Bradley, Marion Zimmer - The Fall of Atlantis

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The Fall of Atlantis

Table of Contents

BOOK ONE

Micon

Chapter One

EMISSARIES

Chapter Two

OF DISTANT STORMS

Chapter Three

THE LOOM OF FATE

Chapter Four

THE HEALER'S HANDS

Chapter Five

THE NIGHT OF THE ZENITH

BOOK TWO

Domaris

Chapter One

SACRAMENTS

Chapter Two

THE FOOL

Chapter Three

THE UNION

Chapter Four

STORM WARNINGS

Chapter Five

THE SECRET CROWN

Chapter Six

IN THE SISTERHOOD

Chapter Seven

WHAT THE STARS REVEALED

Chapter Eight

THE NAMING OF THE NAME

Chapter Nine

A QUESTION OF SENTIMENT

Chapter Ten

MEN OF PURPOSE

Chapter Eleven

OF BLESSINGS AND CURSES

Chapter Twelve

LIGHTS HOSTAGE

Chapter Thirteen

THE CHELA

Chapter Fourteen

THE UNREVEALED GOD

Chapter Fifteen

THE SIN THAT QUICKENS

Chapter Sixteen

THE NIGHT OF THE NADIR

Chapter Seventeen

DESTINY AND DOOM

BOOK THREE

Deoris

Chapter One

THE PROMISE

Chapter Two

THE FEVER

Chapter Three

CHOICE AND KARMA

Chapter Four

THE SUMMIT AND THE DEPTHS

Chapter Five

WORDS

Chapter Six

CHILDREN OF THE

UNREVEALED GOD

Chapter Seven

THE MERCY OF CARATRA

Chapter Eight

THE CRYSTAL SPHERE

Chapter Nine

THE DIFFERENCE

Chapter Ten

IN THE LABYRINTH

Chapter Eleven

THE DARK SHRINE

BOOK FOUR

Riveda

Chapter One

A WORLD OF DREAMS

Chapter Two

THE BLASPHEMY

Chapter Three

DARK DAWN

Chapter Four

THE LAWS OF THE TEMPLE

Chapter Five

THE NAMING OF THE NAME

Chapter Six

THE PRICE

Chapter Seven

THE DEATH CUP

Chapter Eight

LEGACY

Chapter Nine

THE JUDGMENT OF THE GODS

Chapter Ten

BLACK SHADOWS

Chapter Eleven

VISIONS

BOOK FIVE

Tiriki

Chapter One

THE EXILE

Chapter Two

THE MASTER

Chapter Three

LITTLE SINGER

Chapter Four

THE SPECTRE

Chapter Five

THE CHOSEN PATH

Chapter Six

WITHOUT EXPECTATIONS

Chapter Seven

THE UNFADING FLOWER

Chapter Eight

DUTY

Chapter Nine

THE SEA AND THE SHIP

Chapter Ten

KARMA

Afterword

The Fall of Atlantis

Marion Zimmer Bradley

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Formerly published in parts asWeb of Light andWeb of Darkness

A Baen Book

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-7157-1

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

First hardcover printing, September 2003

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Bell Road Press, Sherwood, OR

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

First, to my dear friend and mentor Dorothy G. Quinn, who, more years ago than I like to think about,

explored the past with me, and wrote, with me, a thin sheaf of handwritten scenes exploring the

characters of Domaris and Micon. The book has been through four rewritings since, and Dorothy would

probably not recognize her brainchild; but it was in her company that I first trod this path, and the debt is

inestimable.

Second, to David R. Bradley, my son, who prepared the final draft of this manuscript for publication and

who provided, from various sources, including the unpublished writings of his late father, Robert A.

Bradley, the philosophical excerpts which appear at the head of each section.

—Marion Zimmer Bradley

BAEN BOOKS

by MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY

The Fall of Atlantis

Glenraven

(with Holly Lisle)

In the Rift: Glenraven II

(with Holly Lisle)

BOOK ONE

Micon

"All events are but the consummation of preceding causes, clearly seen but not distinctly apprehended.

When the strain is sounded, the most untutored listener can tell that it must end with the keynote, although

he cannot see why each successive bar must lead at last to the concluding chord. The law of Karma is

the force which leads all chords to the keynote, which spreads the ripples from the tiny stone dropped

into a pool, until the tidal waves drown a continent, long after the stone has sunk from sight and been

forgotten.

"This is the story of one such stone, dropped into the pool of a world which was drowned long before

the Pharaohs of Egypt piled one stone upon another."

—The Teachings of Rajasta the Mage

Chapter One

EMISSARIES

At the sound of sandaled feet upon stone, the Priest Rajasta raised his face from the scroll he held open

on his knee. The library of the Temple was usually deserted at this hour, and he had come to regard it as

his peculiar privilege to study here each day undisturbed. His forehead ridged a little, not with anger, for

he was not given to anger, but with residual annoyance, for he had been deep in thought.

However, the two men who had entered the library had aroused his interest, and he straightened and

watched them; without, however, laying aside the scroll, or rising.

The elder of the two was known to him: Talkannon, Arch-Administrator of the Temple of Light, was a

burly, cheerful-faced man, whose apparent good nature was a shrewd dissemblance for an analytical

temperament which could turn cold and stern and even ruthless. The other was a stranger, a man whose

graceful dancer's body moved slowly and with effort; his dark smile was slightly wry, as if lips shut tight

on pain could grimace more easily. A tall man, this stranger, deeply tanned and handsome, clad in white

robes of an unfamiliar pattern, which glimmered with faint luminescence in the sunlit shadows of the room.

"Rajasta," the Arch-Administrator said, "our brother desires further knowledge. He is free to study as he

will. Be he your guest." Talkannon bowed slightly to the still-seated Rajasta, and, turning back to the

stranger, stated, "Micon of Ahtarrath, I leave you with our greatest student. The Temple, and the City of

the Temple, are yours, my brother; feel free to call upon me at any time." Again Talkannon bowed, then

turned and left the two men to further their acquaintance.

As the door scraped slowly shut behind the Arch-Administrator's powerful form, Rajasta frowned again;

he was used to Talkannon's abrupt manners, but he feared that this stranger would think them all lacking

in civility. Laying down his scroll, he arose and approached the guest with his hands outstretched in

courteous welcome. On his feet, Rajasta was a very tall man, long past middle age; his step and manner

disciplined and punctilious.

Micon stood quite still where Talkannon had left him, smiling still that grave, one-sided smile. His eyes

were deeply blue as storm-skies; the small creases around them spoke of humor, and a vast tolerance.

This man is one of us, surely,thought the Priest of Light, as he made a ceremonious bow, and waited.

Still the stranger stood and smiled, unheedful. Rajasta's frown returned, faintly. "Micon of Ahtarrath—"

"I am so called," said the stranger formally. "I have come here to ask that I may pursue my studies

among you." His voice was low and resonant, but held an overlay of effort, as if kept always in careful

control.

"You are welcome to share in what knowledge is mine," Rajasta said with grave courtesy, "and you are

yourself welcome—" He hesitated, then added, on a sudden impulse, "Son of the Sun." With his hand he

made a certain Sign.

"A fosterling, only, I fear," said Micon with a brief, wry smile, "and overly proud of the relationship."

Nevertheless, in answer to the ritual identifying phrase, he raised his hand and returned the archaic

gesture.

Rajasta stepped forward to embrace his guest; they were bound, not only by the bonds of shared

wisdom and search, but by the power behind the innermost magic of the Priesthood of Light: like

Rajasta, Micon was one of their highest initiates. Rajasta wondered at this—Micon seemed so young!

Then, as they stepped apart, Rajasta saw what he had not noticed before. His face shadowed with

sorrow and pity, and he took Micon's emaciated hands in his and led him to a seat, saying, "Micon, my

brother!"

"A fosterling, as I said," Micon nodded. "How did you know? I was—told—that there is no outward

scarring, nor—"

"No," Rajasta said. "I guessed. Your stillness—something in your gestures. But how did this come upon

you, my brother?"

"May I speak of that at another time? What is—" Micon hesitated again, and said, his resonant voice

strained, "—cannot be remedied. Let it suffice that I—returned the Sign."

Rajasta said, his voice trembling with emotion, "You are most truly a Son of Light, although you walk in

darkness. Perhaps—perhaps the only Son of that Light who can face His splendor."

"Only because I may never behold it," Micon murmured, and the blank eyes seemed to gaze intently on

the face they would never see. Silence, while that twisted and painful smile came and went upon Micon's

face.

At last Rajasta ventured, "But—you returned the Sign—and I thought surely I was mistaken—that surely

you saw—"

"I think—I can read thoughts, a little," Micon said. "Only a little; and only since there was need. I do not

know, yet, how much to trust to it. But with you—" Again the smile lent brilliance to the dark, strained

face. "I felt no hesitation."

Again the silence, as of emotions stretched too tightly for speech; then, from the passageway, a woman's

young voice called, "Lord Rajasta!"

Rajasta's tense face relaxed. "I am here, Domaris," he called, and explained to Micon, "My disciple, a

young woman—Talkannon's daughter. She is unawakened as yet, but when she learns, and

is—complete, she holds the seeds of greatness."

"The Light of the Heavens grant knowledge and wisdom to her," said Micon with polite disinterest.

Domaris came into the room; a tall girl, and proudly erect, with hair the color of hammered copper that

made a brightness in the dark spaces and shadows. Like a light bird she came, but paused at a little

distance from the men, too shy to speak in the presence of a stranger.

"My child," Rajasta said kindly, "this is Micon of Ahtarrath, my brother in the Light, to be treated as

myself in every respect."

Domaris turned to the stranger, in civil courtesy—then her eyes widened, a look of awe drew over her

features, and with a gesture that seemed forced, as if she made it against her will, she laid her right hand

over her breast and raised it slowly to forehead level, in the salute given only to the highest initiates of the

Priesthood of Light. Rajasta smiled: it was a right instinct and he was pleased; but he let his voice break

the spell, for Micon had gone grey with a deep pallor.

"Micon is my guest, Domaris, and will be lodged with me—if that is your will, my brother?" At Micon's

nod of assent, he continued, "Go now, daughter, to the Scribe-Mother, and ask her to hold a scribe

always in readiness for my brother."

She started and shivered a little; sent a worshipful glance at Micon; then inclined her head in reverence to

her teacher and went on her errand.

"Micon!" Rajasta spoke with terse directness. "You are come here from the Dark Shrine!"

Micon nodded. "From their dungeons," he qualified immediately.

"I—I feared that—"

"I am no apostate," Micon reassured firmly. "I served not there. My service is not subject to

compulsion!"

"Compulsion?"

Micon did not move, but the lift of his brows and the curl of his lip gave the effect of a shrug. "They

would have compelled me." He held out his mutilated hands. "You can see that they were—eloquent in

persuasion." Before Rajasta's gasp of horror, Micon drew back his hands and concealed their betrayal

within the sleeves of his robe. "But my task is undone. And until it is completed, I hold death from me

with these hands—though he companion me most closely."

Micon might have been speaking of last night's rain; and Rajasta bowed his head before the impassive

face. "There are those we call Black-robes," he said bitterly. "They hide themselves among the members

of the Magician's Sect, those who guard the shrine of the Unrevealed God—whom we call Grey-robes

here. I have heard that these . . . Black-robes—torture! But they are secret in their doings. Well for

them! Be they accursed!"

Micon stirred. "Curse not, my brother!" he said harshly. "You, of all men, should know the danger of

that."

Rajasta said tonelessly, "We have no way of acting against them. As I say, we suspect members of the

Grey-robe sect. Yet, all are—gray!"

"I know. I saw too clearly, so—I see nothing. Enough," Micon pleaded. "I carry my release within me,

my brother, but I may not yet accept it. We will not speak of this, Rajasta." He arose, with slow

carefulness, and paced deliberately to the window, to stand with his face uplifted to the warm sunlight.

With a sigh, Rajasta accepted the prohibition. True, the Black-robes always concealed themselves so

well that no victim could ever identify his tormentors. But why this? Micon was a stranger and could

hardly have incurred their enmity; and never before had they dared meddle with so highly-placed a

personage. The knowledge of what had befallen Micon initiated a new round in a warfare as old as the

Temple of Light.

And the prospect dismayed him.

In the School of Scribes, Mother Lydara was in the process of disciplining one of her youngest pupils.

The Scribes were the sons and daughters of the Priest's Caste who showed, in their twelfth or thirteenth

year, a talent for reading or writing: and thirty-odd intelligent boys and girls are not easy to keep in order.

Mother Lydara felt that no child in all her memory had ever been such a problem to her as the sullen little

girl who faced her just now: a thin angular girl, about thirteen, with stormy eyes and hair that hung

dishevelled in black, tumbled curls. She held herself very stiff and erect, her nervous little hands

stubbornly clenched, taut defiance in her white face.

"Deoris, little daughter," the Scribe-Mother admonished, standing rock-like and patient, "you must learn

to control both tongue and temper if you ever hope to serve in the Higher Ways. The daughter of

Talkannon should be an example and a pattern to the others. Now, you will apologize to me, and to your

playmate Ista, and then you will make accounting to your father." The old Priestess waited, arms crossed

on her ample breast, for an apology which never came.

Instead the girl burst out tearfully, "I won't! I have done nothing wrong, Mother, and I won't apologize

for anything!" Her voice was plangent, vibrating with a thrilling sweetness which had marked her, among

the children of the Temple, as a future Spell-singer; she seemed all athrob with passion like a struck harp.

The Scribe-Mother looked at her with a baffled, weary patience. "That is not the way to speak to an

elder, my child. Obey me, Deoris."

"I will not!"

The old woman put out a hand, herself uncertain whether to placate the girl or slap her, when a rap came

at the door. "Who is it?" the Priestess called impatiently.

The door swung back and Domaris put her head around the corner. "Are you at leisure, Mother?"

Mother Lydara's troubled face relaxed, for Domaris had been a favorite for many years. "Come in, my

child, I have always time for you."

Domaris halted on the threshold, staring at the stormy face of the little girl in the scribe's frock.

"Domaris, Ididn't! " Deoris wailed, and, a forlorn little cyclone, she flung herself on Domaris and

wrapped her arms around her sister's neck. "I didn't do anything," she hiccoughed on a hysterical sob.

"Deoris—little sister!" chided Domaris. Firmly she disengaged the clinging arms. "Forgive her, Mother

Lydara—has she been in trouble again? No, be still, Deoris; I did not askyou. "

"She is impertinent, impudent, impatient of correction and altogether unmanageable," said Mother

Lydara. "She sets a bad example in the school, and runs wild in the dormitories. I dislike to punish her,

but—"

"Punishment only makes Deoris worse," said Domaris levelly. "You should never be severe with her."

She pulled Deoris close, smoothing the tumbled curls. She herself knew so well how to rule Deoris

through love that she resented Mother Lydara's harshness.

"While Deoris is in the Scribe-School," said the Scribe-Mother with calm finality, "she will be treated as

the others are treated, and punished as they are punished. And unless she makes some effort to behave

as they behave she will not be long in the School."

Domaris raised her level brows. "I see . . . I have come from Lord Rajasta. He has need of a scribe to

serve a guest, and Deoris is competent; she is not happy in the school, nor do you want her here. Let her

serve this man." She glanced at the drooping head, now snuggled into her shoulder; Deoris looked up

with wondering adoration. Domaris always made everything right again!

Mother Lydara frowned, but was secretly relieved: Deoris was a problem quite beyond her limited

capabilities, and the fact that this spoilt child was Talkannon's daughter complicated the situation.

Theoretically, Deoris was there on an equal footing with the others, but the daughter of the

Arch-Administrator could not be chastised or ruled over like the child of an ordinary priest.

"Have it as you will, Daughter of Light," said the Scribe-Mother gruffly, "but she must continue her own

studies, see you to that!"

"Rest assured, I shall not neglect her schooling," said Domaris coldly. As they left the squat building, she

studied Deoris, frowning. She had seen little of her sister in these last months; when Domaris had been

chosen as Rajasta's Acolyte, the child had been sent to the Scribe-School—but before that they had

been inseparable, though the eight years difference in their ages made the relationship less that of sisters

than of mother and daughter. Now Domaris sensed a change in her young sister that dismayed her.

Always before, Deoris had been merry and docile; what had they done to her, to change her into this

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摘要：

TheFallofAtlantisTableofContentsBOOKONEMiconChapterOneEMISSARIESChapterTwoOFDISTANTSTORMSChapterThreeTHELOOMOFFATEChapterFourTHEHEALER'SHANDSChapterFiveTHENIGHTOFTHEZENITHBOOKTWODomarisChapterOneSACRAMENTSChapterTwoTHEFOOLChapterThreeTHEUNIONChapterFourSTORMWARNINGSChapterFiveTHESECRETCROWNChapterSi...

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