As the strangely robed priest came forward Tiriki laid her hand upon her heart and then her forehead in the salute offered only to the very highest of initiates.
‘Master Chedan Arados,’ she murmured, ‘may you walk in Light.’
Damisa surveyed the priest with interest. Throughout Atlantis, in the priests’ caste at least, the name of Chedan Arados was well known. He had been an acolyte in the Ancient Land, schooled at the same time as Tiriki’s mother, Deoris; but Chedan had carried his studies further to become a Free Mage. After the destruction of the City of the Circling Snake, he had traveled widely. But despite his several visits to Alkonath, Damisa had never seen him.
The mage was tall with warm but piercing eyes, and the full beard of a mature man. There was already a strong hint of roundness to his belly, but he could not fairly have been called stout. His robe, made of the same fine white linen as those worn by ordinary priests of Light, was of a distinctly different design, fastened with loops and buttons on one shoulder and hanging loose to the ankle. Upon his breast was a disk of crystal, a lens in which thin blue-white glimmers darted and sparkled like fish in a pool.
‘I do walk in Light,’ said the mage to Tiriki, ‘but too often, what I see is darkness. And so it is today.’
Tiriki’s smile froze. ‘We see what you see,’ she said, very softly, ‘but we should not speak of it here.’
Micail and Tjalan, having completed the more formal greetings between princes, clasped wrists forcefully. As their bracelets clinked, the severe lines of their similarly large-nosed faces gave way to the warmest laughter.
‘You had a good voyage?’ Micail asked as the two turned, arms linked, making their way along the quayside.
‘The sea was calm enough,’ Tjalan quipped wryly.
‘Your lady did not want to leave Alkonath?’
Tjalan suppressed a snort of laughter. ‘Chaithala is convinced that the Isles of Tin are a howling wilderness inhabited by monsters. But our traders have been preparing a refuge at Belsairath for many years. She will not fare so ill. Knowing she and the children are safe frees my mind for the task here.’
‘And if we are all mistaken and no disaster occurs?’ asked Micail.
‘Then she will have had an unusual vacation and will likely never forgive me. But I have been speaking much with Master Chedan on the voyage, and I fear your forebodings are only too sure…’
Damisa suppressed a shiver. She had assumed that the ritual in the deep Temple had been successful, despite Alyssa’s collapse, because the earthquakes and the nightmares had ceased. Now she was uneasy. Had such tremors been felt in Alkonath, too? It was becoming difficult to assure herself that Tjalan’s visit was no more than a social call.
‘And who is this? Can this be little Damisa, grown woman-high?’
The voice brought Damisa’s head around. The third traveler stood before her with his cloak now thrown back to reveal a sleeveless tunic and kilt so emblazoned with embroidery she blinked as the bright garments caught the sun. But she knew the gaudy clothing covered a muscular body, and the long dagger sheathed at the man’s side, however ornate, was not aristocratic frippery. He was Antar, Tjalan’s bodyguard from the time they were boys.
‘It is Damisa,’ Antar answered himself, his dark eyes, as always, in constant motion, watching for any threat to his lord.
Damisa blushed, realizing that the others were now looking at her, too.
‘Trust you, Antar, to see her first,’ said Micail, smiling.
‘I trust Antar to see everything first,’ Tjalan commented, with a grin no less wide. ‘Damisa. What a pleasure, sweet cousin, to find a flower of Alkona amid so many lilies.’ His attitude was warm and welcoming, but as Damisa walked forward she knew that the days of childish hugs were forever gone. She held out her hand, and her prince bent to it respectfully – if with a twinkle in his sea-colored eyes.
‘Damisa, you are become a woman indeed,’ said Tjalan appreciatively. But he let go her hand, and turned once more to Tiriki. ‘You have taken good care of our flower, I see.’ . ‘We do what we may, my noble lord. And now—’ Tiriki handed the basket of fruit and flowers to Damisa as she said, in a ringing voice, ‘Let the officers of the city make the Prince of Alkonath most welcome.’ She gestured toward the open square at the entrance to the quay where, as if by magic, crimson pavilions had sprung up to shade tables full of food and drink.
Tjalan frowned. ‘I hardly think we have time—’
Tiriki delicately took his arm. ‘We must delay all serious discussion until the lords arrive from the estates in the countryside. And if the people see us eat and drink together, it will hearten the city. Indulge us, my noble lord, I pray.’
As ever, beneath Tiriki’s words rang the cadence of a song. A man would have to be made of stone, Damisa thought, to resist the sweetness in that plea.
Micail glanced around the great hall to ascertain that the servants had finished setting out the earthenware pitchers of lemon-water and the silver goblets, and then nodded his permission for them to retire. The last of the daylight shafted through narrow windows beneath the soaring dome of the Council Hall, illuminating the circular table and the worried faces of the traders, landowners, and leaders who sat around it. Would the strength of Atlantis ever again be arrayed in such order and dignity?
Micail arose from his couch and waited for the conversations to fade. For this meeting, he retained the regalia that marked him as a prince, although Tiriki had resumed the white robe and veil of a simple priestess and sat a little to one side. Reio-ta, robed as governor of the Temple, had taken a place on the left with the other rulers.
Once again, Micail felt acutely that he stood between two realms, the worldly and the spiritual. Over the years he had often found his identities as a Vested Guardian and as Prince of Ahtarrath in conflict, but tonight, perhaps, his royalty might give him the authority to enforce the priesthood’s wisdom.
If even that will be enough. At the moment, what Micail felt most strongly was fear. But the die was cast. His friend Jiritaren gave an encouraging nod. The room had silenced. All eyes were on him, tensely expectant.
‘My friends, heirs of Manoah, citizens of Atlantis, we all have felt the tremors that shake our islands. Yes, islands,’ he repeated sharply, seeing the eyes of some of the landowners widen, ‘for the same forerunners of disaster have shook Alkonath, Tarisseda, and other kingdoms as well. So we gather together to take counsel against the threat that now faces us all.’ Micail paused and looked slowly about the table.
‘There is still much that we can do,’ he said encouragingly, ‘for as you surely know, the Empire has faced circumstances no less dire, and has survived to see this day. Master Chedan Arados—’ Micail paused, permitting a flurry of whispers to run through the hall. ‘Master Chedan, you were among those who escaped the Ancient Land’s destruction. Will you speak to us now of the prophecies?’
‘I will.’ Ponderously, the mage got to his feet and eyed the gathering sternly.
‘It is time for the veil to be set aside,’ he said. ‘Some secrets will be shared which have hitherto been spoken only under seal of initiation; but that was done to preserve the truth, that it might be revealed at the appointed hour. To keep these things hidden now would be the true sacrilege. Indeed, for the threat we face has its deepest roots in a sacrilege committed almost thirty years ago in the Ancient Land.’ As Chedan drew breath, the bar of sunlight that had haloed his head moved, leaving him in sudden shadow. Micail knew it was only because the sun was sinking, but the effect