Taliesin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  "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 mo
ve 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 si 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 Throm 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."

  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. Rhonwyn 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.

  As the first stars glimmered in the sky, Cuall, sitting at his lord's right hand, leaned close and whispered a few words to Elphin, who nodded and set his drinking horn aside. "It is time," Elphin said, scanning the scene from his high table.

  "Time for what?" asked Rhonwyn.

  Elphin winked at her and climbed up onto his chair. Cuall began banging on the board with the haft of his knife. The sound was lost in the convivial roar, but soon the, whole table had joined in and the rhythmic thump, thump, thump echoed through the caer. "Lord Elphin wishes to speak!" someone shouted. "The king will speak!"

  "Let him speak!" someone called. "Quiet! Let the king speak!"

  The clatter of voices swelled with excitement and the people gathered around the high table. Platters, bowls, and utensils were shoved aside and Elphin stepped onto the board. He stood with his arms out as if to embrace the whole clan. "My people!" he shouted. "Listen to your lord."

  In a moment it was quiet enough for him to continue. He began, "Every year for seven years we have ridden the Wall…"

  "Yes, it is true," replied the throng below him.

  "…And every year for six of those years we return here to feast at the end of it."

  "Lleu knows it is true!" answered the crowd.

  "We feast to celebrate the warband's safe return, and in a day or two the men disperse to their own homes in the hills and valleys of our lands and their hands return to staff and plow. But not this year," cried Elphin. "Not ever again while I am
king."

  The people murmured. "What is he saying? What does it mean?"

  "Now and henceforth the warband stays here!" shouted Elphin as he looked out across his people's wondering faces. "When we first rode out we were boys; we were farmers, we were herders, and the sons of farmers and herders. But in seven years we have become warriors!"

  The people nodded their approval of his words.

  "In ancient times our kings lived with their warbands in their timber halls. These ancient times are returning to our land, it seems; therefore, it is only fitting that warriors remain with their battlechief."

  "It is so, Lord Elphin," the people of the caer replied.

  "For this reason I shall cause to be raised, here on this very spot, a great hall! A great hall to rival those possessed by the battlelords of old."

  "A great hall!" gasped the crowd, delighted.

  "Henceforth we live like our fathers of old, looking not to the east or west, nor to the south for our protection, trusting not to the Pax Romana, but looking to ourselves and trusting the iron in our own hands. Now and henceforth we protect our own!" With that he drew his sword and held the naked blade in both hands high above his head.

  The people raised a noisy cheer, crying as one: "Long live the king! Long live Lord Elphin!"

  Across the way Hafgan and Blaise stood swathed in their blue robes, contemplating the proceedings. "What do you think?" asked Blaise.

  "It will do," replied Hafgan.

  "It will do, I dare say. But do to what end?"

  "Well," replied the druid as the revelry commenced once more, "it will keep them well occupied for the next year. I was wondering what would happen with the warband staying home. Elphin is right, they are warriors now—it is better to keep them occupied with a warrior's life and duties."

  "And it will do to keep them underfoot here."

  "Do not begrudge them their home, Blaise. Elphin is to be praised. His work is teaching him well—he is becoming a canny king."