The women wore long colorful tunics and mantles, with wide, intricately-woven girdles wrapped around their waists; each hem, cuff, and neckband was finely embroidered with intricate borders. Their hair was meticulously braided and coiled, the coils studded with ornate bronze pins with amber, garnet, and pearl inlay. Necklaces, chains, and bracelets of gold, silver, bronze, and copper glinted from neck and wrist, and earrings dangled from their ears. One of their number, a striking red-haired woman of noble bearing, wore a slender silver tore and a great silver spiral brooch with a glinting ruby in its center.

In all they appeared reassuringly regal but disturbingly alien. And Charis understood that she was in the presence of a nobility very much like her own-high-born, fiercely proud, and aristocratic-but of a far different, more primitive order.

In the midst of her scrutiny, Charis felt herself an object of curiosity. The fair-haired young man she had seen upon entering was studying her intently. Their eyes met.

In that brief instant Charis felt a kinship with the strangers- as if meeting countrymen after a years-long absence. The feeling passed like a shiver in the dark and was gone. She looked away.

The strange king, having been introduced to his satisfaction, stepped forward slowly. “I am Elphin,” he said simply, “lord and battlechief to the people of Gwynedd. I have come to pay my respects to the lord whose lands we are passing through.”

Avallach inclined his head in acceptance of the honor paid him. “Travelers are always welcome within these walls,” he replied. “Please stay with us if you can and allow me to share the bounty of my table.”

Without hesitation, Elphin drew a knife from his Belt and presented it to Avallach saying, “Your offer is most generous. Accept this token as a sign of our gratitude.” He handed the knife to Avallach. Charis glanced at it as her father turned it in his hands. The blade was iron and double-edged; the hilt was polished jet, into which had been worked pearl, in the same intricate, interwoven designs the people wore on their jewelry and clothing. It was a beautiful weapon, but clearly it was no ceremonial piece intended as a gift. The knife had been used; it was Elphin’s personal weapon.

Why this token? wondered Charis. Unless the man had nothing else to give. Yes, that was it. He had given his only item of value, perhaps his last remaining treasure-aside from the tore he wore on his neck. Still, the gift had been given freely and graciously, and Charis knew the significance of this act had not been lost on her father.

“You honor me, Lord Elphin,” replied Avallach, tucking the knife into his own Belt. “I hope your stay will prove beneficial to us both. We will talk of this later. But now, as this is my accustomed time to take refreshment, I ask you and your people to join me.”

At Avallach’s nod the seneschal departed, and a moment later the doors to the hall were thrown open to admit a half-dozen servants bearing trays of drink in bowls and chalices. The servants circulated among the visitors, serving them, and when each had received a cup, Elphin lifted his high and proclaimed in a loud voice, “Health to you, Lord Avallach, Fisher King of Ynys Witrin. And health to your enemy’s enemies!”

At this, Avallach threw his head back and laughed. The sound of his voice reverberated throughout the hall and echoed among the timber beams. He rose slowly from his litter and, holding to one of the canopy posts, lifted his cup. “Drink, my friends!” he said. “Your presence has cheered me greatly.”

Charis watched for a while and then, while everyone else was busy drinking and talking, slipped from the room, motioning Dafyd to follow her. He caught up with her in the corridor beyond. “You wish a word, Princess?”

“Who are they?” she asked, pulling the priest further along the corridor.

“They are who they say they are,” he answered. “A king and his people. I gather they have been driven from their homeland. Gwynedd is Cymric land in the north.”

“Driven? How so?”

“By war, Princess Charis. By the fighting that rages continually up there. Their lands were overrun by barbarian warriors. They escaped only with their lives.” The priest paused, and added, “And if what I hear is true, we will soon enough feel the heat of war in the south as well.”

“Thank you, Dafyd,” said Charis, looking back through the open doorway to the hall. “Thank you…” She walked away slowly, already lost in thought.

That night Avallach hosted the Cymry at his table, with Lile by his side. Charis declined to attend the meal and ate in her chambers. She sat alone in her room and listened to the sounds of the banquet proceeding in the greater hall. At one point the noise died away completely. She strained after any errant sound but heard nothing. What could it mean?

Prompted by curiosity, she moved to the door of her chamber, opened it and leaned out into the corridor, listening… Silence.

Finally she could bear it no longer and crept down to the hall to listen at the door. It was open and as she approached, moving quietly among the shadows, she heard the clear, ringing notes of a harp and a moment later the strong, melodic voice of a singer. The Cymry-some sitting on benches, others cross-legged on the floor-were gathered around one of their own, who stood illumined by the flickering torchlight: the golden-haired man.

Although many of the words were unfamiliar, Charis gathered that he sang about a beautiful valley and all the trees and flowers and animals there. It was a simple melody, strongly evocative, and she was drawn by it. She crossed the threshold into the hall, half-hidden by one of the columns.

The young man stood erect, tall and lean, his head up, eyes closed, the harp nestled against his shoulder, his hands moving deftly over the harpstrings, summoning each silver note from the heart of the harp. His mouth formed the words, but the music came from beyond him; he was merely a conduit through which it might pass into the world of men, pouring up and up like a fountain from the hidden depths of his soul to spread in glimmering rings around him. Charis listened, hardly daring to breathe lest she disturb the singular beauty of the moment.

It was a sad song, a heartbreaking song, wild and proud, a song about a lost valley, a lost land, about all the losses a human heart might hold dear and remember. As the song spun out, Charis gave herself wholly to its spell, letting the ache of her own loss wash over her in a sweet, dark flood. As the last, trembling notes of the song faded away, she saw glistening drops on the young man’s cheeks.

We are alike, you and I, she thought, homeless wayfarers in a world that is not our own.

The harpstrings sounded again and the young man began another song. Charis did not wait to hear it but pushed herself away from the column and hurried from the hall as the first notes from that honey-smooth voice flowed into the air.