Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon by Diana L. Paxson Page A
Authors: Diana L. Paxson
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tiny features despite the dubious gaze with which the baby was regarding all these strange men.
“This is my daughter, the heir of Avalon,” Anderle said calmly. “Would you like me to undo her clout so that you may assure yourselves that she is indeed a maid?”
One of the men flushed and the others had the grace to look emba rassed. It was clear to all that this delicate child could not be Uldan’s strong redheaded son.
“That will not be necessary,” Galid said stiffly. For a moment longer his gaze held Anderle’s, an odd mixture of lust and respect in his eyes.
Tirilan’s face reddened and Ellet thrust her into her mother’s arms, where she began to rootle against the heavy fabric, and then to cry. Abruptly Anderle realized that there was no opening in the ceremonial robes through which she could nurse her, and in a moment her breasts were going to begin leaking in response to the baby’s cries.
“You may search the isle,” Belkacem offered earnestly, “but I swear by the Light that this is the only infant of either gender to be found among us here.”
“Search if you will—” Anderle rose, settling the baby against her shoulder. “But for this child, at least, I have milk, and I had better feed her before she deafens us all!”
“If you swear to it, then I am sure it is true, but even truth can sometimes lie.” Galid lifted his hand like a fighter saluting his foe. “I will not forget, Lady—” Their eyes met, and she heard the unspoken words “And I will be watching you . . .”
AS A CHILLY WINTER unwillingly gave way to an equally wet spring, the people of the village reported an unusual number of strangers in the area. Galid was keeping his word, thought Anderle, and denied her heart’s craving to go to the Lake Village to visit Mikantor, whom Redfern, following Village custom, called Woodpecker. Thus, it was not until just after the boy’s first birthday, when the priesthood on the Tor had finished the ceremonies surrounding the summer solstice, that she crossed the lake to preside over the villagers’ Midsummer Festival.
Anderle sat on the platform on which the headman’s house was built, helping Willow Woman to plait wreaths for the evening’s dancing from flowers and leafy branches the children had brought in from the marsh. Tirilan lay sleeping in a cradle by her side.
“If I did not trust our observations of the heavens, I would think we were celebrating the Turning of Spring.” She threaded a few primroses among the yellow cresses already twined into the braid of bullrush with a sigh.
“It’s so—” the older woman agreed. “Many trackways through the marsh are underwater still.”
“This year the isles of the Summer Country are islands indeed.” Beyond the platform sunlight glittered on the open waters of the Lake and the channels that wound through the reeds.
“The water meadows are still water. Not many places for the sheep and goats to graze, or gather seeds. Next winter I think we will live on dried fish and waterfowl and berries.”
“Be thankful you have them,” Anderle said grimly. “They tell me that it has been too cold to grow much on the old farms on top of the downs, and those that lie too low are so wet the cattle are getting hoof rot and the seeds drown in the fields.”
She turned as a trill of laughter rippled up from below. One of the older girls was watching over the toddlers as they played on the ground that had been bared beneath the pilings as the waters receded. Mikantor was among them, walking already and tall and strong.
“The boy looks well, and he has grown. If anyone asks, we can say he is a year older than his milk-brother, Grebe.”
“Redfern’s milk is good,” Willow Woman replied. They both laughed as he sat down suddenly in the mud, brows lifting in an expression of comical surprise. In the next moment he was pulling himself upright once more. The sun struck rusty glints from his dyed hair. “She loves
“This is my daughter, the heir of Avalon,” Anderle said calmly. “Would you like me to undo her clout so that you may assure yourselves that she is indeed a maid?”
One of the men flushed and the others had the grace to look emba rassed. It was clear to all that this delicate child could not be Uldan’s strong redheaded son.
“That will not be necessary,” Galid said stiffly. For a moment longer his gaze held Anderle’s, an odd mixture of lust and respect in his eyes.
Tirilan’s face reddened and Ellet thrust her into her mother’s arms, where she began to rootle against the heavy fabric, and then to cry. Abruptly Anderle realized that there was no opening in the ceremonial robes through which she could nurse her, and in a moment her breasts were going to begin leaking in response to the baby’s cries.
“You may search the isle,” Belkacem offered earnestly, “but I swear by the Light that this is the only infant of either gender to be found among us here.”
“Search if you will—” Anderle rose, settling the baby against her shoulder. “But for this child, at least, I have milk, and I had better feed her before she deafens us all!”
“If you swear to it, then I am sure it is true, but even truth can sometimes lie.” Galid lifted his hand like a fighter saluting his foe. “I will not forget, Lady—” Their eyes met, and she heard the unspoken words “And I will be watching you . . .”
AS A CHILLY WINTER unwillingly gave way to an equally wet spring, the people of the village reported an unusual number of strangers in the area. Galid was keeping his word, thought Anderle, and denied her heart’s craving to go to the Lake Village to visit Mikantor, whom Redfern, following Village custom, called Woodpecker. Thus, it was not until just after the boy’s first birthday, when the priesthood on the Tor had finished the ceremonies surrounding the summer solstice, that she crossed the lake to preside over the villagers’ Midsummer Festival.
Anderle sat on the platform on which the headman’s house was built, helping Willow Woman to plait wreaths for the evening’s dancing from flowers and leafy branches the children had brought in from the marsh. Tirilan lay sleeping in a cradle by her side.
“If I did not trust our observations of the heavens, I would think we were celebrating the Turning of Spring.” She threaded a few primroses among the yellow cresses already twined into the braid of bullrush with a sigh.
“It’s so—” the older woman agreed. “Many trackways through the marsh are underwater still.”
“This year the isles of the Summer Country are islands indeed.” Beyond the platform sunlight glittered on the open waters of the Lake and the channels that wound through the reeds.
“The water meadows are still water. Not many places for the sheep and goats to graze, or gather seeds. Next winter I think we will live on dried fish and waterfowl and berries.”
“Be thankful you have them,” Anderle said grimly. “They tell me that it has been too cold to grow much on the old farms on top of the downs, and those that lie too low are so wet the cattle are getting hoof rot and the seeds drown in the fields.”
She turned as a trill of laughter rippled up from below. One of the older girls was watching over the toddlers as they played on the ground that had been bared beneath the pilings as the waters receded. Mikantor was among them, walking already and tall and strong.
“The boy looks well, and he has grown. If anyone asks, we can say he is a year older than his milk-brother, Grebe.”
“Redfern’s milk is good,” Willow Woman replied. They both laughed as he sat down suddenly in the mud, brows lifting in an expression of comical surprise. In the next moment he was pulling himself upright once more. The sun struck rusty glints from his dyed hair. “She loves
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