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 sins -- grant 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's only waiting until he's been battle-tested. Everyone knows it. Why else has he been training and schooling the boy himself these four years past? He's been grooming the lad for kingship. Mark my words, when we get home he'll make Tristan King of Lyonesse. You'll see. Tristan's lord of the land already in all but name. Everyone honors him there."

They trudged on, the mud sucking at their boots, past the cliff and into the rising woodland.

The veteran grunted. "You've been in Lyonesse. I've been at Tintagel and Dorr with Markion's troops. I've slept in their tents and heard their barracks talk. And I can tell you, you are dreaming."

The young soldier did not answer. The path rose steeply toward a narrow ridge. Their feet slipped on wet rocks, wet roots, soft earth that gave beneath their weight. Rain fell in a loud, steady hiss.

"Tell me, Kerro," the veteran continued between labored breaths, "just when do you think Markion will step aside, hand over his crown, and make Tristan King of Cornwall? When he dies, perhaps? But he's not yet forty; he's a man in middle years with a third of life ahead. And he has a son, Gerontius, eighteen, well trained and ready. He's here leading Cornish troops, representing his father as a son should who knows he is the heir. And when old Constantine dies, who will step into his shoes? Will it be young Tristan, firstborn of the rightful heir? Or Markion himself, with years of experience and a loyal army at his back? No, no, Kerro. You are dreaming. Your Tristan is unlucky. Bad luck his father died too soon, bad luck his uncle is ambitious, bad luck his cousin Gerontius is older and abler. He'll never see his birthright. Born between the stars, indeed."

"You're too hard on him. I tell you, it's a mistake to count him out. Look at him. A strong enough youth and shaping for a man. And quick-witted to boot. Would you have thought of that clever ambush? How did he know the Saxons would head this way? Eh? And now look, there's honor aplenty for all of us, thirty Britons killing a hundred Saxons, and not a man of us wounded. Except for scratches." He wiped his face again. "This boy will be somebody, I'll wager my life on that."

Haeric shrugged, hunching futilely against the onslaught. "Gods help the man who tries to build a fire on such a night!" He coughed and lowered his voice. "And gods help the man who ever tries to cross King Markion."

"Hey, Tris!" a voice called from the ranks. "Give us a song! We're freezing to death in this godforsaken wet!"

"By the blood of the Bull," Haeric grumbled as a chorus of voices echoed the plea. "Look how the ruffians treat him! In Arthur's day a prince was shown respect."

"They do him honor by asking him to sing. You don't know Tristan."

"Is he a commander or a bard?"

Kerro laughed. "Both. He's a wizard in his way. Listen."

Copyright © 2004 by Nancy Affleck McKenzie