"Your Majesty."
Quiet words, spoken like the gentle nudge of an elbow; they brought a long meditation to an abrupt end. Regat turned from the window she'd been gazing from and nodded to her Chief Steward. He laid an armful of documents before her upon the table. "As you requested."
"Thank you, Caradoc." She ran her elegant hand over the yellowed vellum. "Nothing was disturbed?"
"Nothing, milady. It was well-secreted, exactly where you said it would be. Even I had no idea. I thought it all destroyed." He looked curiously at the cryptic symbols scrawled across the page. "What prompted you to preserve your father's notes?"
"It was Mother's idea," Regat said dispassionately. "I wanted to burn them."
"What do you hope to find?"
"I hope for nothing," she sniffed, "only remembered, in my meditations, that he had been following a rumor. I daresay it was all nonsense. But these days, no stone should be left unturned." But she pushed the pile to the side, lost it in a heap of several other documents, as though it were unimportant as yet. "More urgently, I understand we have a guest."
"Indeed. One hopeful enchanter, a Lord Grimgower." Caradoc cleared his throat. "Do you suppose he named himself that?"
The queen made a sound that might have been called, in anyone else, a derisive snort. "No doubt he did. Ridiculous. What sort of prospect?"
Caradoc looked cautiously amused. "A bit older than one might hope, and...rather dour. He came with a small retinue, a sun-starved lot, I thought. They wear only black. I saw nothing likely to appeal to the princess, but perhaps he will surprise us."
"Perhaps," said Regat dryly. "Well, we can hope he is only the first of many choices. We have a few more weeks. See that he is made comfortable. I suppose there is nowhere to put him that will be entirely free of gossip about the current trouble. It will be alleviated shortly, I hope."
"Shall I arrange a meeting with the princess?"
"Good Llyr. Our hospitality is reward enough for his eagerness. No need to overdo it."
Caradoc swallowed a smile, and bowed as she waved him a silent dismissal. Regat waited until the door had shut behind him, and turned back to the table with a sigh. She stared at the documents laid upon it, angry at the contradictory urges she felt to throw them instantly onto the hearth, or to lay her head upon them and weep at the sight of her father's familiar hand, unseen for decades. The former was emotional outburst. The latter was sentiment.
Regat, daughter of Mererid, Queen of Llyr, was a woman given to neither.
Calm and collected dignity was a skill trained into all those of her line, of course. A queen could not afford instability or even the appearance of it in public — not when neighboring kingdoms, some distrustful, some hostile to matriarchy on principle, might take it as a sign of weakness. Moreover, the innate ability to set any flammable object in the near vicinity ablaze at a flick of the wrist was not one suited to a lack of self-control. Thus, the education of a Daughter of Llyr began early, with nursemaids who did not reward tears with kisses, with governesses who allowed no excuses of fatigue for work done carelessly or left unfinished, with mothers who plied the shoulders of their slender, steel-souled daughters with the burdens that had been passed down, with equal weight, by their own.
Stand up straight. Head up. Do not laugh. Do not cry. Betray neither anger nor shock nor excitement. A clever foe could exploit them; you cannot think clearly in fury or joy. Breathe, do what must be done, and save the feelings for later.
She had gotten very good at that, at the saving for later, so good that eventually, later had often ceased to come at all. But then she had always been adept, even in her childhood, praised for her critical detachment and penchant for pointing out logical inconsistencies in a sentimental bedtime tale while her sister was scolded for crying over it. Arianrhod felt enough for both of them, it seemed; had been, since birth, suited for her destined authority in the grove — a place where the affairs of the heart that so affected her could have free rein. It was well for the state that fate had dictated their birth order as it had.
She wondered what fate had been thinking when her own daughters were born.
Oh, Eilwen was suited enough for her place. Too well, in fact; Regat was painfully aware of the amusement that already circulated within the court regarding her secondborn, widely rumored to be a virtual incarnation of the more sensual aspects of the goddess since the day, as an uncommonly well-developed twelve-year-old, she had winked and blown a kiss at a strapping young acolyte serving in her own initiation ceremony. Acknowledging the rumors would only validate their existence; Regat ignored them, and kept Eilwen out of court as much as possible. She had no great hope that time would steady her; not when everything in her environment would only serve to encourage her curiosity and appetites. Marriage might cure her, if her husband survived her enthusiasm...or it might not. But at least she did bloom where she was planted, as the old adage went.
Which was more than could be said for Angharad.
Angharad. Much loved. Her father had named her, and Regat had allowed this break of tradition from a niggling sense of obligation; he might as well get some satisfaction out of his thankless position. Not that Owen had been deceived about where he would stand; his gifting was such that it would have been nearly impossible to deceive him, even had that been her intention. He had been well aware that she had nothing to give him beyond a comfortable life, the meeting of his needs — even, in her best moments, something approaching companionship. But perhaps he had hoped, after all; the name he had chosen had felt a little like a reproach he had not the heart to speak to her face. A hope that his daughter would be much loved, though he was not.
And Angharad was — she was doted upon not only by her father, but by extended family, by the servants, even by visiting ambassadors from their allies, whose exclamations over the infant's shock of flaming hair had struck her mother as irritatingly triumphant and self-congratulatory, as though they'd just been waiting for that ancient blood connection to reveal itself after lying dormant so long. Belin-blessed, they had called her; and Regat had smiled politely, and folded away the tiny garments with their embroidered golden sunburst crests after they had gone.
Perhaps that had been the trouble; Angharad had been too coddled, made too much of, thanks to that once-in-a-century scarlet-gold crown. She'd been no more nor less precocious or strong-willed than most of her ancestry, but was humored more, had allowances made for her fiery temperament because well, what do you expect? It comes with that hair. It was nonsense, an unhealthy indulgence that had only grown worse after Owen's death, when her wide-eyed confusion and continual demands for him had been met with such smothering sympathy. In the end, only Regat had taught her the necessary restraint, regretfully suppressing most demonstrations of maternal affection for the sake of objectivity, that nothing would distract from the responsibility of grooming her own successor. It was a fine irony that she would not be present to see whether she'd been successful at it. But such was the way of things.
Nineteen years of training could not fail to mold Angharad to some extent. She was dutiful, and willing, as a falcon might be willing to fold its wings and march like a soldier, because it was told it must. But it had not quelled that dangerous streak of passion that simmered beneath the surface, and had resigned her but little to the restrictions of her position — just how little had only recently become apparent. Under the very circumstances wherein a steady hand and rational leadership were most necessary, Angharad's self-control had slivered, in hairline cracks, until Regat wondered just how fragile it was, and whether the last few years of apparent progress and maturity were only a mask, an opaque curtain that hid a barely-contained bonfire. It was a concern that warranted careful consideration, but she had none to spare it just now, not with a kingdom crumbling around them.
It had been a relief to give the girl something to do that would get her out of the castle, a thing she was wont to crave. Regat did not share Arianrhod's unshakeable faith in the rituals of Rhiannon, but an ever-burning altar fire did no harm, even if its only use was to give the people hope that someone was listening. Angharad had seemed better for the exercise, if a little too apt to let her other responsibilities suffer for it. Torn between allowing her daughter what freedom she could and the guilt inherent in making plans that involved her without her knowledge, the queen had let it go on. Too long, really — as testified by the girl's day-long absence and careless appearance two nights ago. And yet she could not wholly regret it. Despite the revealed flaws in her self-possession, from a practical standpoint Angharad had proven herself capable since the trouble had begun. Her reaction to the announcement of her marriage had been extreme, but she had rallied. Her insight into the situation at Abegwy had been sound, her handling of the evacuation plans efficient and excellent. And though obviously shaken, she had been admirably shrewd and assertive when confronting Achren's manipulation on the tower.
The queen frowned. Achren was another matter entirely; she did not regret the decision to bring her to Caer Colur so much as she regretted the necessity of it. Nothing about the woman herself had surprised her unduly, but her information certainly had. It needed examining, all of it, and consultation with those privy to it — a consultation she had postponed a day, for Angharad had been absent from court the morning after Achren's revelations, pleading a sick headache that had kept her in bed until supper, when she had emerged as white as bleached linen and almost as silent. Arianrhod had looked none too robust, for that matter. Regat, herself sensitive to the lingering effects of Achren's magic in the tightness of her temples and the ringing in her ears, had decided it could wait until they had all recovered a bit more, and ordered an audience in her chambers on the following day. It was now imminent.
She reached for the vellum pages again just as a knock upon the door intruded into the silence. Hurriedly she pushed them back, tucking them beneath several other unrelated documents. Perhaps secrecy of this particular matter was unnecessary, but...well, she would know better when she had had the chance to investigate it further. In any case she was in no mood to discuss it with Arianrhod, who would recognize the writing if she saw it.
Her sister and her daughter entered upon being bidden, and Regat motioned for them to approach and sit. Arianrhod looked as well as she ever looked, these days; Angharad seemed less likely to collapse at any moment but was still a shadow of herself, and Regat examined her keenly. "Are you still suffering, daughter? Achren seems to affect you most gravely. It was a disturbing meeting, to be sure."
Angharad's glance flitted to meet hers and then jumped away like a frightened bird. "No," she said. "It must have been more than Achren; some illness or other, made worse by her presence, perhaps. I am better today, only...fatigued." She shrugged, rather limply. "I beg your pardon for missing court yesterday."
"You missed nothing important," said Regat, "except the first report from the evacuation of Abegwy. The people have successfully made camp, and already there have been significant recoveries. So, your vision was sound - it was well done." The girl's face brightened for a moment and then dimmed, as though she wanted to be pleased but did not quite have the energy for it. Next to her, Arianrhod reached over and squeezed her hand.
"Now," Regat continued, "as troubling as it is, Achren's information bears discussion, and I have decisions to make. I am not convinced that she spoke the truth about Arawn seeking some power on this island. It is just as plausible that she sought to have us reveal something that she herself could exploit."
"Either way," Angharad said slowly, "it means she believes we have something."
"Indeed. And I am investigating every possibility." The queen hesitated at the burning glance her sister turned upon her. Arianrhod often kept her peace during such councils, but her face spoke volumes, and Regat needed no clairvoyance to know what she was thinking now. She had no intention of bringing up that topic at present. "There are not many, to my knowledge. I have scribes searching through the archives for clues, and if any bear pursuing, we will do so. Meanwhile," she went on, "regardless of Arawn's motivations, his actions are my chief concern. I believe it to be imperative that we use what powers are at our disposal, without delay. There was a tremor yesterday less than ten leagues away - no one hurt; just reports from a shepherd in the area. Still, it grows too close for comfort. There is too much at stake just now, with important guests arriving, and more expected."
Angharad looked blank. "Guests?"
"Your suitors," Regat reminded her, silently cursing the poor timing. It could not be helped. "One has come, and I expect others will trickle in over the course of the next few weeks."
She would not have thought it possible for Angharad to grow any paler, but somehow the girl managed it. "Oh," was all she said, a ghost of a word, dead before it left her lips. Regat wrestled down a temptation to be exasperated. She was self-aware enough to realize it sprang from her own resentment over having no choice but to enforce her daughter's unhappiness.
"I know your reticence," she managed gently, "and you know my sympathies. But when it comes time to make your choice, I implore you to remember our present needs. It is to be hoped that at least one among them will have enough power to aid us in this fight."
Crimson flooded Angharad's face. "I see," the girl muttered. "So I am to pick the most powerful, regardless of any other qualities, is that it? Suppose none of them have any power of note?" She met her mother's gaze squarely, eyes flashing. "If no enchanters infamous enough to please you find me a prize worth their trouble, am I allowed to refuse all those who have dared above their station?"
There it was. That chink in the facade, that fire barely held in check. Regat did not know what disturbed her more - that it existed, or how close it came to tearing through her own carefully-maintained self-discipline. "We will consider that if the time comes," she answered, with practiced, if strained, calm, wrestling down the sharp words that wanted to break through instead. "Let us hope it will not be necessary."
Arianrhod's hand upon Angharad's held her eye, and her chest tightened. The affectionate bond between aunt and niece was something she both appreciated and resented; it was good for Angharad, no doubt, to have such a presence in her life. But just now, that simple gesture seemed like a silent solidarity of rebellion, a demonstration of the comfort and sympathy that she herself did not dare to give her own daughter, lest it weaken her resolve. Regat rose and turned away so that she need not see it; she paced the room to bring her thoughts back to the matter at hand.
"In any case," she said, "I intend to make use of Achren's willingness to check the attacks. For a time, at least."
There was a thick and uncomfortable silence behind her. Finally Arianrhod broke it. "And what of her terms?"
Regat shook her head. "You mean her 'seat at the table' nonsense? We have no evidence of the verity of her claim. I see no reason to forgo the chance of stability now for fear of an unknown future."
"I don't like it," said Angharad stubbornly. "Whether it's true or not, she believes it, or she wouldn't have come. And she doesn't seem the sort to forget or forgive such a debt. Who knows what we'll be sentencing ourselves to? Or our descendants?"
Regat bristled a little, turning to regard them both. "It is impossible to predict any such outcome," she pointed out. "What is predictable is this island's destruction if we do not make use of her, in which case we may find ourselves invading our neighbors whether we will or no — assuming anyone survives it." She crossed to the opposite window and pushed the casement open. "I will not take that road. Not if there is a chance of avoiding it. But if either of you has a better idea, I will entertain it."
No one spoke, and Regat sighed, staring from the window as though there might be a solution written upon the landscape. A warm wind, its movement invited by the second open window, suddenly threaded itself through the chamber, sweeping across the document-strewn table, tossing multiple pages into the air like a mischievous sprite. Angharad and Arianrhod exclaimed in dismay and jumped up to rescue them; Regat, with an oath, pulled the shutter to and hurried back, swiping at loose pages as they fluttered to the floor and gathering them into a disorganized pile. Noting that Angharad was examining her own catch with some interest, she reached over and snatched them away, burying them at the bottom and slamming the entire stack to the table. Both the others looked at her in surprise, a mirror of her own. Flustered, she turned away again, just in time to jump at another knock on the door.
Bade enter, a page boy stood in the doorway. He was unfamiliar to her, and looked as though he would rather be anywhere else, but Regat was accustomed to seeing this from her pages, whose universal attitude of uncomfortable awe she had never had the patience or inclination to dispel. The boy held a large wooden bowl in one arm; in the other he carried a pail full of gravel and soil. "Upon your orders, Majesty," he bleated, his eyes carefully downturned. The queen had a momentary reminder that the rules of eye contact often resulted in new staff's appearing to stare places more offensive than her eyes, and was struck by a sudden, irrational desire to laugh. Belin, she needed rest — that was clear; they all did. When this trouble was over, if it ever was, she'd spend a month on tour of some remote outlying territory, leave Caradoc in charge and take the girls on holiday. She ought to have done it more when they were children.
A perfunctory look over the items was enough. "That will do," she told him. "Take it to the cabinet and leave it beside the door." He bowed and scurried away without even the customary acknowledgements; certainly a new one, nervous as a mouse.
Arianrhod and Angharad were both seated again when she turned back to the table. Angharad looked flushed and agitated, but this was, at least, an improvement over her pale apathy. "What was that about?" the girl asked, nodding toward the door and the departing messenger.
"Implements for the work tonight," Regat said shortly. "It is what she requested. We will need to be there again, all three. She has abided by her boundaries, so far, but we must never let our guard down with her. Besides, we should all observe her methods."
The other two exchanged uneasy glances. "I'm not sure I want to know her methods," Angharad remarked. "But I don't suppose even Achren can do too many terrible things with buckets of dirt. Mother, I..." she hesitated, and twisted her hands upon the tabletop. "I've had another dream."
Regat caught Arianrhod's surprised look, and stepped forward to sit down once more. "And?"
"There was...a ring of stones. Standing stones, and a green mound in the center."
The queen's hand quivered upon the table, and she moved it into her lap. "Go on."
Angharad kept her eyes turned down as if in thought. "I was standing outside it. And somehow I thought...I don't know why I thought...that there was something in it I wanted. Though I did not know what it was. And yet I feared to go inside it. It was a forbidding sort of place." She was silent a moment, then took a breath. "But finally, for the sake of whatever it was I thought was there, I stepped through, between the stones."
Regat realized, all at once, that she was holding her breath, and let it out in a slow, silent exhale. "And what happened?"
Angharad met her eyes, then, and she nearly winced before that striking green gaze. Owen's eyes, accusatory, unresigned, defiant. "Nothing happened," she said. "There was nothing there at all. I knew it as soon as I stepped over, and then...then I could not step out. I was trapped."
The queen gripped her thick skirt beneath the table. "And was this all?"
The green gaze wavered, pulled itself to the open window. "No. Then the stones crumbled, and the earth shook, and it collapsed beneath my feet, and the sea came rushing in overall. I woke up screaming."
Silence. Breathing. A gull screamed outside the window, startling them. Arianrhod looked from Angharad to Regat in consternation. "This is a warning."
Regat shook her head almost imperceptibly to silence her. "Perhaps. You know better than I that such things are not so easily interpreted." Though it could hardly have been clearer, she thought, in mingled relief and disquiet. The timing was almost too apt, the message too obvious, and she was tempted to distrust it on such grounds alone. Still, Angharad's dreams had always been particularly revelatory, and even more so of late.
"Is there anything else we must discuss, Mother?" Angharad was staring at her, her expression guarded and unreadable.
Regat raised an eyebrow. "Are you in earnest to leave?"
The princess shrugged. "I spent all day yesterday in bed or having my hair washed. I'd like to get out a little, before this evening. Since it seems my freedom grows short very quickly."
The queen elected to ignore the acerbity in the last observation. No doubt it would do her good to ride out, and she would need whatever emotional reserves she could muster tonight. "Very well. Meet us at moonrise on the tower."
Angharad rose slowly, as though she did not quite trust her own balance. Regat, watching her, was struck with a sudden realization of something awry. "Angharad. What happened to your pendant?"
The girl seemed to freeze for a moment, as wary as a cornered cat, and her hand flew automatically to the silver crescent at her throat — the unadorned one she had not worn in years. "I...last time I was at the cove, it..." She paused, took a breath, swallowed, and when she spoke again her voice held the wavering note of someone making an effort to be calm. "It caught in the rocks while I was climbing, and the gem was broken off. I...took it to a jeweler, and it's being repaired. I thought it best to wear my old one in the meantime."
Mystified at her manner, Regat waved a hand dismissively. "I see. Well...accidents happen. Thank Llyr that gem wasn't lost. It was a gift, you know."
Angharad's eyes flicked quickly to Arianrhod and then away, as though she hadn't meant to look. "Oh. Was it?"
"From the Fair Folk." Regat frowned suddenly, thinking. "At my wedding. We shall have to invite them to yours, of course, or risk offending them. Belin. Yet another thing to..." she broke off, and shook her head. "Never mind. Still time for that. Go — get some air, and rest, too, before tonight."
Angharad curtsied, and hurried from the room as though pursued. Arianrhod, her bearing unusually tense, watched her go, and sat silently for a few more moments, as though lost in thought. "Regat," she said slowly, "her dream..."
"I will take it into account," Regat said shortly. "I had thought of Pentre Gwyllion, of course, as soon as Achren brought up the idea of an unknown power on the island. But it seems we are warned away from that path. If the gwyllion are affected by the attacks, they'll manage it their own way; we have enough trouble without inviting their wrath again. I'd like to see Arawn take on the Folk, for that matter. Eiddileg wouldn't have his nonsense for a moment."
Arianrhod visibly relaxed at the note of dry humor in her voice. "Perhaps we should be currying his favor more than we have done, then."
Regat shrugged wearily. "He doesn't care. He won't risk Folk lives on behalf of humans, and I can't blame him for it, after what was done to them. Perhaps if we asked outright for help — but you know their help always comes at a steep price."
"Steeper than Achren's?" Her sister raised an eyebrow.
A chill prickled at her scalp, down her spine; Regat saw, unwillingly, the proud, icy stare, those crimson lips speaking boldly into an unformed future as though the words themselves could shape it and bring it into being. She had a fleeting sensation, suddenly, of invisible strands, wrapping with the silky stealth of spider-laces, threading around her, around her family, through the stone, the ground, loose and innocuous, ready to be drawn shut the moment they...
No. She had made every possible precaution, and would not stand by and let fear keep her from taking necessary actions. The future held whatever it held. In the present, the kingdom must be protected, and let it never be said that she had not done all she could to do so. "Perhaps not steeper," she admitted. "But Achren's, at least, we know and understand. Now. I have things to look over before tonight."
Arianrhod took the hint, and rose. "I'll see you later, then."
Regat pulled a stack of papers over with a sigh. "If you can convince Angharad to spend some time in the grove, do something to strengthen her up, will you? She held up well before Achren, but her condition since then concerns me."
Arianrhod paused, standing beside her. "She is doing the best she can, you know, sister."
The queen stared at a corner of parchment peeking from beneath the bottom of the pile near her right hand, smeared with the inky thumbprint of the father she had looked in the eyes while she pronounced his judgement.
"So am I," she whispered, covering the print with her own thumb.
Arianrhod bent and kissed her. "I know." She pressed her shoulder once, and ushered herself quietly from the room.
Regat pulled the parchment from the stack and looked at the scrawling symbols, the notes and sketches, guesses and musings that had led to such ruin. She closed her eyes and tried to recall his face: a blue-black sweep of thick hair over a high forehead, expressive brows, strong chin. Dark eyes that had so often beamed with amusement as they traded sarcastic barbs of wit over a game of tawlbyrdd; the straight, understated smile as he watched her outwit a sparring opponent; the handsome head high with pride as she cut through a complex court case with ruthless precision and handed down a verdict with which even their fussiest counsellors could find no fault. That same face, in that same court, haggard, distorted with guilty, furious desperation, mutely begging her for forgiveness as she numbly watched him being led away, in the midst of the furor of her mother's silent tears, her sister's wild sobs, and the howls of a disbelieving, horrified audience.
No. She opened her eyes with a gasp. Smoke was curling in a thin stream from the parchment beneath her fingertip and she pounded her palm over it, snuffing it out. She cradled her forehead in her hand, fought back until the thudding of her heart, the pull at her ribs, the ache at her throat slowly died away, slipped formless behind a grey, weary void, until she felt...
Nothing.
No sadness. No anger. No regret.
Nothing.
It was all she could allow.