advantage!” He then turned to Micail and put a hand on his knee, saying earnestly, “Now I feel certain we can conclude this matter without harming anyone.”
Micail bristled, but somehow managed to smile, quelling his anger and disbelief with the thought that if he allowed them to push just a little—enough for Tiriki to comprehend their power—then she would have to admit that maybe Chedan could not protect her better after all.
Chedan’s staff slipped on the muddy path and Iriel reached out to steady him. Ahead of them, Kalaran, Cadis, Arcor, and Otter staggered beneath the weight of the cabinet. Battered and scarred by its long voyage from the crypts of Ahtarrath, the wooden chest still contained, if only barely, the Omphalos Stone—although the weight of it seemed constantly to change, as if the box itself resisted their every effort to keep moving it along the path.
“I’m all right,” the mage muttered. “Help the others. Iriel—light their way.”
He was not all right, Tiriki knew, but no human hand could steady his spirit. Just as the Stone, struggling not to be moved, shook and twisted in its cabinet, that same roiling energy shook and seared their souls.
Just ahead of them, the mouth of the cave yawned out of the darkness, its base dimly whitened by the stream that gurgled toward its confluence with the waters of the Red Spring. Tiriki was about to step into the cave, but just there she paused, bending a little to let the light of her torch illuminate the interior. At least, she thought grimly, we do not have to worry about earthquakes bringing this hill down around our ears.
Over the past five years all of them—except, of course, poor Alyssa, whose sensitivities gave her little choice—had tried not to think about the Omphalos Stone.
Chedan had said that much of what they were doing even now had been prophesied, but so long ago that the prophecies had mostly been forgotten. Was everything foreknown and forgotten? Was she only another puppet in a drama, dancing for the pleasure of jaded gods? Surely Rajasta had never predicted that the survivors of Atlantis would war against each other . . . or had he?
Struck by the sudden return of all her doubts, she turned to look back imploringly at Chedan, but he only shook his head. Closing her eyes, she steadied herself for what was to come. If Micail could not dissuade the other priests from using the Sun Wheel against them, or worse still, if he were persuaded, or deluded, or constrained, to help them, she would find herself pitted against him. As she advanced into the cave, she found herself almost wishing that she, like Alyssa, had died before seeing this day.
As Iriel cautiously followed Tiriki inside with another torch, the mage, summoning an inner reserve of strength, helped to guide the movement of the carriers as they struggled and fought to get the cabinet into the grotto. But Chedan’s thoughts were distracted with visions, not of the future, but of the events that had brought him to this dreaded moment. Yet the life that he had lived and the many incarnations in which he had served the gods before that had taught him only too well that death could but delay one’s fate, not change it. Putting off destiny only made the next life harder.
But he did wish that he did not always feel so very tired. It is the Stone, he reminded himself. It knows that we mean to use its power, and it will have its price . . .
With heartfelt grunts, the carriers struggled wearily along the passage, following the flickering torches. Often they were not even sure if they were climbing or descending.
The air was cool, at least, but it was dank, and the density of earth and stone above weighed on their spirits. “We are children of Light, We fear not the Night,” Kalaran began singing, rather grimly, and with relief, the others joined the song—
“Let sorrow make a space for joy,
Let grief with jubilance alloy,
Step by step to make our way,
Till Darkness shall unite with Day . . .”
“Here—” Tiriki’s voice echoed back down the tunnel. “This is the arrow I drew to mark the spot. You see—there is the spiral pattern pecked into the stone. Don’t touch it!” she warned as Iriel reached out. “It has the power to hypnotize us and distract us from our necessary task.”
The footing here was smoother and the bearers could go more quickly—the Stone was becoming less restive too, as if it now understood where it was being taken, and approved. The passage curved around and doubled back upon itself several times, but it did not take long for Chedan to recognize, with a small jolt of satisfaction, that it was in fact the same pattern that they had been carving upon the surface of the Tor.
When walking a maze, the final turnings may draw one inward swiftly. Chedan hurried after the bearers as if caught up in the current of a stream—but this was a current of power, that carried them all into another tufa-crusted chamber, barely big enough for them all.
We have done the right thing to bring the Stone here, Chedan thought as he and Tiriki bent to unfasten the latches. Although the shielding effect of the many feet of earth and stone around it made its energies less disruptive than before, he could feel the power of the Omphalos surging even before the heavy lid began to open.
“Gently, gently,” he urged, as Tiriki freed the side panels of the cabinet from the framework and laid them aside. The Stone was already glowing in its silken wrappings like the sun through clouds.
“Truly the gods have guided us,” whispered Tiriki. “See, there—” She pointed to the center of the chamber. “A hollow that might have been made to hold the Stone!”
Allowing Kalaran to assist, they dragged the broken cabinet closer; then Chedan set his hands around the swathed, egg-shaped Stone and began to rock it back and forth inside its box. At his touch, its inner fires awakened and the frame cracked in three places, the pieces falling to the ground. Chedan gasped as a surge of power ran up his arms, and hearing him, Iriel dropped her torch and shrieked. Everyone else froze in place.
“Let me help!” Tiriki cried. Her torch too had failed, but the chamber was becoming brighter and the white tufa surfaces glittered.
“No!” he insisted, gesturing to them to stand aside as he ripped away the last of the silken cloths. Alone, he could use the Stone’s own power to move it, but it was like trying to hold a burning coal. All at once the Stone’s power surged again, teetering dangerously before him for a long moment before it settled onto the waiting hollow. Tiriki caught him as he staggered back, his palms throbbing furiously. He held them up, amazed to see no burns.
“Well, then,” he said softly to the Stone. “Well, then—have you found a home at last?”
As if in reply, the eerie surface dulled, absorbing its own glow. But then, as if the sun had risen inside it, the chamber filled with white-hot light. They all cried out in wonder.
“The sacred center is our frame . . .” Chedan intoned. “Where all is changing, all the same . . .”
All together they sang the verses, palms extended toward the Stone, until its overwhelming brilliance muted to something more bearable to mortal eyes. With a long sigh, Chedan groped for the staff he had leaned against the wall.
As the others, too, fell silent, Tiriki laughed a little breathlessly.
“My betrothed died to save this thing,” said Iriel quietly. “I hope that it will save us now . . .”
“Pray instead that its powers will never be needed!” said Chedan roughly. “Think only that we have done well to give it a proper setting. Where the Omphalos rests is the navel of the world! Once it lay hidden and unknown in the Ancient Land, until Ardral and Rajasta and I were called to carry it to Ahtarrath. Now it has come to this place. Here let it remain and bring only balance and light unto the world. May it be so!”
“So let it be,” the others answered in chorus, voices chastened.
“Now let us go,” the mage said sternly, “and fervently pray that we need never think of the Stone again!”
But even as he spoke, he knew that they would not be so fortunate.
Nineteen
After the Omphalos Stone was laid to rest, the Tor seemed to glow with rays of light that swirled like red and white dragons twining in a ceaseless dance. Waking, Tiriki could feel them; asleep, they sometimes haunted her dreams. But those dreams were better than the nightmares—the twisted shadowy figures who followed her, only to corner her at last and reveal the leering face of . . . Micail.
After the third night in which such dreams robbed her of rest, she took refuge with Taret. Before Chedan and the others she still thought it best to pretend confidence in Micail’s good faith, but keeping her doubts to herself was plainly not helping. Taret was close enough to care about the outcome, but not immediately involved. And the old woman was wise. Another such night, she thought grimly, and I’ll be raving like Alyssa—Caratra rest her.
Leaving Domara in the care of the nursemaids, she started up the path, pausing once to note the condition of her favorite patch of wild garlic, and a little farther on, to pluck a spray of wild thyme. She also offered her respects to the old oak tree, thinking even as she did so how surprised Micail would be to know that she could even identify such things. Here I am like Deoris in her garden, she thought with a sad smile. If only we had her here. Destiny be damned! I should have grabbed her and dragged her down to the ships. She could have done so much good . . . And she had so much more experience with Temple politics, and for that matter, in dealing with nobles.
Prince Tjalan had made it quite plain that his goal was nothing less than continuation of the civilization of Atlantis, and Micail had not seemed to question that. It had not occurred to either man to ask if Tiriki supported that goal. Even two years ago she might have agreed, she thought, as she passed the yew trees that flanked the pathway to the Blood Spring. But from the moment the Crimson Serpent had arrived here, the lack of resources had forced them to forsake their old way of life. Only by learning from the marsh folk had they had been able to survive.
Was she only making a virtue of necessity? Happy as she was here, she had to admit there was much about the old world that she still missed, and she knew that there were others in the community at the Tor who longed for lost customs far more than she. But Tiriki could not help feeling that those who persisted in clinging to the goals and ambitions of a vanished empire were only wasting their efforts and their resources. Even so, she would not have strenuously objected if any of her followers had chosen to leave the Tor and live as Tjalan thought best. But the prince had not offered them any choice at all.
The thought that this peaceful place might be invaded made her shudder. That is the only argument for giving in to Tjalan’s demands. Then at least they would leave the Tor alone . . . But that, she realized suddenly, was wishful thinking. Whatever the virtues of their intentions, Tjalan’s priests were power hungry, and even without the Omphalos Stone, the Tor had been a place of considerable power. The new currents that writhed about it now would call like twin beacons to Stathalkha’s sensitives. If they had ignored it before, they would not do so again. One way or another, there would be a conflict between what they wanted, and what she had come to believe she was destined to do here.
But even that certainly brought her little reassurance. Something Chedan had said the previous night had reminded her that the truest destiny was not a thing to be worked out in a single life, but a greater purpose that arose again and again throughout many lives. What she had begun here was right and necessary, and ultimately its promise would be fulfilled; of that she was no longer in doubt. But that fulfilment might take three days or three thousand years.
She found the wisewoman sitting on a stool before her house, using a flint knife to scrape the outer rind from water lily roots. She turned her head as Tiriki came up the path.
“The blessing of the evening be upon you.”
“The Lady give you rest,” Taret replied, with a slight smile. “I had thought you were keeping talk-fire with your people.”
“The council fire is lit,” Tiriki said with a sigh, “but nothing is being said that has not been discussed seven times since breakfast.” She sank down beside Taret and took up another flake of flint. “So I shall help you pare these roots. My mother used to say there is comfort in such ordinary tasks, an affirmation that life will go on. I did not listen to her then. Perhaps it is not too late.”
“It is never too late,” said Taret gently, “and I shall be glad of your help.”
After a few moments had passed, and she had cut several roots, she said, “I suppose that I have really come to apologize.” She admitted, “For I fear we have brought disaster upon you and your people—and that is poor thanks for all your kindness. I have warned the villagers, but they will not leave. Will you go to them and lead them out of danger?”
“This is the place where the Mother has planted me.” Taret smiled. “My roots go too deep to pull them up now.”
Tiriki sighed. “You don’t understand! Alyssa’s vision led us to move the Stone to the cave within the Tor, but if she saw how it would help us afterward, she did not say, or I did not understand. We cannot all take refuge there—even if our minds could bear to be so near it, there is not room for us all!”
“You look at the Stone. That is good. Now, look at the Tor.” Taret sliced through a root and reached for the next.
Tiriki stared at her in frustration. “But—how?”
&nb
sp; “You can no longer go to one and not be in the wind of the other.”
Tiriki closed her eyes, wondering how her own language could be so hard to interpret.
The old woman did look up, and her eyes sparkled as if she was restraining herself from laughter. “Sun Girl, Sea Child, you ask too much of an old servant of the sacred waters. But there is one who knows all its secrets. She has blessed you before. Perhaps She will do so again . . . if you ask her nicely.” Taret chuckled. “Maybe She has some housework for you to do.”
Tiriki sat pensively, remembering. She did indeed have reason to know that the Tor was a place where the many worlds drew very close together.
“Yes,” she whispered, and made the gesture of a chela to an adept in the old woman’s direction. “As always, Taret, you redirect my eyes to the wisdom that lies in plain sight. That was the mistake we Atlanteans made, perhaps—to fix our eyes on the heavens and forget that our feet, like the earth on which we stand, are clay.” She set down the flint and stood up. “If any come to seek me, tell them I hope to return soon, with better news.”
Once, Tiriki had walked this way by chance, and once, by following the winding ways within the Tor. This time she walked the maze on the surface of the hill with the setting sun behind her, passing between day and night as she sought, for the first time by intention, the way between the worlds.
The summit of the Tor wavered and receded as another landscape loomed up around it, blotting out the valley she had come to know so well. Yet she perceived still the cluster of life energies at the foot of the hill, those of the villagers warm and golden, the Atlanteans at once more pale, yet brighter. Her heart seized on the tiny sparkle that was her daughter, then caught at another familiar glow, so incandescent in its purity that at first she did not recognize it as Chedan. Her eyes blurred with a surge of affection for them all.
But this vision showed her nothing she had not already known. She turned impatiently, seeking eastward for the focus of power that was Micail’s henge of stones.