Royal regalia — a sparkling pile of silver and pearl, abalone and opal — spread across her dressing table like so much treasure dredged up from a wreck. Angharad sat before it, gazing at it without admiration, willing herself to be still though all she wanted was to hurl every glittering fetter across the room, smash it into the stone wall, possibly followed by her own head, if she could manage it. Elen stood behind her, twisting her hair into an elaborate system of coils and curls, fastening jewels into the bright waves at intervals.
Eilwen stood at her window, looking down upon the courtyard. She was arrayed in the ceremonial garments of her rank: clinging white linen, embroidered and girdled in silver, her arms and flushed expanse of neck and bosom adorned in coral ornaments. Blue and turquoise gems glimmered in her dark hair. Ordinarily she wore formality with an amused air that made her awareness of her own beauty and its effect on those within sight of her evident, but now she was frowning, her foot tapping in a miniature expression of the tension in the room.
"So many people," she muttered, "and so few enchanters. It doesn't seem possible, somehow."
Angharad grimaced. "It's no worse than it has been since the beginning. Better the monster you know that the one you don't." She looked at her manicured nails, tapping on the tabletop, and felt oddly as though they belonged to someone else.
"I can't believe it, though," Eilwen persisted, "and it makes me suspicious. There must have been more, and something happened to prevent them. Some mishap on the journey, or some dark plot to—,"
Angharad sensed Elen move sharply, and glanced up into her mirror in time to see the fleeting remnant of a significant look that had passed between servant and sister. She turned her eyes away from it dully, relegating the emotion it spawned to the same confined and bound space that she forced her physical discomfort to stay, when she could.
It was pointless to avoid the subject of dangerous journeys when it was forefront in all their minds, yet no one wanted to acknowledge the truth: Geraint had been gone over two full weeks - his continued absence confirmed by her mother's own guards, who were sent out periodically to see whether the cove was still uninhabited. Never had days groaned past so interminably while rushing, all the same, like sand grains through an hourglass, every one carrying with it a fragment of her hope...if she could be said to hope at all for him, when escaping from the gwyllion and coming home meant falling into her mother's trap. She had wracked her brain trying to think of a way to warn him away from his own hut without alerting the queen, and come up empty. Arianrhod and Eilwen had attempted magical protections of their own, but as he remained invisible to their scrying, their abilities were hampered, and every day that went by made it less likely he would ever return at all.
They had been dark days. By daylight she had buried her grief under a thick veil of nothingness that wrapped her heart like armor. But nights were endless torment, when all distractions were stripped away and an awful future stretched ahead of her, a path she must walk alone. She wept until she had no tears left. She ceased to hope that he would return and only begged for assurance that he was alive, petitioned every deity she knew for some sign that she had not sent him to his doom, sought answers in magic and vision and dream but found only the same elusive mysteries. Elen, vigilant, slept beside her every night, and more than once Angharad had looked upon the sleeping face of her familiar, faithful companion and almost resented her for preventing the swift end she had contemplated.
She had learned to control her revulsion when she looked upon the distant faces of the two men who had remained the only contenders for her hand, and given up wondering why no one else came. She felt now, on the surface, nothing at all when she thought of them, except a calculated acknowledgment that her decision must be wholly practical, based on who brought the most useful skills to the table.
Of Regat she had seen little, beyond court appearances. Eilwen's reports had filled in the details of goings-on beyond the walls of her confinement; there were still meetings in secret with Achren, who had naturally expressed surprise at the change in company, but, to all appearances, coolly accepted the explanation that Angharad was preparing for her wedding, and the rituals and traditions involved made her unavailable for other spellwork. There seemed, indeed, little other work necessary; so far Arawn had not shown any sort of retaliatory move after Achren's repulse.
"She's empty as a dry sponge," Eilwen had summed up, with a disgusted twist of her mouth, after her first encounter. "I would call her a snake, but even snakes have their good points. I never saw anyone with so much wasted power. Nothing but death where there should have been so much life. It would make me sorry for her if she didn't seem to revel in it." She had shivered, and made the crescent sign in a protective gesture. "Even Mother knows inviting her was the worst idea she's ever had, but she can't admit it now."
They all knew, and silently despaired over it, though Achren remained apparently content to stay sequestered in her quarters, and made no move to exert what could have, now, been considerable influence. That very circumstance was worrisome — it seemed out of character for a woman so ambitious, yet she could hardly be accused of nefarious plotting when she never made any trouble or went anywhere, a thing confirmed by the elite guard assigned to her door.
But Angharad had little energy to spare on Achren. It was, perhaps, ironically helpful that she had begun to feel too exhausted, physically, to give much vent to her emotions. She had nearly fallen asleep during a court session four days previous, barely keeping her eyes open to the end before stumbling up to her chamber and throwing herself on her bed, waking two hours later feeling nauseous and no more alert. Even now, sitting at her dressing table, she felt an urge to lay her head among the cold and comfortless jewels of her station and sleep, heedless of the damage to her dressed hair and formal gown. Instead she closed her eyes, pulling her consciousness to some deep place within, and let herself drift in the fluid darkness that waited there - a presence that had crept upon her awareness within the last week, strange and new, but safe and comforting, a sensation hard enough to find these days. It was magic, obviously, but no sort of magic she had ever accessed before, and Arianrhod had nodded knowingly when she had attempted to describe it.
"The presence of Rhiannon. Spend all the time you like there," she had said, the weary lines around her eyes deepening in sympathy. "Embrace all she gives you, and you'll know what to do with it when the time comes."
She was drawn out of it, now, by a knock at the door, and sensed both her companions' stiffening before she even saw that the queen had entered the room, with Arianrhod just behind. Elen dropped into a curtsy and retreated to the background, as the princess rose slowly to her feet. The weight of her gown, full layer upon layer of jeweled silk, seemed to pin her to the ground.
Regat was robed in crimson, her handsome head crowned in gold. She looked, behind the ceremonial poise of her practiced expression, tired - the weariness of one who does what must be done, but takes no pleasure in it. Her dark eyes surveyed her eldest daughter, mingled resolution with resignation. It was an expression not without compassion, but Angharad found nothing comforting in it.
"It is nearly time," Regat said, "and all are assembled." She tilted her head in mild concern. "How do you feel?"
Angharad almost laughed at the weight of the question, but only blinked, staring at her mother. "Does it matter?"
The queen's mouth pressed into a thin line, acknowledging the ruefulness she would not admit out loud. "You're a little pale. Nothing that will be noticed in the Hall, but I would not have you faint or be sick during the ceremony. Can you withstand it?"
"I'm taking care of that," Eilwen put in, coming up to stand next to her and sliding an arm around her waist. "She's to signal me if she needs her salts or ginger, or a quick charm. We've practiced until we can make it look insignificant."
Regat looked mildly surprised. "Good. See that you are paying attention to your sister, then, and not the audience of young men present."
Eilwen huffed as though insulted at this perfectly apt admonition, and Angharad leaned into her, a glimmer of grateful amusement sparking up through the fog.
"I will speak little during the presentation," Regat went on, to Angharad, "for all must see you take full authority. If you see any of them appeal to me instead, correct them. It is your decision - though I will advise if you request it." She hesitated, but did not break her gaze, and said, finally, "I know you will choose wisely."
There was a brief and heavy silence, and Arianrhod approached and stood before her. She straightened the circlet crowning Angharad's bright hair, rearranged a tumbled curl at her neck, pulled a fold of her gown into a better place, briefly took hold of her bare shoulders, all the while murmuring under her breath. She paused in her chanting to look Angharad in the eyes, and laid one warm hand over the crescent moon at her breast. "Breathe," she whispered, a quiet command, and Angharad realized she had not been, and obeyed, in a deep release. It threatened to topple the gates of her self-control; every roiling emotion strained against them and her throat tightened, eyes burned. She tensed and trembled, but Arianrhod shook her head, ordered "again", and inhaled with her, slow and controlled. A comforting warmth spread from the hand still resting over the pendant, soothing, and gradually her trembling eased, tension draining away, until she stood, not stiff and afraid, but quietly, accepting and open.
Arianrhod kissed her brow and stepped back, her eyes full of a sad sort of pride. "Now she is ready."
They filed from the chamber, Elen bringing up the end of the procession; all were expected to witness the ceremony, and they walked the corridors in silence broken only by the swish of long skirts and the soft brush of slippered feet on the stone floors. Angharad thought dazedly that the castle seemed larger than usual, that the distance from her room to the Great Hall took more steps than it should. The closer they came to the Hall, the further removed she felt from the proceeding, until when they finally arrived and stepped into the noise and color of the gathered assembly she felt as though she were watching someone else enter the room and stand before the throne at her mother's right hand, someone in whose fate she took only a detached and mildly curious interest.
The gathered throng moved before her eyes in a blur. She saw the occasional individual face she recognized; there were her cousins, Oren and Manawydd, serving as acolytes; Elen was stationed with her mother's ladies near the foot of the dais; off to the right, among the crowd of courtiers and dignitaries, the dark head and strong posture of Lady Amynwy towered above the short and innocuous figure of Lord Pwyll.
Regat raised her hands and the general buzz that had attended their entry lapsed into a respectful silence. She spoke, a formal welcome to all assembled, acknowledgement of the gravity of the occasion, expressions of hope and assurance that the marriage of the princess would contribute to the continued prosperity and stability of the island. Angharad fixed her eyes on a window high in the far wall, tracing its arches with the critical attention of a master mason, and let the words pour over her without sinking into her consciousness; she feared, if she listened to such hollow speeches, her expression would betray her.
And so it began. Amidst a collective sigh of anticipation, Regat sank gracefully to her throne and Angharad followed suit. A shimmer of musical fanfare preceded the announcement of Gildas of Glynn, and Angharad wondered, in that detached portion of her mind, how he had managed to be presented first, when he'd arrived second; perhaps he and Grimgower had drawn straws for the privilege. A mental image of the two men bent over a straggly broom, murderously eyeing each other while they yanked at its twigs, almost made her lose her composure. She clutched the arm of her throne and concentrated on breathing slowly as the crowd parted to admit the enchanter and his entourage.
If Gildas's display of wealth had been ostentatious at the midsummer feast, it was now nothing less than absurd. The entire royal treasury of a well-to-do cantrev king appeared to have been hung upon the person of one man and his dozen attendants, with no thought spared for aesthetic balance. Angharad mused viciously that it must be a blessing for the man to be nearly as broad as he was tall, for it afforded him that much more surface area to adorn and encrust with jewels. She had to give him credit for his audacity; it took a fair amount of brazen confidence to appear in public so arrayed — unless it was just sheer lack of taste, which, she thought, staring at his self-satisfied expression, was also quite possible.
A ripple of awed murmur at the scene spread through the crowd as the procession reached the dais, and Gildas bowed, with the air of doing something beneath him. His attendants spread out, flanking him in a semicircle, glittering in the shafts of sunlight pouring in from the windows. He rose, and for the first time, dared to look the monarchs of Llyr in the face - a concession granted for the occasion, given his potential station. Angharad met his pale, fishy eyes coolly, and noted that his gaze lingered longer over the jewelry she wore than on any portion of her face or figure. The distant observer in her could not decide whether to be relieved, amused, or indignant about this.
She nodded her head at him. "I bid you welcome, sir."
His paunchy, shining cheeks twitched in what attempted, she supposed, to be a smile. "Noblest ladies," he began, spreading his hands to indicate all the royal family assembled on the dais, "allow me to dispense with the formalities. I have already spent many days here, enjoying your excellent hospitality but having no opportunity to make a formal introduction. Therefore I assume my reputation has preceded me. I trust we may promptly negotiate, determine, and settle upon the nuptial agreements."
Angharad sensed Regat twitch next to her at this audacity, and regarded the man with quiet amazement. She raised an eyebrow. "You appear to be in some haste, Gildas of Glynn."
Gildas looked startled for an instant, but recovered. "Not at all, your highness. I only observe that this is a busy and thriving court, most...ah, prosperous." His gaze flicked covetously around the room. "And of course I appreciate the demands upon your time - as surely you must on mine. Indeed, only with greatest difficulty have I been able to spare a few moments from an especially busy morning."
"Really?" Angharad remarked. "That is extraordinary, given that presumably you have traveled here for the sole purpose of participating in this ceremony. Your skills must indeed be of great consequence for this occasion to be such a troublesome interruption of their exercise. We do apologize for the inconvenience."
A titter ran through the Hall, wherein the atmosphere had begun to take on an air of subtle indignation, and Gildas had the grace to blush, though he seemed more irritated than embarrassed. "Yes, well," he said hastily, "be that as it may, let us not stand upon ceremony—,"
"Oh, but we do so love ceremony here," Angharad interrupted, suddenly and unexpectedly enjoying herself. It had been some time since she had had an outlet for her frustration, and she took it out on him now with acidic precision. "We are women, you know. But very well. What is it that you are so anxious to nail down?"
He straightened up, and she could see him attempting to gain the upper hand. "Of primary consideration and concern," he said, turning subtly toward Regat, "the question of dowry, the pecuniary contribution, the...ah...the treasure the Princess brings as her marriage portion."
There it was. She wanted to burst out laughing. Gods, what an odious little man. If he were the best she could do then at least he'd be no trouble; give him a golden bed to sleep upon and enough jewels to surround himself with and she'd never even have to look at him. Perhaps she could even get him drunk enough to believe the marriage had been consummated — if he were even capable of it — and then banish him to his own quarters forever. He could be useful...put in charge of treasury recovery whenever they lost a ship, or allowed to head up the pearl trade with exotic imports; not a speck would be overlooked, for certain.
"You may address me instead of my mother," she informed him, without bothering to hide her amusement, "and you seem to be somewhat confused as to the nature of this arrangement, Master Gildas, so allow me to enlighten you. Our treasures will remain our own, and you, if selected as consort, will enjoy their material benefits as much as is good for you. We do not deal in such tiresome and offensive concepts as 'dowry' on Llyr, though of course you would be welcome to add your own wealth to our resources, and call it whatever pleases you, or not. But this is all getting rather ahead of ourselves," she added, as he opened his mouth in astonishment to protest, "as I have yet seen nothing of your skills. I am, as you know, obliged to marry an enchanter, and therefore I should like to see some enchantments."
He stepped backward, and drew himself up with what he no doubt thought was dignity. "My dear young girl," he sputtered, "surely in all this time, rumor must have reached you. My skills are without question and I have impeccable recommendations—,"
"And a very high opinion of yourself," Angharad confirmed, "well-earned, no doubt. But I'm sure you understand, we must have rules or there is no order; anarchy takes over and society falls apart. We cannot have anyone's qualifications in question. Do favor us with a demonstration."
There was now soft but open laughter in several portions of the room, and Gildas looked around sharply, then snapped his fingers. His attendants came forward, adorning him in a long glittering cloak and a ridiculous pointed hat covered in symbols. He took up a golden staff, and waved everyone back. "Observe, your Majesty. Your Highnesses."
He began to move in what looked like a rather clumsy and halting dance, making circles on the floor one way and then another, gesticulating with his arms and chanting out strange words. Burdened by his heavy, rich robes, he was sweating in moments, his bald head flushed and shining. Angharad thought with some alarm that he might faint, but he kept on valiantly, his jewels flashing in the light, a spectacle fascinating for its glittering emptiness.
For long moments nothing at all seemed to be happening, but finally she felt a faint sense of something that her honed senses recognized as magic, though of a type and strain unfamiliar to her, and fairly weak. A small gray cloud appeared in front of the dais, condensing from the air, and Gildas redoubled his efforts, his arms working feverishly. The cloud grew, and condensed, and darkened; suddenly it expanded and enveloped her and her surroundings, swallowed the entire room, blocking out the light from the windows, the candles, the torches, in a suffocating blackness. Astonished gasps and impressed cries rose up from the assembly.
Angharad waited, unimpressed; she felt nothing dangerous within this darkness, but neither did it seem to have any greater purpose. Behind her Eilwen whispered, "amateur" and she almost giggled, composing her face suddenly as the blackness fragmented like torn cloth. Light broke in and then the Hall shone forth as it should, with Gildas panting before the dais but looking up at them in triumph.
Angharad glanced sideways at Regat, who gave the man a small nod for effort and then looked away wearily.
"Well," Angharad said bluntly, turning her attention back to Gildas, "is that all?"
"All! I beg your pardon," he gasped, "that is one of my finest effects! My dear princess..."
"My dear enchanter," she interrupted, "I'm sure it was your best work. You clearly went to a great deal of effort. I hope you haven't done yourself harm. But I'm afraid I don't see the point of it. Turning day into night? Rather redundant, really, when all anybody has to do is be patient a little while and night will come along very nicely by itself." Gildas looked blank, and his mouth opened and shut several times, like a gasping fish. Angharad went on relentlessly. "And forgive me for being critical, but you should work on your darkness. The velvet quality of the real thing is superior. Not to mention night gives us a whole sky full of stars for good measure, plus the moon, which is, as you no doubt know, rather important to us here."
Gildas took a few desperate steps toward the dais, bowing obsequiously and stammering, "Allow me to produce something a little more spectacular. I suggest a...a snowstorm! My blizzards never fail to please, and have always been received with approbation."
Angharad shrugged. "There again, Master Gildas, why bother? When the proper season comes around, we'll have snow enough. And every flake different, too. Can you do as much?"
He stammered, "Well, I...no, that would be...but, come, there must be something that will please you. Perhaps...a culinary manifestation, a full-course feast? Roast goose? Wine? Sweetmeats?"
This at least had a practical application, but she was weary of the game now. "We're quite satisfied with our own cook, and she'd be highly insulted to find herself made expendable. Thank you, no. I think I have seen enough. You may wait there." She motioned to a waiting chair at the foot of the dais, to Regat's left.
There was a murmur and shift in the room as Gildas, waving his entourage to the side and muttering to himself, slunk to the chair and sat, his wounded pride thick as a cloud around him. "It is against my principles to criticize my colleagues," he remarked sullenly, to Regat, "But I can assure Your Majesty; no enchantments can rival mine."
"Thank you," Angharad shot in his direction, "we shall decide for ourselves."
Regat cast her an approving glance, and motioned for the next enchanter to come forward. There was another shirring of stringed instruments, a herald cried out the name of Lord Grimgower, and the crowd parted with rather more haste than it had for the previous entourage, as he and his handful of attendants made their way forward.
It was clear, as he approached, that unlike his predecessor, that Grimgower had no need of extremes of appearance to compensate for a lack of power — though it meant his appearance was extreme by choice alone, and Angharad wasn't sure that was better. Garbed in unornamented black, he was large-framed but thin, and his face was square and sharp-boned, eyes sunk into his skull, like those of something that had been dead for days. His brows and square, short beard were also black, his mouth a thin and forbidding line across his face. Magic was so thick around him his outlines were vague, and even when he stood at the very foot of the dais, his image was hazy, as though seen through smoke. But his deep-set eyes were sharply visible; a strange and unearthly golden color that almost glowed in the dark sockets. His gaze raked the length of her body and then met her eyes boldly, flaming and ravenous, and Angharad knew, instantly, that he was angry at not having been allowed to do so before.
A frisson of fear and revulsion shot up her spine, followed swiftly by hot fury. How dare he look at her with such unconcealed lust, here, in her very stronghold - how dare he even set foot upon this island, let alone think himself worthy of her? Almost she ordered him away without further pretense; her hands clenched upon the arms of the throne, her breath inhaled in a swift, impulsive preparation to speak the words...
She halted her thoughts abruptly, thinking. Imagine being offered to this creature if you were anyone else —without magic to protect you, without even the freedoms afforded the women of Llyr. Suppose.... suppose he did stay here, where he could be watched carefully, kept under control. It could save some poor woman of Prydain from being preyed upon by him. Probably, she thought, looking at him in disgust, many of them.
It would be a dangerous game, though. He had, clearly, not come with any intention of being submissive. She spoke no words of welcome, and he did not wait for them. "Princess," he announced, "I come to claim your hand, and declare myself willing to accept you as my wife."
A murmur of disbelief and outrage arose from the surrounding listeners, and Angharad raised a hand, fighting to maintain her outward calm. Beneath it, she studied him, with enraged intensity, but only said diffidently, "Oh, well, at least that's half the question settled."
Grimgower threw his head back, his arms folded, eyes glittering like a snake's. "Let us understand one another. The House of Llyr is well known for the powers of its enchantresses....and the willfulness of its daughters." His eyes appraised her again, dominating and possessive, as though she were a horse he would like to break. "Your line has ruled this island well enough — a small and paltry kingdom. Long has it lacked the balance that would make it stronger. I come not merely to apply to a position as consort, but to arrange an alliance of true power. For in my household, I am the only Master, and thus it will remain."
Regat made a movement at this, as though she were about to speak, and Angharad felt the air around them crackle, hot and dangerous. She laid a hand on her mother's arm, though her own heart was racing and her breath came short at the size of the offense being committed. He may as well have laid claim to the throne outright. Was he stark raving mad?
The noise in the room had risen to a furor of angry responses, and behind her she felt Eilwen and Arianrhod both seething. Angharad sat forward in her throne, glaring at him, her tone dripping with irony. "That sounds delightful. Yet have a care, Lord Grimgower," she added, in a voice that she barely kept from trembling with anger, "that you do not presume upon your welcome here."
His dark brows knit together in a mocking challenge. "Oh, no, Princess, I but offer you that which you need, and thus my welcome should be assured. It is you who should think more of your duty and less of your pleasure." His golden eyes blazed in triumph and she shivered. "Mistake me not. I know that the powers of Llyr are considerable, but they are incomplete. You marry enchanters in order to supplement those powers, to shore up your weaknesses, to protect your island. Is it not so?"
She made no answer, and he lowered his voice, so that his next words were caught only by those closest to the dais. "And I know by my own arts that you are in particular need of such an alliance at this time."
Thunderstruck, they all stared, for a moment unable to respond, and he pressed his advantage, sweeping his arms out in a possessive gesture. "Too long has this land languished, neglecting its full potential under the rule of only women. The sons born of our marriage will have powers beyond all others and will rule supreme throughout the land. The joining of our two houses—"
"Stop!' Angharad shouted, leaping to her feet. A sudden wave of nausea swept her and she swayed, and fought it down, while the audience roared in her ears. Eilwen, behind her, laid a firm hand on her shoulder, whispered something, and the wave passed. She raised her hands to quiet the crowd, and looked down at him with withering scorn. "You overstep, Master Grimgower, if you intended to bring us counsel on our reign, which was never requested, instead of the courtship that was. Houses do not marry, and there will be no joining of such, only the joining of my hand with yours or not, upon the terms we have established and no other. If that suits you, we may proceed."
His golden gaze quailed, just a little, but magic was thick and potent in the air and she dared not push him farther. Her mind raced, tumbling over itself; she had no time to consider all the implications, only knew that he was dangerous, and knew too much, and the sooner he was gone the better. Best to bring this business to a quick end. "Now," she said, seating herself once more, "either you do not know our history as well as you claim, or you are, perhaps, overly confident in your own virility." Another titter ran through the crowd and he flashed an expression of utter fury at her, quickly masked under controlled disdain. "If you can predict sons instead of daughters," she went on, "you are prophet indeed, with a will to rival the goddess herself. But since such cannot be proven under present circumstances, I suggest you demonstrate your skill some other way."
With a contemptuous sneer, Grimgower stepped back and flung his arms in the air, crying out in a strange and unpleasant language. There were screams from the crowd as the space around him was suddenly filled with a bevy of strange creatures, a nightmarish collection of monstrous apparitions. Teeth slavered; claws bared and clutched; strange appendages moved in horrible suggestive tremors. A few mouths spat flame, and a dozen pairs of soulless and baleful eyes fastened themselves upon the thrones.
Regat drew herself back in distaste and Angharad felt a crawling sensation, as though spiders made their way up her bare legs. But she masked her discomfort behind nonchalance. "Poor things," she said lightly, "they looked starved for their dinners. You ought to take better care of them. They need a good washing and brushing; I daresay they're all flea-ridden."
Grimgower's face flushed dark with anger at being so mocked. "These are no common enchantments," he growled, "but creatures shaped of my own dreams. I alone can summon them, and you shall not see their like in all the realm."
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she acknowledged. "They do look like the sort of things you would dream up. But I don't think we have much need for them here."
"What do you know of need?" the enchanter countered. "These do my bidding. None dare attack where they stand guard. You see this one?" He motioned toward one, a serpent-like creature with pale, pupil-less eyes. It slithered to his side, and twisted a forked tongue toward the thrones. "It can move nearly undetected, even into a stronghold, sowing fear, gathering knowledge, seeking out weakness. Armed with its information, you can protect and defend against assault, bring the guilty to justice, face the enemy knowing the battle is already won. Would you call this useless?"
Angharad frowned as the crowd around him muttered, the implications of his claim sinking into her with dread. But she waved it off with feigned casualness. "Useful it may be, in its way," she said, "but we have other methods, more agreeable, I think, for our purposes. As for the rest, I prefer our creatures, though of course they're quite ordinary things - rabbits and deer and badgers and such. But they're far more handsome than these, and no doubt have better tempers."
He glowered at her, and the darkness of his anger was heavy in the air; she felt the edge of it like a knife blade, ready to plunge, an open challenge. Next to her, Regat tensed, and the fire in the great hearth suddenly roared. Gods, no, they could not afford a scene, a magical clash right here, before all the people, endangering everyone...
Rhiannon, she pleaded silently, frantically, in desperation.
And suddenly the warm and fluid stillness at the back of her mind was a rising, swelling flood; it rushed out, in a wave of quelling and subduing peace, and beat back the invisible flames that had filled the air, quenching them, settling over the gathering. Across the Hall, the chattering voices hushed themselves, and as one the gathered throng breathed deep and looked at one another in calm and pleasant contentment. The hearth fire dimmed to a mere flicker, and upon the windowpanes, droplets of water condensed, beading out of the clear air and lining the glass like crystal.
Angharad sat back, dazed and a little shaken. Magic had never overwhelmed her so suddenly and completely before; she looked over the quiet throne room at the admiring gazes of her gathered subjects and knew that not one of them was even aware that anything at all had happened. She stole a glance at her mother, at her aunt. Regat, looking relieved, gave her a slow nod. Arianrhod's eyes were shut, her hand pressed over the full moon at her breast, and her lips moved silently, but her face glowed, radiant.
Grimgower was still standing before the dais. His creatures had disappeared, and he looked confused, as though he also were not quite sure what had happened, or how he had lost a battle that had never begun. He straightened up and met her eyes once more, resentment evident in his golden gaze, and she knew he would not be so easily disposed of, but at present he posed no further threat. She waved him curtly toward another seat next to Gildas, and he swept over and sat, with a disgusted glance at his rival.
And now she had come down to it. Angharad scanned the gathered assembly in despair, feeling that she were about to pronounce her own death sentence. She looked down at Gildas, whose bald head had nearly disappeared into the jeweled cowl of his cloak as he slumped. Intolerable. And he had no power that could possibly help them. Yet he at least posed no obvious danger, while Grimgower...Grimgower was an open threat. He knew things he should not, whatever his means, and his intentions were unacceptable, his manner repugnant. She shuddered at the thought of binding herself to such a man — even if it were to spare weaker women from him. Doing away with him entirely would solve that with less pain, and if he gave her an excuse...
She leaned toward Regat and whispered low, "Mother, by the gods, it's no choice at all. How can I possibly pick either of them? How can it be that there are no others? There has to be another way."
Regat shook her head, with a glance at the two men that did little to conceal her lack of enthusiasm. "I do not understand it," she admitted, "but you know quite well that there have been no—,"
There was a sudden commotion near the entryway, and a ripple of movement through the crowd. Caradoc elbowed his way through and approached the dais, bowing. Regat motioned him forward. His face was calm with practiced control, but his eyes gleamed. "Your Majesty," he murmured, "there is another."
Angharad and Regat both gaped at him in most unregal astonishment. Regat recovered first. "Who is he? From where?"
"He would give no name," the Chief Steward whispered urgently, "but he performed some small feats at the gate, and begged to be allowed to apply for the Princess's favor. And if I may, Majesty, from what I saw..." he glanced at Angharad, a rarely-displayed excitement evident in his mien, "I recommend he be admitted."
Regat looked quizzically at him, and then turned to Angharad. "It is your decision, daughter."
Angharad sat back, with a strange and rather unpleasant thrill. She wanted nothing more than for it all to be over, to choose her doom and be done with it, end this charade and then decide how to live with the consequences. And now, some fly-by-night enchanter who could not even be bothered to show up until it was almost too late wanted to prolong the matter? She looked at Caradoc's gleaming eyes with a growing sense of disquiet. What had he seen? Perhaps the new one was young and handsome...or at least, a comparatively decent man...she gulped, and realized, suddenly, that she was afraid.
Because, somehow, it would almost be worse, to wed someone she could...tolerate.
If she could loathe her husband with sincerity, she could remain faithful to Geraint in her heart at least. But to treat a good man so, cold and distant for the innocent crime of not being someone else...it would be cruelty. If she could not hate him she would hate herself, and in the end she would be as broken and love-starved as her mother.
She almost refused, took a breath to do it, but another wave of nausea swept her, and she turned swiftly away as if to think, covering her mouth with one hand. Eilwen, alert, pushed a cup at her, and she sipped quietly, sought the peace of that inner dark space that had saved her once already, breathed into it until the wave passed. What do I do?
She wanted to weep again, but the eyes of the assembly were upon her. These people who looked to her; they were why she was still here to begin with, and it was for them that she made this choice at all. What good had it been, staying for duty, if she failed them now? Suppose this third enchanter really could serve, had powers that might actually be of use, to protect the island, to help them?
"Angharad?" Regat intoned quietly.
Angharad screwed her eyes shut, her heart bursting. Geraint. Forgive me for this.
"I've put up with this pair," she sighed, opening her eyes, carefully feigning indifference, "so I suppose a third can hardly be more tiresome. Show him in."
Caradoc turned and made a signal toward the door. The musicians, caught off guard, made no fanfare. Once again the crowd parted, slowly and with little ceremony, for this man came alone, without attendants. As he came closer Angharad saw that he was cloaked and hooded, his face concealed.
She caught her breath, as a spark like slow lightning trickled over her scalp, down her arms, into her fingertips. This was familiar. In the scry, ages ago, it seemed — this man had appeared, a cloaked figure standing in a crowded Great Hall, a magic shape between his fingertips. She closed her eyes and tried to recall it, the image —the triple spiral, the thing that haunted all their visions, the symbol of the Dagrau Rhiannon...
Her heart raced, and then a gasp of recognition from her sister rose above the murmurs of the crowd, and she opened her eyes — to see Geraint, standing at the foot of the dais, his hood thrown back and his blue eyes shining at her like every star that ever reflected in the surface of the open sea.