Days rolled by like cartwheels, bumping over stones, the usual routines somewhat interrupted with distracting thoughts of recent experience. Court was held twice a week, Angharad assisting with the doling out of justice or mercy as necessary; Regat passed more and more of such decisions onto her, mindful of the day they would be hers alone to make. Alternate mornings were spent studying legal records and conferring with their counselors, arranging certain matters of the household Regat had delegated to her, or preparing herbs and implements needed for spellwork. But her afternoons were hers to spend as she pleased, and every seventh day was a day of rest, by law.
This particular one dawned misty and grey after a night of rain, the sort of day she would normally have curled up by her own hearth and read, or sat in the solar playing tawlbrdd with Elen and the other ladies, or worked at her embroidery — not because weather bothered her particularly; she liked the moods of grey sky, the way mist shrouded the familiar land around her in mystery — but because quiet activities seemed cozier, somehow, on grizzly days.
But she did not feel cozy at present. The restlessness that had driven her to the cove before had only increased since her visit there, made even worse by the flurry of activity that was currently surrounding the departure of her cousin. Teleria and the baby had been deemed strong enough to return home, and Angharad and Elen were to accompany her to the harbor, along with her bevy of handmaidens.
Teleria, naturally, talked all the way there, issuing imperious commands and anxious admonishments from the middle of a nest of cushions on a litter born by four men. She bounced baby Rhun at her breast, having refused to have him carried by a nursemaid. During one of her endless lamentations Elen leaned toward Angharad from her adjoining horse to whisper, "Exactly how are you related again?"
Angharad covered her mouth and coughed, to mask her laugh. "Third cousin, once removed, I think. But I'd have to check the records to know for sure."
The small ship from Mona was docked and waiting, with Prince Rhuddlum himself there to greet them. He came down the gangplank, beaming, as the litter bearers lowered their vocal burden to the ground; Teleria handed Rhun to one of her ladies and was helped to her feet. Angharad and Elen dismounted and stood back courteously as the young couple embraced. Teleria glowed pink as a sunset as the baby was transferred to her husband.
"Keep the blanket - oh, mind his head, dearest, he can't hold it up yet! - around him, so he doesn't catch a chill," she cooed. "Gracious, it's all right, you won't break him - look here, my love, he has your nose and your chin. Isn't he perfectly beautiful?"
Rhuddlum held the baby a bit gingerly, but his round face flushed scarlet with pleasure and pride, contrasting with his pale blond hair and beard in a way that made him look rather silly. But Angharad did not laugh; it was too sweet a moment, and she watched with a strange, twisting sensation in her chest. Teleria might be ridiculous in many ways, but still, there was sacredness in the scene; in the mystery and power of this: the gift of woman to man and to all, to be the vessel of new life. It was to this end, all of it: the rites and the goddess, the ripening and the waning of their bodies in rhythm with each moon, each nestled within the circle of the seasons of a year; years set within the circle of generations, in an endless spiral. Next to her, Elen sighed, her hand cupped in a crescent at her breast.
The prince looked up and noticed her, and Angharad stepped forward to greet him. "Well met, cousin. Congratulations." Rhuddlum made a move as if to embrace her, but his hands were full of baby; she laughed, took him by the shoulders and kissed both his cheeks.
"Well met, indeed," Rhuddlum answered, "and many thanks for your care of my own. It was a great weight off all our minds, to have the princess in such good hands." He looked past her, his eyes darting about expectantly, and she guessed his thoughts.
"The queen sends her regards," Angharad assured him, "and her best wishes. She regrets having been unable to make them in person, but certain affairs required her attention at home. Be assured she was pleased to offer hospitality to our cousin in her need. The house of Mona is always welcome on Llyr."
"If only all young mothers were so fortunate," Rhuddlum said, looking slightly relieved, "to give birth among the midwives of Caer Colur. We are blessed by the alliance - and by our proximity. I hope you will grace us with a visit yourself soon."
Angharad glanced at Teleria, still transcendent with happiness, and smiled a smile not altogether forced. "I am honored by the invitation. We shall see what may be done. Meanwhile..." she glanced at the grey sky. "You should be off, if you want to get back today. This weather will hold."
"You believe so?" He looked, a little nervously, at the mist drifting across the water. "It looks like it might storm."
Angharad shut her eyes, breathed slowly, felt the lightness in the air, the pull in the tides. "No. The fog will clear before you get halfway."
"She's always right about these things, dearest," said Teleria breathlessly. "Oh, do let's get home! I've missed it so!" Rhuddlum nodded, and strode away to give direction, then strode back, with a rather foolish grin, and handed Rhun back to Teleria. She giggled, and threw her free arm about her cousin. "Oh, Angharad, I shall miss you! You must come visit me - oh, careful, darling, he's got his hand all tangled in your hair - as soon as you can. Write to me, won't you? I promise I'll write back."
"I will." Angharad kissed her dutifully and bent over the baby, tracing his silky head and downy cheek. His rosy little mouth opened and groped toward her hand. "Be sure to tell me how he's growing." She knew that would be all Teleria would tell her, but she had to say something.
In a flurry of kisses and fluttering garments Teleria was herded onto the ship with her ladies, and in a few more minutes it was pulling away from the dock, wood creaking, waves lapping at its belly, a backdrop to the shouts of men giving orders. The canvas sails unfurled and filled with air, and Angharad felt the resistant swell of the water as the prow cut through it; it made her breathless, brought back her restlessness in a sweeping tide. She gazed after the departing ship with envy.
"Are we going to head back some time today?" Elen asked, having waited longer than she felt courtesy demanded.
Angharad clucked for Tan and gathered up the reins; they rode back through the harbor village, humming snatches of an old chanty they had overheard passing back and forth among the sailors at the dock. Men and women paused in their work to salute her, a few calling out blessings upon the royal house. Children ran past them with less formality, shrieking in pursuit of a dog; when they saw the ladies they crowded around, hoping for sweetmeats, which Angharad dutifully produced and scattered with a smile. A worldly-wise girl elbowed her small brother, a grubby, adorable urchin who could have been no more than four, commanding with great importance and an even greater lisp, "Don't thtare at the printheth, Dylan; you're a boy."
Angharad sighed, and pretended not to hear. They left the village behind and rode without speaking for a time; Elen's companionable ability of not needing to fill up a silence with speech was one of the reasons she was a favorite. "Elen," Angharad said finally. "Do you ever wish you could sail off the island to somewhere else?"
Elen snorted. "First you ask if I really want to be your lady-in-waiting. You're a lark, lately. Why? Do you wish it?"
"Sometimes."
"But you've been off. Didn't you get your fill of the mainland? Miss the sea?"
"I did miss it," Angharad admitted. "But get my fill of seeing the mainland, no. I could've stayed years and not seen it all. You can't think how vast it is - the distances between things. The height of the mountains." She thought wistfully of the Eagle, its stark, cloud-piercing summit. "I'd love to go back. But not only that. Sometimes...sometimes I'd love to sail west, away from everything, and on and on, into lands unknown."
Elen looked at her as though questioning her sanity. "West is Iwerddon; that's known all too well, stark-full of savages. Please tell me you're not thinking of going there."
Angharad sighed, realizing it was useless; Elen, practical and content with her station, could not fathom what she meant. "I'm not thinking of going anywhere," she said flatly, "but I sometimes wish I could."
"Don't you love your island?" Elen asked, low, and Angharad reached for her hand, stung by the note of quiet betrayal in her voice.
"Of course I do," she assured her staunchly. "Even could I sail to the edge of the earth, I would always come back. It's not hating Llyr that makes me wish to go...it's just...just wishing I had the choice," she finished, a bit lamely. There were no words for what she felt, this twisting in two directions.
Elen squeezed her hand. "I think I know," she said presently. "Sometimes a thing gets taken away before you knew you wanted it."
That was it...or close enough. The castle gates materialized through the mist, and Angharad reined up, hesitating. Elen turned and looked back at her. "You're not coming in?"
"I think I'll ride out again." She looked to the south, thought of the cove, wondering. "Do you mind?"
Elen shrugged, and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "In this weather? Better you than me; I'm going to nap by the fire and pretend to sew. Shall I tell the queen?"
"Only if I don't come back." Angharad grinned sideways at her, and turned Tan toward the south. She wondered, a little, why she did it — she could have simply gone riding across the hills, satisfied her restless spirit with a wild gallop; gone on a hike through the woods to the east. But these things, though she loved them, were...familiar. And there was that, at the cove, which was new and curious and compelling.
When she arrived, the shore and its green triangle of land were empty, and would have seemed deserted but for the faint scent of the smoke of a turf-fire, the blue-gray wisp of it that rose and mingled with the mist. Angharad picketed the horse to graze in the thick turf at the top of the hills, pulled several parcels from her saddlebags, and hiked down the slope, admiring the view. The gray sky made the green of the grass glow all the brighter in contrast; at the far end of the cove the sea rumbled softly, muted, its dark surface mottled with whitecaps until it melted into the mist.
The campfire was black and dead; the smoke she had seen was rising from the chimney of the hut. She knocked smartly on the door, which had undergone a significant amount of repair since she had seen it last, and called out,"Geraint of Gellau! Are you at home?"
There was noise of a sudden scrambling within, and the door rattled and scraped inward. Geraint stood in the opening, blinking in astonishment. He looked confused and rather rumpled, his golden curls unkempt and his face badly in need of a shave. "Princess?" he stammered out, and attempted a clumsy bow.
She chuckled, amused at this performance. "Did I wake you up?"
Geraint looked sheepish. "I'm afraid I was up rather late...tending to leaks." He indicated the roof with a nod. "My thatching skills are passable, but...time and materials have been in short supply, and it's a rather makeshift job." He seemed to notice his disarrayed clothing for the first time, and hastily tried to straighten his tunic, so self-consciously that Angharad felt a little embarrassed for intruding on him.
"I can go, if you'd rather," she offered.
"No, no," he blurted hastily, "I've just...I don't usually wake up to such...such prestigious and dignified company." He grinned, and ran a brown hand through his tumbled curls, but if it was an attempt to tame them it had quite the opposite effect. She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing at the result.
"I brought food," she said, holding up her parcels. "I thought perhaps you might be getting tired of shellfish by now."
His eyes lit up. "Indeed! That is generous. Will you join me again, milady?"
"Gladly. I've been riding all morning, to the harbor and back, seeing a Mona cousin back off to her island, and I'm famished." She handed him the packs, and seated herself once more on the rock that had made such a convenient perch.
"Ah," he said, unwrapping the parcels and busying himself with the contents, "so there are diplomatic relations then." He pulled a loaf of bread from the pile and let out an exaggerated groan of delight, holding it to his breast as though it were a treasure. "Bread. May the gods ever light your path, Princess of Llyr."
"You're welcome." She laughed out loud, unexpected; no man had ever made her laugh until she had met him, and it felt strange, off-kilter somehow. "All the royal house of Mona is kin to us, one way or another. Family visits could be diplomacy of a sort, I suppose. But she was here to birth her child."
Geraint nodded. "Ah, yes! Of course. The midwifery of Llyr is legendary. Never lost a mother or a babe." He poked at his dead campfire with a stick in annoyance. "Blast that rain."
Angharad grimaced. "If that's what they say on the mainland, then it is a legend. Even our midwives haven't that much skill. But they are the best. Deaths are rare." Noticing his dilemma, she cleared her throat. "If you like, I can..."
He looked at her blankly; then his face changed to cautious curiosity as he remembered. "Oh, yes, that's right. Should I stand back...Great Belin!" he yelped, as she motioned toward the wet coals and they erupted violently into flames, the residual raindrops sizzling off in a cloud of steam. He was silent for some time, looking rather askance from her to the fire and back again. Then he shook his head, and asked, "Have you always been able to do that? Is it like learning to walk, or something that has to be taught, like reading?"
Angharad shrugged. "A little of both, I suppose. We begin manifesting abilities in early childhood. They have to be channeled the right way or they can be fairly...destructive," she chuckled ruefully. "But skills like throwing fire where you actually want it must be taught. They take concentration and focus at first, though after a while they become more or less second nature. Then there's ritual magic. That's another thing altogether, with layers of rules around it, specific circumstances surrounding each spell - times, moon phases, seasons, number of people involved - depending on what you're trying to accomplish."
"Fascinating," he said, gazing at her raptly. She knew, somehow, that he was not speaking of magic, and looked away quickly, with an odd, fluttery sensation under her ribs.
"But you," she said, turning to a safer subject, "you have skills as well, just as impressive in their way. That was a pretty trick last time, with the mussel shells. Where did you learn it?"
"Oh, that." He was toasting cheese before the fire, spreading it on hunks of bread. "One of the men in the Rover band was an illusionist by trade, brilliant at it. He began teaching me a few things just for amusement, and when I proved to have a knack for it he kept on. After I had mastered all his tricks, I started to make up my own. It wasn't until hearing a bardic recitation that I thought to put them together with stories, though."
"Is that what you always do?"
Geraint nodded, and handed her his slate slab, topped with the smoking bread. "I found it was much more effective than the illusion alone. The bards know it, all their wisdom is based in it: story is how we frame reality; our past, our present, our hopes of the future; who we are; where we came from. A good story reaches past the mind and takes hold of the heart." His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, twinkling at her, but his voice lowered, serious and earnest. "And when you have your listener's heart, they will see whatever you want them to see."
The low velvet of his voice made her feel oddly warm, and she shook it off with a toss of her head, remarking lightly, "That sounds like a dangerous amount of power, actually."
"In the wrong hands, it could be," he said, looking grave. "I have seen people believe stories that destroyed them, and those they loved."
He was still standing, and she realized he was waiting for permission, and motioned for him to sit. They ate in silence. She pulled her feet upon the stone and wrapped her arms around her knees, gazing at him, and wondered, presently, why she did not get tired of doing so. One long curl at his forehead kept falling into his eyes; she felt an odd compulsion to reach out and push it back, and examined this impulse with some astonishment.
Geraint looked up and caught her watching, and she wondered, then, why she dropped her gaze, and why her breath was suddenly not enough, when it most assuredly had been, a moment before.
"Do you...is this what you intend to do your whole life?" she asked after a moment, feeling a little flustered. "I mean...it seems so very...unmoored, traveling about alone, with no home and no kin. Don't you get lonely? Do you never wish for a family?"
His eyes flickered once, with some strange, intense emotion she could not place, and her heart pounded wildly just for a moment, but the look was gone; he was staring into the fire instead, steady and calm. "I have never felt alone in my own company," he said, in the manner of someone choosing words carefully. "I have met many in my travels, and rejoiced in many of the meetings. I have friends all over the land. But I have also enjoyed the beauty of the wilderness, and the freedom to make my own place in it, in ways I could not, were I not alone. But..." he took a breath, "It is possible that...at some point, I might find my solitude burdensome."
Angharad felt a strange sense of disappointment, and scorned herself for being senseless; what on earth was his solitude to her? Let him live alone if that was what he liked; it wasn't quite natural, perhaps, not what most people chose, but what of it? He was already rather different than most, from what she had seen; it should be no surprise that he was different in this aspect as well.
"Did you come back for more ormer?" Geraint asked, after a rather awkward silence. "I found more of it I can show you."
"No," she said frankly. "We have enough. I came back to see you."
He blinked, and looked away, out toward the sea; she saw his throat move as he swallowed. "I see. I, uh...I am honored, then." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "It's a first for me, to be thought worthy of a visit from a princess...just for my own sake."
She thought of telling him he was more interesting than any of her usual diversions, and that she was curious about him, but this did not seem quite the thing, somehow, whether it were not the whole truth or simply impolite; she was not sure of either.
"Well," she said instead, grinning at him. "You are, after all, a burden upon my hospitality, and I expect recompense. So then, storyteller, tell me a story. If I am pleased with it I shall consider the debt paid."
Geraint's eyes gleamed, and a slow smile spread across his face. She found herself thinking, distractedly, about how straight and beautifully white his teeth were, before he rose. "A moment, Princess, if I may." Angharad watched curiously as he made his way around the camp; he bent several times to collect items from the ground; shells and pebbles, blades of grass and other oddments, pocketing them and returning to stand before her.
His entire demeanor had changed; he stood straight and tall, body tense as a bowstring, pulsing with an energy that seized her attention and held it. His eyes shone; his face flushed; he was captivating.
"This," he began, "is the tale of a wandering bard..."