She appeared, silently, at his left, as though she'd materialized right out of the water.
Geraint emitted a yelp of surprise; he was sitting on the hull of his overturned boat, dangling his bare feet in the glassy sheets of seawater that occasionally lapped up that far, engaged in disentangling a snarl of old fishnet to see what could be salvaged. Now he tumbled from his perch in almost clumsy haste to stand before her, bowing his head, wondering how it could be that she was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Even dressed as she was now, in short tunic, leggings and high-laced boots like a man, with her hair bound back from her face in heavy braids, she left him without breath.
"Well-met again, Geraint of Gellau," she said. The sober note in her voice made him look up; her face was serious, expression veiled. The mischievous sparkle with which she had greeted him previously was gone.
"Well-met, indeed, milady," he answered, wondering what could have happened. "I did not think to see you again this soon. It is an unexpected pleasure." Her mouth twitched, but her eyes glinted gratitude, as though she knew his comment was a mere pleasantry but was pleased nonetheless.
"How are you faring?" she asked, and noticed the net. "Fishing decent?"
"Not with this." He laughed and held it up, displaying its gaping holes. "I'm only salvaging what I can from it. Rope and twine are always useful. But yes, I'm getting on just fine. I went into the village again yesterday, and traded for certain necessities. My roof is leak-free now, look."
She followed his point to look up at the old hut, crowned with a fresh roof of brown thatch, harvested from the hilltops. "Well done. That was quick work."
"I never know when it's going to rain again," he said ruefully, "so that is strong motivation. What brings you back so quickly?"
"Our need for certain things only found at the shore is...urgent, at present," she answered. "I've come to gather more. And to—" she paused, frowning, and looked away from him, toward the blue horizon, her gaze troubled. "To gather more," she repeated, firmly, as though convincing herself.
"May I be of assistance?"
She looked as though she were about to say no, hesitated, and regarded him thoughtfully. "Perhaps. Not everything requires my specific skills." There it was, a trace of the wry smile he had not stopped thinking about for two days. "You can collect driftwood for me, if you like."
She should have every twig. There was, in fact, a sizable branch at his very feet, and he stooped, picked it up, held it up for her appraisal, and was rewarded when the trace of a smile grew into a real one. "More," she said, amused. "Pile it up there, away from the water. As much as you can find."
He hastened to perform the task, trying not to be too obvious about keeping an eye on her meanwhile. She left him piling the wood, made her way across the sand to the jutting cliff of black rock that bordered the cove and pointed like a decaying finger out to sea, and busied herself there - with what, he could not tell. Presently after a particularly long and productive haul, he looked up to see that she was halfway up the rock - over twice a man's height from the ground - clinging precariously to its craggy surface as she reached with one hand toward a clump of grass growing in one of its many hollows.
Geraint threw the wood down with a cry and ran, instinct overriding thought; he threw himself upon the rough stone face and scrambled up after her, reaching out protectively just as she turned her face toward him. Her amazed expression halted him instantly.
"What are you doing?" she asked, in obvious astonishment.
He gulped, tried to breathe. "I...was going to ask you that." She looked blankly at him, and held up her free hand. Her fist grasped a silver sickle, a larger version of the pendant she wore, razor-edged.
"Cutting sweetgrass," she explained, looking bemused. "It grows in cracks in the rocks, and we burn it as incense. Here, watch." She swung out again, over empty space that made his head swim, to reach over and slice off another clump of the grass, catching it neatly in the same hand that held the sickle. Geraint, panicked, involuntarily grabbed her supporting arm to steady her.
She stiffened, and he realized, too late, by the jerk in her frame, that she would have thrown off his hand had she been able to move her arm. Her green eyes blazed at him and he let go, stammering. "I'm sorry. I thought...I didn't...this seems dangerous." He glanced past her to the ground; it looked lethally far away.
"What you just did," she said drily, "was dangerous. This has been one of my duties since I was twelve. I have it more or less well in hand by now." She shifted against the rocks, found a foothold and pushed herself higher. Geraint bit back a groan.
"I'm showing my ignorance, I know," he admitted, looking away from the dizzying drop below, "but where I come from... ladies are not encouraged to scale cliff faces. Or anything at all. Forgive me for presuming you were in peril."
"You presumed much, just now," she said crisply, from above. "But you're already breaking one law, so I suppose I can pardon you on one more as well." He thought he detected a faint note of humor in her voice, and relaxed a little, though he still had to restrain himself from grabbing at the ankle that was now in front of his nose. He wondered what the penalty was for a common man to touch a Daughter of Llyr, and decided not to ask.
"What do the ladies do where you're from, anyway?" Angharad demanded, from above.
Geraint laid his face against the black rock, soaking in the coolness of it. "I suppose...well, it depends on who they are. I've known farmer's daughters who could herd cattle, stack stone, and haul firewood alongside their brothers. And I've known noble ladies who could manage an entire castle and its lands while their husbands were away in battle." He shook his head. "They're not just sitting about tatting lace and embroidering cushions over there, you know."
"Of course they aren't," she said, pulling her elbows onto a ledge. "It's nice of you to notice. Though there's nothing wrong with tatting lace and embroidering cushions, for that matter, if you enjoy that sort of thing." Her scrambling legs disappeared over the edge, and for a moment he saw only waving grasses against the sky. Then her head appeared, haloed in gold in the sunlight; on her shadowed face he could faintly see the outlines of a smirk. "But they don't climb. Or talk with men alone. Or even walk about alone, according to my cousin. Why?"
He thought for a moment, and started to answer when she added, "You could come up here, by the way; it would make this conversation easier."
Geraint scrambled up to the ledge, a turf-carpeted hollow which turned out to be wide enough for them both to sit comfortably, even when he gave her a respectful amount of space. He sat with his back to the cliff face, and looked out, admiring the landscape visible from this height, colors and textures spread beneath them like a moving, breathing tapestry. Angharad followed his gaze knowingly. "I don't know why the view from above is always so much better," she remarked, "but it is, no matter where you are."
"I think it's the excitement that comes from the possibility of plummeting to your death," Geraint said, pulling his feet away from the edge. Angharad laughed —again, with that expression of surprise that she should do so, as though she were unused to laughing. It was a delicious sound.
"What a shame the ladies of your acquaintance so rarely get to experience it," she prodded.
He frowned, thoughtful. "I don't know. It never occurred to me any of them would want to climb a cliff, even if they could. For the rest...it's for their own protection that they aren't allowed to roam alone. The world can be a dangerous place for them."
"It can be dangerous for all," she returned, "but you've survived it."
"But I'm a..." he paused, knowing what he was going to say would only lead him in circles. She was staring at him smugly, quite ready to tie him into his own trap.
"You know how to survive," she said finally, after his silence spoke for him. "You've been taught some skills, learned others through experience, you've been challenged. If a woman were taught and challenged in the same way, she could be equally adept."
"Perhaps...some of them," Geraint acknowledged, a little reluctantly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Is every man as skilled as the next? Or do some of them occasionally die in those dangerous places?"
"Fair enough." He grinned in spite of himself, then sobered. "But the death of a woman, if it could have been prevented, is a tragedy."
"And a man's is not?" She sounded mockingly surprised. "What a strange idea."
"No, but..." he floundered a little. "But it's...it's our duty to protect the weaker."
She snorted. "You think we are weak? You've never seen a child born. But all right. In general, yes - you are better built for some things. It does not follow that we should be forbidden even to attempt them. Do you forbid a boy to learn a skill simply because his brother is naturally more suited for it?"
"No," he said. "But you must admit there are certain...certain risks you face...that men are far less likely to..." He broke off; she was glowering at him.
"That risk," she said, in a voice that was almost a growl, "would be all but eliminated, did men truly honor women. But even where it will always be, we need not be completely powerless against it." She looked at him quizzically. "Are your ladies not taught how to defend themselves?"
Geraint blinked in dismay; it seemed, suddenly, such an obvious thing; why wasn't it done? "No," he admitted. "It's expected that their men will defend them."
"As they should," she answered, her eyes like green stones, "but if they fail? What happens to the women when their men are slain in battle, Geraint of Gellau?"
He made no answer, knowing it as well as she did. Angharad held his eyes a long moment, before turning her face away. He swallowed, and followed her gaze to the dark line on the horizon. The thunder of the surf, the wind whistling through the grasses, filled up the silence like music.
Finally she spoke again, quietly. "Do the legends say how Llyr's island came to be ruled by his daughters instead of his sons?"
Geraint blinked, thrown off balance by this shift. "They...yes, they..." He cleared his throat, getting his bearings. "According to the legend...King Llyr Half-Speech and Penarddun his wife had four children - two daughters and two sons. And when the king died, his sons fought over the throne, dragging with them the entire country into war. Brother against brother, father against son, until the whole land was divided, and such was the battle fever that men forgot why they fought, and even their women and children were slain by the sword until the very tides around the island ran red with blood. The barrow of Llyr Half-Speech was desecrated, his body cut in pieces and thrown into the sea, and his mother Rhiannon wept over his dishonor until her salt tears filled the bays and washed the blood away."
He was almost chanting it, the words flowing; this was his element, his gift. He found himself glancing about for items with which to illustrate it, tucking away mental notes for later experimentation, until he noticed that Angharad was listening with her eyes shut, and then he could not look away from her.
"And the brothers were both of them slain, so that all their strife came to nothing but heartbreak and ruin," he continued, softly. "Whereupon Penarddun and the daughters of Llyr refused to turn over the throne to any male kin, for, they said, it was men and their lust for power that had brought such destruction to the island. They blotted the names of the sons of Llyr from history, forbidding them to be spoken.
"And they called upon the blessing of Rhiannon, who, in fury over the desecration of Llyr, passed unto them the magic of the darkness, the moon and the tides, decreeing it should never be wielded again by any man, and it was added to the blessing of the lady Don, who had passed unto her daughter Penarddun the powers of light and fire. And with these gifts they ruled together, adding to the remnant of warriors the shieldmaidens of Llyr, who fought alongside them until the land was cleansed of everyone who dared rebel. Under their rule the land was healed, and the people flourished, and the sea gave up its treasures and secrets to them, until the beauty and peace and strength of Llyr were the envy of its neighbors."
He stopped, more abruptly than he meant, dismayed at the shadow he saw in her face, the pain that creased her brow. She stirred, opening her eyes; they sparkled bright with unshed tears.
"It is a noble history," he offered quietly.
She let out a wavering breath that seemed to come from her toes. "And probably full of half-truths, as most such legends are. But it's as accurate a version as any I know, and you told it well."
She gazed sadly out over the water. "The truth is we have become complacent. We've been immune from invasion so long that we have few land defenses. A small force for settling border skirmishes or petty uprisings is all that's been necessary, and barely that, for such things are rare here. It's convenient, for us, as our allies know the futility of asking us for troops. But the noble children of Llyr are still trained with sword and staff and shield - both sons and daughters. We have never forgotten what happens to women in war."
"Why only the nobility?"
She cast him a rather rueful sidelong glance. "It ought to be everyone. But farmers and shepherds and fisherfolk find it difficult to spare their children for long, to learn a skill they believe is no longer necessary." She shrugged. "For the most part, in their defense, it isn't. We live in peace, and our men know what it is to honor women. For those who do not..." Her mouth curled into what looked disturbingly like a snarl."The severity of the consequences serves to deter them."
The contempt in her expression made him shiver. He tried to imagine her holding a weapon in her slim hands, to visualize her lithe form sparring with an opponent, and could not keep the incredulity out of his voice. "You mean to tell me that you are trained in swordplay?"
"Among other things," she answered, the snarl fading. "I prefer a staff, personally. A sword would make such a mess...at least so I assume." The wry smile returned. "I've never actually had to kill anyone, so it's conjecture."
He was tempted to laugh, though he dared not disbelieve her. "But...why? I mean...why would you need training in weapons, when you can use magic?"
"Fair question." Angharad shrugged. "To begin with, handling magic requires a certain amount of strength of body and will. There are certain similarities in the training, actually - you must master yourself before you can master anything else. Besides, it would cause ill will to require, of our own kin, skills that we ourselves did not value enough to pursue. So it sets a good example for all."
She had been busy laying out bundles of her cut sweet-grass while they talked, tying them carefully with twine. Now she wrapped them in white linen, and tucked the bundle into a satchel slung from her shoulder. "Do you think you can climb down?" she asked him, a little too innocently.
Geraint made a face. "I believe I can, thank you. Would you permit me to go first, in case...I mean, I'm sure you won't fall, but..."
She rolled her eyes. "If it'll make you feel better."
Once they were on the ground again he breathed easier, though he was careful not to let her see it. She walked to his driftwood pile and looked it over with evident satisfaction, picking up one long, twisted branch to examine it closely. "Look how beautiful it is," she said. "A land thing, soaked in sea. The salt and the surf turn it into something altogether different."
"What do you use it for?"
"The altar of Rhiannon burns driftwood," she said, "in memory of the king."
"Fire and water," he murmured, and she glanced at him, impressed.
"Now you're catching on." She turned the branch and studied the other side. "Sometimes it's used for divination as well. The salt in the wood creates colors in the flames, certain shapes in the grain - they can reveal things, if we read them rightly." She gasped, startling him; put her nose close to the smooth wood. "This one says you will find a spectacular treasure that will change the course of your life."
He leaned over it incredulously, an odd, tremulous feeling under his breastbone. "Does it really?"
She tossed it back to the ground, grinning at him. "No."
His jaw dropped. "Why, you—"
Angharad burst into giggles and backed away; it took every ounce of his self-possession not to reach out and snatch her, the way he'd have treated his own sister when she played him such a trick, tickling her until she gasped for breath and begged for mercy. Instead, he stooped, snatched a pebble from the beach, and tossed it across the water so that it skipped - three times, four, until a wave swallowed it. "I can read fortunes in stone skips," he declared, his thoughts tumbling over themselves. "Do you know what four means?"
"No, what?" The laughter in her voice was like wine to his senses, made him giddy, impulsive.
"That I've already found it."
It slipped out before he meant, clear and vivid, as truths often do, and he barely realized what the words on his lips were until they had escaped, too late. He wondered wildly what to say next, how to recover, and cursed his foolishness. Perhaps she would think it no more than a lighthearted jest. But no, she was too astute for that; even had the words been unremarkable, his tone had given him away, and her sudden stiffening of posture told him she took his meaning. He gazed at her helplessly, holding his breath.
Her smile did not disappear, but it wavered, softened, uncertain; her cheeks flushed and eyes dropped, settling nowhere, like a nervous butterfly, unsure where to land. It dawned on him, after an eternity, that though many emotions were crossing her face, outrage and offense were not among them. Geraint breathed again, but remained silent, waiting, heart pounding.
Finally she looked at him again, biting her lip as though holding back a laugh. "Are you hungry?"
This was unexpected, and his only response was a startled noise of inquisition. She motioned toward the high ground to the north. "I brought food for you again, among other things."
He relaxed, realizing she was changing direction deliberately, allowing them both a safe escape. "That was kind of you. I am. Hungry, that is - as are you, I imagine. Will you join me as before?"
She squinted at the sun, and her face fell. "I cannot. I must get back. My aunt needs all this quickly, and I have other duties today." She blew a shrill whistle through her fingers, one long blast and two short; in moments there was an answering neigh, and a chestnut mare appeared, trotting down the path from the hills into the cove.
Her saddlebags were packed full. She had brought him - oh, joy - more bread and cheese, laver, meat pies, candied fruit, honey, a jug of ale. Even better - wrapped in a bedroll behind the saddle were more tools - another knife, along with a sharpening stone, spoons, dishes and bowls, fishing line and hooks, a coil of rope, a pot of salve, clean linen strips. He held up a hair comb and razor with a grin. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
She laughed. "I asked a few groomsmen what they would want if they were stranded in the wild. And you're obviously bereft of several things. Tell me what else you need and I'll try to get it. I'll bring you some extra clothes once I figure out how to get them without raising suspicions."
Geraint glanced up from his largesse, surprised. "You haven't told anyone of me?"
Angharad looked flustered. "No. Mother would...she'd have you dragged in and questioned. And probably send you away. You've done nothing wrong," she added quickly. "Well...nothing to warrant any fuss over, but she's...distrustful of strangers, especially now."
"Is there something wrong?" he asked. With a suddenness that was alarming, her face had clouded over, and her proud posture had drawn in on itself as though she carried a great weight.
"There's..." she began, and hesitated. "Geraint. When you visited Abernant, what did you see? Were the people..." She hesitated again, obviously agitated, and swallowed. "Did they seem...troubled? Afraid? Did anything seem amiss?"
He thought, puzzled. "Not that I remember. Of course, I was a diversion that may have made them forget any troubles for a short time. But they have been welcoming and hospitable, and I have learned those are not qualities of folk who live in fear."
"And while you've been here," she pressed on, "have you noticed anything odd? Strange...sounds in the night, or...anything you couldn't explain?"
The hair on his neck prickled. "No. Do you fear something? Should I be on my guard?"
Her hand on the horse's bridle was clenched, white-knuckled. "You should always be on your guard when you're out on your own," she said, with a lightness that seemed rather strained. "But...Geraint, if you see or hear anything, you must tell me. I shall be coming quite often - would you keep saving the driftwood? It collects here, you know, the cove draws it in, and we need all we can get. Kelp, too, whatever washes up." She paused thoughtfully, looking over his overturned craft. "What do you need, to make the necessary repairs to your boat?"
"Are you in a hurry to be rid of me?" It tried to be a jest, but fell flat, deflated upon the tenseness of the air. He exhaled slowly. "Well...seasoned planks, a saw and an auger. Wooden pegs and a mallet. Pitch. I can trade for most of it from the villagers, I imagine."
She looked troubled. "It might be quicker just to provide you with a new boat. You should..." she broke off, hesitated, and then blurted out, "You should be ready to leave very quickly if necessary."
Geraint's heart sank. "How will I know if it is?"
"I don't know. I'll send word, somehow, maybe, or...perhaps it'll be obvious."
His own ignorance frustrated him. "You speak very vaguely, Princess."
"I wish I could speak plainer," she answered, "but I cannot. If it comforts you, I...I have no wish for you to leave." She blushed, and his heart rose again, pounding wildly. "I may even have need of you. Just please, be vigilant. All is...not entirely as it seems here, just now."
She turned away. Geraint ached to reach out to her, to embrace her as he might any other human in need of comfort. He wondered suddenly if she had ever been held by her own father, never mentioned. Surely the women of Llyr must be affectionate with one another at least. But what was it like, to be so untouchable by all but a privileged few?
He helped her wrap the driftwood in twine and tie it behind the saddle. "I should have brought a cart," she mused, pulling herself up before it. "I was in too much of a hurry. Next time..."
"When will next time be?"
For a moment the shadow lightened on her face; she smiled faintly at him. "A few days, maybe. I'm not the only one collecting; there's a dozen acolytes combing the coast nearer the castle, but...everyone knows this cove is my place."
"Ah, yes." He looked over his makeshift home appreciatively. "I remember my indebtedness to your hospitality."
"That's not what..." Her surprised laugh, quieter than before but still music to his ears, rippled out. "No. That was paid last time, remember? Though for the sake of more stories I would charge you for a year's worth of lodging." Her smile became wistful. "You owe me no debts. You make me forget my troubles for a while, Geraint of Gellau, and that is more than enough recompense."
Something in her voice brought his heart to his throat again, and he dared to hold her gaze a moment longer than he should. "Farewell, Princess of Llyr."
She looked as though she were about to say something more, but only nodded, face flushed, turning the horse and nudging it into a trot. He watched the sunlight flaring off her hair until she disappeared from view.