She reached up to trace the strong lines of his cheek and brow. ‘But your line will end!’
He bent his head to kiss away her tears. ‘If Ahtarrath itself must cease to be, does it matter so greatly if the magic of its princes is lost as well? It is the wisdom of Atlantis we must preserve, not its powers.’
‘Osinarmen…do you know how much I love you?’ She lay back with a sigh as his hands began to move along her body, each touch awakening a sensation to which her body had learned to respond as the spiritual exercises of the Temple had trained her soul.
‘Eilantha…Eilantha!’ he answered and closed his arms around her.
At that summons, spirit and body opened together, overwhelmed and transfigured in the ultimate union.
Damisa peered through the foliage of the garden of the House of the Twelve, wondering if she would be able to see any of the earthquake damage from here. Since the ritual in the underground Temple, the earth had been quiet, and Prince Micail had ordered his guards to help with the reconstruction. Ahtarrath’s capital had grown from the remnants of a more ancient settlement. The Three Towers, sheathed in gold, had stretched toward the sky for a thousand years. Almost as venerable were the Seven Arches, in whose weathered sides students strove to trace hieroglyphs long since worn away.
The clergy of Ahtarra had done their best to prepare the old rooms of the House of the Falling Leaves for the twelve acolytes, but it was the gardens that made the location ideal, for they set the house well apart from the city and the temple. Damisa stepped back, letting the branches of the laurel hedge swing down. From here, no other building could be seen.
She turned to watch the group on the lawn a little distance away. Priestly inbreeding could produce weakness as well as talent. She often wondered if she herself had been chosen as an acolyte because of her royal grandmother’s influence rather than her own merit, but half the others would have run screaming had they seen those lights flickering up the passageway of the underground Temple. It occurred to her now that the guardians might have seen some benefit in adding the robust blood of Alkonath to the priestly lineage.
But why had they decided that the detestable Kalhan, with his blunt features and equally blunt sense of humor, was a fit mate for her? Surely he would have been a better match for Cleta, who had no sense of humor at all. As a minor princess, Damisa would have expected an arranged marriage, but at least her husband should be a man of power. Tiriki had said Kalhan would probably improve with age, but Damisa could see no signs of it now.
There he was, leaping about on the lawn, leading a cluster of other acolytes in boisterous cheers, while Aldel, who she had decided was the nicest of the boys, and Lanath, who was better with his head than his hands, wrestled fiercely. Even Elara, usually the most sensible of the female acolytes, was watching them with an amused smile. Selast, on the other hand, looked as if she wanted to join the battle. She could probably win, thought Damisa, as she considered the younger girl’s wiry frame. Damisa turned away. She could not tell if the fight was in fun or fury, and for the moment she did not care.
They all seem to have forgotten to worry about the end of the world, she thought moodily. How I wish I was home! It’s an honor to be Chosen and all of that – but it’s always so hot here, and the food is strange. But would it be any safer there? Are we even allowed to run away? Or are we expected to just nobly stand here and let the world fall to pieces around us?
Battling sniffles, Damisa let her wandering feet take her up the grassy slope. In moments, she emerged onto the outermost of the garden’s many terraces – a long, broad retaining wall with a sweeping view of the city and the sea.
Only two days ago Damisa had discovered this spot, which she was certain could not be seen even from the roof of the House of the Twelve. With any luck, the others did not yet know about it.
As always, the sea wind dispelled her ill temper. Every salty gust felt like a secret love letter from her faraway home. Minutes passed before she noticed how many boats were out on the water today – no, not boats, she realized, but ships, and not just any ships, but a fleet of three-masted wingbirds, the pride and the might of Atlantis. High in the water, their wicked prows sheathed in hardened bronze, they could be rowed to ramming speed, or ride the wind under sail. In precise formation they made the turn around the headland.
Nestled almost directly below her vantage point was a small harbor. It was rarely used and ordinarily quiet enough for one to sink into trance while staring at its clear blue waters. But now, one by one, the tall wingbirds cast out their anchors as their brilliantly colored banners fluttered and settled to rest in the calm of the bay. The largest was already moored by the quay, furling purple sails.
Damisa rubbed her eyes again. How can it be? she asked herself, but there was no fault in her vision. From each proud mainmast flew the Circle of Falcons, the sovereign banner of her homeland. A surge of longing brought tears to her eyes.
‘Alkonath,’ she breathed; and without a second thought, lifted her robes and began to run, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as she passed the ongoing wrestling match and flew out of the garden to the stairway that led down to the harbor.
The largest of the wingbirds had dropped anchor at the main docks, but had not yet lowered its gangplank. Merchants and city folk had already convened on the pier, chattering excitedly as they waited to see what would happen next. But even with their servants, they were almost out-numbered by the white-clad men and women of the priests’ caste.
Tiriki was at the very forefront, swathed in fine layers of colorless fabric, her headdress dangling flowers of gold across her hair. Her two companions were covered by mantles of Ahtarrath’s royal purple. The rubies in their diadems burned like fire in the sun. It took Damisa a moment to recognize them as Reio-ta and Micail.
The ships were expected, then, the acolyte deduced, knowing well how long it took to put the ceremonial garments on. The fleet must have been sighted from the mountain, and a runner sent down to warn them that visitors were coming. She pressed through the crowd until she had reached her mentor’s side.
Tiriki inclined her head slightly in greeting. ‘Damisa, what a sense of timing!’ But before Damisa could wonder if Tiriki was poking fun at her, a collective cheer announced that the visitors had begun to debark.
First to emerge were the green-cloaked soldiers armed with pikes and swords. They escorted two men in traveler’s cloaks of simple wool, accompanied by a priest whose robe was cut in an unfamiliar style. Reio-ta stepped forward, raising his ceremonial staff to trace the circle of blessing. Tiriki and Micail had moved closer together. Damisa had to crane her neck to see.
‘In the name of Manoah, Maker of All, whose radiance fills our hearts as He illuminates the sky,’ Reio-ta said, ‘I welcome you.’
‘We give thanks to Nar-Inabi, the Star Shaper, who has brought you safely across the sea,’ Micail added. As he lifted his arms to make a formal obeisance, Damisa caught sight of the gleaming serpent bracelets that could be worn only by a prince of the Imperial lineage.
Tiriki stepped forward, offering a basket of fruit and flowers. Her voice was like a song. ‘Ni-Terat, the Great Mother, who is also called Caratra, welcomes all her children, young and old.’
The tallest of the travelers threw back the hood of his cloak, and Damisa’s cheer became a delighted squeal. Tjalan! She could not have said if she cared more that he was Prince of Alkonath or that he was her own cousin who had always been kind to her. She had barely enough discipline to stop herself from running to him and flinging her arms about his knees, as she had done when she was a child. But she controlled herself, and it was just as well that she did, for at the moment, Tjalan was entirely a lord of the empire,