“Is it not?” The light flickered as she passed through the door. As her footsteps faded, he heard her laugh.
NOW THAT IS A MAN! Anderle laughed again as she sped down the path. She had forgotten what it was like to respond to a man’s power. When Tirilan was mooning over Mikantor, she should have shown more sympathy, though how could she have known? Even when she was besotted with Tiri’s father, Anderle had never felt such a fire in the blood.
It was clear that Velantos felt it too. Her lips twitched as she recalled his reaction. She had known he would work hard for Mikantor, but now, she thought, he would labor with all the passion he possessed to prove himself her equal in power.
Sexual attraction was a mighty force. The traditions of Avalon had a great deal to say about the ways in which it could be used to raise and channel energy. In the most esoteric teachings it was the female who was the awakener, whose energy aroused the male to purpose and power. And the power was greatest when it was channeled into labor of body or spirit rather than being grounded in the act of love.
Which was rather a pity, she reflected, remembering the hard muscle beneath the taut skin. If the rest of his body was as powerful . . .
It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly as she crossed the bridge that covered the low ground between the isles. His body had to be capable of the work he was needed to do. He could have been as ugly as the son of the Chiding One and she would still have put forth her power to attract him. Her business was his soul. That she might find denying the body’s claims as painful as he did was not relevant. She was the Lady of Avalon, and her life belonged to the land. To bring the Son of a Hundred Kings to power, all sacrifices were justified.
By the time Anderle reached the courtyard where the community gathered on sunny days, she trusted that her flushed cheeks could be put down to exercise. Mikantor was waiting for her there. A healthy young animal, she thought, appreciating the picture he made with the sunlight glinting on his hair. Velantos was too rugged, too dark, to be beautiful. Why did the younger man not stir her blood? But of course, Mikantor was like a son to her. Surely that was reason enough—she thrust all other thoughts away.
“Did you get Velantos settled in the smithy?” Mikantor asked as she sat down beside him. “Does he have everything he needs?”
As opposed to everything he might want? Anderle smiled. “He will need supplies,” she said aloud. “When you go over to the Lake Village, you can make the arrangements.”
“I am going to the village? Of course I want to see them all, but I thought there were things—”
“This is one of them,” said Anderle. “You cannot achieve the task to which you are called alone. You will need Companions. Ganath and Beniharen follow you already, but they are not warriors. The people of the Lake have fine scouts and hunters. Your foster brother Grebe is of an age to be useful. Talk to him, see if you want him in your band.”
“Yes, of course,” Mikantor said thoughtfully. “Now that Velantos has his forge I need to get started on the rest of it. But you have to understand, it is very important that he should be happy here—”
No, thought the priestess, it is very important that he be productive. A little unhappiness is often a goad, where content would only sap the will to achieve.
“We had to leave Bhagodheunon because of me, and then I dragged him with me across the sea—” Mikantor went on. “I can still remember how strange his country seemed to me, and I am sure he is feeling just as unsettled in mine.”
“Leave him to me . . . though if I am to be . . . helpful . . . perhaps you had best tell me a bit more about him,” Anderle replied. “I suspect he is not very forthcoming at the best of times—is that not so?” If things went as she expected between them, she might be the last person to whom the smith would want to open his heart. But it made sense to gather as much information as possible about someone who was so important to their cause.
Mikantor began to laugh. “He says himself that he can be like a bear with a sore head, but he never turned his temper on me—well, almost never, and then it was because he was in pain . . .”
Anderle gave him a quick look. “If you were his slave, I’d have thought you would be glad to see the last of him.”
Mikantor frowned. “By their law he owned me, but he treated me as another human being from the first day. Not an equal, for I was only an ignorant boy, no better with his language than he is with ours now, but a fellow creature. He never demanded more of me than he did of himself. For Velantos, it is the work that matters above all.”
“That, I can understand . . .” Anderle found herself smiling. And I will give you work, man of the south, and until it is done spare neither you nor myself, whatever the pain!
TIRILAN LAY ON HER bed, still wakeful, though midnight had come and gone. Through the narrow window she could see the waxing moon. Did Mikantor, who slept in the priests’ dormitory with Ganath and Beniharen, watch the moon as well, or did he enjoy the sleep that was the normal reward of healthy exercise? He had spent the afternoon on the playing field, testing his archery against that of Grebe. They could not know that she had watched them, feasting her eyes on the graceful flex and release of his body as he bent the bow.
Since that morning when he first arrived, they had not spoken. Her memory of those moments seemed a part of the dream that had sent her to meet him on the shore of Avalon.
I gave him the blessing of a priestess, she thought sadly, when what I wanted was to kiss him like a lover. And he looked at me like a man who sees the Goddess, not one who welcomes the woman he desires.
She had thought that when they met again that would change, that he would realize she was a human woman, and they could begin to reclaim the friendship they had shared so long ago. When they parted he had been a boy, and she had been a dreaming girl, and neither had any concept of the body’s needs.
If he had stayed, we might have made those discoveries together. From the appreciation with which he had looked at the priestesses, she thought he was not without experience. But she had been taught the theory and forbidden the practice.
When Mikantor encountered her at meals, or on one of the paths, his gaze flew to her face and then flicked away. Was he still seeing her as the Goddess, or had he learned that she had taken her vows and was not for any man? She could not even blame her mother this time. It was the Goddess Herself, or whoever had sent that dream in which she was the one who must make Mikantor a king, who had sent her to give him that blessing.
But her mother seemed to have taken charge of the king-making as well, she thought resentfully, sending word to the other priestesses of the sisterhood, summoning men to a conference at the Tor.
It is my own fault . . . she admitted, for thinking that the Goddess gave me a destiny. But short of stripping naked and surprising Mikantor when he went down to the Lake to bathe, she did not see how she could get him to think of her as a woman now.
Lady, help me, she prayed. Because seven years have made him a man, and beautiful, and I do not know if the boy I loved is still there at all.
But the moon did not reply.
EIGHTEEN
Summer had come to Avalon, with more days of sun, or at least cloud, than rain. Only a few sections of the playing field squished underfoot, for which the young men who had come to join Mikantor’s band were grateful. He stood watching them now as they used practice blades to go through the stylized sword moves.
“I wish my uncle had come with us,” said Aelfrix, who was standing beside him with a waterskin filled with tea made from the hips of the wild rose. Anderle had sent it down to refresh them.
“Bodovos would have made you work harder,” observed Mikantor.
“I know, but at least we wouldn’t spend so much time standing around . . .”
Mikantor could only agree. He wished he had paid better attention during the endless drills Bodovos had imposed on the City of Circles Guard. But it had never occurred to him that he might need to pass on the knowled
ge imprinted by constant practice in his muscles and nerves. He knew how to do these things, but not to how to explain them. Far too often, drill would come to a halt while the instructor tried to remember the next step in an exercise.
The one advantage was that he himself had recovered all his old form. He might even have improved, although without a skilled swordsman with whom to spar there was no way to know. Possibly the lack of a convenient inn at which to drink with his companions had something to do with it. With two pure springs to draw from, fermented drinks were only for ritual use at Avalon.
“Crack! Clack!” The men worked their way back and forth, swinging the wooden blades Velantos had carved to have the general weight and shape of the swords he would be casting as more metal came in. In the meantime, the bronze stored in the old smithy had already been made into spearheads, so the men were not completely unarmed. Perhaps this afternoon they should switch to practice with the spears.
What Mikantor was going to do with these young warriors once he had trained them was still something of a question. Some of them, he suspected, simply craved the excitement of battle, but most came from places that had suffered from Galid’s depredations. They assumed he would be going after the usurper to avenge his parents. But if he succeeded, what then? His aunt, the rightful queen of the Ai-Zir, had died while he was away. Anderle said that his cousin Cimara led a sad, circumscribed life on her farmstead, with the title of queen but no power. Galid had killed every man who dared to court her, so she had no children either. He thought he had seen her once at a festival, but she did not know him. If he got rid of Galid, would she even want him?
And was king of the Ai-Zir what he wanted to be? He had been born in Azan, but Galid had kept him from growing up there. He thought of the Lake Village or Avalon as home. He agreed that Galid needed killing, but how could he help the other tribes if they thought of him as a man of Azan?
They had taken a break to share the tea when Aelfrix came running back with the news that two more recruits had reached the isle. Mikantor looked around at the young men who were lounging or lying exhausted on the grass. He had tried to be honest with them, making no promises except for the training itself. One day he would want an army, but for now the number of his Companions must be limited to a group that could move swiftly and that he could afford to feed.
His foster brother Grebe had been the first to join him here. He was already a good field archer, but knew nothing of the sword. Acaimor and Romen were almost as dark and slim as Lake Folk, strong and fast. They had come up from the Ai-Utu lands, because Romen remembered Mikantor from his time in Belerion. Pelicar, as tall as Beniharen but fair, like him was from the People of the Boar. He was a son of their queen, accustomed to rule, and was proving an able commander. Dun-haired Tegues had been a boyhood friend of Ganath and followed him. Adjonar was the first of the Ai-Zir to find the courage to join the man they hoped would deliver them from Galid.
If we can watch over each other, we shall not do so badly, thought Mikantor.
As the newcomers approached, those who had been relaxing sat up, not yet hostile, but watchful as sheepdogs.The young man in the lead was of middle height and as black bearded as Velantos. In fact he had very much the look of the smith. As he neared, Mikantor held up a hand in greeting, “Be welcome, man of the south,” he said in the Akhaean tongue.
The fellow stopped short, a white grin appearing in the midst of the short beard. “ ’ Tis true then, you dwelt at the Middle Sea!” The accent was odd, but clearly the man had understood him. “Ach, I don’t know the old speech well enough,” he added in the language of the tribes. “I am called Lysandros son of Ardanos. My grandfather came here with Brutus after Troia fell. We took land in the southeast, where the white cliffs are.”
Relieved to have guessed right, Mikantor clasped Lysandros’ hand. “You will have to talk with Velantos of Tiryns, our smith.”
“An Akhaean?” Lysandros grimaced, and Mikantor guessed he had been raised on tales of the rape of Troia.
“Troia has been avenged,” said Mikantor. “Tiryns has fallen to the Children of Erakles, and Mykenae and Korinthos as well. Your people and Velantos are equally exiles now.”
Lysandros shrugged and then grinned. “Very well, but do not tell my grandfather I have sat down in peace with an Akhaean!”
“And who is your companion?” Mikantor nodded toward the other man, a wiry fellow with reddish hair who hung back as if unsure of his welcome.
“His name is Ulansi,” began Lysandros—
“And he is a filthy traitor, come to spy on us for Galid!” Adjonar interrupted him.
Mikantor raised an eyebrow. “Then we should at least grant him credit for courage. You, Ulansi, come here if you please. Is what Adji saying true?”
“If you mean did I serve in Galid’s band, yes, it’s so—” the newcomer said slowly. “He came to our steading looking for men. If my father had refused to let me go, he would have burned us out. To agree was the only way I could save my home. But as for the other accusation—never! Even before the next year, when the Ai-Ushen wiped out my family—and Galid did nothing to avenge them—I would have done all in my power to bring him down.”
“I see . . .” Mikantor said slowly. It was a plausible story, but then it would be, if Galid had sent a spy. And yet there was little damage the man could do here at Avalon. Anderle would see into his heart and know if he was true. “Serving with Galid, you would know how he likes to fight, and how he trains his men . . .”
“Yes, lord.” Ulansi’s eyes brightened. “That is why I have come. If I must bear the name of traitor”—he glared at Adjonar—“it will not be for betraying you!”
Mikantor nodded. “You will be tested, of course, but I am inclined to trust you. My own teacher always said that a wise man knows his enemy, and I have been out of the country for a long time. To most of us Galid is as evil as Guayota, loathed for what he does, but we do not know why. I need to know how he thinks, what he wants . . .”
Ulansi looked taken aback by Mikantor’s intensity, but he answered with a bow. “Lord, I was not in his counsels, but he has grown proud, and did not always watch his tongue before the men. I will try to remember what I heard, and help you in every way I can.”
THE BRONZE BLADE FLEXED as Velantos laid it on the anvil, picked up one of his round stone hammers, and began to tap the edge. “By strength and skill the sword is made—hammer hit and harden blade!” he whispered, timing his strokes to the spell until he had established and internalized the rhythm, moving back and forth along the blade. Being hammered made the bronze harder—as the troubles he had endured had done for Mikantor. He looked back at the younger man, who leaned against the frame of the open door of the smithy watching him.
“The metal we got from Belerion was good, then?”
“Very good. Your friend the merchant chose well,” Velantos replied. This was the second of the leaf-shaped swords he had cast since his arrival at Avalon, but the first with the new bronze.
Mikantor laughed. “I think Master Anaterve still feels guilty for letting me be snapped up by Galid’s men under his very nose. He seemed quite happy to support the cause.”
“You gave the first sword to Pelicar?” Velantos asked.
“He is a queen’s son and had some training already. The others are working their hearts out to win the second blade! They’ve taken to practicing the hero feats as well. It will be a long time before we can do anything with chariots, but the playing field is large enough for races and the long jump, and the grass soft enough for tumbling and wrestling.”
Velantos turned the sword and began to work down the other edge. Once he had crafted ornaments in gold for queens. If Mikantor was victorious, there might be time for such things once more. In the meantime, the blade had its own deadly beauty. And so, he thought as he looked at the young man again, did Mikantor.
There was a clarity to his features that had not been there before, as if the responsibility he now car
ried had stripped away the last of his boyhood. Mikantor might still doubt his ability to bear that weight, but despite his ambivalence, returning here had clearly been the right thing for him to do. Whether it was the right thing for Velantos remained to be seen.
It was inevitable that they should grow apart now that Mikantor was a man. It would have been wrong for him to try to hold the lad to their old companionship. But how he missed the days when they had shared everything. Moments when they could talk quietly were becoming increasingly rare, and if—when—the fighting was done they would be rarer still. When Mikantor was safe in his rightful place, the smith would leave, though where on this earth he might find a home he could not say.
“The men are shaping well,” Mikantor said thoughtfully, “but they are still thinking of themselves as Boars or Rams or Frogs or Hares instead of as members of my band. Except for Adjonar, that is,” he added, “who seems unwilling to breathe the same air as Ulansi, much less claim kinship. It was different in the guard, where everyone was born to the City or had come in from the countryside.”
“That will change when they face the enemy,” said Velantos. “When I was young, there was an old man at Tiryns who had been with Agamemnon at Troia and was always ready with a tale. He said that when the Akhaeans were stuck at Aulis waiting for a wind, the men of the different cities were ready to cut each other’s throats, but they were all one people when they lay before the walls of Troia.”
“Goddess, don’t say that to Lysandros!” exclaimed Mikantor. “He learned to hate Akhaeans at his grandda’s knee, though to him both Troia and Tiryns are as legendary as the Blessed Isles.”
“I know.” The smith smiled. “He looks at me as if I’m about to turn into a gorgon. It is a pity. I would enjoy talking to someone other than you with whom I don’t have to speak like a child.”