"A rare and special child, to be sure. I have named him Taliesin. He will be a bard of uncommon skill and knowledge—perhaps the greatest among us. If he had not been born already, I should have thought it was for him that the stars fell."
"Then I must come and see this child soon," said Cormach.
"Yes, come. It is too long since we have lifted cups together. We will talk—" Hafgan paused, looking thoughtful.
"What is it? Have you seen something?"
"No, it is something you said earlier—about the earth warming beneath a summer sun. I had not considered that before."
"Consider it then," pressed Cormach, "and tell me what it suggests to you."
"Beltane is a time between times, as we know, when the powers of earth and sky, air and water are in flux. Winter is death, which itself dies in spring. For winter to assert itself on the eve of spring indicates that death struggles with life for supremacy. Today we stand beneath a summer sun, which suggests life has survived the struggle."
"And the starfall?"
"Life won at a very great cost perhaps."
Cormach nodded thoughtfully. "Your thoughts are deep and true, Hafgan." The Chief Druid put a hand over Hafgan's. "One day soon you will carry the rowan staff. Meanwhile, I think it is time you began teaching. I will send two of my best filidh to you."
"I am honored."
Cormach gripped Hafgan's hand upon his staff. "You will need help with the child."
"Tell me, Cormach, was there ever such a sign as the one that brings us here?"
The elder druid closed his eyes and leaned on his staff. "Only once," he replied at length, "many years ago—before anyone now alive was born, before the Romans came to the Holy Isle, when this grove was young—there was a similar sign. The stars did not fall, however, but remained converged in the sky. A strange sight, I am told, for those who knew how to see it."
"What did it betoken?"
Cormach opened his eyes. "Why, the coming of the Jesu, Son of the Good God. Him the Romans called Christus."
"I see," replied Hafgan. "Perhaps this new sign will be equally auspicious."
"We can hope," replied Cormach. "Like all men, we can hope. Well, I will come to you before midsummer to see the child. Keep him safe."
"He will be well kept, never fear," answered Hafgan. "I will see to it."
Cormach lifted his eyes to gaze at the spreading branches above. "This oak was already old when I was born. Now I am old and soon to die and this tree grows strong still. We are small creatures, Hafgan. Our lives are not long."
"Long enough to learn what is required of us."
"Oh, aye, long enough to learn what we need to learn, but not long enough to change anything," agreed Cormach wistfully. "That is our flaw. Each age must learn everything afresh. Such waste! Such waste—making all the mistakes once again, each generation making the same mistakes, fumbling in ignorance and darkness." He raised a hand to the tree. "Hail, stout brother! Know our weakness and do not unkindly consider us."
"Come, Cormach, the sun is warm, the day good. I will walk a little way with you and you will tell me why you are so downhearted." Hafgan led the elder druid away. They left the grove and walked down the hill in the sunlight, pausing at the spring to drink before going on.
SEVEN
WHEN THE SUN ORB FLARED ABOVE THE GREAT AZURE RIM of the sea, Charis rose and poured scented water from a ewer into the basin, splashed herself, dried, and dressed in a linen tunic of light blue. She donned white leather sandals, tied them hurriedly, grabbed two fresh figs from a bowl on the table near the door and ran down to the palace courtyard where she found the youngest of her brothers, Eoinn and Guistan, already in the courtyard supervising the loading of the wagons and the hitching of the horses.
Neither boy had a word to spare for her, their attention wholly taken with their assumed duties. She slipped among the porters and satisfied herself that her own chest had been carefully stowed, then retreated a safe distance to watch.
Stablemen arrived leading saddled mounts, and both boys fell to fighting between themselves for the best one. Kian, the oldest of Avallach's children and already a young man, stepped in and undertook to settle the dispute between his younger siblings with typical autocratic dispassion. Maildun arrived while the others wrangled and, smiling to himself, quietly claimed the best horse for himself.
Kian was so like his father that he seemed at times merely a more youthful twin. Maildun, on the other hand, a few years younger than his older brother, did not resemble the king at all. Tall and slender as a young cypress, he was soft-spoken and kept to himself for the most part. But he could be shrewdly calculating and was given to violent rages when crossed.
After Charis came Eoinn, younger than his sister by several years, and like her he had inherited his mother's golden hair as well as her fondness of learning and letters. His love for horses was his own, however, and if he could have discovered a way to read while on the bare back of a horse plunging ahead at full gallop, Eoinn would have considered himself the most fortunate boy alive.
Guistan, the youngest, was dark like Avallach, but had Briseis' light-blue eyes and something of her grace. He shared none of his brother's keenness for books and had early developed the knack of disappearing whenever studying seemed likely. He was clever with his hands and eyes; he could render anything he saw with uncanny skill, but would destroy the drawing if anyone so much as mentioned his artistic ability, let alone praised it. He took enormous pleasure goading his older brothers and playing elaborate tricks on them, even though he often paid dearly for his fun.
The four were, for Charis, necessary evils. They were male and therefore inhabited a world separate from hers. She was not ill-treated by them; as a rule, she was not noticed at all. Or, if she did happen to impress them with her presence in some way, they expressed either surprise or resentment at the intrusion. At the best of times, she was a novelty to them, an exotic pet; at worst, a bothersome nuisance.
Charis, however, quickly tired of their inbred condescension and learned to go her own way, tolerating her brothers when circumstances required, ignoring them the rest of the time, as they ignored her.
On this day, Charis was feeling particularly magnanimous. It was a special day, for at last, for the first time in a very long time something out of the dull ordinary, something exciting even, was about to happen. And nothing—not even the grossly self-involved behavior of her brothers—could dim her bright enthusiasm.
While Charis surveyed the scene with rising anticipation, Annubi appeared carrying a small, plain gopherwood box as his only baggage. She greeted him and asked, "Is that all you are taking with you?"
The seer appeared preoccupied; he smiled absently and muttered, "Oh, Charis, yes. Taking with me?"
"The box. Is that all?"
He stared at the hubbub around him in a dazed way. "Too many people, too much noise. It is happening too fast."
"Too fast? I cannot wait to leave this boring place."
Annubi shook his head and looked at the girl before him. "Tch, the hunger for excitement will kill us all."
He strode off, and Charis noticed that he had chosen sturdy, thick-soled walking shoes rather than the soft leather boots of a horseman, yet his long legs were encased in riding breeches; he wore a formal red mantle rather than a riding cloak. His attire was a curious combination—as if he could not decide how or where he was going.
The king's driver came into the palace yard with the king's parade chariot hitched to a trio of milk-white horses. Avallach would not use it until his entrance into Poseidonis and after, when the kings paraded from the temple along the Avenue of Stars in the final council ceremonies.
Avallach arrived next, stood with hands on hips, and took in the activity before him. Charis sidled up to him and slipped her hands around his arm. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and patted her hands. "Happy, Charis?"
"Yes, Father. Very happy."
"Good."
&nb
sp; He smiled briefly and turned his attention back to the loading. Kian strolled up, exchanged a few words with his father and both walked off together, leaving Charis to herself once more.
Assembling all the baggage and provisions seemed to take forever. Charis grew tired of waiting and went back into the palace. She entered the pillared vestibule and saw Annubi talking to her mother. Briseis held her hands before her as if to push something away; her head was bent as she listened to the seer. The queen nodded when Annubi finished, then, laying a hand on his arm, smiled wistfully and walked away. Annubi watched her for a moment and then followed.
Charis wondered at this exchange as she continued on her way. Ilean, the queen's handmaid, found her a little later in the small side kitchen, sitting at a table with one of the scullions eating dates and honey cakes. "Princess Charis, it is time for leaving. I have been looking for you everywhere."
"I grew tired of waiting and got hungry."
"It is no wonder you are hungry," said Ilean. "You eat little enough when given the chance. Well, come along now. They are ready for you."
Charis got up slowly. "Remember your promise," the scullery girl said as Charis stood, choosing a last cake to take with her. "If you should receive two presents the same—"
"You may have the one I do not want—I will remember." Charis broke the cake in half and popped one of the halves into her mouth. "Farewell."
When Charis and Ilean reached the palace yard, the passengers were climbing into the carriages. The young princes were already mounted and riding around the yard, loudly expressing their impatience to be off. The carriage rode on four large, slender wheels; there was room for four passengers on its two wide benches. A crimson sunshade was raised on hoops over the rearmost bench, and two crimson banners, one on either side of the driver's high seat at the front of the carriage, fluttered in the light breeze.
"We nearly left without you," said Briseis as Charis scrambled into the seat beside her mother. A small force of mounted soldiers, the royal guard, rode into the yard, the sharp points of their long spears glittering in the midmorning sunlight. Their captain exchanged a few words with Avallach. The king mounted his horse while the soldiers ranged themselves at the head of the train, and a moment later the carriages began to roll. They passed slowly through the great archway and beyond the palace gates, and rolled out onto the causeway which joined the palace with Kellios below.
"At last," sighed Charis, squirming in her seat to see the palace walls recede behind them. "I am finally leaving."
* * *
King Avallach's train of wagons and chariots rolled over stone-paved roads through the royal city and into the dense wooded hills to the south, leaving the coastland far behind. There were many towns along the way, and at each the populace gathered to watch the royal procession pass, lining the road, waving, giving gifts. The travelers camped near a town or village—Iraklion, Parnitha, Kardis, Oenope, Xanthini, and others—where they were entertained by the local inhabitants each night until they began the gentle, rippling descent to the basin of the Coran River which formed the southern border of Avallach's realm. The great river's broad, fertile valley stretched from the heart of the continent to the sea, dividing Sarras from Corania. Upon crossing the river, the procession traveled through forested uplands for two more days before reaching Seithenin's palace on the terraced hill overlooking the great harbor of Ys.
Riders were stationed at the approach to the palace. As the procession drew near, they rode to herald Avallach's arrival so that when the king's train came close it was met by a troop of soldiers wearing smoke-gray cloaks and carrying silver spears affixed with gray banners. The soldiers parted and formed columns on either side of the road, where they stood at attention, spears outthrust, banners flying.
Avallach's train passed along this review until it came to a great wall. The road passed through the wall at an immense brazen gate which sported the images of two gigantic octopi, one on either doorpanel, their tentacles squirming toward one another. There, waiting before the gate, was Seithenin himself in his parade chariot. "Greetings, friend, and welcome!" he called as Avallach rode to meet him.
Seithenin stepped down from his chariot and Avallach dismounted. The two came together and embraced; then Seithenin bade Avallach join him in his chariot, so the two drove together through the gate and up the broad, stone-paved road to the palace on its hill above.
Queen Briseis in her carriage observed the greeting and remarked, "Seithenin's welcome is most gratifying."
Annubi, who was sitting opposite the queen, squinted in the sun and said, "With too much circumstance, it seems to me. A spectacle is made for many eyes—whose, I wonder?"
"Why, for our own, I should dunk. His welcome seemed genuine."
"Perhaps. But there is more purpose behind it than that, you may be sure." Upon saying this, he fell silent and would speak of it no more.
Charis heard what was said and turned away from her perusal of Seithenin's palace to stare at Annubi. The seer seemed fidgety and out of sorts, his long hands gripping his knees impatiently. As the train passed beneath the shadow of the palace, he gave a start and looked up at the walls towering above.
Briseis placed a hand on his arm, saying, "Annubi, what is wrong?"
He raised a shaking hand to his face and cupped his eyes. "No…nothing. Nothing, my queen. A momentary chill, that is all." He forced a weak smile.
Charis wondered at his answer, for she too had felt something like a chill, although not as forcefully as Annubi. She would have questioned him further, but something told her this was not the time to do it. I will ask him about it later, she thought and turned her attention back to the palace.
It was a vast, sprawling edifice, attesting to the ambitions of its various tenants as each succeeding monarch enlarged upon its design—adding a wall here, a rampart there, a tower or hall or storehouse or residence somewhere else. All this was surrounded by parks and gardens and vineyards, dovecotes, fishponds, and stables. Century upon century of continuous building had produced a rambling monument to the wealth of the Coranian kings.
As the carriages passed through gates and over bridges into the heart of Seithenin's sprawling palace, Charis could not suppress her amazement any longer. "Look at it," she said. "Is there a palace greater than this in all Atlantis?"
"Only the palace of the High King in Poseidonis," answered her mother. "But Seithenin's must be nearly as large."
"And look at all the people!" Charis gazed at the crowds lining the breastworks of the inner walls, waving and tossing flowers onto the road below. "Do they all live in the palace?"
"Many of them," said Briseis. "Although I suppose some must live in the city."
"How many wives has Seithenin?" wondered Charis.
Her mother laughed. "Why do you ask?"
"A king with such a palace must have a great many wives to help fill it up. And if he has many wives, there must be many children—and perhaps one or two my age."
"Oh, I think there will be at least one your age. Seithenin has seven wives and many children. You are certain to find a friend."
Charis grew thoughtful for a moment and then asked, "Why does Seithenin have seven wives, while Avallach has but one?"
The queen smiled. "The ways of love are mysterious—as you will learn soon enough."
"The ways of politics, you mean," sniffed Annubi.
"I would not like being one of seven," declared Charis. "If I am ever to be married, I want to be the only wife."
"You have little cause to worry," replied the queen lightly. "The taking of many wives is a custom dying out in Atlantis."
"Good," remarked Charis firmly. "But why is it dying out?"
"Times are changing, girl. Look around you!" said Annubi, almost shouting. He looked embarrassed and muttered, "Forgive my intrusion."
"No, please go on," coaxed Briseis. "I would hear what you have to say."
"I have said too much," the seer grumped. He turned away and wh
ispered under his breath, "Words come without bidding."
"Please, Annubi," said Charis. "Tell us."
He stared at the sky for a moment. "Times are changing," he repeated. "Men roam far from their homes—whole nations wander; the world grows ever smaller. People do not respect authority; learning diminishes. Kings plot war in their hearts or devote themselves to idleness and folly. The gods are not worshiped in the old way; the priests of Bel have grown fat and stupid, but no one cares anymore, no one cares…"
"Speak a good word to us," said Briseis, trying to cheer him, "for certainly things cannot be as bad as you suggest."
"A good word?" He placed a long finger to his pursed lips and scowled at Seithenin's palace. When he turned back, his eyes glinted with perverse delight. "Here is a good word for you: whatever is done cannot be undone, but whatever is lost can sometimes be found."
"And sometimes, Annubi," said Briseis, "I think you just enjoy confounding people."
Charis listened to this exchange and wondered what was wrong with Annubi. He seemed distant and anxious—not at all his normal, if slightly sour, self—ever since the visit of Belyn's men. What could they have said to upset him so? Then again, maybe it was something else.
They rode on in silence and came at last into the inner courts of the palace where Seithenin's retainers waited, dressed in their best livery. It was an impressive sight, for there were over four hundred people gathered to welcome them: cooks and chars and stewards, couriers, ushers and attendants, manservants, maidservants, chamberlains, seneschals and advisors of various rank, and each with a specific charge and place in Seithenin's household.
The carriage rolled to a halt, and Charis' eyes swept over the throng. "Where are they?" she asked.
"Who?" asked her mother.
"King Seithenin's children."
"You will meet them soon."
The visitors were handed down from their carriages, and Avallach's party was escorted into the palace. Charis marveled at the great gilt doors and lintels and the massive columns bearing up the weight of enormous cedar beams which in turn supported the brightly painted ceiling. Upon entering the receiving room they were met by Seithenin's wives and a small host of children, each one bearing a gift wrapped in colored silk.