Daughter of the Sea

XXXV: Clash

And his story...his story was magic, would have been magic enough even without the illusions that accompanied it, superfluous among the flow of his words, the spell of his voice. His listeners were as bound as if tied to the floor, every breath held and heart racing in rhythm with the cadence he set. The whole room swayed when he did, turned their heads to look anywhere he gestured, as though the visions he saw would also be visible to them. His deft sleight-of-hand seemed enhanced, somehow, so flawless in execution that even she, intimately acquainted with every one of his skills by now, gasped and cried out in wonder with the rest of the Hall, believing for that instant, heart and eyes in agreement.

So engrossed she was in the flow of the story that she nearly missed its import, until the words Dagrau Rhiannon beat themselves upon her mind. Eilwen's hand tightened at her shoulder, and the fluid darkness within her swelled and warmed in a flood of communion. Her pulse quickened and her mind raced, seeking to fit the pieces together.

There were three gems, as they had suspected: one upon her pendant, given by the Fair Folk...a token of goodwill, to heal the breach; no doubt Eiddileg had thought they would remember the first time it had been gifted to him, and see the generosity offered in the mirror of his return of it.

One in the king's crown, still buried at Pentre Gwyllion, presumably - the power her grandfather had sought, and now, likely, that which Arawn coveted. A prickle of fear touched her at this realization; she glanced at Grimgower, watching and listening like the rest; thought of Achren, secreted in her apartment. Perhaps there was a reason this story had been forgotten. Perhaps they had been meant to forget.

And one more, kept by... Angharad caught her breath, thinking back, to the vision in the scry: a silver-haired woman, ageless, gowned in shifting light, a shining star in her hand as she gazed out to sea.

Not Achren.

Rhiannon.

The goddess had not forgotten them.

When the story was ended, amidst the crowd in the Hall shouting approval, Angharad wanted to leap from her throne, desiring both to run to Geraint and to turn to her aunt and sister and embrace them in the fierce joy of finally understanding, to revel with them in the flood of peace and hope and life that broke upon her with such power that she could not stop the tears that streamed from her eyes. But she could only gaze upon him, loving him with every breath; she reached up, clutched her sister's hand at her shoulder and held it fast, felt the warmth of Arianrod's presence nearby, and wished, with all her might, that she felt the same from her own mother.

The queen had watched and listened as intently as all the rest, and could not have failed to make the same deduction about what still lay beneath Pentre Gwyllion, at the very least. It was not the primary concern at the moment, however, no matter its significance; Geraint was waiting for a verdict, and his rivals were protesting, and Angharad listened in dread as he pronounced his own doom by answering Regat's questions with the truth.

Angharad knew she could have expected no more, nor less, from him. But her heart shattered, nonetheless. It was hopeless, futile, utterly wasted, but she rose from her throne, and defended him anyway, clinging to the surprising reluctance she sensed from her mother, some spark of the queen's grudging respect despite, doubtless, being perfectly aware of who he was. A true enchanter, Angharad called him, and knew, from the depths of her spirit, that she spoke truth, a truth more solid and real than law or tradition.

She clasped the hand of her love and threw her head back in defiance of her mother, who looked upon them both in a frozen moment of impossible choice. The whole world trembled upon a precipice.