He rode behind and was careful not to be seen, for he did not wish to intrude. She rode well, he noticed, handling her mount masterfully; but it soon became apparent that if she had a destination in mind, she was not in a hurry to reach it. She seemed instead to wander, and yet her wanderings were not aimless or random.
The princess was, Taliesin decided at length, neither bound for a predetermined destination nor trotting aimlessly; she was visiting places she knew well-so well that she had no need to search for pathways or trails-describing a circuit she had ridden countless times before.
Charis might have been familiar with the haunts she chose, but Taliesin was not and he soon lost her. She had ridden up a hill and entered a small stand of beech trees at its crown. Taliesin had followed and in due course arrived at the grove to discover that Charis had disappeared.
He searched the hillside, trying to raise her trail again, but could not. At last he gave up and started back to the palace, retracing his meandering way. The Tor was within sight when he heard it: someone singing. The music was floating on the air, drifting to him on unseen currents, beckoning him to turn aside.
Following the sound, he left the trail and entered a little wood nearby. Just inside the wood he came upon a stream and went along beside it, deeper into the wood, where the lilting sound was louder. He stopped and dismounted, his heart quickening. There was no mistaking it now; the song was one of his own melodies, and the singer was female.
But as soon as he stepped from his horse the song stopped.
He walked silently along the quick-running stream through the trees and came to a sunny glade. There was a small pool in the center of the glade and the melody seemingly emanated from this pool, for the air still vibrated with the strains of the song. He crept close and settled behind a sturdy elm to watch.
The afternoon sunlight was full upon the pool, tinting the water pale gold. Presently he saw a ripple in the center of the pool and then a splash… and another. Then an arm rose slowly, dripping water that sparkled like gemstones as it spilled back into the pool. The arm disappeared again and the surface of the tiny lake stilled.
He waited, the sound of his heart beating loud in his ears.
Then she was rising from the center of the pool, head back to keep her hair out of her eyes, the Fisher King’s daughter, shimmering in the sunlight, water running off her in golden rivulets, her garments dazzling bright, scattering light around her in broken fragments like shards of glass.
His breath caught in his throat. He recognized her now: the mysterious lady of the Otherworld who slept beneath the waters of the lake, her hands clasped tightly to the hilt of a sword. And now she had awakened.
She stood for a moment, motionless, gazing toward him, and he thought he was discovered; but she bent her head to one side, gathered her long, wet tresses and began squeezing the water from them. Once more her voice filled the glade with Taliesin’s melody. It was all he could do to keep from joining in, for every nerve and fiber in his being was already singing with her.
I knew I would find you, he thought, exulting in the knowledge that she was here and alive, flesh and bone like he was- not a vision or spirit, not a Sidhe that lived only in the Otherworld.
He stood and stepped from his hiding place.
Charis did not see him at first. She continued pressing the water from her hair and then began wading toward the bank. She took a few steps and stopped. Her hands fell to her side. She raised her eyes to the elm that grew beside the pool, knowing what she would see.
He was there, just as she knew he would be: tall and slim, golden tore glinting in the sun, his long flaxen hair bound tight at the nape of his neck, dark eyes gazing at her, drinking in the sight of her.
Was he really there, or had she merely conjured his likeness with her song?
For a moment neither moved or spoke. The dripping of the water from her garments filled the silence just as before her song had filled the glade. Then the singer moved toward her, stepping down into the water.
“Lady of the Lake,” he said softly, extending his hand toward her. “I greet you.”
Charis accepted his hand and they waded back to the mossy bank together.
“You are the Fisher King’s daughter,” he said as he helped her from the pool.
“I am,” she replied. “And you are the singer.” She viewed him calmly, much more calmly than she felt, and asked, “Do you have a name?”
“Taliesin,” he replied.
“Taliesin…” She said the name as if it was the answer to a question that had plagued her for years and then turned away, moving toward her horse.
“It means Shining Brow in the language of my people,” Taliesin explained, falling into step beside her. “Do you have a name? Or do men simply utter the fairest word they know?”
“Charis,” she replied a bit warily.
He smiled. “A name which must mean ‘beautiful’ in your race’s tongue.”
She made no answer but unpegged her horse and coiled the braided tether line in her hands. Taliesin stooped and cupped his hands to lift her into the saddle. She raised her foot and saw that it was bare. Both of them stared at the foot-still wet from her swim, with bits of leaf and mud clinging to it-and Taliesin began to laugh, his voice ringing clear and full in the glade.
It seemed to Charis as if an amphora had been upended and, instead of wine or olive oil, pure joyous laughter had been poured out to flow like quicksilver through the green glade. She laughed too and their voices soared through the trees like birds twinned in flight.
Still laughing, Taliesin returned to the bank and retrieved the boots and hair thong. When he turned back, Charis was gone. He heard the jingle of a horse’s tack and glanced toward the sound to see Charis disappearing into the wood. His first impulse was to leap to his own mount and catch her. But he stood looking on as she vanished through the trees and then went back to his horse, climbed into the saddle and made his way back to the Tor, clutching her Belongings to his chest.
Avallach sat with his chin in his hand, frowning. Behind him Annubi, like a granite idol, loomed dark and threatening. Elphin and Cuall sat on a bench facing him, their expressions sad and fierce. Hafgan, wrapped in his blue robe, his rowan staff in his hand, stood by the chamber door, his head inclined, eyes half-closed in complete concentration.
“Such dire events,” said Avallach after a moment. “Your tale distresses me greatly.”
“It bears no pleasure in the telling,” replied Elphin. “But it is the truth.”
“Every word,” added Cuall bitterly. “My life, it is the truth!”
“Do you think these Painted Men, these barbarians you speak of, will strike this far south?”
“In time,” Elphin replied, “it is possible. Although in Dyfed we heard that the emperor was withdrawing two legions from Gaul and sending troops back to the Wall.”
“Perhaps you will be able to return home,” Avallach said.
“No.” Elphin shook his head sadly. “Unless the emperor is prepared to bring the legions back to full strength and man the garrisons on the Wall with trained soldiers there can be no lasting peace in the north and no protection.”
“Peace has gone out of the world,” muttered Annubi darkly.
Elphin nodded toward Avallach’s advisor. “That is what Hafgan says as well. There will be no peace in the Dark Time-only war and still more war.” He sighed. “No, we will not return home. If our people are to survive, it must be here in the south. We must find lands and root ourselves so deeply that when the enemy comes we cannot be driven out.”