“Careful… I am hurt,” Charis heard herself saying as she was lifted onto Joel’s and Peronn’s shoulders to make her triumphant circuit around the ring. Belissa, Galai, Kalili, and Junoi pranced around them, laughing, hugging each other, tears streaming down their faces. Marophon had forgotten his shame, and he too joined in, running here and there, grabbing up golden objects and flinging them into the air as one gone mad.
The tumult raged to heaven, reverberating into the cloudless sky, booming though the empty streets of the royal city.
“Charis! Char-ris! Char-r-ris!” they cried. People were spilling out into the arena, flinging themselves over the wall and dropping to the sand to run to her. More and more and still more came, hands reaching out to touch her, surrounding her with their adulation. “Char-ris! Char-ris!”
Charis, sick with pain, saw them reaching for her, saw the elation on their faces, heard her name on their lips. The Gulls drew close around her to keep her from getting crushed by the onslaught. They stood in the center of the ring, surrounded by the screaming crowd.
Because of the noise, oo one heard the first faint rumble. The first tremor went unnoticed. But the rumble grew louder and the tremors increased. From her vantage point on the dancer’s shoulders above the crowd, Charis looked up and saw a strange sight: the Temple of the Sun trembling in the air, its upper levels swaying precariously as if made from some fluid, supple material. The great crystal obelisk high atop the temple shook, rocking back and forth and finally toppling from its peak.
And under the crowd noise came a sound from deep, deep in the earth. A sound like stony bones being wrenched from stone sockets, like gigantic stone querns grinding against one another, like great teeth gnashing, like ancient roots creaking and popping and giving way.
Charis saw the joy evaporate from the sea of faces around her, replaced by expressions of stark terror as the white sand beneath their feet undulated like ocean waves. Joet and Per-onn held their leader tight, bearing her aloft as the ground quivered underfoot.
The next thing Charis heard was the eerie silence, into which came the sounds of dogs baying. An odd, unnatural sound. “Strange,” she thought, “every dog in the city must be howling.”
Fine white dust rose into the air to veil the naked sun. People peered at one another in the pale, unearthly light, unable to comprehend what had happened.
But the quake was over. Nothing remained to attest to the fact that it had even happened at all-only the silent shroud of dust rising up and frightened dogs wailing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Charis’ injury made it easier for the gulls to accept the finality of her decision. When she told them she would never enter the bull pit again, and that they were free, no one challenged her resolve or her authority. They had gathered in her room to hear her pronouncement and hearing it, received the news with solemn resignation. There was no anger, no dissent. It was clear that none of them could conceive of dancing for anyone but Charis. “If you leave the ring, we all go with you,” said Joet.
“We have the gold,” added Belissa. “We could buy a house in the city. We could all stay together.”
“And then what? What would we do?” asked Charis. “No, dear Joet, Belissa, it is time for us all to begin thinking of new lives. We will not be together anymore. We were the Gulls and we will always have that part of our lives, but it is finished now.”
“It is just that we do not want to leave you,” sniffed Galai.
The sadness drawn on the dancers’ faces seemed horrid and perverse to Charis. Her flesh prickled.
“Life, Galai,” snapped Charis. “Have you been dead so long you no longer know what that means? When a dancer enters the temple it is a sacrifice. He is dead. He lives only through the dance. If he dances well the god is pleased to allow him to continue a while. But one day… one day Bel demands his sacrifice and the dancer must give it.
“I faced that day,” said Charis, “and I will not face that evil day again.”
“We love you,” said Kalili.
“And I love you, each of you, too. And that is what life is for-love. Would you have us continue to perform so that we could watch each other die? That is what would happen. Sooner or later, we would be broken on the hooves and horns of the bulls.
“This sadness is wrong. We should be celebrating the future, not mourning the past. The Belrene has given us back our lives. We have survived! We will live!”
The Gulls looked at one another glumly, hopelessly until Joet spoke. “A one-handed triple!” he said in a voice full of admiration. “If I had not seen it with the very eyes in my head, I would not Believe it. As it is, men will call me liar for telling what I have seen.”
“How will they call you liar?” countered Peronn. “The whole city saw it. People talk of nothing else. Even now word is winging across the Nine Kingdoms. Soon the whole world will know!”
“When I saw you kneel before the bull,” said Belissa softly, “I knew you would be killed. But then I saw your salute… I will never forget that.”
“Then live long and remember, Belissa.” Charis looked at the others. “All of you, live long and remember.”
“Will we see you again?” asked Junoi.
“Oh yes, you will see me again. I am not going to disappear. “
“What will you do?” wondered Kalili.
“I am going home for a time, to heal. But when I have recovered I will come back.” She paused, sinking back into the cushions. “Go now… There are dreams to be dreamed and plans to be made.”
Joet and Peronn lifted the chair effortlessly and carried it to the bed. Marophon rose from the corner where he had been sitting and came to her, knelt down, and put his head on Charis’ knees. She reached out a hand and stroked the young man’s dark hair. “I am sorry…”he began, his voice thick. “I wanted to run out into the ring to take your place. I was ready to die for you. I thought…”
“Shhh,” soothed Charis. “It is over.”
“No, I did wrong.”
“Are you to blame because the bullmaster sent the wrong bull?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, and it does not matter.”
“But, I”
“It does not matter, Maro.”
He bent over her, tears sparkling in his eyes, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thank you… Thank you for my life.”
“Go find your dancer,” she whispered. “Take her with you. Both of you make a new life together.”
Joet and Peronn lifted her and placed her gently in bed. Then, one by one, the dancers approached and said farewell.
Despite the persistent ministrations of the Belrene, the personal attention of two of High Queen Danea’s household physicians, and a veritable flood of gifts, food, and flowers that washed daily through Charis’ rooms threatening at times to drown her, it was several weeks before Charis felt up to traveling.
Then early one morning she left her quarters and climbed into the carriage waiting for her in the temple square. Her few Belongings were already packed, as were the presents she had chosen for her family. Queen Danea had provided the carriage-along with a train of servants under the watchful eye of a Mage, each and every one charged by the High Queen personally to guarantee a slow, restful journey with the utmost care and attention to Charis’ every request.
The carriage rolled out along near-empty streets and turned onto the Processional Way, proceeding through the three zones of the royal city. But it was not until they clattered beneath the city walls and out through the enormous brazen gates to climb into the green hills to the north, Below mighty cloud-wrapped Atlas, that Charis understood that she was indeed leaving. She realized that she had never actually imagined that she would leave Poseidonis alive, much less see her home again. Home-the word produced a warm sensation in her heart that she had not felt in a very long time.
Even so, she wondered what her reception would be. She remembered the day she had left. It was only a
few days after her mother’s burial, and King Avallach’s unreasoning hostility toward her had made it clear that she could no longer stay. He blamed her for Briseis’ death. It was not until much later that Charis learned that Seithenin, acting in concert with Nestor, was responsible for the attack. It was Seithenin’s duplicity in the act that had precipitated the war which now engulfed half of Atlantis.
Charis blamed herself too, though not in the same way as her father. Her guilt was more basic: she had survived, while her mother had died. She had always felt that she should have been cut down that day instead. Avallach had lost a wife, yes, but Charis had lost her mother.
“You chose the bull pit-you chose death,” the High Queen had told her, and she had spoken the truth.
But life is such a tenacious gift. No matter how hard Charis had tried to throw it away, it had persisted. And if life in the bullring had taught her anything, it had taught her that nothing worthwhile came without pain. Therefore, first, before anything else, she would break open those old scarred-over wounds and allow genuine healing to take place at last.
Day by day the hills lifted the road higher, bearing the carriage beyond the green-clad highlands, while mighty Atlas grew until it filled the horizon. Charis watched as the clouds worked their endless shadowplay over the lower slopes. She slept a good deal and felt her strength returning.
One day, however, Charis could not sleep. Every pebble beneath the wheels became a jarring jolt; a hard white sun beat down will sullen rancor; the sultry wind stirred up gritty dust; the mountain loomed aloof and unfriendly, its upper reaches shrouded from view by dull gray clouds. She stared out at broken, barren hills straining toward the rocky shoulders of the great mountain and seemed to see a figure standing atop a hill in the distance.
She closed her eyes deliberately and when she opened them again the figure was gone. She settled back but could not rest. Her mind kept returning to the hilltop. She looked again; and again, dark against the pale outline of the mountain, she saw the figure on the hill.
“Stop the carriage!” she shouted. The carriage ground to a halt, and two servants ran up from the chariot behind to peer at her anxiously.
“What do you require, Princess?” asked one.
“I want to get out.”
The two looked at one another briefly and one of them disappeared. “The Mage will be summoned,” explained the remaining servant.
“Good,” she said, descending gingerly from the carriage. “Tell him to wait here until I return.”
She started up the hill. It felt good to stretch unused muscles and she climbed with ease, feeling only an occasional twinge-a lingering hint of her injury.
Upon gaining the crown of the hill, she paused and surveyed the road below. The two servants were talking to the Mage, who stood staring after her. She turned and continued up the hilltop. The figure, a man, stood facing away from her, motionless, arms flung wide as if in supplication to the mountain. The wind combed the hairs on the filthy black pelt that covered him. She froze.
Throm!
There was something shining at his bare feet: sunlight blazing in the yellow gem bound to the top of the leather-bound staff. There was no doubt that it was the mad prophet.
“Throm,” she said and surprised herself at how naturally the name came to her lips. She had only heard it once and that was a long time ago. She stepped nearer.
“Throm, it is Charis,” she said, realizing as she spoke that her name could have no meaning to him.
He did not move or acknowledge her presence in any way. It occurred to her that he might be dead, his tough sinews locked in a rictus that would not let him rest even in death. She stretched forth a hand to touch him, then hesitated and withdrew it.
“S-sister of the sun,” he said in a sepulchral voice that cracked from his throat. “Dancer with Death, Princess of Gulls, I, Throm, greet you.”
As he made no move to turn toward her or look at her, Charis stepped around him. The prophet continued, speaking in his odd, staccato bursts, as if words were torn from him painfully, by force. “Do you not think it strange? Do you not wonder that of all of Bel’s children you alone have been chosen?”
“Chosen? I was not chosen.”
“Why are you here?”
“I saw you-saw someone standing up here,” Charis said, her certainty fading. Why was she here? She had known that it was Throm; some part of her knew it the moment she glimpsed the figure from afar.
“Many have passed by. You only have come.”
“I did not know it was you.”
“Did you not?”
“No,” Charis insisted. “I just saw someone.”
“Then I ask again, Why did you come?”
“I do not know. Maybe I thought you were someone in trouble.”
“Maybe you thought I was a bull to dance with you.”
“No. I-I just wanted to get out of that carriage for a moment. Nothing more. I did not know you were up here. I just saw someone and I thought to come. That is all.”
“That is enough.”
“What do you want from me?” Was it fear or only the cold wind on the hill that made her voice quaver?
“Want? I want what any being wants; I want everything and nothing.”
“You talk in riddles. I am leaving.”
“Stay, Dancer with Bulls. Stay yet a little.” He turned to her and Charis gasped. His face was burned and blistered from the sun and wind, his skin cracked and raw; his scalp with its ragged wisps of brittle hair was dark and tough as tanned leather; his scruff of beard was matted and wet with spittle. His eyes were two black cinders in his head, sunken, shriveled, burnt. From the way he stared-without blinking, with wind-blown tears seeping down his wrinkled, weather-beaten cheeks-Charis knew he was blind. “I, Throm, would speak with you.”
Charis made no reply.
“Much wisdom in silence, yes, but someone must speak. Before the final silence a voice must cry out. Someone must tell them. Yes, tell them all.”
“Tell them what?”
The mad prophet swung his head around to peer sightlessly into the wind. “Tell them what I have told them. Tell them that Throrn has spoken. Tell them that the stones will speak, that the dust beneath their feet will shout, yes, with a mighty cry! Tell them what you already know.”
Charis shivered again but not with cold. Once again she was on the hill of sacrifice outside the palace. There was her mother, and Elaine, her father and Belyn, her brothers, the Magi. The sun was going down and there was Throm suddenly in their midst. She heard again his voice inside her head-Throm’s voice saying, “Hear me, O Atlantis!… The earth is moving, the sky shifts… Stars stream from their courses… The waters are hungry…”
“Make ready your tombs,” whispered Charis. “I remember. Seven years you said-and are those seven years fulfilled?”
“Ah, you do remember. Seven years have come and gone while you danced in the pit with the servants of Bel, and once with Bel himself, yes. Seven years, Daughter of Destiny, and time grows short. Time is fulfilled, yes, and yet there is still time. “
“Time for what?” asked Charis. “Tell me. Time for what? Can the catastrophe be averted?”
“Can the sun rise on yesterday?”
“What then?”
“Time for the tree to be uprooted and the seed to be planted.”
Desperation closed over her like angry waters. “Speak plainly, you fool! What tree? What seed? Tell me!”
“The tree of our nation, the seed of our people,” Throm said, turning his wind-eaten features toward her. “The seed must be planted, yes, in the womb of the future.”
She stared, trying hard to work it out. “Leave here, you mean? Is that what you are saying?”
“There is no future here. “
“Oh, why do you persist speaking to me in words I cannot understand? How am I to help if I do not know what I am supposed to do?”
“You know, Bull Dancer. Do what you will.”
Charis gazed hopelessly at him. “Come with me. Tell my father what you have told me.”
Throm smiled, his teeth black and broken in his mouth. “I have told him. I, Throm, have told them all. They stopped their ears with dung, yes, they laughed. So they will laugh at you. But will they laugh when the earth’s maw yawns wide to swallow them alive?”
She stared at him for a moment. There was nothing else to be learned from him. “Farewell, Throm,” she said at last and turned to go.
“Farewell, Bull Dancer,” the prophet said. He had already turned back to his sightless contemplation of the lonely mountain.
Charis returned to the carriage. The Mage scrutinized her closely; she could see that he was worried. He reached toward her to examine her, but she shook off his hands. “Stop grabbing at me! I am well enough.”
The Mage lowered his hands. “Who did you see up there, Princess?” he asked.
“An old friend,” snapped Charis. “And if you wanted to know what he was talking about, you could have gone up there yourself.” She cast a last glance to the hilltop where Throm stood with arms outflung, the sharp wind whittling his flesh away. “We have wasted enough time here. Put the lash to these beasts; I want to be home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It rained in the morning when the firepits were being banked with charcoal. But by the time the meat began to sizzle the sky had cleared, and as twilight came on the celebration reached its height. Beer, foamy and dark, and sweet, golden mead flowed in gushing fountains from barrel and butt to horn and jar. Whole carcasses of beef, pork, and mutton roasted on massive iron spits, draping a silver pall of fragrant smoke over the glad roister. The caer rang end to end in song, strong Celtic voices soaring like birds in wild, joyous flight.
Elphin laughed and sang with the hearty ease of a king confident in his position and power. To all those gathered at the high table outside his house, he told stories extolling the bravery of his men; he lifted his horn to each and every one, recounting individual examples of their courage, lavishing honor upon his warband in words of unstinting praise. Rhon-wyn sat beside her husband and Taliesin hovered close by, basking in his father’s presence like a bright-eyed otter on a sun-warmed rock.
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