“Then live long and remember, Belissa.” Charis looked at the others. “All of you, live long and remember.”
“Will we see you again?” asked Junoi.
“Oh yes, you will see me again. I am not going to disappear. “
“What will you do?” wondered Kalili.
“I am going home for a time, to heal. But when I have recovered I will come back.” She paused, sinking back into the cushions. “Go now… There are dreams to be dreamed and plans to be made.”
Joet and Peronn lifted the chair effortlessly and carried it to the bed. Marophon rose from the corner where he had been sitting and came to her, knelt down, and put his head on Charis’ knees. She reached out a hand and stroked the young man’s dark hair. “I am sorry…”he began, his voice thick. “I wanted to run out into the ring to take your place. I was ready to die for you. I thought…”
“Shhh,” soothed Charis. “It is over.”
“No, I did wrong.”
“Are you to blame because the bullmaster sent the wrong bull?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, and it does not matter.”
“But, I”
“It does not matter, Maro.”
He bent over her, tears sparkling in his eyes, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thank you… Thank you for my life.”
“Go find your dancer,” she whispered. “Take her with you. Both of you make a new life together.”
Joet and Peronn lifted her and placed her gently in bed. Then, one by one, the dancers approached and said farewell.
Despite the persistent ministrations of the Belrene, the personal attention of two of High Queen Danea’s household physicians, and a veritable flood of gifts, food, and flowers that washed daily through Charis’ rooms threatening at times to drown her, it was several weeks before Charis felt up to traveling.
Then early one morning she left her quarters and climbed into the carriage waiting for her in the temple square. Her few Belongings were already packed, as were the presents she had chosen for her family. Queen Danea had provided the carriage-along with a train of servants under the watchful eye of a Mage, each and every one charged by the High Queen personally to guarantee a slow, restful journey with the utmost care and attention to Charis’ every request.
The carriage rolled out along near-empty streets and turned onto the Processional Way, proceeding through the three zones of the royal city. But it was not until they clattered beneath the city walls and out through the enormous brazen gates to climb into the green hills to the north, Below mighty cloud-wrapped Atlas, that Charis understood that she was indeed leaving. She realized that she had never actually imagined that she would leave Poseidonis alive, much less see her home again. Home-the word produced a warm sensation in her heart that she had not felt in a very long time.
Even so, she wondered what her reception would be. She remembered the day she had left. It was only a few days after her mother’s burial, and King Avallach’s unreasoning hostility toward her had made it clear that she could no longer stay. He blamed her for Briseis’ death. It was not until much later that Charis learned that Seithenin, acting in concert with Nestor, was responsible for the attack. It was Seithenin’s duplicity in the act that had precipitated the war which now engulfed half of Atlantis.
Charis blamed herself too, though not in the same way as her father. Her guilt was more basic: she had survived, while her mother had died. She had always felt that she should have been cut down that day instead. Avallach had lost a wife, yes, but Charis had lost her mother.
“You chose the bull pit-you chose death,” the High Queen had told her, and she had spoken the truth.
But life is such a tenacious gift. No matter how hard Charis had tried to throw it away, it had persisted. And if life in the bullring had taught her anything, it had taught her that nothing worthwhile came without pain. Therefore, first, before anything else, she would break open those old scarred-over wounds and allow genuine healing to take place at last.
Day by day the hills lifted the road higher, bearing the carriage beyond the green-clad highlands, while mighty Atlas grew until it filled the horizon. Charis watched as the clouds worked their endless shadowplay over the lower slopes. She slept a good deal and felt her strength returning.
One day, however, Charis could not sleep. Every pebble beneath the wheels became a jarring jolt; a hard white sun beat down will sullen rancor; the sultry wind stirred up gritty dust; the mountain loomed aloof and unfriendly, its upper reaches shrouded from view by dull gray clouds. She stared out at broken, barren hills straining toward the rocky shoulders of the great mountain and seemed to see a figure standing atop a hill in the distance.
She closed her eyes deliberately and when she opened them again the figure was gone. She settled back but could not rest. Her mind kept returning to the hilltop. She looked again; and again, dark against the pale outline of the mountain, she saw the figure on the hill.
“Stop the carriage!” she shouted. The carriage ground to a halt, and two servants ran up from the chariot behind to peer at her anxiously.
“What do you require, Princess?” asked one.
“I want to get out.”
The two looked at one another briefly and one of them disappeared. “The Mage will be summoned,” explained the remaining servant.
“Good,” she said, descending gingerly from the carriage. “Tell him to wait here until I return.”
She started up the hill. It felt good to stretch unused muscles and she climbed with ease, feeling only an occasional twinge-a lingering hint of her injury.
Upon gaining the crown of the hill, she paused and surveyed the road below. The two servants were talking to the Mage, who stood staring after her. She turned and continued up the hilltop. The figure, a man, stood facing away from her, motionless, arms flung wide as if in supplication to the mountain. The wind combed the hairs on the filthy black pelt that covered him. She froze.
Throm!
There was something shining at his bare feet: sunlight blazing in the yellow gem bound to the top of the leather-bound staff. There was no doubt that it was the mad prophet.
“Throm,” she said and surprised herself at how naturally the name came to her lips. She had only heard it once and that was a long time ago. She stepped nearer.
“Throm, it is Charis,” she said, realizing as she spoke that her name could have no meaning to him.
He did not move or acknowledge her presence in any way. It occurred to her that he might be dead, his tough sinews locked in a rictus that would not let him rest even in death. She stretched forth a hand to touch him, then hesitated and withdrew it.
“S-sister of the sun,” he said in a sepulchral voice that cracked from his throat. “Dancer with Death, Princess of Gulls, I, Throm, greet you.”
As he made no move to turn toward her or look at her, Charis stepped around him. The prophet continued, speaking in his odd, staccato bursts, as if words were torn from him painfully, by force. “Do you not think it strange? Do you not wonder that of all of Bel’s children you alone have been chosen?”
“Chosen? I was not chosen.”
“Why are you here?”
“I saw you-saw someone standing up here,” Charis said, her certainty fading. Why was she here? She had known that it was Throm; some part of her knew it the moment she glimpsed the figure from afar.
“Many have passed by. You only have come.”
“I did not know it was you.”
“Did you not?”
“No,” Charis insisted. “I just saw someone.”
“Then I ask again, Why did you come?”