Taliesin pc-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “No!” Lile cried.

  Lile’s misery was so real, Charis grew serious. “Lile,” she said softly, “do not begrudge Avallach the peace he finds in Dafyd’s words. The king will not love you less for loving this new god more.”

  Though the words were out of her own mouth, Charis froze. Did her father love the new god and his miracle-working son? Did she?

  Was that what had drawn her to the ruined shrine? Love? Was it love that quickened her heart when Dafyd spoke? Was love the odd, quivery sensation she felt when she whispered the name of Jesu to herself?

  “I begrudge him?” Lile was saying.

  “What?” asked Charis, coming to herself again.

  “You said I begrudged Avallach peace. I do not!” she insisted and then whined pitifully, “Oh, it would have been better if they had never come!”

  “The pilgrims intend only good” began Charis.

  “And now they have brought a whole tribe of the Britons in with them.” She gestured toward the door. “They are all in there with Avallach now. Who knows what they are scheming?”

  At that moment the door opened and a seneschal appeared. He inclined his head and addressed them both. “If you please, the king requests your presence.” He stepped aside and opened the door wide to usher them in.

  “There, now we will see what they are scheming,” whispered Charis as they entered the hall together.

  Charis approached the king’s canopied litter and glanced toward the delegation-eighty or more, she estimated-gathered before him. Her eyes swept the odd-looking assembly and lit upon the long, lean form of a fair-haired young man.

  Her step faltered. She dropped her eyes and proceeded, coming to stand at Avallach’s left hand as Lile took her place on his right.

  She felt the eyes of the strangers upon her and grew oddly ill-at-ease; her heart raced and her hands trembled. She took a deep breath and willed her composure to return.

  “… my daughter, the Princess Charis,” the king was saying and Charis realized that she had just been introduced. She smiled thinly and nodded toward the assembly.

  Dafyd stepped forward and indicated the group behind him. “King Avallach, I bring before you King Elphin ap Gwyddno of Gwynedd, and, ah-his people.” The priest seemed uncertain precisely who they were, but began introducing them just the same.

  Charis took the opportunity to study the strangers. They were dressed in the way of the Britons, but more colorfully, more exotically than any of the Dumnoni or Cerniui she had met. The king wore a heavy gold neck ornament, a tore, as did several others in the company. They wore bright cloaks- red, blue, orange, green, yellow-gathered over their shoulders and pinned with huge, elaborate brooches wrought of silver or enameled copper in cunning design. The men wore mustaches, full and flaring, but no beards; their dark hair, though long, was gathered and tied at the neck with leather thongs. They wore loose-fitting trousers with bold stripes or checks, their legs bound with long crisscrossed strips of bright cloth to midthigh. Most wore heavy bracelets of bronze and copper inlaid with beaten gold. Several carried iron-tipped spears, and others double-bladed swords.

  The women wore long colorful tunics and mantles, with wide, intricately-woven girdles wrapped around their waists; each hem, cuff, and neckband was finely embroidered with intricate borders. Their hair was meticulously braided and coiled, the coils studded with ornate bronze pins with amber, garnet, and pearl inlay. Necklaces, chains, and bracelets of gold, silver, bronze, and copper glinted from neck and wrist, and earrings dangled from their ears. One of their number, a striking red-haired woman of noble bearing, wore a slender silver tore and a great silver spiral brooch with a glinting ruby in its center.

  In all they appeared reassuringly regal but disturbingly alien. And Charis understood that she was in the presence of a nobility very much like her own-high-born, fiercely proud, and aristocratic-but of a far different, more primitive order.

  In the midst of her scrutiny, Charis felt herself an object of curiosity. The fair-haired young man she had seen upon entering was studying her intently. Their eyes met.

  In that brief instant Charis felt a kinship with the strangers- as if meeting countrymen after a years-long absence. The feeling passed like a shiver in the dark and was gone. She looked away.

  The strange king, having been introduced to his satisfaction, stepped forward slowly. “I am Elphin,” he said simply, “lord and battlechief to the people of Gwynedd. I have come to pay my respects to the lord whose lands we are passing through.”

  Avallach inclined his head in acceptance of the honor paid him. “Travelers are always welcome within these walls,” he replied. “Please stay with us if you can and allow me to share the bounty of my table.”

  Without hesitation, Elphin drew a knife from his Belt and presented it to Avallach saying, “Your offer is most generous. Accept this token as a sign of our gratitude.” He handed the knife to Avallach. Charis glanced at it as her father turned it in his hands. The blade was iron and double-edged; the hilt was polished jet, into which had been worked pearl, in the same intricate, interwoven designs the people wore on their jewelry and clothing. It was a beautiful weapon, but clearly it was no ceremonial piece intended as a gift. The knife had been used; it was Elphin’s personal weapon.

  Why this token? wondered Charis. Unless the man had nothing else to give. Yes, that was it. He had given his only item of value, perhaps his last remaining treasure-aside from the tore he wore on his neck. Still, the gift had been given freely and graciously, and Charis knew the significance of this act had not been lost on her father.

  “You honor me, Lord Elphin,” replied Avallach, tucking the knife into his own Belt. “I hope your stay will prove beneficial to us both. We will talk of this later. But now, as this is my accustomed time to take refreshment, I ask you and your people to join me.”

  At Avallach’s nod the seneschal departed, and a moment later the doors to the hall were thrown open to admit a half-dozen servants bearing trays of drink in bowls and chalices. The servants circulated among the visitors, serving them, and when each had received a cup, Elphin lifted his high and proclaimed in a loud voice, “Health to you, Lord Avallach, Fisher King of Ynys Witrin. And health to your enemy’s enemies!”

  At this, Avallach threw his head back and laughed. The sound of his voice reverberated throughout the hall and echoed among the timber beams. He rose slowly from his litter and, holding to one of the canopy posts, lifted his cup. “Drink, my friends!” he said. “Your presence has cheered me greatly.”

  Charis watched for a while and then, while everyone else was busy drinking and talking, slipped from the room, motioning Dafyd to follow her. He caught up with her in the corridor beyond. “You wish a word, Princess?”

  “Who are they?” she asked, pulling the priest further along the corridor.

  “They are who they say they are,” he answered. “A king and his people. I gather they have been driven from their homeland. Gwynedd is Cymric land in the north.”

  “Driven? How so?”

  “By war, Princess Charis. By the fighting that rages continually up there. Their lands were overrun by barbarian warriors. They escaped only with their lives.” The priest paused, and added, “And if what I hear is true, we will soon enough feel the heat of war in the south as well.”

  “Thank you, Dafyd,” said Charis, looking back through the open doorway to the hall. “Thank you…” She walked away slowly, already lost in thought.

  That night Avallach hosted the Cymry at his table, with Lile by his side. Charis declined to attend the meal and ate in her chambers. She sat alone in her room and listened to the sounds of the banquet proceeding in the greater hall. At one point the noise died away completely. She strained after any errant sound but heard nothing. What could it mean?

  Prompted by curiosity, she moved to the door of her chamber, opened it and leaned out into the corridor, listening… Silence.

  Finally she could bear it no longer and crept down
to the hall to listen at the door. It was open and as she approached, moving quietly among the shadows, she heard the clear, ringing notes of a harp and a moment later the strong, melodic voice of a singer. The Cymry-some sitting on benches, others cross-legged on the floor-were gathered around one of their own, who stood illumined by the flickering torchlight: the golden-haired man.

  Although many of the words were unfamiliar, Charis gathered that he sang about a beautiful valley and all the trees and flowers and animals there. It was a simple melody, strongly evocative, and she was drawn by it. She crossed the threshold into the hall, half-hidden by one of the columns.

  The young man stood erect, tall and lean, his head up, eyes closed, the harp nestled against his shoulder, his hands moving deftly over the harpstrings, summoning each silver note from the heart of the harp. His mouth formed the words, but the music came from beyond him; he was merely a conduit through which it might pass into the world of men, pouring up and up like a fountain from the hidden depths of his soul to spread in glimmering rings around him. Charis listened, hardly daring to breathe lest she disturb the singular beauty of the moment.

  It was a sad song, a heartbreaking song, wild and proud, a song about a lost valley, a lost land, about all the losses a human heart might hold dear and remember. As the song spun out, Charis gave herself wholly to its spell, letting the ache of her own loss wash over her in a sweet, dark flood. As the last, trembling notes of the song faded away, she saw glistening drops on the young man’s cheeks.

  We are alike, you and I, she thought, homeless wayfarers in a world that is not our own.

  The harpstrings sounded again and the young man began another song. Charis did not wait to hear it but pushed herself away from the column and hurried from the hall as the first notes from that honey-smooth voice flowed into the air.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They slept that night in the hall of the fisher king. The fire burned brightly in the great pit and they pulled their cloaks over themselves and slept, heads filled with dreams of their lost home. Elphin and his warband had returned to find Caer Dyvi already besieged. The invaders who eluded Cuall at the river had struck south, marching all day along the coast to reach the caer at dusk. The hillfort’s defenses had kept the wary raiders at bay through the night. But with the coming of the dawn, the enemy saw that the fortress was virtually unguarded; only a token force made up of the older men and boys too young to take arms in the field had been left behind to defend it.

  But if the invaders thought that made Caer Dyvi an easy conquest, they were soon persuaded differently. For the defenders succeeded in turning away outright assaults not once but three times, to the anger and frustration of the invaders.

  When Elphin reached the caer, the barbarians had mounted a fourth assault and were on the brink of breaking through the gate. Women and children stood shoulder to shoulder. with the men on the ramparts, hurling stones and hot coals upon the heads of the raiders, their arrows long since spent. A moment or two later and the warband would have ridden home to a burning tomb.

  As it was, they arrived to engage the enemy on the slopes leading up to the fort. The raiders, furious to find themselves suddenly confronted by several hundred well-trained horsemen, put up a fierce fight before scattering into the woods along the river. Cuall took half the force and rode after them. Elphin entered the settlement to find the destruction all but complete: gutted houses and outbuildings stood as charred ruins; the granary was a smoldering heap of black timber and burnt grain through which pigs trampled and snuffled; the great hall had lost its roof of thatch. The loss of life had likewise been heavy; many good people had died with Picti arrows in their throats or Irish spears in their chests.

  The warband entered the caer to cheers of welcome and relief. The survivors, exhausted and bloody, still gripped their weapons with iron-fast determination. Rhonwyn, holding a spear and a Roman footman’s shield, stood at the forefront of the defenders as her husband rode in. Her face was smeared with soot and her hair gray with ash, but fire was in her eyes. “Greetings, lord,” she said, leaning her cheek against the spear. “As ever, your return is most welcome.”

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, sliding down from the saddle.

  “I am unharmed,” she replied, lifting a hand to drag her hair from her face. “Although your hall will require a new roof.”

  Elphm gathered her in an embrace. They clung to one another for a long moment and then began walking through the ruins of the caer.

  Caer Dyvi was attacked three more times in the next two days. The Cymry held them off, but each time their ranks were diminished; and no matter how many of the enemy were killed, more came the next time. It was clear that they had identified Caer Dyvi as a major stronghold and were determined to take it or destroy it, no matter how high the cost.

  And the cost was high: the naked, blue-painted bodies of Picti, Scotti, and Attacotti lay virtually stacked outside the walls; the gate road was muddy from the blood of the fallen; spears stood like a sapling forest, growing up amidst thickets of arrows on the slopes of the hill. The air was thick and foul with the buzzing of flies and the stink of death. The skies over the caer darkened as ravens and carrion crows flocked to their grisly feast.

  And still the invaders would not withdraw.

  In the end Elphin had no choice. It was either abandon the caer and save as many of his people as he could, or stay and watch them slaughtered one by one. It was not an easy choice: most of the kinsmen would rather have died with an arrow through the skull than forsake their land and homes.

  Hafgan and Taliesin, who had labored long, upholding the warriors with praise and incantations, had come to Elphin with the sorry truth. “We cannot win against them, Father,” Taliesm said gently. “There are too many. We cannot kill them all.”

  King Elphin, fatigued beyond all endurance, only nodded as he sat hunched before the glowing remains of a fire. He had not the strength to summon an answer.

  “We must leave here,” said Hafgan. The words were stinging wasps on his tongue.

  Elphin raised his head; defiance stirred in the depths of his eyes. “Never!”

  “Father,” said Taliesin more gently, “listen to me.” He sank to his knees beside the king. “It must be. There will be other battles, other wars for us. But not here. I have seen this.”

  “Listen to the one you call your son, ESphin,” put in Hafgan. “There has been too much dying here. If there is to be life, it must be elsewhere.”

  “Go then,” croaked Elphin. “Take as many as will go with you. I mean to stay.”

  “No,” Taliesin said simply. “You are the king; your people will follow only you. We will need a strong leader in our new home.”

  Elphin passed a weary hand over his face and shook his head. “Lieu help me, I cannot,” he said hoarsely. “The disgrace”

  “Death has no dignity,” replied Taliesin. He rose slowly and extended his hand. Elphin looked at it, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “Come.”

  The king took the hand of his son and climbed to his feet. When dawn pearled the skies the next morning, clan and kinsmen left Caer Dyvi forever. Of Elphin’s proud warband of three hundred, fewer than a hundred remained, and only slightly more than a hundred clansmen.

  They left, taking what provisions and possessions they could carry in three wagons, driving their cattle and pigs before them. As the last kinsman passed through the gates, Elphin gave the order and the caer was put to the torch. Amidst rolling smoke and crackling flame the king followed his people down the hill and away, the remnant of his war-band riding grimly at his back.

  They kept moving through the wet, miserable autumn, traveling south, leaving Gwynedd behind, eventually passing into and through Powys. Along the way they saw sights most of them had only heard about in rumors and traveler’s tales: rich Roman villas with painted statues of fountains and mosaics on the floors; wide, smooth-paved roads; triumphal arches; a splendid stadium for racing horses; and carved into a
hill in one prosperous town, an amphitheater where several thousand people could gather at once. They wintered in Dyfed, near Brechaniauc where Elphin’s mother, Medhir, had once had a kinsman and the name of Gwyddno Garanhir was remembered with honor. The cold took many whose wounds, and the rigors of the long journey, had weakened them beyond recovery.

  When spring came they crossed the channel Mor Hafren into Dumnonia where they began hearing tales about a strange people-the Faery, or Fair Folk-who had come to the region with their monarch, Avallach, called the Fisher King.

  These people, it was said, were extremely tall and handsome to behold: the men were well-formed and robust, the women beautiful beyond compare. Further, skilled in every art and endowed with every grace, the Fair Folk possessed many unusual powers which enabled them to attain vast amounts of wealth with little effort so that even the lowest of them lived more lavishly than the emperor himself in Rome. In short, a more noble race could not be imagined.

  Elphin and his people listened to the stories and decided to go to this Avallach and see the truth of these tales for themselves. Elphin called a council and announced, “If what is said about this Fisher King is true, it may be that he will receive us and help us find lands of our own.”

  Hafgan heard the stories too and puzzled over them. He remembered that blazing night of long ago when the starfall lit the sky and wondered if this Avallach was the one whose coming had been foretold that night. He also wondered where these Fair Folk had come from. Sarras, some said; Llyn Llyonis said others; from the Westerlands across the sea, from the Isle of the Ever Living. Guesses were many, but no one seemed to know anything certain.

  “Yes,” Hafgan told Elphin, “it is a good plan. As the Romans hereabouts can offer no aid, we must seek it where we can. It may well be as you say.”

  Taliesin also agreed readily. He had his own reasons for wanting to see the Faery. From the first that he had heard about the Fisher King and his people, his heart had burned within him. He had entered his awen and tried to follow along the scattered paths of the future, but a dense, glistening fog had obscured the way and he had been forced to return lest he lose his way in the Otherworld. But before the shimmering fog had taken his sight, he saw a tangle of smaller tracks merge a small distance ahead and took this to mean that, for good or ill, the futures of his people and Avallach’s were in some way bound together.