Ancestors of Avalon. Marion Zimmer Bradley
sailed. But as for east and west – well, for that we await the pleasure of the Star Shaper, but he spurns us still.’ He returned the crystal to its pouch. ‘We set sail with provisions for a moon, and that should be enough, but still, if we have a chance to go ashore, it wouldn’t hurt to take on fresh supplies. All assuming that the mast…’ The words trailed off as he turned to watch his laboring crewmen.
‘Are we on a course toward the Hesperides?’ Tiriki blurted out. More calmly, she continued, ‘I know that many refugees from the islands of Tarisseda and Mormallor have already gone to Khem, where the ancient wisdom has long been welcome. And others, I think, intended to seek the western lands across the greater sea. But – Micail and I planned to go north—’
‘Yes, my lady, I know. The day before – before we left –I had a few minutes with the prince. With both of them, actually. Prince Tjalan told me—’ He broke off, biting his lip. ‘If all goes well—’ Reidel paused again as one of the sailors approached, touching hand to forehead in salute. ‘What is it, Cadis?’
‘The lads are done binding the mast; they wait only thy word.’
‘I will come – excuse me—’ Reidel inclined his head respectfully to Chedan and Tiriki, but his eyes and his attention had already returned to his ship and his crew.
The wind never left their sails, which allowed the Crimson Serpent to make good time, and though the spliced mainmast creaked alarmingly, it held fast. But the wind also played in the overcast sky, shaping weird cloud-creatures from the curtaining mists. Ahtarrath might lie broken in the deeps, but the smoke of its destruction remained in the sky, dimming the sun by day and shrouding the stars at night.
As agreed, Reidel had set a northerly course, but many days passed and they still had not seen land. They encountered no other ships either, but with the continual fog, it was possibly just as well. A collision would have been one disaster too many.
Tiriki made a point of spending a little while every day with the acolytes, particularly Damisa, who was still brooding over her failure to make it to the ship captained by Prince Tjalan; and Elis, whose grief for Aldel reminded Tiriki that at least she could hope that her own beloved survived. She could only counsel those who were still sunk in depression to follow the example of Kalaran and Selast, who were trying to make themselves useful, a suggestion often met with tears. Tiriki insisted, however, that they at least pursue their singing practice and other studies, even if they were not well enough to help with the chores.
She had hoped that Alyssa, as the next-most-senior priestess onboard, would be more helpful, but the seeress took full advantage of what was almost a private cabin to nurse her injured leg and meditate. Tiriki had begun to suspect her of malingering, but Liala assured her that the seeress’s leg had indeed been badly sprained during the melee of their escape.
One afternoon, as Tiriki sat in the foredeck, wondering what, if anything, she ought to do about the lesser priest Rendano’s repetitive, pointless quarreling with a small cheerful saji woman called Metia, the dreary skies darkened, and a storm whirled down upon them. If Tiriki had thought her first night at sea terrible, by the time the tempest had blotted out even the sight of the towering waves, she was actually wishing that she had stayed in the palace. There, at least, she might have drowned with dignity.
For an endless time of torment she clung to her bunk below deck, while the ship bucked and plunged. Selast, who had inherited at least the sea legs of the Cosarrath royal line, refilled her flask with fresh water. Mindful of Chedan’s advice, Tiriki sipped at it in the occasional gaps between upheaving seas, and tried not to watch the others merrily downing cheesebread and the last of the fresh fruit.
Sometimes, between the almost endless sobbing of the elder priestess Malaera and the complaints of the acolytes, there came a respite long enough for her to hear the sailors shouting on the deck above, and Reidel’s strong, clear voice responding; but always, just when she was beginning to hope the worst had passed, a rising wind would overwhelm every voice, and the ship would tilt until she expected they would go completely under. Reason told her that no vessel could survive such a battering. She did not know whether to pray that Micail’s ship was faring better, or that he was already dead and awaiting her on the other side.
Her misery faded into a stupor of endurance in which her soul retreated into an inner fastness so remote that she did not notice that the gusts were growing gentler, as the roll and pitch of the ship eased almost to normal. Exhaustion became a long-awaited, dreamless sleep; nor did she wake until morning.
The mended mainmast had not survived the storm, but the other two remained still intact, though tall enough to support only small sails. Still, as the weather held fair and the breeze steady, they were able to move slowly forward. Yet at every dimming of the cloudy light, Tiriki stiffened, fearing disaster.
What has become of my discipline? she scolded herself, sharply. I have been trained to face anything, even the very darkness beyond the reach of the gods, but here I sit frozen with terror while those children scuffle and chatter and hang off the railing.
The creak of the ship’s timbers, a sudden tilting of the deck, even the scent of burning charcoal from the galley, all had the power to set her heart pounding. Yet it was also a distraction from a deeper anxiety that had set in when the storm lifted and they found themselves the only ship on the calm blue sea. Chedan had said that the other boats, having departed earlier, could have used their sails to run ahead of the storm. Did he believe that? It did no good to tell herself that the acolytes would only be more frightened if their seniors let their own fears show. The fear was there, and it made her feel ashamed.
Tiriki took a deep breath and continued on toward the stern of the ship, where Chedan and the captain were taking sightings from the night sky. She was not alone, she reminded herself as she approached the two men. Reidel was an experienced sailor, and Chedan had traveled widely. Surely they would know how to find the way.
‘But that is just what I am saying,’ Reidel’s finger stabbed upward. ‘In the month of the Bull, the constellation of the Changer should have risen just after sunset. By this time, the pole star should be high.’
‘You forget, we are much farther north than you have ever come.’ Chedan lifted the scroll he held so that it caught the light. ‘The horizon is different in many small ways…Well no wonder you can’t find it, this is not the right scroll. Ardral prepared more recent charts for our use.’
‘So Prince Tjalan said, but they never reached us.’
‘What of the teaching scrolls?’ said Tiriki as she joined them. ‘I told Kalaran to fetch them from the chests—’
‘Yes, and I thank you for remembering them,’ said Chedan. ‘The problem is they are very old. See for yourself.’
She peered at the scroll, which concerned the movement of the zodiac. Unhappily, it no longer seemed to her half as detailed as it had when she was a student trying to commit it to memory – and that was the last time she had given any serious thought to the stars.
It just isn’t right, she thought angrily, as her stomach once more began to protest the unsteady movement of the sea. Of all of us, Reio-ta was the sailor! He and Deoris took that trip to Oranderis alone, only five years ago. Either one of them would be more use here than me!
Chedan drew a deep breath. ‘The chief polar star is Eltanin, of course, as shown in all our charts. But for generations now, the configuration of the stars has been changing—’
‘What?’ Reidel exclaimed in shock. ‘We know that land and sea can change their outlines, but the skies?’
The mage nodded solemnly. ‘I have many times verified it with a nightglass, and it only became more obvious with every hour. The heavens change just as we do, only more slowly. But over the centuries, the differences become clear. You must know something of the wandering stars—’
‘I know that they wander along a predictable path.’
‘Only because