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whose bodies had lain here, Anderle tied the goat’s tether to a hazel trunk, curled up against one of them, and settled Mikantor in the crook of her arm. Thank the gods he was not yet crawling.
    For a time it was enough to enjoy the solid support of earth and stone. Somewhere above her, a warbler was greeting the sun with a descending “hoo eet” that ended in a trill. She gazed upward through the canopy of beech leaves until she could see the pale greenish feathers of the bird. Here was peace, she thought drowsily. Both the subtle stresses of life in Avalon and the violence of the attack on Azan seemed far away. Whatever passions had ruled those buried here had faded long ago. She tried to stay awake and watch for Ellet’s returning, but the warming air drew her into a sweet embrace.
    It was not the light footstep of the girl that woke her, but the hard tread of sandaled feet. And perhaps her sleep had not been so deep as she believed, for without needing to think Anderle found herself pushing Mikantor through the gap between the stones of the tomb and forcing her swollen body through the opening after him.
    “I saw somethin’ move—” came a man’s voice, dulled through earth and stone.
    Anderle curled into the dirt. Her heart hammered in her chest—surely it must be resonating like a drum in this chamber of stone.
    “By the tomb?” a second man answered. “This place belongs to the dead, and they don’t walk by day!”
    Had she pulled all of her draperies within? She strained to see over the curve of her hip.
    “Then why’re ye hangin’ back, eh, Izri?” This, in the accent of the north. “The chief says we’re to check ev’ry farm, ev’ry hiding place. I don’t know if ghosts can hurt ye, but Ramdane surely can!”
    “This land has too many tombs,” came the second voice again. “The dead aid their sorceress, or we would have found a trail.”
    A little earth sifted down as someone climbed up the mound. Anderle fought a vision in which his weight shifted the balance that held the stones, of great masses sliding to crush her and the child. At least, she thought grimly, they would have a worthy burial.
    “By the Hunter’s prong, it’s a goat !” the first voice exclaimed.
    “Then I thank him—” answered the northerner. “’Twill be a nice change from boiled barley.”
    Anderle tensed, unconsciously squeezing the child. But Mikantor’s protest was covered by Ara’s sudden bleat.
    “Leave it alone!” one of the other men cried. “It might be an offering!”
    Old Ones, hide us, and I will give you an offering in truth! the priestess prayed. Set fear in their hearts until they flee! Abruptly she sensed that she was not alone. The warriors could feel it as well.
    “If you want your balls to wither and your crops to die you go right ahead, but I’m getting out of here now!” The sounds of crushed leaves and breaking branches told her when first one, then the second man went away.
    “Very well, but I think ye spineless fools,” the northern man replied. “Still, if ye had any backbone, I suppose we’d not have taken Azan.” His muttering faded as he too retraced his steps through the wood.
    For a long time Anderle lay trembling, but presently her heartbeat slowed and her tense muscles began to ease. Reason told her that the warriors had been too frightened to return, but just now that was not enough to persuade her to leave this earthen womb. It had never before occurred to her to envy the ancestors. But here they were sheltered by eternal stone, all passion spent, all danger past.
    Or at least a part of them, she thought then. Another part lived in the blood and bone of their descendants, and yet another moved from life to life across the centuries, seeking to work out its destiny. And that one would outlast even these stones. . . .
    From time to time a memory of other times would surface in the meditations of one of the people of Avalon. Even little Ellet had dreamed of using an