Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

“Make ready your tombs,” whispered Charis. “I remember. Seven years you said-and are those seven years fulfilled?”

“Ah, you do remember. Seven years have come and gone while you danced in the pit with the servants of Bel, and once with Bel himself, yes. Seven years, Daughter of Destiny, and time grows short. Time is fulfilled, yes, and yet there is still time. “

“Time for what?” asked Charis. “Tell me. Time for what? Can the catastrophe be averted?”

“Can the sun rise on yesterday?”

“What then?”

“Time for the tree to be uprooted and the seed to be planted.”

Desperation closed over her like angry waters. “Speak plainly, you fool! What tree? What seed? Tell me!”

“The tree of our nation, the seed of our people,” Throm said, turning his wind-eaten features toward her. “The seed must be planted, yes, in the womb of the future.”

She stared, trying hard to work it out. “Leave here, you mean? Is that what you are saying?”

“There is no future here. “

“Oh, why do you persist speaking to me in words I cannot understand? How am I to help if I do not know what I am supposed to do?”

“You know , Bull Dancer. Do what you will.”

Charis gazed hopelessly at him. “Come with me. Tell my father what you have told me.”

Throm smiled, his teeth black and broken in his mouth. “I have told him. I, Throm, have told them all. They stopped their ears with dung, yes, they laughed. So they will laugh at you. But will they laugh when the earth’s maw yawns wide to swallow them alive?”

She stared at him for a moment. There was nothing else to be learned from him. “Farewell, Throm,” she said at last and turned to go.

“Farewell, Bull Dancer,” the prophet said. He had already turned back to his sightless contemplation of the lonely mountain.

Charis returned to the carriage. The Mage scrutinized her closely; she could see that he was worried. He reached toward her to examine her, but she shook off his hands. “Stop grabbing at me! I am well enough.”

The Mage lowered his hands. “Who did you see up there, Princess?” he asked.

“An old friend,” snapped Charis. “And if you wanted to know what he was talking about, you could have gone up there yourself.” She cast a last glance to the hilltop where Throm stood with arms outflung, the sharp wind whittling his flesh away. “We have wasted enough time here. Put the lash to these beasts; I want to be home.”

It rained in the morning when the firepits were being banked with charcoal. But by the time the meat began to sizzle the sky had cleared, and as twilight came on the celebration reached its height. Beer, foamy and dark, and sweet, golden mead flowed in gushing fountains from barrel and butt to horn and jar. Whole carcasses of beef, pork, and mutton roasted on massive iron spits, draping a silver pall of fragrant smoke over the glad roister. The caer rang end to end in song, strong Celtic voices soaring like birds in wild, joyous flight.

Elphin laughed and sang with the hearty ease of a king confident in his position and power. To all those gathered at the high table outside his house, he told stories extolling the bravery of his men; he lifted his horn to each and every one, recounting individual examples of their courage, lavishing honor upon his warband in words of unstinting praise. Rhon-wyn sat beside her husband and Taliesin hovered close by, basking in his father’s presence like a bright-eyed otter on a sun-warmed rock.

As the first stars glimmered in the sky, Cuall, sitting at his lord’s right hand, leaned close and whispered a few words to Elphin, who nodded and set his drinking horn aside. “It is time,” Elphin said, scanning the scene from his high table.

“Time for what?” asked Rhonwyn.

Elphin winked at her and climbed up onto his chair. Cuall began banging on the board with the haft of his knife. The sound was lost in the convivial roar, but soon the whole table had joined in and the rhythmic thump, thump, thump echoed through the caer. “Lord Elphin wishes to speak!” someone shouted. “The king will speak!”

“Let him speak!” someone called. “Quiet! Let the king speak!”

The clatter of voices swelled with excitement and the people gathered around the high table. Platters, bowls, and utensils were shoved aside and Elphin stepped onto the board. He stood with his arms out as if to embrace the whole clan. “My people!” he shouted. “Listen to your lord.”

In a moment it was quiet enough for him to continue. He began, “Every year for seven years we have ridden the Wall…”

“Yes, it is true,” replied the throng Below him.

“… And every year for six of those years we return here to feast at the end of it.”

“Lieu knows it is true!” answered the crowd.

“We feast to celebrate the warband’s safe return, and in a day or two the men disperse to their own homes in the hills and valleys of our lands and their hands return to staif and plow. But not this year,” cried Elphin. “Not ever again while I am king.”

The people murmured. “What is he saying? What does it mean?”

“Now and henceforth the warband stays here!” shouted Elphin as he looked out across his people’s wondering faces. “When we first rode out we were boys; we were farmers, we were herders, and the sons of farmers and herders. But in seven years we have become warriors!”

The people nodded their approval of his words.

“In ancient times our kings lived with their warbands in their timber halls. These ancient times are returning to our land, it seems; therefore, it is only fitting that warriors remain with their battlechief.”

“It is so, Lord Elphin,” the people of the caer replied.

“For this reason I shall cause to be raised, here on this very spot, a great hall! A great hall to rival those possessed by the battlelords of old.”

“A great hall!” gasped the crowd, delighted.

“Henceforth we live like our fathers of old, looking not to the east or west, nor to the south for our protection, trusting not to the Pax Romano., but looking to ourselves and trusting the iron in our own hands. Now and henceforth we protect our own!” With that he drew his sword and held the naked blade in both hands high above his head.

The people raised a noisy cheer, crying as one: “Long live the king! Long live Lord Elphin!”

Across the way Hafgan and Blaise stood swathed in their blue robes, contemplating the proceedings. “What do you think?” asked Blaise.

“It will do,” replied Hafgan.

“It will do, I dare say. But do to what end?”

“Well,” replied the druid as the revelry commenced once more, “it will keep them well occupied for the next year. I was wondering what would happen with the warband staying home. Elphin is right, they are warriors now-it is better to keep them occupied with a warrior’s life and duties.”

“And it will do to keep them underfoot here.”

“Do not begrudge them their home, Blaise. Elphin is to be praised. His work is teaching him well-he is becoming a canny king.”

“Is it enough?” wondered Blaise.

“It is enough for now,” answered Hafgan. “More will be given when more is required.” He looked upon Elphin with pride. “He is a good king and a good father for Taliesin. See how the boy’s eyes follow his every move? Yes, Blaise, it is enough.”

Hafgan’s presence did not go long unnoticed, and soon a shout went up for the bard to tell a story. The shout became a chant, “Fetch my harp, Blaise,” he said and began threading his way toward the high table.