Daughter of the Sea

XXII: Invited

Thank Rhiannon she had left her pendant with him.

Regat was speaking to Achren in low tones. "I am sure I need not repeat what I have already made known to you. The manner and methods of the attack have not changed in the interim. We have fought it as we are able, but for every place we shore up, another weakness appears. And the ancillary effects continue."

Angharad turned her head to listen to the conversation and was disturbed to find that she could not tell whether Achren was staring at her, or merely into space in her direction. She glared back, in case it were the former, but got no reaction. "I cannot know for certain if Arawn is behind these...attacks, as you believe them...unless I observe them for myself," Achren stated flatly. "You must allow me to scry with you if I am to be of any use."

"I expected so." Regat turned to Arianrhod. "Should we wait for full moon, do you think?"

Arianrhod looked very grim. "I think it unnecessary to wait. Perhaps even imprudent. If done now, there will be limitations, but...that is likely for the best." She made no attempt to conceal her distrust or suspicion of the woman opposite her, but Achren only smiled dryly, her arched brows raised.

Angharad watched the exchange with horrified disbelief. It was unheard of, to share the magic of Llyr with an outsider, to bring a stranger into their sacred space. Yet here sat her mother, calmly arranging it. Arianrhod's bearing was stiff with disapproval, her brow furrowed; the word blasphemymight as well have been written across her face.

"Very well," said Regat, without emotion. "Upstairs, then. You two, first." She nodded to her daughter and sister. "Achren will follow, and I will come last with the book. The altar stands ready."

Angharad stood up, slowly, and wondered what would happen if she refused to participate. Never had she dared to disobey a direct order from her mother. Her skin crawled beneath icy, crinkling fear as she turned to the door, loathe to turn her back upon Achren, who was now very pointedly staring at her with a strange, triumphant light in her chilled eyes.

The rope railing pricked her cold palm as she wound her way up the spiraled steps to the top of the tower. They emerged from the dark stairwell under a sky grown dark, which meant it was very late: the twentieth hour, at least, Angharad thought. Solstice was coming in a few days and there would be revelry and feasting in the Great Hall, crop sacrifices on every altar, as the people petitioned Belin for his bright sunlight for another year, all while their rulers invited this foreign darkness into the very heart of the kingdom. She shivered. This was madness. Utter madness. She could not do it, could not join hands with...

Achren's silver head appeared through the dark hole in the floor tiles and she swept onto the tower surface gracefully, the wind flinging long folds of her robe out like the wings of some great black bird. She surveyed the view with approval. "A beautiful location for your rites. Made for the purpose?"

"So it is said," Regat answered, coming up the stairs behind, carrying the spellbook. "Though the nature of them has changed since its first design, I daresay. Still, it serves." She placed the book upon the altar and snapped her fingers. The candles flickered into light, and wisps of smoke rose from the ormer shells. Achren looked the implements over with apparent nonchalance, but Angharad felt the magic about her tremble and throb, as tensely watchful as a predator seeking a weakness.

The princess held her breath. She felt she should argue against the wrongness of what was about to take place, but her tongue seemed glued to her mouth. Her thoughts swam confusedly, incapable of forming themselves into words. The acrid magic was seeping into her mind again, prodding, probing. She wanted to scream, and she could make no sound at all.