said Ardral distantly, as he ate a bit of cheese.
Undeterred, Chedan continued, ‘Everyone else has focused on the tragic elements of the prophecy. The destruction of Atlantis, the inevitable loss of life, the slim chance of survival. But you if anyone understands the larger scale of the prophecy – what was, and what is, and—’
‘You are going to be a pest about this, aren’t you?’ Ardral growled, without his usual smile. ‘All right. Just this once, I will answer the question you cannot bring yourself to ask. And then we will put the matter aside, for this night at least!’
‘As you will, Uncle,’ said Chedan, as meekly as a child.
With a sigh, Ardral ran his fingers through his hair, further disarranging it. ‘The short answer is yes. It is as Rajasta feared. The inevitable is happening, and worse, it occurs under just the sort of conditions that give mediocre horologers fits. Bah. They’re so easily distracted from the many positive influences – it’s as if they want to think the worst. But yes, yes, we can’t deny it, Adsar the Warrior Star has definitely changed its course toward the Ram’s Horn. And this is precisely the alignment the ancient texts call the War of the Gods. But the ancients plainly do not say that such a configuration will mean anything to the mortal world! The usual human vanity. So predictable.’
For some moments there was silence, as Ardral once more refilled his cup, and Chedan tried to think of something to say.
‘You see?’ said Ardral, rather gently. ‘It does no good to think on such things. We only see the hem of the garment, as they say. So let it go. Things are going to be hectic enough in the next few days. There won’t be a lot of time for sitting quietly and doing nothing. And yet—’ He raised his cup, mock-solemn. ‘In times like these—’
Laughing in spite of his dark thoughts, Chedan joined him in the old refrain, ‘There’s nothing like nothing to settle the mind!’
How does one pack a life?
Micail looked down at the confusion of items piled upon his couch and shook his head. It seemed a sad little assortment in the early morning light. Three parts need to one part nostalgia?
Every ship, of course, would be provisioned with practical items such as bedding and seeds and medicines. Meanwhile, the acolytes and a few trusted chelas had been given the task of packing scrolls and regalia, using lists the Temple had prepared long ago. But those items, really, were all for public use. It was left to each passenger to choose as many personal belongings as would fit into a sack to go with him or her across the sea.
He had done this once before, when he was twelve, leaving the Ancient Land where he had been born to come to this island that was his heritage. Then he had left his boyhood behind.
Well, I will no longer need to lead processions up the Star Mountain. For a moment longer, he examined the ceremonial mantle, beautifully embroidered with a web of spirals and comets…With the merest twinge of regret, he cast it aside and began to fold a pair of plain linen tunics. The only mantle of office he packed was one woven of white silk, so fine that it was luminous, and the blue mantle that went with it. With the ornaments of his priesthood, it would suffice for ritual work. And without a country I will no longer be a prince. Would that be a relief, he wondered, or would he miss the respect that his title brought him?
The symbol is nothing, he reminded himself; the reality is everything. A true adept should be able to carry on without any regalia. ‘The most important tool of the mage is here,’ old Rajasta used to say, tapping his brow with a smile. For a moment Micail felt as if he were back in the House of the Twelve in the Ancient Land. I miss Rajasta sorely, thought Micail, but I am glad he did not live to see this day.
His gaze drifted to the miniature feather tree in its decorous pot on the windowsill, pale green foliage gleaming in the morning sun. It had been a gift from his mother, Domaris, not long after he had arrived on Ahtarrath, and since then he had watered it, pruned it, cared for it…As he picked it up he heard Tiriki’s light step in the hall.
‘My darling, are you really planning to take that little tree?’
‘I…don’t know.’ Micail returned the pot to the window and turned to Tiriki with a smile. ‘It seems a pity to abandon it after I have watched over it for so long.’
‘It will not survive in your sack,’ she observed, coming into his arms.
‘That’s so, but there might be room for it somewhere. If deciding whether to bring a little tree is my hardest choice…’ The words died in his throat.
Tiriki raised her head, her eyes seeking his and following his gaze to the window. The delicate leaflets of the little tree trembled, quivering, though there was no wind.
Sensed, rather than heard, the subsonic groaning below and all around them became a vibration felt in the soles of their feet, more powerful by far than the tremor they had felt the day before.
Not again! Micail thought, pleading, not yet, not now…
From the mountain’s summit, a trail of smoke rose to stain the pale sky.
The floor rolled. He grabbed Tiriki and pulled her toward the door. Braced beneath its frame, they would have some protection if the ceiling fell. Their eyes locked again, and without need of words, they synchronized their breathing, moving into the focused detachment of trance. Each breath took them deeper. Linked, they were both more aware of the unraveling stresses within the earth, and less vulnerable to them.
‘Powers of Earth be still!’ he cried, drawing on the full authority of his heritage. ‘I, Son of Ahtarrath, Royal Hunter, Heir-to-the-Word-of-Thunder, command you! Be at peace!’
From the empty sky came thunder, echoed by a rumble that sounded far away. Tiriki and Micail could hear the tumult and outcry in the palace and the sounds of things crashing and breaking everywhere.
The shaking finally ceased, but the tension did not. Through the window, Micail could see that the Star Mountain’s summit was gone – no, not gone, displaced. Smoke, or dust, rose all about the distinctive little pyramid as, still lighted, it slid slowly toward the city.
Micail closed his eyes tight and reached beyond himself again as a roiling onslaught of energies whipped through him. He tried to visualize the layers of rock that made up the island, but the restraining vision only flickered and shifted, until finally it became the image of the crossed arms of the faceless man, bound and chained but stirring, that had haunted their dreams. His muscles flexed and links popped as the man strained against his bonds.
‘Who are you? WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?’ He did not realize he had been shouting until he felt Tiriki’s thoughts within his own.
‘It is – the Unrevealed!’ came her mental cry. ‘Dyaus! Do not look at his eyes!’
At this, the vision rose, snarling. The floor shook anew, more roughly than before, and would not stop. Micail had grown up with the whispered tales of the god Dyaus, invoked to bring change by Grey Mages of the Ancient Land. Instead, he had brought chaos whose reverberations had eventually destroyed that land and now seemed about to destroy Atlantis as well. But
