On the processional way, the magi slowly ascended the steep slope of the sacred hill, whose smooth green sides were scarred with crisscrossed outcroppings of white stone. Their shadows, stretched thin by the late afternoon sun, followed them up the side of the hill as, wrapped in their purple ceremonial cloaks, they climbed the red-tiled Way to the top to gather in a circle around the great stone altar. Sometime in the long-vanished past, the top of the hill had been flattened and a circular dais of stone erected. More recently, slender columns had been placed at the astral points corresponding to the various astrological houses, whose symbols were cut into the stone dais. There was no roof over this sacred place so the light of Bel and Cybel might shine full upon the altar at all times.

Behind the Magi, walking alone, strode Avallach. He, too, wore the purple star-covered cloak. Well back from the procession, Charis walked with her mother and Elaine. Only persons of royal birth, and those fortunate enough to be specifically invited by the king, were allowed to attend the sac- rifice. The populace watched and waited Below while their king performed the rites atop the hill.

As usual, Avallach had been more than generous with his invitation, and by the time all assembled on the hill the dais was quite crowded. Charis wormed her way into a place beside one of the columns. She pressed her back against the cool stone and saw seven robed Magi standing in a circle around a tripod holding a large orichalcum caldron. The caldron’s surface was chased with divine symbols, and around the rim were words engraved in the ancient mystical script.

The Magi stood with their hands upraised, palms outward, eyes closed, murmuring in a droning natter. One of the Magi-whose robe shimmered in the light with a silver cast and whose cylindrical headdress was taller than any of the others-lowered his hands and touched the rim of the shining basin with his fingertips. Instantly gray-white smoke swirled from the cauldron.

The Mage, whom Charis decided must be the High Mage of the temple, then went to the altar and removed an orichalcum ewer and approached the king, who had taken his place before the altar. The High Mage poured water over Avallach’s outstretched hands and proceeded to do the same with the other Magi. When the ceremonial cleansing was finished, the High Mage returned the ewer to the altar and took up a gleaming orichalcum bowl which he placed in the king’s hands.

“Father is so handsome,” Charis whispered to her mother.

“Yes,” Briseis answered, and then added, “Shh!”

The High Mage took his place beside the smoking basin and stretched his hands over it as the vapor rose to the heavens. He held his hands in the smoke and uttered a short incantation, then turned to one of the other Magi, who placed in his hands a trumpet shaped like a curved tusk of an elephant, graven with the image of a great, winding serpent coiled around its length. The High Mage raised the trumpet to his lips and blew a long, low, resonant note, repeating it to each of the four quarters of the wind.

As the last note drifted away on the air, three Magi mounted the dais, two of them walking on either side of an enormous bull ox, the third leading the beast with a golden rope knotted lightly around its neck. The creature was white as the snow on Mount Atlas’ high crown, and its horns had been painted gold, as had its hoofs. Its white-tufted tail swung docilely.

The ox was brought to stand in the center of the dais before the altar, and the golden rope was tied to a ring set in the stone. The High Mage turned to the altar and picked up an odd-looking knife; it had a long handle into which was set a curving half-moon blade of shimmering orichalcum worked in sun signs. Raising the knife to the quickly-setting sun, the High Mage raised his voice in the ritual prayer, which he repeated once and again before turning to offer the prayer to the pale rising moon.

When the prayer was finished, the Magi leading the ox touched the animal’s forelegs lightly with a prod and the beast knelt obediently; the golden rope was pulled through the ring and tightened. The Magi around the caldron began their chant as the High Mage stepped to the bull’s head and raised the long-handled knife.

Charis turned her face away and closed her eyes. She held her breath and waited for the death cry of the ox. When it didn’t come, she opened one eye and looked around. From across the dais there arose a commotion; onlookers muttered and the crowd shifted. What was happening?

A way opened through the crowd, and she saw someone or something approaching-dark and hairy, lumbering like a wounded bear. With a gasp of surprise, Charis recognized him. The strange man who wore the fur pelts; whose beard and hair was a black, filthy mat; who stumped along the road bareheaded in the sun, carrying the odd staff with the great yellow crystal mounted in its head; who stared out at the world with the eyes of a crazed animal. The man she had glimpsed in the Lia Fail.

Now he was here and his presence halted the sacrifice. The High Mage moved as if to apprehend him. The man gave a wag with his staff and the Mage stopped. The other Magi stood rooted in their places, mute.

The stranger came to stand in the center of the dais. He raised his staff in his hand and brought it down. Crack! The man glowered around him and opened his mouth to speak, white teeth flashing in the mat of beard.

“Throm, I was,” he said, his voice cracking as if, like a road seldom traveled, it had fallen into disuse. “Throm, I am and will be” He raised the staff into the air “Princes of Atlantis, hear me now!”

The people looked at one another, and Charis heard the name on their lips. Throm! Throm is come!

Who is this Throm? she wondered. Who is he and why has he come?

The strange man raised his leather-bound staff in the air. The yellow jewel flashed weird fire in the dying light. “Hear me, O Atlantis! I am the speaking trumpet; I am the waxen tablet; I am the tongue of the god! Hear-r-r…” His voice trailed off into unsettling silence. The people gawked, features frozen in expression of astonishment.

“You-all of you!” He glanced around him wildly. “You have seen the signs in the sky; you have heard the sounds in the wind and felt the earth tremble with its secret, and you turn to your neighbor and ask what it means.…” The rusty, cracking voice trailed off again.

His hand made a circle in the air, and he leaned forward on his staff as if confiding a secret. “The earth is moving, Children of Dust. The sky shifts and the stars stream from their courses. The waters… ah, the waters are hungry. Oceanus, my children is hungry; she is restless; she heaves in her bed… She writhes. The worm eats at her bowels and she screams. Do you hear?” His hands gripped the staff as if he were strangling a snake; he swung his shaggy head around. “Do you hear, Atlantis?”

The unwilling spectators stared back dumbly. Throm’s words writhed and heaved in her ears and Charis felt dizzy- as if the stone beneath her feet had lost its solidity. Her fingers found the edge of the stone column and she held on tight.

“Throm I am and will be. Hear, O Atlantis, the words of your son, Trumpet Speaker. Bel’s light dies in the west.” He held his staff to the red-gold sunset glow. “And we die with it, children. We die. You princes” He thrust a finger at Avallach and Belyn. “Make ready your houses. Make ready your tombs!”

Avallach stepped forward, scowling. He moved toward the madman, but Throm turned on him and lifted the staff high, bringing it down with a sharp thrust onto the dais. The resounding crack was like thunder. The king stopped and stared.