A profound stillness woke her while it was still dark. After the rush of wind and rain that had deadened her ears for hours to anything else, now there was only the muffled sound of surf, a crumbling murmur - soothing and familiar, though louder than she was accustomed to hearing upon waking. She blinked in the darkness, her mind in a fog, confused; this was not her room; she knew by the smell, by the feel, it was different; it was wrong; where was — oh.
Oh.
Angharad sat up with a gasp, in a flash of memory, sharply aware of the heavy arm that slid from around her waist and thumped softly behind her. The owner of the arm mumbled something unintelligible that trailed off, and she crept away, shivering, groping across the floor. There was a pile of wool and linen roughly where she remembered it should be, though she could make no sense of it in the darkness; something round and smooth at last bumped her forearm through the cloth and she clutched it gratefully. The Pelydryn flickered into warmth, its light muted and dim by her own will, but there was enough of it to gather up the heap of fabric, shake it out, and navigate which bits of her went where. She wrestled her garments on and tied what laces she could reach with trembling fingers; once decently attired she took a deep breath and turned to examine where she'd been.
Oh, Rhiannon. Somehow seeing it made it all real; the rumpled pallet and the blanket-shrouded shape that was Geraint, still asleep, his body curled around the empty space from which she had crawled, one bare arm flung out over it as if to shield it from prying eyes. Her heart raced, breath caught; she wanted nothing more than to creep right back into that warm circle, curl herself into it and rest there until...oh, forever, as long as she was wishing for the impossible. No...no, she must get home; doubtless she had been missed by this time; perhaps now that the storm was over she would even be searched for. She would have been quite happy never to be found, but her mother knew her too well; if anyone were sent out they would know to look for her at the cove, and if Geraint was found there before she could stop them...
In mounting panic Angharad cast about for her shoes; found them and stared in dismay; there was nothing left of them. Her wild rush through the storm last night had left them in ribbons; how would she get...wait. Her self-made shoes. Where did he keep them?
She struggled to her feet and raised the light over her head to illuminate the hut. There - in the corner, on the other side of the pallet. Creeping around the sleeping Geraint, she snatched them up, making little noise, but it was enough; he stirred, turned, opened eyes clouded with drowsy confusion, and focused on her.
She paused, holding her breath, watched comprehension dawn on his face, and whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
He took her in slowly: clothed, shoes in hand. "You would have left without telling me?" He sat up, pushed his tumbled curls out of troubled eyes.
"I would have left you word of some kind."
"Then you're not...not sorry..."
She could not bear his uncertainty. She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him again for an answer, long and longingly. His arms went around her, hungry, inviting; she pushed him away, finally, with a sigh that was almost a whimper. "I've got to get back. I'll have been missed since the storm. If anyone starts looking for me this is the first place they'll come."
Geraint glanced toward the door. "It's not even daylight."
"Thank Belin for that. If I'd slept that long we'd both be caught." She shut her mouth grimly, fumbling with her shoelaces.
"Well, I'm not going to let you walk back alone in the dark," he declared, throwing off the blankets. "I don't care how independent the women of Llyr are."
Angharad made no argument as he dressed. She did not want to leave him at all; his accompanying her would, at least, postpone parting. "You've got to turn back when I tell you," she said finally, "and no arguments. You must not get within sight of the towers."
He nodded, and seemed for the first time to notice the glowing sphere in her hand, perplexed. "What is that?"
"A treasure of Llyr. The Golden Pelydryn. Didn't you wonder where the light was coming from all night?"
He looked baffled. "I suppose I thought it was just the fire." A grin, rakish. "I've been a bit distracted, you know. What did you call it?"
She blushed, repeated the name, and held it out to him; he took it, turned it in his hand. The golden light danced over his features. "It is beautiful," he murmured. "What is it for?"
"I'll tell you while we walk," she answered pointedly, taking it back, and Geraint sighed and pushed the door open.
"After you, milady."
He swept her a bow, then caught her as she made to pass him, pinning her against the doorframe. It was some time before she could admonish him, in a low growl, "I believe I told you recently to call me by my name."
"You did. Emphatically. I wasn't sure if you meant all the time," he muttered into her breath, "or just when—"
She cut him off, muffling a chest-deep laugh against his smile. Oh, Llyr, she could not leave him, could not go back to that gilded prison of a castle...
With a strangled noise of frustrated desperation she pulled back; avoided his gaze by looking anxiously at the sky. The cliffs to the east stood black against it; it was not so dark as it might be, and no stars shone out. "Geraint, please. I'll return, I swear it. But if we are caught here I shall have nothing to return to." Her breath turned into a sob at her throat, and he let her go reluctantly, shutting the door behind them.
"What good is it being royalty if you can't do what you please?" he muttered, in a tone that sounded like he was trying to joke. It failed. Angharad choked on another sob and coughed it out as a bitter laugh.
"It's no good at all."
They trudged up the trail to the highland in silence. She could not calm her thoughts enough to speak any one of them sensibly; they all tumbled over each other in a sickening, roiling pile of uncertain demands; the question what now? seemed always to find its way to the top, staring at her. She did not want to look at it, did not want to think about how she was leaving the unthinkable-already-done to return to that which was more unthinkable still: her future, waiting, in all its myriad manifestations of horror, like a multi-edged boulder at the top of a slope, and no way to step out of its path - no way, at least, that did not leave her land and her people vulnerable to almost certain destruction. She stared down at her own feet, put one in front of the other in mute resolution.
The trail climbed steeply, doubling back on itself; behind her Geraint panted out, "I can't believe you came down this in that storm. Please don't ever do that again."
"It was one of several impulsive decisions," she admitted. "But I can't say I regret any of them, and I don't believe you do either." She heard him chuckle between breaths.
An outcropping of rough stone jutted out of the earth at the top of the cliff, marking the trail; by the time they reached this landmark the sky was pale at the eastern horizon. Angharad pocketed the Pelydryn, its light no longer necessary. "You promised to tell me about that," Geraint reminded her.
"I will," she began, turning the corner.
She froze. On the other side of the outcropping, two horses were standing. They had been reined up, suddenly, as she emerged from the shadow of the rock. Elen and Eilwen sat astride them, looking stunned.
"Well," said Eilwen, after a very awkward silence, "This ought to be good."
Geraint leaned against the rocky outcropping, feeling embarrassed and irritated.
It was maddening, having to stand back and do nothing while three women argued about him, but he did not know what else to do. Though he had instinctively stepped in front of Angharad the moment he realized they had witnesses, she had pushed past him and motioned for him to be silent. He bit his tongue, realizing that she was far less at a loss than he, given all the angles of the situation.
He had been able to guess at the identity of at least one of the riders that had met them at the top of the cliffs. Angharad had mentioned the existence of a sister at some point in their conversations, and the resemblance of the taller of the two strangers was near enough to pick her out of a crowd; besides that, she wore her own version of the silver crescent Angharad bore on her breast. The bold, appraising glances she kept casting toward him over Angharad's shoulder, and the openly lascivious smirk she wore, were somewhat unsettling. It had been immediately clear that any claims he might make of accidentally stumbling across a lost princess and escorting her back to the castle would be recognized for the falsehoods they were. He did find a certain amount of comfort in this minx's utter lack of dismay over the obvious—indeed, her apparent approval of it—but was still unused to such frankness from women, Angharad's example notwithstanding.
The second girl was slight and shorter, and, though pleasant-featured, did not share the imposing presence or vivid, unforgettable beauty of the sisters. Unlike her companion, she had seemed genuinely shocked at the sight of him, and her part in the animated but low-volume conversation now taking place was quieter, less certain. She had not looked directly at him since that first astonished stare.
Snatches of the conversation occasionally rose high enough for him to hear: fervent, urgent, accusatory, but never enough to piece together. The atmosphere between the three of them was charged with tension. Angharad gestured emphatically as she talked, her back to him; her companions exchanged glances, one amused, the other dubious.
Finally some sort of arrangement appeared to be reached. Angharad strode back to him, head high, face set in authoritative lines. The goddess had returned.
"I shall be going back with my companions," she informed him. "You need not come any farther."
Geraint was taken aback at this abrupt dismissal, a return of austere formality he hardly expected now, and he felt no inclination to acquiesce without protest. He glanced past her, noted the saucy grin worn by the taller of the girls. "You're not going to introduce me, then?"
Angharad faltered, looking flustered. "I don't think—,"
"Your sister looks rather like she'd enjoy it," he added wickedly. "I'm not sure about the other."
She glared at him as though she'd like to shake him. "These are not really the ideal circumstances for—,"
"Should I not look her in the eye?" he interrupted, in a loud whisper, for the young woman in question had evidently decided to take matters into her own hands and was marching toward them resolutely.
Angharad sputtered something extremely unladylike and turned her back to him, clearing her throat. "Eilwen. I told you to—,"
"Don't be such a killjoy, Angharad. You drove us mad with worry; the least you could do is introduce the reason." The girl halted in front of him, staring frankly from little more than arm's length away without the slightest indication that she found anything untoward in this arrangement. Geraint, still unsure, bowed, rose, and looked politely over her right ear.
Angharad, next to him, radiated embarrassment, whether over him or her sister's behavior he was not sure. In the rising sunlight her cheeks were scarlet; her voice sounded rather strained. "Geraint of Gellau. My sister, Eilwen, Daughter of Llyr and Priestess of Rhiannon."
"It is an honor," Geraint began, then grunted in surprise as the girl giggled, grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him closer, kissing him on one cheek and then the other. She smelled, overpoweringly, of hawthorn bloom and lavender, and it made his head swim. He heard Angharad gasp.
"You," Eilwen said, in an exultant purr, without letting go of him,"are most welcome. In fact I don't imagine there's been a guest on this island made so welcome in ages."
"Eilwen," Angharad hissed in horror, and her sister laughed again, completely unabashed.
"For goodness' sake, boy, look me in the face," she ordered. Geraint complied, blinking at a pair of black-fringed emerald irises, startlingly familiar and sparkling with mischief. Eilwen's grin widened. "There, no wonder. Rhiannon, look at those eyes. Aren't you delicious. It's such a shame you're not an enchanter. Are you quite sure you haven't any powers?"
"I fear not, milady," Geraint stammered, rather overwhelmed, "except my own wits and..." he looked sidelong at Angharad, daring a weak grin. "Erm...charm."
Angharad looked murderous. Eilwen made a gurgling sound of delight, and gave his shoulders a playful little push, releasing him as she stepped back. "Oh, dear, yes, so I see. And you're sure you don't want to stay in guest lodgings closer to Caer Colur? It would make it so much easier for you both."
"Easier for him to get caught and imprisoned," Angharad growled, through her teeth.
"I suppose that's true," Eilwen sighed. "I only thought...well, never mind. Pity, but better to be cautious." She winked at Geraint. "Only do discourage her from running out in the middle of the night again, won't you? It gave us quite a turn."
"Speaking of which," Angharad broke in, "we need to get back, before things get worse." Her tone and expression indicated that several things were about to get worse for her sister, but Eilwen only smirked at her over her shoulder as she turned away.
"Well-met, Geraint of Gellau. I hope to see more of you. Though sadly, perhaps not as much as my sister has. Farewell."
"Llyr," Angharad muttered as she turned back to him, face flaming.
Geraint grinned. "I like her."
"Of course you do," she retorted, "like all men. It's quite deliberate. Growing up in the grove made her that way; they're all like that, the priestesses and the devotees, and it's why they almost never leave it until they marry; it's mayhem in their wake when they go among the people."
"You'll have to tell me more about that sometime." He glanced ahead, where the other girl was waiting. "Is she one as well?"
"No, that's Elen. My lady-in-waiting, and we owe her. When I didn't come to my rooms she was up all night worrying, and went to Eilwen as soon as the storm cleared, before anyone else could discover it. We're lucky she did, instead of going to Mother."
Elen was holding both bridles and staring resentfully at the horizon while Eilwen swung, with the same easy athleticism he had observed in Angharad, onto one of the horses,. "I would thank her," he whispered, "but she looks rather unhappy about it."
Angharad sighed. "She's upset with me for not telling her about you. I didn't want her to have to lie for me." She turned troubled eyes to him, turquoise in the morning light. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I don't..." She took a breath. "I don't know what's going to happen. Repair your boat, Geraint. Please. I want to know that you'll be safe, no matter what befalls us."
He would never leave this island unless he knew she were safe, on it or off it, but he did not say so; could not refuse her anything. He nodded and hesitated, desiring to embrace her once more but conscious of Eilwen's impertinent gaze boring into them.
Angharad shot her sister a look of amused annoyance. She grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him around the back of the outcropping out of view of any witnesses, and made him a memorable farewell.
He barely heard Eilwen's distant whoop of triumphant laughter over the thunder of the surf and his own heartbeat in his ears.