Leaving the hall, Taliesin walked around the villa and up the little mound to the small temple. The square building stood dark in the falling twilight, its square bulk rising from the mound like a crown of stone. The sky was pale green and the air briskly cold. The gray cloud-bound day had given way to a clear, crisp night, and overhead a curlew voiced its lonely cry as it darted among the treetops.
The inner temple was filled with dry leaves that rustled as Taliesin entered. There as an altar at one end of the cell; otherwise the building was empty. Taliesin went to the altar and after a moment pushed it over. It gave a hollow crash as it toppled against the wall and dust puffed up—the residue of unanswered prayers grown thick like the leafmold under foot.
Taliesin sat down on one of the altar stones, crossed his legs, and put his elbows on his knees, lowering his chin to his clasped hands. He could feel the lingering presence of other gods—their whispered voices brittle like the restless sigh of the dry leaves on the floor. "Father God," he said aloud, "you who are greater than all the gods worshiped here before now, hallow this place with your presence and hear my prayer. I pray for the one you have given me, that she may be safely delivered of the child now that the hour of her trial is come upon her. Give her strength and courage, Father, as you give all who turn to you in need."
He remained in the temple, waiting on the god and watching through the open windows as the night drew its veil over the land. A scattering of early stars shone as hard icepoints in the sky when he finally emerged to stand for a moment on the threshold of the temple, his breath hanging in the air above him, glowing faintly in the light of the rising moon.
Away in the distance, on the crests of the hills, fires burned brightly, creating a necklace of sparkling flame around Maridunum. Taliesin gazed through the crystalline air at the fires and remembered what day it was: Imbolc, the first day of spring.
On those far hilltops people observed a rite far older than the circles of stone wherein burned their celebration fires. King Winter, Lord of Death, was vanquished and driven from the land, forced by the Goddess Dagda to return to his underworld throne, leaving earth ready to receive the seed of new life once more.
He remembered all the times he had stood on freezing hilltops and watched the same fires that now burned into the chill darkness. There had been a time, not long past, when he would have kindled those flames himself. "Tempt me not," he whispered, "I follow a living God now." He watched for a moment longer and then hurried back to the villa.
* * *
In the time between times when the world hangs between darkness and light, the time when all forces are held in balance for that briefest of moments, the child was born.
In the end Charis gave a cry of pain and pushed, her stomach held in the sure hands of the midwife, veins showing purple on her forehead and neck, sweat soaking into the sodden bedclothes, a piece of thick leather between her teeth. "Harder!" urged Heilyn, "I can see it! Push, girl! Push it out—now!"
Charis pushed again and the babe came into the world.
Heilyn, her face grave, gathered the tiny blue body into a length of cloth and turned away. Through a haze of exhaustion and pain, Charis saw the movement and cried, "My child! Where is my child?"
"Shhh," said Heilyn. "Rest you now. It is over."
"My baby!"
"The babe is dead, lady," whispered Rhuna. "Its caul did never burst and it smothered."
"No!" Charis screamed, her voice echoing along the sleeping corridors of the villa. "Taliesin!"
Taliesin was immediately in the room. Charis, pale with exhaustion, struggled up, reaching her hand to his. "My baby! My child!"
"Where is the child?" he asked.
Rhuna nodded toward Heilyn, who turned with the bundle, lifting a corner of the cover as she did. Taliesin saw the tiny blue thing in its membranous sac and his heart dropped like a felled beast. He took the bundle from Heilyn and cradled it to him, falling to his knees. He placed the babe on the floor before him and, taking the caul in his hands, ripped it open, freeing the child. The body lay inert, unmoving, gray-blue in the semidarkness of the chamber. Charis gazed in horror at the tiny dead creature, her mouth moving in silent, uncomprehending grief. Surely the child that had moved in her belly could not be so still and silent.
Taliesin spread his hands over the infant and closed his eyes. A sound came from his throat, a single wavering note. Those who heard it thought he was beginning the wail of grief. But the note rose and filled the room, vibrating with resonance as he gave it strength. Behind him the door opened and in came Pendaran, Henwas, and Eiddon; others of the household crowded in behind.
The single note now rose and fell in a simple, elemental melody as Taliesin, oblivious to all around him, began to sing. Fingertips lightly touching breast and forehead, Taliesin stooped over the stillborn babe, singing his own life into the child.
Those who stood looking on witnessed a strange thing, for it seemed that as Taliesin bent low a shadow swept over him— not an ordinary shadow, but a shadow wrought by the presence of light rather than the absence of it. This shining shadow paused, hovering over Taliesin and the child on the floor before him, and then fell, darting down toward the babe with the swift, certain stroke of a dagger, piercing through Taliesin 's outstretched hands.
The babe quivered, drew breath, and wailed.
As the infant raised its natal cry, the hideous blue-black color of death receded. Soon its flesh glowed pink and warm, and its tiny fists clenched and shook the air, mouth wide and round in loud complaint. Heilyn bent and scooped the child into her arms, wrapping a new blanket around it.
Taliesin sat back on his heels and raised his head slowly, as if emerging from a long, dulling sleep. Heilyn, having bound and cut the birth cord, turned and lay the babe gently on the bed beside Charis, who encircled it in her arms and held it to her breast.
Eiddon was the first of the onlookers to move from the trance-like posture that held them all. He ran to Taliesin, raised him to his feet, and led him to the bedside where the bard slumped down once more, smiling weakly and placing a hand on the infant's head. Charis caught his other hand in hers and pressed it to her lips.
"He is a beautiful man-child," said Heilyn. "As beautiful a babe as these eyes have seen."
"Your son," whispered Charis.
Then and for the next several hours the chamber became the busiest place in the villa. Everyone wanted to see the miracle child, and despite Heilyn's threats and protests one after another of the curious crowded into the room to peer at the babe and set the walls and corridors humming as they retold the tale of its birth to one another.
Charis—weak, shaken, exhausted, half-mad—finally complained of the noise and Heilyn snapped into action, shooing them all instantly from the room and placing Henwas as a guard before the door with strict orders to flog anyone who so much as breathed a word in the direction of the chamber. Taliesin sat in the chair beside the bed, his head drooping on his chest. Charis, the babe at her breast, dozed, her fingers tenderly brushing the infant's downy soft black hair.
* * *
She slept most of the next day, awakening only to feed the baby and to speak drowsily with Taliesin when he came in to see them. "What will we name our son?" he asked, settling himself in the chair.
Glancing down at the child cradled in the crook of her arm, she saw the dark hair and sharp little features etched fine, and she thought of the fiercely independent bird that had struggled so hard to be free. "Merlin," she whispered sleepily, "my little hawk."
Taliesin had another name already chosen. But he gazed upon the child, smiled, and said, "Merlin it shall be."
There came a knock on the door and Henwas stepped in. "There are men here, Master," he said softly. "They are asking for you."
"What men?"
"Druids by the look of them. I have never seen them before. Will you come out or shall I send them away?"
"No, I will come."
Four men in hooded mantles st
ood in the foreyard of the villa, leaning on their wooden staffs and waiting in the chill drizzle that leaked from a low, leaden sky. When Taliesin approached, they turned silently to meet him, murmuring among themselves. "Learned brothers," said Taliesin, "I am the one you are seeking. How may I serve you?"
The druids made no move or sound. And then one of them advanced and drew back the hood from his face. "You are a long way from home, brother," he said.
"Blaise!" cried Taliesin, sweeping his old friend into his arms. "How glad I am to see you. Oh, and what is this? A rowan staff?"
The druid smiled happily. "One cannot stay a filidh forever. "
Taliesin acknowledged the others standing nearby. "How is it that you are here?"
"We have come to speak with you."
"How did you find me?"
"As to that, we simply followed the river of rumor to this very door. Wherever you have been, Taliesin, men behave as if they have seen Pwyll, Prince of Annwn, and Rhiannon herself. So when the people hereabouts told us there was a god living in Lord Pendaran's villa, we said to ourselves, 'This can only be Taliesin.'" He smiled again and spread his hands. "Besides, Hafgan told us where you could be found."
Taliesin embraced him again and then shivered with cold. "You must not stand out here freezing. There is a fire in the hearth and food to eat. Come inside, and you can tell me of your errand."
Linking his arm through Blaise's, Taliesin led them into the hall. Chairs were brought and placed before the fire while the druids shed their sodden cloaks and rubbed the warmth back into their hands. "We must honor the lord of this house," said Blaise as he sipped the mulled wine that had been given him.
"Sing for him tonight," replied Taliesin. "You will find him a most genial host."
Blaise sat beaming at Taliesin over his cup. "It is no great wonder that people consider you a god. On my life, you do look like Lleu of the Long Hand, Taliesin. Until now I did not realize how much I have missed you these many years."
"It feels to me like we have never been apart. Still, I want to hear all that has happened since you left Caer Dyvi."
"It is little enough to tell. I served at Cors Baddon for several years and then at Cors Glanum in Gaul. I have traveled to Rome and Greece, returning to the Island of the Mighty only last summer when Theodosius returned with troops to crush the conspiracy."
Taliesin nodded sadly. "Caer Dyvi fell—there was nothing to be done." Then his face brightened. "You have seen our new lands in the south?"
"A fine place—although Elphin says he does not know what his farmers will do with a land that grows more grain than stones."
"How is my father?"
"He is well and sends his greetings—your mother also."
They fell silent remembering a time and place now far away. At length Taliesin stirred and said, "You did not come to give me a kinsman's greetings."
"No, although that would have been reason enough for me," replied Blaise. "But no, there is another purpose. Hafgan has been very excited these last months. He is certain that the Champion of Light, as he calls him, has been born, or soon will be." Blaise shrugged. "We have seen no signs, but Hafgan has yet to be shown wrong. So he sent us to find you…"
"To walk the paths of the Otherworld and see if I might discover whether this Champion has taken his place among the living?"
"Just to learn if you had seen anything that might confirm him in his belief." Blaise looked at Taliesin hopefully. "His presence would be known in the Otherworld, would it not?"
"No doubt," admitted Taliesin, then added firmly, "But I follow the Savior God now, also called the God of Truth and Love."
"Hafgan told me as much, although he did not say you were prevented from journeying in the Otherworld."
"No one has prevented me from going there. It is only respect for my God that keeps my feet on mortal paths."
"I see." Blaise turned to gaze at the fire. "Last night we saw a sign that may well bear great significance: there was a ring of light around the moon, and within the ring a single star. This star appeared and flared brightly just after moon-rise, and then darkened so as to fade away. When all that remained was a faintly glimmering spark, the ring of light dimmed and vanished—as if to lend its light to that of the dying star. It was then that the star began to burn with a steady light." He studied Taliesin. "Did you see it?"
"I believe that it happened just as you say," replied Taliesin, "although I saw nothing, for I was holding vigil for the birth of my son."
"Your son?"
"My son, yes—is that so surprising? My wife gave birth last night."
The other druids leaned close, murmuring excitedly among themselves. One of them reached out a hand and pointed his finger at Taliesin. "This child surely is the Great Emrys, the Immortal, who shall be king in this land and whose reign shall last unto the next age."
"What do you mean?" Taliesin asked softly.
"Indeed, it is just as Hafgan has told us," said one of the druids. "The Champion has been born."
"My son?" Taliesin rose and began pacing before the fire.
Blaise answered him in the voice of a prophet. "Light is life. The silver ring is endless life—the Champion's birthright and his crown. The star within the ring is the life of the one born to wear that crown."
"But you said the ring faded and vanished."
"So it did."
"A life was snuffed out then, giving life to the Champion."
"Yes, so it would appear," answered Blaise. The others muttered agreement.
"Then you must look elsewhere," said Taliesin. "My wife is well and the child thrives. There was no death in this house last night."
Blaise spread his hands. "All I know is what I saw in the heavens."
Taliesin stopped pacing and stood over his friend. "Then there must be some other interpretation."
"I wonder at you, Taliesin. What have I said to disturb you so?"
The bard dismissed the question. "It was a troubling birth, and there was little sleep for anyone in this house last night."
Blaise studied Taliesin closely. "Well, perhaps we must look elsewhere after all."
"You will stay here and rest from your journey. You have much to tell me of the world beyond these shores, and I would hear it all before you depart."
"And you shall, my friend, though I talk all night. But first I would see the child, if that is easily arranged."
"Later," said Taliesin with a careless wave. "Certainly there will be time enough later."
The druids wondered at this but said nothing. When they were alone with Blaise for a moment they said, "What is wrong with Taliesin? Is he hiding the child? Are we not to be allowed to even see the babe?"
"Taliesin must have his reasons. We will not press the matter further now, but we will watch and wait and trust that all will be made known to us in good time."
Lord Pendaran was pleased to have so many bards under his roof and declared a celebration to honor the newborn child; it was to last five days and five nights whereupon each of the five bards would sing. Blaise courteously agreed and begged the honor of singing before Lord Pendaran's household the last night.
On the first night of the feast, the hall was filled with noblemen and worthies from nearby settlements and villas, for Pendaran of the Red Sword was a feared and respected king; many owed him much and did not wish to offend him. Thus it was that the crowd that gathered in the hall was dutifully cheerful, if not actually exuberant—most expected the celebration to hinge on a much more solemn matter to be discovered in due course.
As a result, the company was amazed to see the change wrought in their lord. Pendaran appeared happy, jovial even, as he made his way here and there among them, pressing gifts into their hands and clapping them on the back, laughing, jesting, pouring out mead from his own horn into their cups.
"What is this?" they asked one another. "Has our king entered into his second youth?"
"It is a trap," whispered some. "He is going to rais
e taxes."
"No, he is enchanted," others said. "Have you not heard of the druid bard that he has taken in? Old Pendaran is under a charm."
The feast began and the chiefs sat with their lord at the high table, eating and drinking, but watching warily just the same. Pendaran endured their strained mirth and sidelong glances as long as he could and then, shoving back his chair, pounded on the table with the butt of his knife. When the hall had become quiet he rose to his feet and said in a loud voice, "How can it be that you have come to a celebration? Look at your long faces—is my hospitality so distasteful?" They quickly assured him that it was not. "Well, what is the matter then?"
One of the chiefs, a stout man of years named Drusus who wore his hair close-cut in the Roman manner, rose to his feet. "If a man were to speak freely, Red Sword, he would tell you what has been voiced about this hall."
"Tell me then if you know, for I would hear it."
"The long and short of it is that we do wonder at the change in you and are hard pressed to account for it. Are you under an enchantment? Or is it that you intend slipping us the dagger while our cups are raised to your health?"
Pendaran Gleddyvrudd stared at the man furiously, and all sitting close to him drew back. The king threw his knife into the board before him where it stuck and stood quivering. Drusus' hand dropped to the dagger at his belt; but Pendaran's scowl dissolved into a wide grin and his shoulders began to shake with laughter. "Yes, that is it! I am enchanted! And it is a most remarkable enchantment, as you will see."
Drusus expelled his breath through clenched teeth. "Do you laugh at us then?"
"I laugh because I am happy, you old spoiler. I am happy, for after far too many years a child has been born in this house and I wish to celebrate with my friends." He raised his hands to all gathered around him. "If you are not my friends, then you would do well to leave so that I may fill my hall with folk who know how to enjoy the life they have been given."
"You admit you are enchanted?" asked someone close to Drusus' elbow.
"I admit it freely! Why not? What is the harm? All of you should be so enchanted."
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