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 took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The charcoal had begun to glow. She picked up a few grains of incense and scattered them across it, feeling awareness shift further as the pungent sweet smoke spiraled into the air.
Bowing her head, she touched her fingers to her brow and her lips and breast. Then her hands lifted in a gesture of adoration so familiar it had become involuntary.
‘Lady…’ the word died on her lips. The time for asking that this fate should pass was gone. ‘Mother…’ she tried again, and whatever words might have followed were borne away by a tide of emotion.
And in that moment, she became aware that she was not alone.
‘I am the earth beneath your feet…’ The Goddess spoke within.
‘But the island is being destroyed!’ A panicked part of Tiriki’s soul objected.
‘I am the burning flame…’
‘The flame will be drowned by the waves!’
‘I am the surging sea…’
‘Then you are chaos and destruction!’ Tiriki’s soul protested.
‘I am the night and the circling stars…’ came the calm reply, and Tiriki’s soul clung to that certainty.
‘I am all that is, that has been, that will be, and there is no power that can separate you from Me…’
And for a moment outside time, Tiriki knew that it was true.
When she returned to awareness of her surroundings, the incense had ceased to burn and the charcoal was grey. But as the lamp flickered, it seemed to her that the image of the Mother was smiling.
Tiriki took a deep breath and reached out to lift the image from its stand. ‘I know that the symbol is nothing, and the reality is all,’ she whispered, ‘but nonetheless I will take you with me. Let the flame continue to burn until it becomes one with the mountain’s fire.’
She had just finished wrapping the image and tucking it into her bag when the chimes at the doorway rang faintly. She ran to the entry, afraid Micail would wake. A few swift steps brought her to the door, where she waved the messenger back out into the hall with her finger at her lips.
‘Beg pardon, Lady,’ he began, red-faced.
‘No,’ she sighed as she cinctured her robe, remembering the orders she had left. ‘I know you would not come without need. What brings you?’
‘You must come to the House of the Twelve, Lady. There is trouble – they will listen to you!’
‘What?’ She blinked. ‘Has something happened to Gremos, their guardian?’ Tiriki frowned. ‘It is her duty to—’
‘Beg pardon, Lady, but it seems that the Guardian of the Twelve is – gone.’
‘Very well. Wait a moment for me to dress, and I will come.’
‘Be still—’ Tiriki pitched her voice to carry over the babble of complaint and accusation. ‘You are the hope of Atlantis! Remember your training! Surely it is not beyond you all to give me a coherent tale!’
She glared around the circle of flushed faces in the entryway to the House of the Falling Leaves and let her mantle slip from her shoulders as she sat down. Her gaze fixed on Damisa; red-faced, the girl came forward. ‘Very well then. You say that Kalaran and Vialmar got some wine. How did that happen, and what did they do?’
‘Kalaran said that wine would help him sleep.’ Damisa paused, her eyes briefly flicking closed as she ordered her thoughts. ‘He and the other boys went down to the taverna at the end of the road to get some. There was no one there, so they brought two whole amphorae back with them and drank all of it, as far as I can tell.’
Tiriki turned her gaze to the three young men sitting on a bench by the door. Kalaran’s handsome face was marred by a graze on one cheek, and water dripped down his companions’ necks from wet hair, as if someone had tried to sober them up by plunging their heads into the fountain.
‘And did it put you to sleep?’
‘For a while—’ Vialmar said sullenly.
‘He got sick and puked,’ said Iriel brightly, then fell silent beneath Damisa’s glare. At twelve, Iriel was the youngest of the Twelve, fair-haired and mischievous, even now.
‘About