Publisher
BOOK
ONE
A GIFT
OF JADE
Chapter 1
I WILL WEEP NO MORE FOR THE LOST, ASLEEP IN THEIR WAter graves. I have no more tears for my youth in the temple of the brindled ox. Life is strong in me and I will not grieve for what was or might have been. Mine is a different path and I must follow where it leads.
But I look out from my high window onto fields of corn ripening to the scythe. I see them rippling like a golden sea, and in the rustling of the dry leaves I hear again the voices of my people calling to me across the years. I close my eyes and I see them now as they were from my earliest memories. They stand before me and I enter once more that glad time when we were young and the cataclysm had not come upon us—before Throm appeared with dire prophecies burning on his lips.
It was a time of peace in all Atlantis. The gods were content and the people prospered. We children played beneath Bel's golden disk and our limbs grew strong and brown; we sang our songs to fair Cybel, the ever-changing, to grant us dreams of joy; and we lived out our days in a land rich with every comfort, thinking it would always be that way.
The voices of the departed speak: Tell our story,
they say. It is worthy to be remembered.
As so I take my pen and begin to write. Perhaps writing will ease the long months of my confinement. Perhaps my words will earn a measure of the peace that has been denied throughout my life.
In any case, I have little else to do; I am a captive, made prisoner in this house. So, I will write: for myself, for those who come after, and for the voices that cry out not to be forgotten.
* * *
Men called the royal palace the Isle of Apples for the groves that covered the slopes leading down to the city below. And indeed, in blossom time King Avallach's palace seemed an island floating above the earth on clouds of pink and white. Golden apples, sweeter than honey from the high meadow aviaries, grew in abundance in the orchards of the king. Apple trees lined the wide avenue that ran through the center of Kellios to the sea.
On a high seaward terrace, Charis leaned against a column, gazing out across the rooftops of the city, watching the sunlight glimmer on beaten sheets of red-gold orichalcum and listening to the sighing hum of the aeolian harp in the random fingerings of the wind. Drowsy, and slightly drunk on the heady fragrance of apple blossoms, she yawned and turned her languid attention to the warm blue crescent of harbor.
Three ships, their green sails bulging in the breeze, slid slowly into Kellios harbor, trailing diamonds in their wakes. Charis watched them heel about, empty their sails, and glide toward the wharf. The sturdy longboats of the harbormaster were already making their way out to the ships to secure the lines and guide them to berth.
Kellios was a busy city; not overlarge—not as big as great Ys, city of temples and shipyards in Coran, or even as big as the market city Gaeron, in Hespera—but blessed with a deep bay so that traders from every kingdom called frequently to provision themselves for longer journeys south and east across the great expanse of water that seamen called Oceanus.
Chariots and wains, the latter loaded with produce of the fields round about Kellios or with goods from other kingdoms, traversed the streets and avenues from early morning to dusk. The market stalls rang with the chatter of trade: value established, prices set, bargains struck.
From the temple mound in the center of the city rose the holy edifice—a replica in miniature of Mount Atlas, home of the gods. Sweet scented smoke ascended eternally from the many altar fires of the temple as costly sacrifices were performed day and night by the Magi. And from the stables below the temple could be heard the bellow of the sacred bulls as they offered their voices to the god just as one day they would make an offering of their living blood and flesh.
Next to the temple stood the bullring, a great oval arena joined to the temple stables by an underground tunnel. In a few hours the first bull would be led through that tunnel and ushered into the pit, and the sacred dance would commence. For now, the arena stood silent and empty.
Charis sighed and turned away, retreating back into the cool, shadowed corridor, the patter of her sandaled feet echoing along the polished stone. She climbed the wide steps at the end of the corridor and wandered onto the rooftop garden.
A light breeze lifted the broad, notched leaves of the slender palms lining the rooftop, rank on rank, in their shining orichalcum basins. Blue parrots chattered and shrieked among the thick-clustered dates, while quetzals preened their iridescent plumage in the grapevines enshrouding ornamental columns. Nearby, two leopards slept in the shade, spotted heads resting on their paws. One of them opened lazy golden eyes as Charis walked past, then closed them again and rolled over. A fountain splashed in the center of the garden, surrounded by tapering stone pillars carved with sun signs and charms.
The cool, clear water was afloat with fresh flowers and citrus fruit and the elegant shapes of black swans gliding serenely around the pool, necks curled in graceful arcs. Charis approached and took a handful of meal from a nearby amphora. She sat on the wide rim of the fountain pool and scattered some meal as the swans paddled over to scoop it up, jostling one another, their long necks darting like snakes.
Charis chided the swans for their uncouth behavior as they beat their wings and hissed at one another. She flung the rest of the meal to them and rinsed her hands in the pool. The water was inviting and she considered stripping off her pleated skirt and taking a swim, but contented herself with dangling her feet in the water and dabbing her cheeks with damp hands instead.
She snatched a floating tangerine from the pool and began peeling it, lifting the first golden section to her mouth and closing her eyes as the tart-sweet juice tingled on her tongue. The days were long and so much the same, with little to set one day apart from another. This day, at least, there was the bull dance to look forward to and, at twilight, the sacrifice.
Those diversions sparked her life with momentary excitement. Without them, Charis felt she would be driven mad by the unrelenting sameness of life in the palace. Now and again she imagined that she would like to run away, to disguise herself and travel the tumbled hills, to see life among the simple herdsmen and their families; or perhaps she would take a boat and sail the coasts, visiting tiny, sun-baked fishing villages and learning the rhythm of the sea.
Unfortunately, making good either of those plans would mean taking action, and the only thing more palpable than the boredom she endured was the inertia that enclosed her like a massive fist. The weighty impossibility of changing her life in any but the most insignificant detail insured that she would not try.
She sighed again and returned to the corridor, pausing to pick a sunshade from a nearby bush, idly plucking the delicate yellow petals and dropping them one by one, like days, fluttering from her hand.
Upon entering the long gallery which connected the great hall with the royal apartments, she saw a tall, dignified figure ahead of her. Annubi!
she called, flinging the remains of the flower aside. Annubi, wait!
The man turned stiffly and regarded her, his solemn features pressed into a frown. Annubi was the king's seer and advisor—as he had been to Avallach's father, and Avallach's father's father. He was also Charis' special friend and had been ever since Charis could remember; alone of all her father's retainers, Annubi had always had time for a little girl and her curiosity.
On many a hot and sleepy afternoon, when Bel's disc warmed the land and everyone else crept off to find a cool place to nap, little Charis had beckoned Annubi from his stuffy cell to stroll among the blue shadows of the columned portico where the seer would tell her stories of long-dead kings and instruct her in intricacies of the seer's art. It is a useful skill for a princess,
he would say, practiced discreetly, of course.
But the little girl had grown, and the curiosity had faded. Or, if not, it lay asleep in some hidden corner of her spirit.
Ah, Charis,
he said, momentarily rearranging his frown. It is you.
You need not be so abrupt, Annubi,
she said, sidling up to him. I will not detain you from your oh-so-important errands. I only wanted to ask you who had come.
She took his hand in a familiar gesture and they continued along the gallery.
Has something stirred you from your lethargy?
Sarcasm is not a royal attribute.
She mimicked his dour expression. Usually it made him laugh. Today, however, Annubi scowled at her from under his overgrown eyebrows. Have you been using the stone again without my guidance?
She laughed. I need no silly stone to see what is before my own eyes. I saw the ships enter the harbor. And the palace is like a tomb, it is so quiet around here.
Annubi's lips curled at the corners. So, at long last you have mastered the first principle: the second sight is no substitute for a sharp eye.
Do you mean,
Charis asked as they began to walk along the gallery, that the second sight would not have shown me more?
No, child.
The seer shook his head slowly. But why bother to learn the second sight if you will not use the first?
I thought the Lia Fail saw everything!
Annubi stopped and turned to her. Not everything, Charis. Only a very little.
He raised a cautionary finger. If you ever hope to be a good seer, you will never trust the stone to reveal what your own eyes should have seen.
He paused and shook his head. Why do I tell you these things? You have no real interest.
And you still have not answered my question.
The ships are from your uncle. As for your next question—why they have come? Can you not guess?
Is Belyn here?
I did not say that.
You say little enough, it seems to me.
Think! What year is this?
What year?
Charis looked mystified. It is the Year of the Ox.
What year?
Why, 8556 years since the world began.
Bah!
The seer made a face. Leave me.
Oh, Annubi!
Charis tugged his sleeve. Tell me! I do not know what answer you want.
It is the seventh year—
A council year!
A council year, yes, but more precisely, a seventh council.
The significance eluded Charis momentarily. She gazed at Annubi blankly.
Oh, leap into the sea and be done with it!
The seventh seven.
It came to her then. The Great Council!
she gasped.
Yes, the Great Council. Very astute, Princess,
he mocked.
But why should my uncle come because of the Great Council?
Charis wondered.
Annubi lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug. Some things are better studied in private before airing in public, I suppose. Belyn and Avallach are close—as close as two brother kings may be. But kings they are, and who can fathom the heart of a king?
Is there trouble between our people and Belyn's?
I have told you all I know.
Oh, when did you ever part with more than the least little kernel from your vast store?
The seer smiled wickedly. A little uncertainty keeps everyone awake.
They had reached the entrance to the great hall. Two palace ushers stood before the huge polished cedar doors. Upon Annubi's approach one of them snapped to attention and pulled on a braided cord; the door swung open soundlessly. The seer turned and said, Enough kingcraft for today. Go back to your dreams, Charis.
He entered the great hall. The door closed and Charis was left outside to wonder what was going on within.
She gazed at the doors for a few moments, then moved off. Annubi treats me like a child,
she muttered to herself. Everyone does. Nobody takes me seriously. Nobody ever tells me anything. Ah, but I know a way to find out.
She turned and looked back at the closed doors and saw a challenge to her ingenuity. Should I?
she wondered. By the time she had reached the end of the corridor, she had already made up her mind.
Flitting like a lithe shadow along the darkened mazework of lower rooms and corridors Charis came at last to a narrow red door. Without hesitation she put her hands on the door and pushed it open. The room within was lit by a single lamp hanging from a chain by the door. With practiced movements she drew a beeswax taper from a wicker basket, lit it from the flickering lamp, and made her way to the round table in the center of the room.
On the table, resting on a base of chased gold, sat the Lia Fail, a stone of murky crystal the size and shape of an ostrich egg. Charis placed the taper in a holder and stretched her hands to the egg, peering into its depths. The veins in the stone were dark, like blue smoke, and turgid, like the silted waters of the River Coran; it was, Annubi liked to say, the smoke of possibility and the fertile thickness of opportunity.
She composed her thoughts as she had been taught, closed her eyes, and recited the incantation for seeing—once, and then twice more. Gradually she felt the stone warm beneath her hands. She opened her eyes to see that the smoke-tinted veins had thinned, becoming transparent wisps that seemed to writhe and dance like a sea mist fading in the sun's first rays.
Seeing stone,
she addressed it, I seek knowledge of what is to be. My spirit is restless. Show me something…
She paused, thinking how best to phrase the request. Yes, show me something of traveling.
She remembered Annubi's injunction to always be discreetly imprecise when addressing the oracular stone. The seer comes to the stone to be instructed, not to dictate,
Annubi often said. Therefore, out of respect for fate's handmaidens one makes vague the request so as not to seem presumptuous. Think! What is opportunity but possibility made flesh? Would you shun a bouquet because you sought a single flower? It is always better to allow the stone to be generous.
The mists within the crystal egg swirled and coalesced into indistinct patterns. Charis studied the shadows, her brow puckered in a frown of concentration, and in a moment defined the shapes: a procession of horses and men making way through a long forested avenue; a royal procession it seemed, since it was led by three chariots, each pulled by double matched teams of black horses, each with a black plume on its head.
Hmph! thought Charis. A tedious parade. Not what I had in mind at all. I should have asked about the council.
The shadowy shapes dissolved then and Charis thought the stone would go dim. Instead, the shapes reformed and she saw a road, and on the road, his sturdy legs stumping rhythmically, a man unlike any she had ever seen before: a man of frightful mien whose body was covered with fur. His craggy, beard-covered face was blistered from the sun and his filthy hair stood out wildly from his head. This terrible man carried a long staff, swinging it as he went, yellow fire blazing from its top.
This vision faded in its turn and the stone went cold once more. Charis retrieved her candle and carried it back to the door, blew it out, and replaced it in the basket. She then pulled the enameled door open, stepped out into the passageway, and slipped quickly away.
* * *
King Avallach greeted his brother informally while seneschals offered bowls of scented water and clean linen to wash away the fatigue of travel. Wine was served and the two took their cups and strolled together in one of the small gardens adjacent to the hall, leaving their envoys to exchange court gossip.
You were expected two days ago,
said Avallach, sipping his wine.
I would have come sooner, but I wanted to be certain.
Are you?
I am.
Avallach frowned and gazed at his younger brother. The two were almost mirror images of one another: both dark men who wore their black hair and beards long, oiled, and curled in the traditional way. White teeth shone when they smiled, and their dark eyes flashed with quick wit and, when roused, quicker anger. Then it has begun.
But we may yet cut him off,
Belyn said. If we brought charges against him in council, before all the others, the High King would have to take action.
Avallach considered this and replied, Forcing the High King to take action against one of his monarchs could bring the world crashing down around our ears.
Or save it.
Very well.
Avallach turned suddenly and started back to the hall. Let us hear what your men have to say to us.
They rejoined the others in the hall. Avallach saw that Annubi had arrived and motioned him over. As the seer came forward the king addressed one of Belyn's delegation, My brother tells me you have brought evidence with you. Let me see it.
The man glanced at the seer and hesitated.
Trust Annubi before you trust me,
Avallach told him. If my advisor is not to hear, then I am deaf as well.
Annubi bowed, fingertips of both hands touching as he made the sign of the sun with his hands. Besides,
added Avallach, I have never yet discovered a way to keep a secret from this man.
Annubi's name is honored in Belyn's palace as well,
said the man, inclining his head toward the seer. I intended no offense.
No offense was taken,
replied Annubi equably. Please continue.
I am King Belyn's yardmaster. Five days ago I apprehended two Ogygians in the royal shipyards at Taphros,
the man said. The two had posed as representatives of an Azilian trade consortium to gain entrance. The shipyards are not guarded, as you know, but my king has ordered me to watch things very closely. I became suspicious when I saw these supposed buyers lingering near the shipwright's hut. It appeared they were waiting for a chance to gain entrance.
No doubt,
observed Avallach.
The yardmaster nodded. When questioned they pretended ignorance.
Of course.
I asked to search their persons and they became abusive. I called six of my carpenters and we held them until the palace guard could be summoned.
Having finished his story the man stepped back and another man took his place.
This is the captain of my palace guard,
said Belyn by way of introduction.
I am,
affirmed the burly man. Eight of my best and I went down to the shipyard upon receiving the summons. We found the two spies just as the yardmaster has said. With much protesting, they were taken back to the palace and searched. Documents were found in their clothing which indicated a thorough spying foray. It is my opinion that they were attempting to assess the strength of Belyn's ships and the facility of his yards.
Avallach's dark eyes hardened.
There is more.
Belyn motioned to one of the other men, who opened a pouch at his belt and drew out a parchment packet and passed it to Avallach. I believe,
said the man, you will want to see these for yourself.
Avallach took the packet and opened it, scanned it quickly, and passed it to Annubi. The seer glanced at the document and returned it. It would appear Nestor is leaving no stone unturned,
Annubi said.
Indeed! Counting ships and granaries—is he mad?
Assessing an enemy's strength before striking a blow is wisdom itself,
replied Belyn's captain dryly.
He is insane!
snapped Avallach. Breaking a peace that has lasted over two thousand years.…
Annubi lifted his hands, saying, New forces are loosed upon the world: war is on the wind; beastmen migrate from land to land; order gives way to chaos. All the universe is in ferment.
He stopped abruptly and shrugged, adding, Nestor is a creature of his time.
He is a creature that must be stopped.
Avallach pursed his lips. To stop him we must have the support of others as well.
We think alike, brother,
observed Belyn. I sail for Corania as soon as I am finished here.
No,
said Avallach. I will take care of it. If it is true that Nestor's spies are abroad, you must not be seen traveling from Kellios to Ys. I will talk to Seithenin myself.
Better still,
Belyn replied.
Now then,
said Avallach, raising his voice to the others, let us put this distasteful business behind us. There is a bull dance today—you are my guests.
The men bowed and raised their hands in the sign of the sun. Avallach signaled for a steward, who appeared promptly. These men are staying with us,
Avallach told him. Prepare rooms for them and see to it that they have a change of clothes and anything else they require.
The men followed the servant out. Is Elaine with you?
asked Avallach as the others left the great hall.
When she learned I was coming, she would not be left behind. She was asleep when we arrived. I left word that I would fetch her later.
Go and bring the lady. Do not leave her waiting even for a moment or I will be made to answer for your thoughtlessness.
It would not be the first time,
Belyn laughed. The laughter died on his lips and he stood listening to the echo in the great hall. What an empty sound…
Go and bring Elaine,
Avallach told him. We will fill the hall tonight and it will ring with laughter.
When Belyn had gone, Avallach turned to Annubi who stood looking on. What we have long dreaded has come to pass; we must prepare to fight Nestor in Council, and we must win. If we fail, it can only end in death.
Indeed! Death is the only certainty when kings fall out,
replied Annubi.
* * *
Charis' curiosity was far from satisfied by what she had glimpsed in the Lia Fail. But since it was a stolen look she could not go to Annubi to inquire of him what the images meant. At any rate, she had not seen herself among the procession of travelers and considered that this confirmed her worst suspicions: when the time came to travel to the Great Council, she would be left behind.
This was not a situation she could endure, at least not sitting still. The youngest of Avallach's five children, Charis had often been forced to the subtleties of diplomacy where one of her brothers might have relied on strength. What she needed now was an ally, someone who wielded the power she lacked and who would take her side. She chose her mother.
It was to the queen's library that Charis went in search of her mother, whom she found standing at the balcony with a squarish object in her hands. The queen, turning as her daughter entered, smiled and held out a hand. Come here, I want to show you something.
What is that?
she asked. A brick?
Briseis laughed and held the object out to Charis. Not a brick,
she explained. A book.
Charis came close and gazed at the thing—the wrong shape for a book. It was flat and thick, not neatly rolled in a tight vellum scroll. It looked awkward and cumbersome.
Are you certain?
asked Charis, glancing around the library with its innumerable scrolls tucked into the honeycombed nooks of its shelves. The huge room was polished wood and stone; light scattered from its many cool surfaces. There were large myrtlewood tables and tall-backed chairs with blue silk cushions placed around the room for convenience. At the far end hung a large tapestry depicting Mount Atlas, its crown lost in white plumes of cloud. She returned her gaze to the strange object her mother held in front of her. It looks more like a brick to me.
A new kind of book. Here…
Her mother placed the volume in her hands. Open it.
Open it?
Let me show you.
Her mother bent and turned back the leather cover to reveal a dazzling picture of a green and gold Atlantis afloat in a sea of lapis lazuli. Sunlight touched the page and set the colors aflame.
It is beautiful!
exclaimed Charis, running her fingers across the page. Where did you get it?
Traders brought it from across Oceanus. It is said the great libraries of the East have begun making books like this. I directed the royal artisans to paint the picture, but the writing is in the Eastern script. There is only one other book like this in all nine kingdoms and it belongs to the High King.
Briseis closed the book and looked fondly at her daughter, lifting a hand to stroke the girl's hair.
Is something wrong, Mother?
Nothing to concern you, dear one,
she said, but a shadow lingered in her eyes.
Charis looked carefully at her mother. She was long-limbed and slim, with flawless white skin and hair of honey-gold. Her clear eyes were the color of mountain pools and hinted at icy depths. Although she rarely wore the circlet, there was no mistaking her royal bearing; nobility, fine and pure as light itself, radiated from her presence. Charis considered her mother the most beautiful woman in all the world, and she was not alone in this opinion. You came to find me,
said Briseis. What did you want?
Someone has arrived,
Charis replied. I saw the ships come in. They are from Uncle Belyn.
Belyn here? That is news.
She turned and looked out across the harbor and Charis noticed the shadow was back.
Hmph,
Charis snorted. That is as much as you will get from me. There was a secret meeting and Annubi mentioned something about the Great Council. However, I know I will not get to go.
She plopped down in a nearby chair. Oh, Mother, sometimes I just want to leave this place—leave it forever!
The queen turned sad eyes on her daughter. Charis, my restless one—do not long for leaving. There will be enough of leaving in your life, I fear.
I have never been to a Great Council before. Could we go? Please?
Briseis brightened. Perhaps Elaine is here as well.
Charis saw an advantage and pressed her demand. Could we? I never get to go anywhere. Everyone else—Kian and Maildun and Eoinn and—
Shush, I have not said no. If Elaine and Belyn have come I must see to their arrangements.
Charis raised her eyebrows hopefully. Then yes?
It is your father's decision.
Charis' face wrinkled in sharp disappointment. But,
her mother continued, I think he may be persuaded.
Charis jumped up. Persuade him, Mother. You will, I know you will.
I will do my best. Now, let us go see if your aunt and uncle will accompany us to the arena.
* * *
"Oh, I feel like a cow. I look like one, too. And I have never been so seasick in my life. Hello, Briseis. Hello, Charis. It is good to see you both. I cannot think why I insisted on coming, I have had nothing but misery since I stepped onto that wretched ship. But it is hot out here—or is it just me?"
Hello, Aunt Elaine. Have you not had that baby yet?
Charis laughed and offered her hand as her aunt stepped from the carriage.
Wretched girl. Would I be standing here panting like a pig if I had had the baby? Oh, and it is not to be born for weeks!
Elaine spread graceful hands over her swelling stomach. Despite her protestations she appeared in glowing good health and seemed thoroughly pleased with herself.
Elaine, you are as beautiful as ever,
said Briseis, embracing her. And it is hot standing here in the sun. Come inside. I have had a cool drink prepared.
Will you come to the bull dance with us?
asked Charis. They stepped into the shade of the portico and proceeded along the columned passage to the palace, palm fronds rustling as they passed.
Would I miss it? There is nothing I love better. Who is dancing?
A team from Poseidonis, from the High Temple itself— the Crescents, I think. Guistan says that one of them does a double.
Enough, Charis,
her mother chided. Elaine has come a long way and is tired. Give her a moment to rest before you have us all dashing out to the arena.
She turned to Elaine. The baby is not to be born for several weeks, you say?
The stars, Briseis, the stars! The Magi tell me the stars must be properly aligned. 'Highness,'
she said, adopting a solemn, sanctimonious tone, 'he will be a king one day and therefore must have an auspicious birth sign.' Idiot men.
You are certain the child will be male?
Quite certain. In my family at least, the Magi have not been wrong in five generations. There is no doubt it will be a boy.
Belyn must be pleased.
Ecstatic, and rightly so—considering I am doing all the work and he receives the glory.
Have you chosen a name?
wondered Charis.
I have consulted the Magi, who have searched the Royal Registry and tell me that there was a man in my family named Peredur; he was a wise and just ruler of great renown at one time or another. I think I will name the baby Peredur.
A strange name,
remarked Charis, but I like it.
Briseis gave her daughter a harsh look, which Charis ignored. Charis, go and find your brothers. Tell them to get ready. We will be leaving for the arena soon and I want to arrive before the crowds.
Charis frowned and opened her mouth to protest. Go on. I wish to speak to Elaine alone for a moment.
I am going.
Sit with me at the ring,
Elaine called after her. I will save a place right next to me.
The two women watched her run off. Briseis sighed. Sometimes I think I will never make a lady of her. She is so headstrong.
No more so than her father?
Briseis smiled and shook her head. No, no more than Avallach.
Chapter 2
GWYDDNO GARANHIR STOOD AT THE GATE OF HIS HILLTOP caer and looked out across Aberdyvi, the sea estuary of the River Dyvi, at the seabirds circling and chattering in the blue, windswept sky, diving for fish trapped on the mud flats by the receding sea. His eyes scanned the horizon for danger: the square, blood-red sails of Irish raiding ships.
There was a time, not long past, when the sight of sails on the horizon sent the clan into a frenzy. The alarm would sound and Gwyddno would take up his spear and bronze shield and lead the men down to the beach to await the attack. Sometimes it came; and sometimes, seeing the jeering, gyrating warband waiting for them in the shallows, the ships sailed by in search of easier pickings elsewhere.
But the horizon sparkled clean and clear; the village was safe for another day. Although it had been years since any sea raiders had dared attack, Gwyddno had not forgotten those bloody battles of his youth and his vigilance was as keen as ever.
Below on the tide-exposed strand a few of his kinsmen waded through the shin-deep muck searching out blue mussels and oysters—oysters with the rare tiny pearls which were saved and sold by the hornful to the equally rare trader venturing far west into the wild mountain fastness of the Cymry. He saw them, bent-backed, coarse-woven sacks trailing in the mire, laboring with their long-handled wooden forks…and a thought occurred to him.
Further up on this same river Gwyddno maintained a salmon weir which, in season, kept his table in fish and provided a good income out of the surplus. Perhaps, he thought, the weir could be made to provide more than salmon this year.
Lately Gwyddno had been feeling his age, and as king and lord of six cantrefs of Gwynedd he had begun giving thought to who might be his heir. He had had two wives, who between them managed to produce only one son, Elphin. Would that my wives were as fruitful as my weir,
he often lamented to himself.
Elphin was widely regarded by the clan as the most unlucky youth who ever lived. Nothing he set his hand to flourished, and nothing he ever attempted came to good. Stories about his astonishing bad luck were told from one end of Gwynedd to the other—like the time he had set out one morning with five others on horseback to hunt wild pigs in the dells around Pencarreth.
The hunting party returned an hour after sunset with three horses missing, two men badly injured, one small pig between them, and all five blaming Elphin—though how he had caused the misfortune, no one was prepared to say precisely. But all agreed it was his fault. It is no more than we deserve for going out with him,
they said. From now on, either he stays back or we do.
Once he traveled with his father and a few kinsmen to a nearby village for the burial of a revered clan chief. Being Lord Gwyddno's son, Elphin was given the honor of leading the horse-drawn bier to the cromlech where the body would be laid to rest. The trail to the burial place passed through a beech copse and up a steep hill.
As the bier crested the hill, a screech went up and a flurry of wings resolved itself into a covey of terrified quail taking flight. Although Elphin held tight to the reins, the horses reared, the bier tilted, and the body slid off to roll down the hill in a most startling and undignified manner. Elphin barely managed to escape joining his host in the cromlech.
Another time Elphin was out on the estuary in a small boat, fishing the tideflow, when the anchor line gave way and the boat was swept out to sea. His kinsmen thought they had seen the last of him, but he returned the next day, tired and hungry but unharmed, having lost the boat—nets, catch, and all—on some rocks a fair distance up the coast.
Other catastrophes large and small visited Elphin with dependable regularity. It was as if the day of his birth had been cursed so that he lived under a dark star, although no one could recollect any such spell. And as Gwyddno was a just and respected lord, there was little reason why anyone would want to curse his issue.
Be that as it may, Elphin's chances of succeeding his father as lord were exceedingly slim. No one would follow a man known to be unlucky; and for such a man to become king would betoken certain destruction for the clan. In fact, the clan had begun to discuss the problem among themselves and some of the older members were now seen making the sign against evil whenever Elphin's back was turned. It was clear to Gwyddno that a solution would be needed soon.
Gwyddno, who dearly loved his son, was determined to help him all he could. What was needed was a clear demonstration of a reversal of Elphin's luck. This was where the salmon weir came in.
In a few days it would be Beltane, a most propitious time of year. A day when herds and fields would be blessed and the Earth Goddess importuned and appeased for a plentiful harvest in the fall. A day of strong magic. If a wealth of salmon were taken from the weir on this day it would be a portent of good fortune for the year to come. And if Elphin were the man to take the salmon, no one could call him unlucky.
As it was Gwyddno's custom to give the take of the Dyvi weir to a clansman on this day each year, he decided that this year the man would be Elphin. In this way, the world would see whether his son's fortunes would ever improve or if he would go to his grave as luckless as he had come from his mother's womb.
Gwyddno fingered his torc and smiled to himself as he turned away from the workers on the estuary. It was a good solution. If Elphin succeeded in a good catch, his fortunes would change; if not, he was no worse off than before and the tribes could begin searching among Gwyddno's younger cousins and nephews for an heir.
The king walked back among the clustered dwellings of the caer: sturdy log-and-thatch, most of them, but here and there one of the low, round houses of an earlier time still stood. Nearly three hundred kinsmen—members of two related fhains who could trace their descent back to a common ancestor—called Caer Dyvi home and sought refuge behind its encircling ditch and stout wooden palisade.
Gwyddno moved through the village, greeting his people, stopping now and then to exchange a word or hear a comment from one of them. He knew them all well, knew their hopes and fears, their dreams for themselves and their children, their hearts and minds. He was a good king, well-loved by those he ruled, including the lords of the outlying cantrefs who paid tribute to him as overlord.
Red pigs rooting for acorns squealed and scattered as he came to stand beside the council oak in the center of the caer. An iron bar hung by a leather strap from one of the lower branches. Taking up the iron hammer, Gwyddno struck the bar several times. In a moment clansmen began gathering to his summons.
When most of the older tribesmen were present, he said, speaking in a loud voice, I have called council to announce my choice for the take of my salmon weir two days hence.
This news was greeted with murmurs of approval. I choose Elphin.
The murmurs ceased. This was unexpected. Men looked to one another and several made the sign against evil behind their backs. I know what you are thinking,
Gwyddno continued. You believe Elphin ill-favored—
He is cursed!
muttered someone from the crowd, and there was general agreement.
Silence!
someone else shouted. Let our chief speak.
The salmon weir shall be Elphin's test. If he brings back a great catch, the curse is broken.
If not?
demanded one of the clansmen.
If he fails, you may begin searching for an heir. I will not remain king beyond Samhain. It is time to choose a new leader.
This last and more important news was received in respectful silence. Elphin's luck was one matter, choosing a king was another. Return to your work. That is all I have to say,
said Gwyddno, and thought: There, it is done. Let them chew on that.
As the tribe dispersed, Hafgan, the clan's bard, came forward, wrapped in his long blue robe although it was a bright spring day.
Cold, Hafgan?
said Gwyddno.
The druid twisted his face and cast an eye toward the sun, now standing at midday. I feel the chill of a snow that will be.
Snow? Now?
Gwyddno looked up at the high clouds floating across the sun-washed sky. But it is nearly Beltane—winter snows are past.
Hafgan grunted and pulled his robe around him. I will not argue about the weather. You did not consult me about this matter of the salmon weir. Why?
Gwyddno turned his eyes away. He disliked entrusting too much to a druid—one who neither fought, nor married, nor devoted himself to anything normal men might do.
Your answer is slow in coming,
observed Hafgan. A lie often sticks in the throat.
I will not lie to you, Hafgan. I did not consult you because I did not think it wise.
How so?
Elphin is my only son. A man must do for his true sons what he can to advance their fortunes. I made up my mind that Elphin should have the take of the weir this year. I did not want you to gainsay the plan.
You believed I would interfere?
Gwyddno looked at the ground.
There was your mistake, Gwyddno Garanhir. Your plan showed wisdom, but the weather will go against you. I could have told you.
Gwyddno's head snapped up. The snow!
The bard nodded. A storm is coming. Wind and snow from the sea. The salmon will be late and the weir empty.
Gwyddno shook his head sadly. You must not tell Elphin. There may still be something for him.
The druid huffed and made to turn away. The Great Mother is ever generous.
I will make an offering at once. Perhaps it will help.
Do not think you will turn aside the storm,
called Hafgan over his shoulder.
Gwyddno hurried away to his many-roomed house. If she will not change his bad luck, perhaps the goddess will ease it a little.
* * *
On the morning of the eve of Beltane, dark clouds obscured the sky and icy blasts struck the land, bringing sleet and snow from over the sea. Nevertheless, Elphin rose early in his father's house, donned furs against the cold and went out to join the weir wardens, two of his father's kinsmen who had charge of the salmon weir.
The men muttered to themselves and made the sign against evil as they threw extra furs on the horses, mounted, and rode upriver. Elphin ignored his clansmen's rudeness and gnawed a bit of hard black bread as he rode, wrapped in his hunting cloak and thoughts of what the day might bring.
Elphin was a sturdy young man with a broad, good-natured face and soft brown eyes; his hair was mouse brown, as was his drooping mustache. He liked to eat and, even more, to drink, and his voice was often raised in song. If his hands were never overbusy, neither were they ever too full to help another. In all, his manner was as open and guileless as his countenance.
Unlike those around him, Elphin seemed not to mind his bad luck, appearing almost oblivious to it. He could not understand why people made so much of it. Anyway, there was nothing to be gained worrying about it, for all matters of fortune were in the hands of the gods who gave or withheld as they pleased. In his experience, matters tended to turn as they would and nothing he did or did not do made any difference.
True, the weather might have been better. Wet snow and wind were not the best conditions for taking a fortune of salmon from the river. But what of that? Could he shut up snow in the sky or stop the wind from blowing?
The trail from the caer wound along the Dyvi's clear waters, now gray and cold, mirroring iron-dark heavens. Snow clung to the trees, weighing down their new-leafed branches. The shrill wind burned exposed flesh and the men hunched their shoulders against the chill; their horses, winter coats partly shed, bent their heads and plodded on.
They reached the weir by midmorning, and although the clouds remained as solid and grave as ever, and snow still fell steadily, the wind had lessened. The weir wardens dismounted and stood looking at the net-strung poles across the shallows. Snow topped the poles, and the nets themselves were traced in white where they showed above the black water. Across the river a stand of larches stood like a group of white-mantled druids gathered to watch the proceedings.
There's the weir,
said one of the wardens, a bull-necked young man named Cuall. Get on with it.
Elphin nodded. With an amiable shrug, he began to strip off his clothes. Naked, he made his way down to the water, lowering himself carefully over the wet rocks. He entered the water, clamping his arms around his chest to stop the shivering, and waded toward the first net.
The net came heavily from the dark water and Elphin pulled with spirit. But the net was empty.
He cast a look shoreward, where his kinsmen stood unmoving, their faces creased in scowls, shrugged, and made his way slowly to the next pole, his flesh prickling with cold. The next net was empty, as was the one following and, save for a snagged stick, so was the one after that.
An evil day,
grumbled Cuall. The man's voice carried over the water. Elphin heard him but pretended otherwise and continued with his task. No reason we should freeze,
replied Ermid, the second warden. Let us have a fire.
The two set about gathering dry kindling and the next time Elphin looked back he saw a merry blaze in a clearing on the bank. He turned and rejoined the others who sat hunkered over the flames.
The young man knelt before the fire and sighed with relief as the flames began to thaw his frozen limbs. Had enough of salmon already?
asked Cuall. Ermid laughed sharply.
Elphin stretched his hands to the warmth and said through chattering teeth, I w-would say the salmon have h-had enough of me.
This answer angered Cuall. He jumped to his feet and shook his fist in Elphin's face. All your ill luck aforetime was nothing compared to this! You have destroyed the virtues of the weir!
Elphin bristled at the accusation but replied calmly, I have not yet finished what I came to do.
What is the use of it?
bawled Cuall. Any man can see you'll be getting nothing for your trouble!
Once more, the young man braved the icy water and made his way among the poles and nets, working his way slowly across the river. Cuall watched him and then said to Ermid, Come on, we have seen enough. Let us go back.
They scooped snow with their hands and tossed it onto the fire until it sizzled and died, then climbed back into their saddles. They had just turned their horses, however, when they heard Elphin's shout. Cuall rode on, but Ermid paused and looked back. He saw Elphin striding through the thigh-deep water toward the bank, pulling a black bundle behind him.
Cuall, wait!
Ermid shouted. Elphin has something!
Cuall reined up and squinted over his shoulder. It is nothing,
he snorted. A drowned carcass.
Elphin shouted again, and Ermid dismounted. Cuall watched the two of them with impatience and swore under his breath, then urged his mount back along the trail. He arrived just in time to see Elphin and Ermid haul a large leather bag from the water.
Look what Elphin's found,
said Ermid.
Cuall remained unimpressed. A watersogged skin that's not worth spit.
Ermid took out his knife and began hacking at the bag. Careful!
warned Elphin. You will damage my fortune.
Your fortune!
Cuall barked, climbing down from his horse. Aye, your fortune right enough. Every year to this, the weir yields the value of a hundred in silver, and all you get is a castoff bag.
Who knows? There may yet be the value of a hundred silver inside,
said Elphin, and he took the knife and began carefully slitting the leather skin. Then he and Ermid opened the bag and pulled out a bundle wrapped in thick, gray seal fur and tied with leather thongs. The thongs and the fur were dry.
See here!
cried Ermid. The water has not come inside.
Elphin lay the bundle on the ground and, with trembling hands—shaking as much from excitement as from cold— began untying the carefully knotted thongs. When the last knot was freed, he lifted his hand to unwrap the bundle, but hesitated.
What are you waiting for?
growled Cuall. Show us this fortune of yours so we can tell the clan.
Go on,
said Ermid and reached to pull away the fur wrapping.
Elphin caught his hand. Why so eager to share this bad luck, cousin?
he asked. Allow me.
With that Elphin took the corner of the sealskin and pulled it back. There on the ground before them lay the body of an infant.
Scrawny thing's dead,
observed Cuall, rising.
The child lay still, its fair skin ghostly pale, its cold, tiny lips and fingers blue. Elphin stared at the infant, a man-child, exquisitely formed. Hair as fine as spider's silk and the color of gold in the firelight fell lightly across a high forehead. The closed eyes were perfect half moons, the ears delicate shells. There was not a flaw or blemish on the tiny body anywhere.
A beautiful child,
whispered Elphin.
Who'd be throwing a babe like that in the river?
wondered Ermid. He looks fit enough to me.
Cuall, holding the horses, sneered. The child is bewitched, like as not. Accursed he is. Throw him back and be done with it.
Throw away my fortune?
scoffed Elphin. I never will.
The babe is dead,
said Ermid, not unkindly. Throw it back lest the curse cling to you for finding him.
What of that? As I am cursed already, it will not matter.
Elphin gathered up the babe in its bundle and cradled it to his naked body.
Do what you like,
growled Cuall and swung himself up into the saddle. Are you coming, Ermid?
Ermid rose and fetched a fur from his horse, draped it over Elphin's shoulders, and remounted.
Elphin held the child for a long moment and felt the tiny body warm against his skin. Snow swirled down through the overarching branches, casting a pall of silence over the surrounding forest—a silence that was broken by a small, muffled cry.
Lowering the bundle, Elphin watched in wonder as the child in his arms drew a deep, shuddering breath and cried again, stretching out its tiny hands. The infant's voice seemed to fill the world with its cry.
By the Mother Goddess!
exclaimed Ermid. The babe lives!
Cuall just stared, his fingers instinctively making the sign against evil.
Here,
said Elphin getting up and holding the child out. Hold him while I dress myself. We must get him to the caer quickly.
Ermid sat frozen in the saddle. Hurry!
commanded Elphin. I mean to take him back alive, that all may see my fortune.
At this Ermid dismounted and took the babe gingerly in his hands.
Elphin quickly pulled on his trousers and belted his tunic over them, stuffed his feet into his boots, then fastened his cloak. He took up his reins and leaped up into the saddle, pulling furs over him, then held out his hands for the child, which had ceased crying and now snuggled quietly asleep in its fur bed. Ermid passed it up to him and quickly regained his own mount, and the three started back down the trail to the caer. Elphin was careful to let his horse amble gently along, lest he disturb the sleeping child.
* * *
By the time Elphin and his companions reached the caer, the snow had stopped and the clouds had thinned so that the sun could be seen as a ghostly white disk floating behind a gauzy gray curtain. A few clan members saw them return and ran to call others to see how Elphin had fared at the weir. Since there were no sacks of salmon hanging from the cantles of their saddles, most of those who followed the horses to Gwyddno's house assumed that Elphin's luck had held true, which is to say that he failed.
The seal fur bundle that Elphin cradled in his arms intrigued them, however. What have you there, Elphin?
they called as he rode among the squat houses of the caer.
You will see soon enough,
he answered and kept riding.
I see no salmon,
they whispered to one another. His evil luck has done for him again.
Elphin heard their whispers but did not acknowledge them. He passed through the inner palisade of wooden stakes and came to his father's house. Gwyddno and Medhir, Elphin's mother, came out to watch their son's approach. The two weir wardens dismounted and stood a little way off, subdued. Hafgan, the druid, leaned on his staff, head cocked to the side, one eye asquint—as if trying to ascertain a fine alteration in Elphin's appearance.
Well, Elphin, how have you fared?
asked Gwyddno. He peered sadly at the horses and at the empty sacks behind their saddles. Was the spirit of the weir against you, son?
Come close and see how I have fared.
Elphin spoke in a loud voice so that all those gathered around could hear.
He extended his arms and showed his bundle. Gwyddno reached for it, but Elphin did not hand it to him. Instead, he lifted the edge of the sealskin and pulled it back so everyone could see. As he did so the sun burst through the thin cloud cover. Bright white light showered down upon him, illuminating the infant in his hands.
Behold! Taliesin of the radiant brow!
cried Hafgan, for the infant's face shone with a bright light as it caught the rays of the sun.
Medhir rushed forward to take the babe; Elphin handed it to her gently and dismounted. Yes, I have fetched a child from the weir!
he said. Let him be called Taliesin.
The people were silent. At first they merely stared in wonder at the fair child with the shining face. Then someone muttered from the crowd, Woe, woe! Who has heard of such a thing? Surely it bodes ill for the clan.
Everyone heard what was said, and soon all were decrying Elphin's catch and making the sign against evil behind their backs. Elphin heard their mutterings and shouted angrily, It makes no difference what I do! Whether I had brought back three salmon or three hundred you would find some fault and say I was cursed!
He took the
