Bodovos picked up his own gear and moved to face him, weaving in place, though whether that was to loosen his muscles or confuse his opponent Woodpecker did not know. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly in the way he had learned at Avalon, focusing, centering, letting his own tight muscles ease.
“Very good,” murmured his teacher, moving in. “Sword high, now low, shield high, to the side, again . . .” The snick of the wooden blades and the hollow thud on the shield created a counterpoint to the dancers’ drumbeat; he let himself relax into the rhythm, as if his motions were also part of the dance.
The commander stepped back, inviting Woodpecker to initiate his own attack, the same sequence of moves, but this time the younger man increased the pace, a decision he began to regret as his opponent grinned. Bodovos’ response was another degree faster. Woodpecker narrowed his focus and attacked, then found himself abruptly on the defensive as the commander began to push him backward. One step and then another, now it was all he could do to keep that darting blade at bay.
His concentration wavered as his heel struck something behind him. He got his shield up as the next blow came in, but his balance was going. Bodovos’ sword was a brown blur that he could barely see, much less counter. His own blade flew from his hand as the sword hit; a blow to the ribs knocked the breath from his body and he was falling, vision a whirl of stars.
When he could focus again, he realized that he was lying on his back on the grass and Bodovos was holding out his hand. He worked his left arm loose from the shield strap—the right was now throbbing fiercely, and he knew he wasn’t going to be using it much today—gripped the man’s callused hand and came to his feet.
“Sorry—” he said, looking around, and realizing his opponent had driven him to the edge of the field.
“Just so.” Bodovos nodded. “It is as important to be aware of where you are going as to see what your enemy is doing. You won’t be fighting your battles on a newly cropped and raked field. But I’ll admit it was a low trick. The thing is, I wanted a dramatic finish, and you were doing well enough I couldn’t be sure of taking you any other way.”
Astonishment overwhelmed Woodpecker’s pain as he realized that the light in the commander’s eyes was pride.
“I’m getting better?”
“You are indeed—your early training laid a good foundation. Come on now, and I’ll introduce you to the king.”
FOURTEEN
In the City of Circles, the harvest was celebrated at the Turning of Autumn. It was the city’s most important festival. For weeks the people had been crafting sheaves of emmer and rye from straw and wood, for every grain that the fields had borne was needed for food. The early storm that had washed away part of the outermmost ring of the city had flattened much of the harvest. The shadows cast by the arrangement of rods used to calculate the seasons still marked solstice and equinox, but the movements of the heavens and the turnings of the year no longer seemed to correspond.
Velantos squinted upward, hoping to glimpse a patch of blue, but clouds still covered the sky. Last year’s festival, the first year that they had been here, had been the same—more blessed by rain than by sun. Still, as an act of faith if not of affirmation, the people hung out their banners and festooned their balconies with green branches and fruits carved from wood when their orchards were bare.
And who was he to say they were wrong, thought Velantos as he stuck out his elbows to make room for Buda and Aelfrix to stand next to him. If he had learned anything during the three years since the Children of Erakles destroyed his home, it was that people needed hope, whether or not that hope was justified. The street was filling with people whom he had begun to recognize as friends as well as neighbors. That still seemed odd to him. When his own city died, he had been certain that he would never belong anywhere again.
“I can hear them,” exclaimed Aelfrix. From somewhere beyond the houses came the clash of brass cymbals and the regular vibration of the deep drums. The boy bounced on his toes as he strained to see. He had grown during the past year until he was as tall as Velantos, leggy as a young colt. No doubt by the time he reached manhood he would be as big as Woodpecker, who seemed to have reached his full height, half a head taller than Velantos himself.
“Of course you can hear them,” Buda replied. “They must be right over there—” She pointed at a gap between the buildings on the other side of the street, where one could just glimpse the sheen of gray water. “But they will have to go all the way around the fourth and third circles before they cross the bridge to start around ours.”
And a depressing circuit it would be, Velantos thought then. Last winter’s storms had taken the seaward houses of the Fifth Ring, and the docks where the large ships moored. Now they anchored in a makeshift shelter between the city and the mainland. Velantos had repaired an anchor chain for one of the captains, a man called Stavros who traded with the cities of the Middle Sea. It was pleasant to talk and share a cup of wine with someone who knew the warm lands of the south, but Velantos had learned not to do it too often. For one cup could easily become several bottles, and a sore head only added to his pain.
In more than one place the water had broken completely through, and they had had to build makeshift bridges before the festival. The openings of the circles were offset, so that a boat could reach the moorings below the palace only by making a series of turns. Oared ships did so under their own power, but those that depended on sails moored outside or were warped by a system of lines and pulleys from one circle to the next. The circles were linked by arched bridges, but many of the houses at the edges of each ring kept small rowboats tied up behind their back doors.
A lad came down the street bearing a tray of the tiny sausages fried in a twist of pastry that were a local delicacy, the tray suspended from a strap around his neck. Velantos got enough for Aelfrix and his mother. The house he shared with Woodpecker stood on one of the twisting lanes that ran between the Processional Way and the shore. Those with the wealth to live on the road were watching from their balconies, but the smith’s breadth of shoulder and black glower had won a place for him and his household at the edge of the paved road.
He thought that the palace and circles of the city had about the same population as the citadel of Tiryns and the town that had sprawled below. Many of the traditions here reminded him of home. There too, families had gathered for the spring festival while more formal observances took place in the citadel. Their first year here, the servants they had inherited with the house had insisted that they must participate in the festival. Somehow, Buda and Aelfrix and even Bodovos had become part of their family.
A stir of anticipation rustled through the crowd as the sound of the procession grew louder. Now he could hear the tramp of hobnailed sandals. Two of those sandals belonged to Woodpecker, newly promoted to lead the Red File. Velantos found himself smiling.
“They’re coming!” Aelfrix’s voice squeaked in excitement. Above the heads of the people the carven images of the Powers that protected the city bobbed on their poles as if they were marching too. The crowd retreated in a wave of motion as the standard-bearers appeared, followed by the men with the drums.
First marched the Blue File, wearing mantles the color of the sea on a sunny day, edged with a spiral wave pattern. They were followed by the guild of fishermen, wearing their nets like ceremonial garments, and carrying the image of the Kraken, part god, part monster, who ruled the waters. If his powers were not quite the same as those of Posedaon, they were surely no less, here in this place that men had wrested from the sea. The leading merchants followed them, bearing models of the ships they sent to lands north and south in search of trade. This holiday signaled the end of the season for safe sailing, though these days they saw few vessels from the Middle Sea at any time. Next marched the Green File, whose mantles were embroidered with a stylized pattern of sheaves. They carried the veiled image of the goddess who gave fertility to the fields, and were followed by farmers and coo
ks and all whose trade had to do with feeding the city.
There was a pause, during which some of the neighborhood’s children scampered into the road to strut in imitation of the soldiers. Then they heard more drums and cymbals, suddenly much louder, and the children scurried back to their families.
“There he is!” exclaimed Buda as the Red File came into view. “And doesn’t he look fine!”
Woodpecker was leading his men, marching just behind the fellow who carried the image of a god whose pointed cap bore the horns of a bull. Woodpecker had laughed oddly when he told them of his promotion, and only later did Velantos remember that the younger man had once mentioned that his father’s people were called the Tribe of the Bull.
From the bronze that banded his helm to the buckles on his sandals he was polished and shining, marching with an easy stride, as if his corselet of heavy leather sewn with plates of bronze weighed no more than Egyptian linen, and his wooden shield, painted red with the image of a bull, no more than a serving tray. Velantos had made the sword that hung at his side, almost the only bronze work he had done here, for with trade so disrupted, scrap bronze had become as valuable as gold. Woodpecker’s crimson mantle bore a frieze of animals.
As the file tramped past, the reason for the delay became apparent. Farmers from the lands that supported the city had brought their finest livestock, among them, the beasts destined for sacrifice, and one of the bulls was balking. The people laughed as the herders struggled to get the creature going again, but Velantos frowned. If this animal was intended as an offering, its recalcitrance was not a good sign.
When the animals were finally past, Velantos sighed in relief. After them the Yellow File was coming, their standard a goddess who reminded him of Potnia Athana, their emblem the bird they called the oystercatcher here. She was the patroness of the artists and artisans of the city, those who worked in wood and stone, in thread and clay and glass. The smiths walked here also, hammers in hand. Velantos nodded respectully as they passed. Few in the city were his equals in skill, but he had not protested when they insisted that he should serve his period of testing before being admitted to their ranks. Perhaps next year, he would wear out a pair of sandals in this procession as well.
The palace musicians marched toward them, those who played flutes and horns walking, while the harps and lyres were borne in a wagon from which they could hear the occasional twang over the cheers of the crowd. The people hushed as behind them, the banner of the royal house appeared—two swans flanking the sun on a field of blue. Two trumpeters paused to blare a commanding note on the curving bronze lur horns. A chariot followed, drawn by two white horses. The box was carved and painted with spirals and chevrons, with gilding on the rails and the spokes of the wheels. In the box stood the two kings. They wore fringed kilts and white mantles sewn with gold, a wise choice, as it was said that the rich fabric covered a pair of rather flabby torsos. On their heads were pointed helmets of gilded leather with curving horns whose ends were tipped with tiny golden birds. And each king bore an archaic double-bladed ax, the Tuistos in his left hand and the Mannos in his right. Velantos leaned forward, wishing he could get a closer look. In the lands around the Middle Sea, kings bore such axes in the most sacred rituals—it was a design that had been ancient when Tiryns was new.
There was another space, and then more flute players, followed by girls shaking sistrums that filled the air with a shimmering sound. The priests and priestesses walked behind them, each arrayed in the vestments of their grades and gods. The temple dancers came with them, stripped to clouts and brief skirts of twined wool cords, interpersing cartwheels and backflips with the sinuous movements of the dance.
Velantos glimpsed a blaze of gold and turned. Everyone was shifting to stare down the street, as flowers turn toward the sun. A light wagon was coming, drawn by a chestnut mare. Sides, spokes and all were covered with gold. In the wagon rode the queen, robed in a saffron mantle so thickly sewn with golden oranments that she seemed an image cast in gold, steady and strong. From what he had heard, her image reflected reality. There was no need for the wagon to bear an image of the sun. She was the sun for her people, her rayed headdress scattering light each time the orb in the heavens peeked through a gap in the clouds.
“Sowela! Sowela!” the people cried, casting their remaining flowers into the road before her. “Bring us warmth and life again!”
Her face was painted so that one could not tell her age, for the sun had no age, unlike the ever-changing moon. In the south, men thought a god, bright and merciless, ruled the solar orb. But Velantos could understand why folk might seek light from a goddess here. He lifted his hands in adoration as she passed. It was going to be a long winter. Bring us life, he prayed as he felt the first drops of rain . . .
WOODPECKER TOSSED ON HIS straw mattress, twitching too badly from exhaustion to sleep. The guard had been ordered out to help the people of the Fifth Circle, and muscles he had thought hardened by Bodovos’ training were throbbing with pain. At least he was finally warm and dry. Rain pounded dully on the thatching over his head, driven by a wind from the west that moaned around the eaves. Winter had been cold and relatively calm, but as the wheel of the year rolled toward the Turning of Spring the elements seemed determined to hold off summer’s coming with a defense more violent than anything the city had ever known. For three days storms had battered the coastline, with the promise of worse to come.
Tonight he would have welcomed one of his dreams. He no longer fought the visions, frustrating himself and frightening his friends. To walk the green fields of the Island of the Mighty—the native land that his conscious self had tried so hard to deny—would have been a relief after such a day. However soggy, the island was at least solid ground. He hoped that Velantos believed that the nightmares had ceased. At least it had been some time since they had used a bucket of water to awaken him.
He told them he did not remember what he had been dreaming, but it was not true. More and more often, the memories were bleeding into his waking awareness, so that sometimes it was the City of Circles that seemed unreal. And he carried his knowledge of the City with him when he walked on Avalon. Still, if he looked hollow eyed with strain, he was not the only one whose face bore witness to his anxieties. Tonight, he could probably have shouted without disturbing Velantos, who lay snoring on the other side of the bed. The smith had spent all his waking hours with the builders. By the time he fell into bed, he was far too tired to worry about the younger man.
When Velantos returned today, he had worn a look Woodpecker had not seen since Tiryns fell. All their efforts were failing. Those who lived on the outermost circle had been told to seek refuge in the inner rings. Finding room for them would not be a problem—many of the City’s people had already fled to the mainland, preferring to battle human foes than pit themselves against the Powers of the Sea.
And yet, would one of his dreams have been any improvement? His visions had shown him Belerion sacked by seaborne raiders, and the farm where he had herded sheep crushed by a rockslide. He saw Galid’s men tormenting a captive while their leader laughed. There had been other scenes in places he recognized as belonging to other tribes. By now he probably had a better idea of what was happening on the Island of the Mighty than anyone but the Lady of Avalon. The state of affairs was not much better than things in the City—he suspected that things were not much better anywhere. But in this liminal state between sleep and waking, he could admit to himself that the island was home.
He wondered if he could summon a vision of the holy isle. Surely he would find peace there. He took one breath and let it out slowly, and then another, closing his eyes. He would imagine he was looking at the Tor by moonlight. He smiled a little, seeing the pure line of the slope, the faint gleam on the standing stones that crowned the hill. But the image was not quite what he had expected—within the circle he glimpsed a warmer glow. As the light grew stronger, he realized that someone had lit a fire on the altar stone. At least, at
Avalon tonight there was no rain.
As he drifted toward that light, he felt a vibration in the air. The priests and priestesses of Avalon stood within the circle of stones. They filled the night with a full-throated shifting shimmer of sound. This was no full moon ritual, but one of the great magics, forbidden to uninitiated eyes. The elder priests had been quite explicit about what could happen to any child who dared to spy. He willed himself to turn away, and realized with a thrill of fear that he was still moving toward the hill.
A stand of Singers . . . they had called it, when seven notes were sounded to weave a tapestry of harmonies. Like a leaf caught in the current he floated toward the sound. A single trained voice lifted above the others.
“I call the one who will bring us hope!” Anderle scattered incense upon the fire that burned on the altar stone and a sweet smoke swirled upward. “I call the one who will comfort the bereft and rebuild what is broken, he who shall defend the weak and command the strong!”
At each word, Woodpecker remembered the visions of disaster that he had seen, and felt once more his frustration at being unable to do anything to change them. With every tone the buzz along his nerves intensified, if he had nerves here. He struggled to escape, but this was no current; it was a vortex that was drawing him inexorably in.
“I summon the hero who will save our people! I call the Defender!”
The smoke of the incense was spreading in a luminous cloud above the altar, curling around him. He had always been an invisible witness before.
“Holy Goddess, show us the one who will save us! Hear and appear! Hear and appear! Hear and appear!”
Anderle’s eyes widened and he realized that she could see him. The sound wavered as one of the priestesses fainted, then steadied as the others gathered their forces and sang on.
“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.