rasped Reio-ta, his dark face going ashen. ‘He shows himself to you?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Tiriki, ‘this morning, when the earth shook – he was trying to break his chains. And I – I knew his name! How can that be?’
Once more an odd look passed between Deoris and her husband, and he reached out to take her hand.
‘Then you unwittingly bring the clearest proof,’ said Deoris quietly, ‘that it is our fate and our duty to stay. Sit,’ she gestured imperiously. ‘Tiriki, I see now that I must tell you and Micail the rest of the story, and even you, Chedan, old friend. Great adept though you are, your teachers could not give you the parts of the story that they did not know.’
Reio-ta took a deep breath. ‘I…loved my brother.’ His gaze flickered toward Micail in momentary appeal. ‘Even in the Temple of Light…there have always been some who…served the darkness. We were…taken by the Black Robes who…sought for themselves the power of Ahtarrath. I agreed to let them use me…if they would spare him. They betrayed me, and tried to kill him. But Micon…forced himself to…live, long enough to sire you and pass to you his power.’ He looked at Micail again, struggling for words.
Tiriki gazed at them with quick compassion, understanding now why it was Micail, not Reio-ta, who held the magical heritage of his royal line. If Micon had died before his son was born, the powers of Ahtarrath would have descended to Reio-ta, and thereby to the black sorcerers who then held him in thrall…
‘They…broke…his body,’ stammered Reio-ta. ‘And…my mind. I did not know myself till…long after. Riveda took me in and I…helped him…’
Tiriki looked back at her mother. What did this have to do with the Man with Crossed Hands?
‘Reio-ta helped Riveda as a dog will serve the one who feeds him,’ Deoris said defensively, ‘not understanding what he did. I assisted Riveda because I loved the spirit in him that yearned to bring new life into the world. In the crypt beneath the Temple of Light there was an…image, whose form seemed different to each one who beheld it. To me, it always appeared as a bound god, crossed arms straining against his chains. But the image was a prison that confined the forces of chaos. Together we worked the rite that would release that power because Riveda thought that by unleashing that force he could wield the energies that power the world. But my sister forced me to tell her what we had done. The wards were already unraveling when Domaris went down into that dark crypt alone, at risk of life and limb, to repair them—’
‘All these things I knew,’ Chedan put in quietly. ‘The power of the Omphalos Stone can only slow the destructive forces unleashed by these rites long ago. The disintegration has been gradual, but it is still happening. We can only hope that when Atlantis falls, there will be an end.’
‘Didn’t Rajasta use to say, “To give in instead of fighting death is cowardice,”’ Micail put in, tartly.
‘But he would also say—’ Deoris replied with painful sweetness, ‘“When you break something, it is your duty to mend it, or at least sweep up the debris.” Although we meant no evil, we made the choices that brought it forth – we set in motion a chain of events that has doomed our way of life.’
A long moment passed in silence. The four of them sat as motionless as the carven friezes that framed the doorway.
‘We must stay because there is one final ritual to perform.’ By Reio-ta’s steady speech, they recognized the depth of his emotion. ‘When the Man with Crossed Hands breaks his chains, we who know him so well must confront him.’
‘Spirit to spirit we will address him,’ added Deoris, her great eyes shining. ‘There is no Power in the world without a purpose. The chaos that Dyaus brings shall be as a great wind that strips trees and scatters seeds far and wide. You are born to preserve those seeds, my children – glorious branches from the ageless tree of Atlantis, freed of its rot, free to take root in new lands. Perhaps the Maker will understand this, and be appeased.’
Was it truly so? At this moment, Tiriki knew only that this day offered her the last sight that she would ever have of her mother. Sobbing, she moved forward and folded the older woman in her arms.
Although the long day had been unseasonably cool, the sunset brought winds that were warm and an ominously hot night. Most of those who actually tried to sleep tossed and turned in damp frustration. The city that had been so quiet by day became the opposite that night, as its people wandered the streets and parks. Perhaps surprisingly, few were actually looting the deserted houses and shops; the rest seemed to be searching, but for what, none seemed to know – a cooler place to rest. Perhaps the true goal was to achieve that exhaustion of the body that alone can give peace to the fevered brain.
In their rooms at the top of the palace, Tiriki sat watching her husband sleep. It was several hours after midnight, but rest eluded her. They had been up late making final preparations to sail in the morning. Then she had sung until Micail fell at last into an uneasy slumber, but there was no one to sing her to sleep. She wondered if her mother, who might have done so, was wakeful as well, waiting for what must come.
It does not matter, she told herself, looking around the room where she had known so much joy. I will have the rest of my life to sleep…and weep.
Beyond the open doors to the terrace the night sky was red. In that lurid light she could see the silhouette of Micail’s feather tree, which she had rescued and repotted. It was foolish, she knew, to see in that small plant a symbol of all the beautiful and fragile things that must be abandoned. On a sudden impulse she rose, found a scarf to wrap around the pot and the slender branches, and tucked it into the top of her bag. It was an act of faith, she realized. If she could preserve this little life, then perhaps the gods would be equally merciful to her and those she loved.
Except for the light that burned before the image of the Great Mother in the corner of the bedchamber, all the lamps had gone out, but she could still see the disorder in the room. The bags they had filled to take with them stood next to the door, waiting for the last frantic farewell.
The fitful flicker behind the veil of the shrine focused her gaze. Ahtarra had many temples and priesthoods, but only in the House of Caratra were a high altar and sanctuary consecrated in the Mother’s name. And yet, thought Tiriki with a faint smile, the Goddess received more worship than any of the gods. Even the humblest goatherd’s hut or fisherman’s cottage had a niche for Her image, and if there was no oil to spare for a lamp, one could always find a spray of flowers to offer Her.
She rose and drew aside the gauze that veiled the shrine. The lamp within was alabaster, and it burned only the most refined of oils, but the ivory image, only a handspan high, was yellowed and shapeless with age. Her aunt Domaris had brought it with her from the Ancient Land, and before that, it had belonged to her mother, the legacy of a lineage of foremothers whose origins predated even the records of the Temple.
From the lamp she lit a sliver of pine and held it to the charcoal that was always laid ready on a bed of sand in the dish beside the lamp.
‘Be ye far from me, all that is profane.’ As she murmured the ancient words, she felt the familiar dip of shifting consciousness. ‘Be far from me, all that lives in evil. Stand afar from the print of Her footsteps and the shadow of Her veil. Here I take refuge, beneath the curtain of the night and the circle of Her own white stars.’
She
