The Firebrand
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
VOLUME ONE - APOLLO’S CALL
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
VOLUME TWO - APHRODITE’S GIFT
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
VOLUME THREE - POSEIDON’S DOOM
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Postscript
Acknowledgements
“[Bradley] makes a strong statement about the desirability of women having control of their destinies and about the cruelties men inflict upon them.”—Library Journal
“I recommend The Firebrand wholeheartedly. It has everything a reader needs—color, drama, and spectacle.”
—Rambles
“There are two books you should know that relate to [Kassandra]. Number one: The Iliad. Number two: The Firebrand by Marion Zimmer Bradley, which is actually about [Kassandra] and a very good fiction book.”
—Paleothea
Praise for the Novels
of Avalon
Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Ravens of Avalon
by Diana L. Paxson
“Stirring ... Paxson’s bright fusion of fact and myth is a fine tribute to Bradley and the real-world triumphs and tragedy of Boudica.”—Publishers Weekly
“Marion Zimmer Bradley would be proud of this. . . .The story line smoothly combines ancient history with fantasy elements to please fans.”—Midwest Book Review
Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Ancestors of Avalon
by Diana L. Paxson
“Magical. . . . [The Mists of Avalon] devotees won’t feel let down by Ancestors . . . provides plenty of pleasurable reading hours.”—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“An elegant stylist, Paxson captures the awe, tragedy, and resounding mystery of ancient Britain and mist-enshrouded Atlantis.”—Publishers Weekly
“Paxson fashions an entirely new entry in the Avalon saga. . . . [Her] storytelling features the requisite veins of mysticism, but, like Bradley, she excels at bringing the vast sweep of imagined history to an accessible level . . . a rich and respectful homage that will dazzle readers longing to revisit Bradley’s sacred, storied isle.”—Booklist
“Once again, Diana L. Paxson has beautifully elaborated on Marion Zimmer Bradley’s beloved Avalon saga with this dramatic new installment . . . [an] extraordinary journey.” —SFRevu
“Paxson is an excellent choice as successor to Bradley for this series. Her style and the details of the plot retain the sense of the mysterious past and the feminist awareness that was an underlying theme in the originals.”
—Chronicle
Priestess of Avalon
(with Diana L. Paxson)
“Stunning . . . This rich and moving novel merits its place beside Bradley’s fantasy classic.”—Booklist
“A strange and wondrous story that no fan of the previous Avalon books should be without.”—SF Site
“Priestess of Avalon does a stunning job of recapturing the legendary power of the original. . . . [It] brings rich imagery to its prophetic scenes.”—The Green Man Review
“The story flourishes and comes to life. . . . [Bradley’s] fans will not want to miss it.”—VOYA
“Bradley creates a powerful tale of magic and faith that enlarges upon pagan and Christian traditions to express a deeper truth.”—Library Journal
“It is obvious that Diana L. Paxson did a lot of research, finding clever ways to meld fantasy to reality, making the portrait of this famous woman both vivid and believable. . . . The politics of religion and of running an empire make for some good reading.”—SF Site
“Amazing and enthralling . . . [Priestess of Avalon] is true to the style and tone of Bradley’s other works. Diana Paxson is a very talented author in her own right and excels at taking historical figures and bringing them to vibrant life. . . . With magic, deep, and layered characters and a sweeping narrative, Priestess of Avalon is sure to delight Bradley’s many fans, and make many new ones for the talented Diana Paxson.”—Readers Read
Lady of Avalon
The National Bestseller
“Combines romance, rich historical detail, magical dazzlements, grand adventure, and feminist sentiments into the kind of novel her fans have been yearning for.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Compelling, powerful.”—San Francisco Chronicle
“Bradley’s women are, as usual, strong and vibrant, but never before has she so effectively depicted the heroic male . . . an immensely popular saga.”—Booklist
Also by Marion Zimmer Bradley
The Forest House
Lady of Avalon
Priestess of Avalon
The Mists of Avalon
Also by Diana L. Paxson
Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Ancestors of Avalon
Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Ravens of Avalon
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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Copyright © Marion Zimmer Bradley, 1987
eISBN : 978-1-101-02888-9
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FOR MARY RENAULT
“Oh Troy Town! Tall Troy’s on fire!”
—ROSSETTI
“Before the birth of Paris, Hecuba, Queen of Troy, dreamed that she had given birth to a firebrand who would burn down the walls of Troy.”
Prologue
All DAY the rain had been coming down; now heavy, now tapering off to showers, but never entirely stopping. The women carried their spinning indoors to the hearth, and the children huddled under the overhanging roofs of the courtyard, venturing out for a few minutes between showers to splash through the brick-lined puddles and track the mud inside to the hearthside. By evening, the oldest of the women by the hearth thought she might go mad with the shrieking and splashing, the charging of the little armies, the bashing of wooden swords on wooden shields, the splintering sounds and quarreling over the broken toys, the shifting of loyalties from leader to leader, the yells of the “killed” and “wounded” when they were put out of the game.
Too much rain was still coming down the chimney for proper cooking at the hearth; as the winter day darkened, fires were lighted in braziers. As the baking meat and bread began to smell good, one after another the children came and hunched down like hungry puppies, sniffing loudly and still quarreling in undertones. Shortly before dinner, a guest arrived at the door: a minstrel, a wanderer whose lyre strapped to his shoulder guaranteed him welcome and lodging everywhere. When he had been given food and a bath and dry clothing, the minstrel came and seated himself in the place accorded the most welcome guests, close to the fire. He began to tune his instrument, leaning his ear close to the tortoiseshell pegs and testing the sound with his finger. Then, without asking leave—even in these days a bard did as he chose—he strummed a single loud chord and declaimed:
I will sing of battles and of the great men who fought them;
Of the men who lingered ten years before the giant-builded walls of Troy;
And of the Gods who pulled down those walls at last, of Apollo Sun Lord and Poseidon the mighty Earth Shaker.
I will sing the tale of the anger of powerful Akhilles,
Born of a Goddess, so mighty no weapon could slay him;
Even the story of his overweening pride, and that battle
Where he and great Hector fought for three days on the plains before high-walled Troy;
Of proud Hector and gallant Akhilles, of Kentaurs and Amazons, Gods and heroes,
Odysseus and Aeneas, all those who fought and were slain on the plains before Troy——
“No!” the old woman exclaimed sharply, letting her spindle drop and springing up. “I won’t have it! I’ll not hear that nonsense sung in my hall!”
The minstrel let his hand fall on the strings with a jangling dissonance; his look was one of dismay and surprise, but his tone was polite.
“My lady?”
“I tell you I won’t have those stupid lies sung here at my hearth!” she said vehemently.
The children made disappointed sounds; she gestured them imperiously to silence. “Minstrel, you are welcome to your meal and to a seat by my fire; but I won’t have you filling the children’s ears with that lying nonsense. It wasn’t like that at all.”
“Indeed?” the harper inquired, still politely. “How do you know this, madam? I sing the tale as I learned it from my master, as it is sung everywhere from Crete to Colchis—”
“It may be sung that way, from here to the very end of the world,” the old woman said, “but it didn’t happen that way at all.”
“How do you know that?” asked the minstrel.
“Because I was there, and I saw it all,” replied the old woman.
The children murmured and cried out.
“You never told us that, Grandmother. Did you know Akhilles, and Hector, and Priam, and all the heroes?”
“Heroes!” she said scornfully. “Yes, I knew them; Hector was my brother.”
The minstrel bent forward and looked sharply at her.
“Now I know you,” he said at last.
She nodded and bent her white head forward.
“Then perhaps, Lady, you should tell the story; I who serve the God of Truth would not sing lies for all men to hear.”
The old woman was silent for a long time. At last she said, “No; I cannot live it all again.” The children whined with disappointment. “Have you no other tale to sing?”
“Many,” said the harper, “but I wish not to tell a story you mock as a lie. Will you not tell the truth, that I may sing it elsewhere?”
She shook her head firmly.
“The truth is not so good a story.”
“Can you not at least tell me where my story goes astray, that I may amend it?”
She sighed. “There was a time when I would have tried,” she said, “but no man wishes to believe the truth. For your story speaks of heroes and Kings, not Queens; and of Gods, not Goddesses.”
“Not so,” said the harper, “for much of the story speaks of the beautiful Helen, who was stolen away by Paris; and of Leda, the mother of Helen and her sister Klytemnestra, who was seduced by great Zeus, who took the form of her husband the King—”
“I knew you could not understand,” the old woman said, “for, to begin, at first in this land there were no Kings, but only Queens, the daughters of the Goddesses, and they took consorts where they would. And then the worshipers of the Sky Gods, the horse-folk, the users of iron, came down into our country; and when the Queens took them as consorts, they called themselves Kings and demanded the right to rule. And so the Gods and the Goddesses were in strife; and a time came when they brought their quarrels to Troy—” Abruptly she broke off.
“Enough,” she said. “The world has changed; already I can tell you think me an old woman whose wits wander. This has been my destiny always: to speak truth and never to be believed. So it has been, so it will ever be. Sing what you will; but mock not my own truth on my own hearth. There are tales enough. Tell us about Medea, Lady of Colchis, and the golden fleece which Jason stole from her shrine—if he did. I daresay there is some other truth to that tale too, but I neither know it, nor care what the truth may be; I have not set foot in Colchis for many long years.” She picked up her spindle and quietly began to spin.
The harper bowed his head.
“Be it so, Lady Kassandra,” he said. “We all thought you dead in Troy, or in Mykenae soon after.”
“Then that should prove to you that at least in some particulars the tale speaks not the truth,” she said, but in an undertone.
Still my fate: always to speak the truth, and only to be thought mad. Even now, the Sun Lord has not forgiven me. . . .
VOLUME ONE
APOLLO’S CALL
1
AT THIS TIME of year, the light lingered late; but the last glow of s
unset had faded now in the west, and mist had begun to drift in from the sea.
Leda, Lady of Sparta, rose from her bed, where her consort, Tyndareus, lingered still. As usual after their coupling, he had fallen into a heavy sleep; he did not notice when she left the bed and, throwing a light garment about her shoulders, went out into the courtyard of the women’s quarters.
Women’s quarters, the Queen thought angrily, when it is my own castle; one would think that I, not he, was the interloper here; that he, not I, held land-right in Sparta. Earth Mother knows not so much as his name.
She had been willing enough when he came and sought her hand, even though he was one of the invaders from the north, worshiper of thunder and oak and of the Sky Gods, a coarse, hairy man who bore the hated black iron on spear and armor. And yet now his kind were everywhere, and they demanded marriage by their new laws, as if their Gods had flung down from Her celestial throne the Goddess who owned land and harvest and people. The woman wedded by one of these bearers of iron was expected to join in the worship of their Gods and to give her body only to that man.
One day, Leda thought, the Goddess would punish these men for keeping women from paying due homage to the forces of Life. These men said the Goddesses were subservient to the Gods, which seemed to Leda a horrible blasphemy and a mad reversal of the natural order of things. Men had no divine power; they neither bred nor bore; yet somehow they felt they had some natural right in the fruit of their women’s bodies, as if coupling with a woman gave them some power of ownership, as if children did not naturally belong to the woman whose body had sheltered and nourished them.
Yet Tyndareus was her husband and she loved him; and because she loved him she was even willing to indulge his madness and jealousy, and risk angering Earth Mother by lying only with him.
And yet she wished that she could make him understand that it was wrong for her to be shut up in the women’s quarters—that as a priestess she must be out and around the fields to be sure that the Goddess was given Her due of service; that she owed the gift of fertility to all men, not to her consort alone; that the Goddess could not restrict Her gifts to any one man, even if he called himself a King.
