“Leave us, Maildun,” Avallach said softly. “I will speak to Taliesin.”

The prince again slammed down his cup; wine sloshed onto the stones at his~feet, deep and red as blood. Avallach refilled his own cup and motioned Taliesin to a chair as Mail-dun departed. “My son is an impatient man,” said Avallach. “I was like him once. He wants what he cannot have and has what he does not want. It is difficult.” The Fisher King moved to a chair and settled himself with utmost care. “Sit, Taliesin.”

The bard took the seat drawn up beside him. “Your wound grieves you, Lord Avallach?”

“Alas, yes, it is beginning again,” sighed Avallach. “It comes and goes.”

“A most unusual malady,” sympathized Taliesin.

“Indeed,” agreed Avallach. “And the only cure to avail me is to have the priest Dafyd near.”

“I too have felt the power of the priest-more precisely, the power of the God he serves. Perhaps if you were to swear loyalty to the Supreme Lord, the Christ” began Taliesin, the light leaping up in his eyes.

“Oh, but I have,” said Avallach. “I have so sworn and have received the baptism of water in my own lake. As for me, so for my household. That is the way of our race. Still, the Most High has not deemed it suitable to heal my affliction. Perhaps, as Dafyd suggests, it is to teach me humility. I admit there is much I do not know about this new God.”

Avallach sipped his wine pensively and then looked up, grinning happily. “An odd thing, is it not? Strangers from diiferent worlds, united by belief in the same God. Therefore, let us put misunderstandings behind us.” He threw aside the cup as if it had been the source of the trouble between them.

“Well said, Lord Avallach,” replied Taliesin. “I am certain that you intend no affront with your words. But you should know that your offer, however generously conceived, makes bondslaves of us. For among our race the land Belongs to the king and the king to the land; from ancient timei they are bound together. The clan depends on the just rule of the king to bring harmony and plenty to the land. As the king prospers, so prospers the land.”

“It is much the same with us,” observed Avallach.

“The land is the king’s to serve and protect. He grants it to his people in exchange for loyalty and arms in times of trouble.”

“Thank you for informing me,” he said after a time. “I see now how my words have offended, and I regret that I spoke ignorantly.”

“I hold no rancor for you, Lord Avallach.”

“Tell me then, Taliesin, how I may undo what I have done.”

“It will not be easy,” replied Taliesin.

“Name what I am to do and I will do it.”

“Very well. This is how you will gain back my father’s trust.” Taliesin began to devise a plan which he related to Avallach; and the two agreed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When the melancholy came upon her, Charis sought solace in the saddle. She rode. And the wind and sun or, just as likely, the mists and rain sweeping through the dells soothed her restlessness. Out among the solitary hills, her loneliness was lost in the greater loneliness of the wild country. She returned from her rides calmed, if not content, her restive spirit subdued for a time.

But this time it did not work. She rode, and just when she seemed on the point of forgetting herself and allowing the sun and hills to work their magic, she looked back over her shoulder to see if he might be riding behind her. And each time she did that, her heartbeat quickened in her breast and her breath caught in her throat.

She told herself that he would not be there, that she did not want to see him, but she looked just the same. And when she did not see him, a pang of disappointment flared up to poison any contentment she might have gained. For five days she rode the wild hills, returning every evening exhausted and unhappy.

At night the palace was quiet and empty-far quieter and more empty than any time she could remember before the coming of the Cymry. Even Belyn and Maildun and their retinues did not fill the emptiness or banish the silence as had the Cymry with their songs and stories.

She ate with the others in the hall, but the meals were sedate to the point of torpor-both the talk and entertainment being bland as thin broth warmed-over. Curiously, the Cymry with their fire and flurry-intrusive as it might have seemed at the time-had infected the very air of the palace with brash vitality. Although they stayed only a short time, their presence had somehow permeated the life of the Fisher King’s palace, making their absence now seem unnatural, as if a limb had been lopped from a thriving tree.

Charis often surveyed her surroundings. The palace which had always seemed elegant, if austere by Atlantean standards, now appeared bleak and ordinary: a drafty cattle pen on a marsh-bound peak. She could not imagine enduring another day in the place, let alone a lifetime. But she did endure and was miserable.

She returned from her riding early on the fifth day to see a black horse standing in the courtyard. She reined in beside the other and dismounted. “Is that the stranger’s beast?” she asked the stablehand who stood holding the animal’s bridle.

“It is, Princess Charis,” replied the stablehand as she handed him her reins.

She paused for a moment and stood looking at the palace entrance, as if trying to decide whether to go in. Presently she stirred, moving slowly up the steps. She stopped once more a few paces inside the entrance. Someone was advancing toward her across the vestibule. Perhaps she had not yet been seen. She spun and started back outside.

“Wait!” came the call behind her. Her scalp and fingertips tingled to the sound. She hesitated.

Taliesin stepped into the square of light created by the open doorway. Charis stood as if poised for flight, on her toes, hands extended, her expression caught between anticipation and surprise.

“Stay, Lady of the Lake,” he said softly. A blue cloak was slung over his shoulder, the folds held by a silver brooch in the shape of opposing stag heads, antlers intertwined, emerald eyes gleaming. Charis gazed at the brooch, so as to avoid the singer’s eyes.

“I thought to see you barefoot,” he said, indicating the sandals on her feet. “But I see you have not missed your boots.”

“A true prince would have returned them,” she said, her voice a scratchy whine in her ears. She winced at the sound.

“Allow me to redeem myself,” he replied lightly and stepped past her. He went outside to his horse and returned a moment later holding her abandoned boots. “I have kept them for you.”

She made no move to take them.

“They are yours, Princess Charis, are they not?”

The sound of her name on his lips was like lightning falling from a clear sky. She felt heat rising to her face. “They are,” she whispered, as if admitting a guilty secret.

“Put them on,” Taliesin said, kneeling down before her with the boots.

She lifted her foot, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder for balance, and felt his fingers untie the knot, deftly removing the sandal from her foot. The boot slipped easily on and she raised the other foot, gazing at the light dancing in Tal-iesin’s golden hair as he unwrapped the sandal. The warmth of his hand on her skin made her shiver. Her breath came in a gasp.

“I have been waiting for you,” he said, straightening. His clear eyes were the deep green of the forest.

Words formed and clotted on her tongue. She had forgotten how to speak. “I-I was riding,” she managed to force out.

“Ride with me now,” he said, his tone urgent, inviting. “Show me where you go. Take me there.”

Charis stared but no longer at his brooch; her eyes played over the contours of his face. Without a word she turned toward the door, walked to the courtyard, and mounted her horse, swinging easily into the saddle. Taliesin mounted and followed her down the serpentine track leading from the Tor, out over the raised causeway across the marsh.