Daughter of the Sea

XXIII: Reveal

Achren's mouth twitched, her demeanor darkly amused. "It would not be my wedding, pretty one. None of you have any objection to them, I believe. But of course it is all one to me." She waved a hand dismissively. "If my vision is sound, it will be proven in time, whether you will it or no. I merely point out that such an alliance would solve the greater part of your dilemma —preserving your people and your line — in one strategic move."

"Yes," Angharad hissed, "no doubt the welfare of our people is of vast importance to you." She faced her mother imploringly. "Mother, can you not see her design? Remember her terms: a seat at the table. Do you really think Gwydion or the High King would agree to appointing her anywhere in court, in any position of influence? This is a farce."

Regat's hard face thawed just a little, a subtle sign of approval, but she made no direct answer. "I think we have heard enough for tonight," she announced, moving around her daughter to take up the spellbook. "I have much to consider, and will make no decisions until I have had time to do so. If all you speak is true, Achren, there are still several paths we might travel. And though your news is troubling, we are all the better prepared, thanks to your insight." She paused, facing the fallen queen. "For this much, you have my gratitude."

Achren made no gesture, but again, a silent and reluctant flicker of mutual respect seemed to pass between the two women, and Angharad winced at her interception of it. She reached out and snatched the Pelydryn from its stand, stuffing it into her pocket and stalking back toward the edge of the tower, looking out from its height. The island spread black below, out and out to where the sea winked, a sinuous silver line, on the southern horizon. Her throat ached, burned. The first vision, ages ago, it seemed, of fire and flood and emptiness, wavered before her eyes. All this land, all its people. Dispersed. Crumbled. Gone.

No. It could not be.

Her mind raced. She barely heard her mother saying something about escorting Achren to her private apartment, and presently registered that she was alone with Arianrhod upon the tower. Arianrhod, gentle, peace-loving, maternal - she had remained almost silent throughout the exchange, unfailingly submissive to her authoritative sister. Now she moved close to Angharad, stood next to her at the tower wall, her arm resting warm around her niece's shoulders.

"Do you think she speaks truth?" Angharad whispered. The wind pulled the words away, lost them in the darkness. "About any of it?"

"Who can say?" Arianrhod sighed. "Given her reputation, it would be foolish not to be wary of her information."

"I suppose she must believe what she says," muttered Angharad, "or she wouldn't have come at all. Unless she thinks to manipulate us with it somehow. If this vision of hers is true, I don't know why it should be such a revelation. There have been marriage alliances into neighboring kingdoms before, after all - as long as we have an heir and a priestess, any further Daughters are free to marry off the island if they choose."

"True, but it was never common," Arianrhod pointed out. "If you look through our histories, love of the island has nearly always won out over love of foreign men and their oppressive customs. Branwen and the king of Iwerddon set too grave a precedent. And not since Penarddun herself has the blood of Llyr mingled with that of Don."

Angharad, recalling something, smiled grimly. "She forgot her own words in her haste to bid for a quick solution. Mind what she said: 'Neither will the Sons of Don keep what they have stolen.' That sounds like she foresaw a supplanting, not a marriage - not that it's a better explanation," she added, her smile fading into a puzzled frown. "Does she think one of us will overthrow the High King? That's even less credible. Laughable, in fact."