Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

“I think,” replied Seithenin, “that Nestor is being most foolish. What his excuse will be, I cannot imagine. But the High King is certain to show him disfavor.”

“Failing to attend the council approaches treason,” said Belyn.

“If it is deliberate,” Seithenin reminded him. “We do not know that it is.”

“I like this less and less,” said Avallach. “If he does not attend tomorrow I think we must speak to the High King.”

“Yes,” agreed Seithenin. “Leave it until tomorrow. And if Nestor offers no explanation, I will demand one in council.”

Belyn grinned. “Do that. I know there are others curious about Nestor’s absence as well.”

“You did not speak to anyone about this…” warned Avallach.

“No, but I have heard talk. There is concern about Nestor beyond our own.”

“Then we are right to bring this out into the open-but tomorrow. Do nothing until tomorrow,” said Seithenin. “I will leave you now, my friends.” He strode away down the corridor.

“Well, Belyn,” said Avallach, “I am hungry. Join me at my table.”

“Ah, I would, brother, but I have promised to dine with my wife tonight.”

“Go then, and take my greetings to that beautiful lady. I hope we may see her before our visit here is ended.”

“See her you shall, but perhaps we should be more careful about being seen together.”

Avallach put his arm on Belyn’s shoulders. “We are brothers; it is expected that we should be seen together now that we are here. If Nestor’s spies are skulking about, they will see nothing unusual.”

The men embraced. “Until tomorrow then,” said Belyn.

“Tomorrow,” affirmed Avallach. “Rest well.”

When the Bell in the rotunda tolled the next day, the kings donned their purple cloaks and assembled in the council chamber. Avallach saw that Nestor’s chair remained empty and noticed, too, that several other kings regarded the vacant seat with frowns on their faces. Clearly, Nestor’s absence was beginning to create ill will among the other members of the council.

The High King entered and, as before, the council began: the Keeper of the Record came forward to call the first case of the day. But before the Keeper could read the name on his list, there arose a commotion in the vestibule. All heads turned as in through the arched doorway strode Nestor, the purple cloak flying behind him, his face set in a terrible scowl: his brow like a lowering storm cloud, lightning darting from his glance. His long flaxen hair was wet with sweat and hung at his shoulders in damp ropes; dust soiled his clothes and boots. He was a lean man, narrow of frame, with fine, almost delicate features.

He bowed to the High King, making the sign of the sun with his hands, and then whirled away to take his seat.

The room erupted in a babble of voices, and the gallery behind the circle of chairs buzzed with suppressed excitement. Ceremon gazed levelly at the wayward king and when order had been restored in the room he said, “Welcome, Nestor. I am glad you have deigned to join us.”

Nestor winced under the bite of the High King’s sarcasm and his demeanor changed. “Sire,” he replied, “I am keenly aware of the difficulty my absence has caused, and I deeply regret the inconvenience.”

Ceremon stared, his gaze growing hard. “You regret the inconvenience? That’s all you have to say?”

“I beg your indulgence.”

“I do not understand.”

“Sire, if it pleases you, I am not prepared to speak of this matter further at present. I beg your indulgence.”

“That you shall not have!” shouted Ceremon. “That you shall never have until I have heard an explanation!”

Nestor glanced worriedly around the room. “I would rather not, Sire.”

“You!” the High King cried, leaping from his chair. “What you prefer is of no interest to me at this moment. I demand an explanation, and I will have it or I will have your crown!”

Nestor grimaced, as if a wound pained him. He pulled himself slowly from his chair and shuffled to the center of the circle. “Sire,” he said softly, “I had hoped to avoid this. Open confrontation was not my intent.”

“We are waiting,” said Ceremon hotly.

“Then I will put it plainly. Nearly two weeks ago I sailed from my harbor to come to Poseidonis. On the fourth day out, we were hailed by a ship in distress, near an obscure island off the coast of Mykenea.” He drew a long breath and shut his eyes, as if it were too painful for him to continue.

“I ordered my ship’s captain to turn aside and help the disabled ship in any way we could, fearing loss of life if we did not. But no sooner had we pulled alongside the ailing vessel than we were secured by grappling hooks and attacked.

“As we had no weapons, my ship’s crew was slaughtered without mercy and I was taken captive.”

The gallery gasped aloud.

“Go on,” said the High King. “We are listening.”

“I Believe the plan was to kill me outright, but I bargained for my life with gold. This caused a dissension among those leading the attack. I seized the opportunity and pressed for my release. I convinced them with gold and was put adrift in a small boat, reaching shore on the evening tide.

‘ ‘I continued on foot for two days until I came to a village where I could hire a horse. I have ridden for five days and arrive as you see me.” Nestor spread his hands to emphasize his deplorable state.

Ceremon frowned. “A most shocking tale, King Nestor. How do you account for this strange event?”

“It was clearly an act of war, Sire.”

“The word comes quickly to your lips,” observed the High King.

“I know no other word by which such an act might be called.”

“Nevertheless, it is a serious indictment, Nestor.” Cere-mon’s voice was cold and flat. “You must be prepared to name the perpetrator of this outrage.”

Nestor turned slowly and, with an expression of utmost anguish, raised his hand and pointed his finger. Avallach did not know which shocked him more: Nestor’s finger pointing directly at him or the man’s brazen audacity.

‘ ‘It was…” whispered Nestor hoarsely, as if being forced to name his attacker was bitter agony, “Avallach of Sarras.”

“Liar!”

The shout came not from Avallach but from the chair beside him. Belyn was on his feet, fists clenched, his face livid. “It is a lie!”

Startled voices cascaded down from the gallery to whirl inside the rotunda. “Silence!” shouted Ceremon sternly. He took up his staff and pounded it on the floor until the blows rang in the chamber. “Silence!”

When he regained control the High King said, “A most grave offense has been brought before us-for which the punishment is death. There must be no further distraction.”

His eyes swept the room and settled on the king standing before him. “Nestor, you must be aware of the fact that your accusation cannot be accepted by this council without proof.”

“I understand, Sire.” He sounded almost penitent.

“Well, have you any proof?”

“If it pleases you, Sire.” He clapped his hands loudly and a porter entered the chamber from the vestibule with a small chest in his hands. “After the attack I was taken aboard the other vessel and locked in the ship’s stores Below deck while the murderers debated my fate. I searched for something wherewith to prove myself if I should make good my escape. I had almost given up hope when I found this…”

He opened the chest and drew out a length of cloth, shook out its folds to reveal a portion of a king’s banner. Even without the royal insignia, the green and yellow colors were instantly recognizable: Sarras.