Prince of Dreams A Tale of Tristan and Esyllte

1 BORN BETWEEN THE STARS Rain fell in sheets. The swollen river tore through its narrow valley, bearing sodden bodies like old logs, dashing them against rocks, spinning them heavily in swirling cataracts, heaving them up along the drowned shore, pale and bloated, a midnight feast for eager kites. Upstream where the forest thinned under the cliff face, a lone company of soldiers slogged wearily through the mud, heads down, shoulders hunched against the heavens' fury. Their captain sat on his horse, his face raised to the sky. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace the storm, the black night, the soaking wet, and gather them to himself. Through the din of the downpour they heard his cry. "Gods of the high hills, gods of the moving deep, gods of the living forest, the birthless sky and the deathless night, accept our thanks! Praise be to Lord Mithra, the Bull-Slayer, the Light who conquers darkness! We honor your name. Great Goddess of Nemet, arbiter of fate, stay your bright sword and smile on us! We bend our knee to Yahweh, Lawgiver, whose vengeful eye can turn a man to stone! Hear our plea, sweet Jesu Christ, who died for all our sinsgrant us the grace to forgive our enemies. Ai-ya! We have beaten back the Saxons and exult in victory!" The captain turned in his saddle and grinned at his men. His face, under the dark mop of streaming hair, was the beardless face of a boy. "How's that, Bryn? Conwyl? Haeric? Did I leave anyone out?" The soldiers laughed with affection, called him a Druid's spawn, and named forty gods he had forgotten. One man, a veteran, turned to his younger companion. "Never saw a lad delight so in bad weather. Can't bear to be indoors when there's a storm outside. Begotten of the sea witch, he must have been." "Aye," growled his companion, wiping blood from a cut in his cheek. "Sings like an angel and wields a sword like the very devil. Born between the stars, as we say in Lyonesse." "Born under the Twins, you told me, Kerro, born too late. Don't they say in Lyonesse his fate's unlucky?" Kerro squirmed. "His mother the queen died at his birthing, but that doesn't always bring bad luck." The veteran hawked, turned his head and spat. "I'll tell you what's bad luck. His father's dying before the lad reached manhood. Ill-fated prince! Old enough to see his future just beyond his grasp. That'll bring black shadows down around anyone's ears." "Black shadows, indeed! You and your superstitions. I don't think our prince is unlucky. He's a likely youth, strong and well favored, an excellent swordsman, a sensible fighter, a good head on his shoulders. You'll see, Haeric, someday he'll make us a fine king." The veteran laughed, water streaming from his beard. "If he ever gets the chance." "What do you mean?" "His father Meliodas was King of Lyonesse and King of Cornwall, too, being firstborn of the High King Constantine. Young Tristan's sixteen and, as you say, a sensible fighter. He's the heir. Yet what's he king of?" "Oh, come, Haeric, that's an old story. He was twelve when Meliodas died, too young for kingship. It's only right that Cornwall passed to his uncle Markion, Constantine's second son. Would you want to be led by a boy?" "He's a boy no longer. And not only is he not King of Cornwall, he's still not King of Lyonesse, his homeland." "Markion&McKenzie, Nancy is the author of 'Prince of Dreams A Tale of Tristan and Esyllte', published 2003 under ISBN 9780345456502 and ISBN 0345456505.