Angharad of Llyr is heir to a matriarchy: a line of enchantress-queens that has ruled her island for centuries. Her destiny from birth: to rule as sole authority and ensure that her powerful bloodline endures for another generation. Devoted to her p...
History, legend; how much of it was even accurate? The scribes said if it was written it must be true; the bards said truth was not something that could be written but must be held in the heart. She wasn't sure she believed either of them; after all, she could take up a quill this minute and scribble a gull just flew through my window, dropped a fish in my lap and said hello at the bottom of one of these parchments, and laugh at what future generations would make of it. As for the bards...
Her breath slowed and mellowed; the documents slid from her fingers to the floor, forgotten, as she gazed at the early evening sky with eyes that did not see it.
When you have your listener's heart, they will see whatever you want them to see. What she saw were pebbles and shells disappearing behind quick, skilled fingers; flowers blooming as though magically at their tips; white teeth bared in a sunshine smile; golden curls tumbling about his brow as he bowed; mirth-filled blue eyes twinkling at her from beneath them.
"Is my debt paid, Princess of Llyr?"
"Yes."
A whisper, breathless, beyond thought.
"Oh, yes."
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The moon swung, a white pearl, directly overhead, full and ripe, with no shred of cloud to mar its milky surface. Its soft silver light bathed the three women standing upon the tallest tower of Caer Colur.
"Blessed Rhiannon. Look how she smiles on us," Arianrhod declared with satisfaction, her hand crescented at her breast. She looked benevolently down at the view; the sleeping island, dark under the stars. "Many healthy children will be conceived tonight."
Angharad let out an awkward sigh, catching her mother's amused glance. The outspokenness of her aunt on subjects arguably left better to the imagination had been a topic of heated discussion between them more than once. It was, of course, Arianrhod's jurisdiction to be concerned with all matters pertaining to the fertility of the island and its people - but even so. Everyone over the age of twelve knew what the full moon portended. Must it be announced like a tournament?
"It will be little cause to celebrate," Regat said, "if we cannot make their home safe for them. Come." She motioned her daughter to stand with her at the center of the tower, where an altar stood waiting, incense of smoldering sweetgrass rising from the pearly ormer shells arranged around its jeweled rim. Arianrhod stepped forward, an ancient, leather-bound book in her hands, and placed it upon the pedestal in the center. Regat opened the worn covers. "Angharad, the Pelydryn."
