Geraint was afraid, for a moment, that he had made a mistake.
Angharad flushed crimson and then went deathly white; she gripped the arms of her throne so hard that her knuckles made blue shadows against her pale skin. She made one sharp sound, a cry of surprise, quickly cut short and strangled away, and then shut her mouth tightly, in a trembling line, a sluice gate against a bursting flood. Her eyes blazed at him, emerald fire, drowning in unshed tears. She looked as though she might faint, a thing it had never even occurred to him she might be capable of. For several eternal seconds, within the whispering, expectant silence of the Hall, he captured her gaze, willing her, with all his might, to be strong enough to bear the shock. If eyes were arms, he could not have held her any more tightly.
He knew it was a terrible way to spring his return upon her. He, at least, had been able to prepare himself, an advantage that she had not.
He had watched, from his place in the back of the Hall, flanked by the two guards hurriedly assigned to him after his impassioned encounter with the skeptical Chief Steward; he had gazed about, sizing up the space and the crowd, mentally going over his plan and trying not to feel overwhelmed by the grandeur of his surroundings.
He'd been in castles before, after all; some grander, some not. Caer Color was undeniably impressive; it was no Caer Dathyl as far as its size or intimidating defenses, but there was something more beautiful about it, something foreign and more delicate in its ornamentation. Distractedly, he took in the arched masonry, the tapestries, the colorfully-tiled floor, the heavy and ornately-carved furnishings, and wondered, with a pang, what he had ever been thinking. This was Angharad's home. How could he have ever dreamed, even in his wildest, most impulsive moments, that she could leave all this for him?
And then the royal family had entered, and he had seen nothing else but her.
Even from his distance of the end of the Hall, even among the color and splendor of her attendant family and its legendary beauty, she shone like a sun among stars, gowned in the colors of a sunset sky, turquoise to coral to crimson, in a fabric that shimmered like light on water. Gems flashed at her girdle and breast, adorned her bare arms, crowned her proud head. Her hair was dressed in elaborate coils, twisted and pinned to tumble its bright waves down her back. She moved with formal grace, and something caught and clawed at his throat as an unbidden image of her rose to his mind: half-dressed, laughing, hair streaming wild, running and splashing through surf in coltish and wild abandon. She was a different creature altogether now, almost alien to him. All around him, murmurs of admiration and devotion rose from the assembly, and he held his breath to prevent the cry that wanted to burst from his lips - whether it were at joy in the sight of her, or despair at the distance now between them, he did not know.
He had watched, in impotent fury, the presentations of Gildas and Grimgower, and in amazement and mounting glee as Angharad had matched them both. She was all goddess now; he recognized her: glorious and ruthless, utterly untouchable; was she always thus, here in this room, on that throne? The first man was pitiable before her. The second was dangerous - even Geraint could see that, with no need of magical enhancements, and he wanted to rush forward and challenge them both, like a fool, as though his desire to sink his fist into each of their faces would be any match for whatever spells they might cast. It would do no good, he reminded himself angrily, to pretend to himself that he was here to compete against them. The truth would be clear to everyone soon enough, and he could only hope to pass off his information before his deception was uncovered.
His heart had hammered as the Chief Steward approached the dais and whispered to the queen, at whom, in his distraction, Geraint had neglected to look. Now he examined her, with nervous curiosity, this woman of whom Angharad had spoken with such ambivalence, who ruled her own daughter with less lenience, it had sometimes seemed, than she ruled her island.
Regat was, even seated, clearly a tall woman, fuller-figured and larger-framed than Angharad. She was robed in vivid crimson, her dark head crowned in gold, and even from this distance the weight of her physical presence was evident. She moved with slow and deliberate poise as though every gesture was planned in advance; the look of surprise she turned upon the Steward was almost jolting in its incongruity with her controlled features. Geraint saw her scan the crowd as if to pick him out, and found himself shrinking away, glad of his hooded cloak.
Further than that, he had no time to consider; Angharad had said something, the queen nodded, and the Steward was waving to him. He had gulped, patted the various pockets and pouches distributed about his person for assurance, muttered a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening, and stepped forward.
And now he stood before them all, a fool about to reveal himself, but the bearer of that which he could not have gotten to Angharad in any other way. He saw, in the corner of his eye, that Regat had stiffened and leaned forward, and he felt the hot intensity of her gaze, a familiar impression, one he knew well from a different quarter, and elected not to meet lest he lose all his nerve. He glanced up, swiftly, took in the astonished expressions of Eilwen and Arianrhod, who both looked as if they were not sure whether to be ecstatic or dismayed. The High Priestess had her hand pressed over her heart as though she might be keeping it from bursting through her ribs, and her lips moved soundlessly. Eilwen flashed him a shadow of her cheeky grin, rather desperately, and he returned his attention to Angharad.
She seemed to rally, darting a sidelong look at the queen, so brief it was almost nothing, and drew herself up, the color returning to her face. She regarded him with austerity, tossed her head and spoke. "Well, sir. I trust you have a reason for your tardiness. Nearly missing this presentation is no way to make a first impression."
Geraint let his breath out slowly, holding her eyes. "Indeed, milady, I have every reason, for my journey has been long, and fraught with peril. But the moment I heard of your request, I vowed to come and offer my suit to you, and so, as you see, I let nothing keep me from it."
Her gaze filled with understanding, and her voice nearly bubbled with suppressed joy. "An admirable perseverance, then. But from where have you traveled, that the journey should be so arduous?"
"From everywhere," he answered, warming to the game, "from the mountains and forests of your fair eastern neighbor, from the black cliffs and coastlines of your island. I have walked the secret hollows and perilous paths of the Fair Ones themselves, charming them with my enchantments and living to tell the wondrous tale. But at first," he added, as though it were an afterthought, "I come from Gellau, at the foot of the mountains of Idris. I am Geraint son of Durhaim, and I have journeyed here to win the hand of the Princess of Llyr."
A murmur of approval rose from the surrounding crowd, and he sensed, with the perception of long experience, the gathering in of the attention of his onlookers. It prickled at his scalp, and nudged at the back of his neck.
Angharad tapped her fingertips on her throne and waited for the murmurs to die away. She was smiling faintly, face flushed, eyes aglow. "Well, then, Master Geraint. By what enchantments do you mean to court us?"
He returned the smile deftly. "Why, Princess, by none at all. Does a man court a woman with sorcery?" For the first time he glanced at the two men who sat at the foot of the dais, both of them staring at him in open-mouthed consternation. He shrugged at them and returned his attention to the princess. "It seems to me he must court her with love."
"Boldly spoken," she replied, flush deepening, "but how shall you do so?"
"As a man to a woman," he answered quietly, knowing it was futile, but somehow, against all reason, hoping anyway, "and may you answer me freely, as a woman to a man."
Angharad made a sound like a laugh and a sob mixed together, and seemed on the verge of crying out something more. The queen made a sudden movement and Geraint realized she was staring at him with no less intensity than her daughter, though her expression was more amazement than joy. She also looked about to speak, but before anyone could, an indignant shout arose from his right, and Gildas stumbled forward, inserting himself between Geraint and the thrones. "Your Majesty," he sputtered, "I must protest."
"And I," Grimgower broke in, following him, stepping directly in front of Geraint, breaking off his view. "All enchanters who come to court the princess are obliged to prove their skills. So states your law, and so I and this," he indicated Gildas with a sneer, "were required to do. Fine words may woo a woman's heart, but they will not protect your land if there is no power behind them; let him prove his prowess, as we did."
Geraint stepped to the side, out of his shadow, and saw that Angharad had paled again, her smile fading. He raised his hands, as though to calm unruly children. "Gently, my colleagues. I would not presume an advantage, and my claim was not made of empty words. Pray put your minds at ease, sit down and watch, and you shall know my skills. All of you," he added, turning once more to the throne, nodding assurance at Angharad with more confidence than he felt, "shall know my skills. Listen, children of Llyr!"
Heart pounding, mouth dry, he turned to the assembly, opening his arms wide, as though to encompass them all in an embrace. Silence fell, thick and expectant, and he took a long breath, falling into the control and pattern he knew, tuning his voice to its most compelling, so that he had no need to shout.
"Listen, and I shall tell you a story. The story of Llyr, of the love that spanned the sea, that built an island, that birthed a nation, that still beats in the heart of its people."
The people whispered and jostled one another to see him. Torches on the walls flickered as one, and the very boundaries of the room seemed to loom in toward him. The world held its breath, and Geraint reached into his cloak, and clutched the crescent pendant that rested over his breast. Rhiannon, he thought, if you are listening...
...now.
Once, in a land far away, a land across the sea, surrounded by sea, surrendered to sea, a country touched by magic and moonlight, a king ruled alone.
Llyr was his name, and he ruled alone, for nowhere could he find a woman whom his heart could call home, to set beside him as his queen. Though his people were happy and the land was prosperous, their hearts were troubled at the the loneliness of their king, and through all the kingdom and neighboring lands, his advisors searched for a bride for him. But though there were many maidens of surpassing beauty, and many of wit, such that he enjoyed their company and conversation, none touched his heart. He tried to settle upon first one and then another, but he had no peace in the choice, and finally despaired of his own heart, wondering if it were even possible to satisfy its longing.
At last, Llyr sought an answer in vision, after making such sacrifice as would oblige the fates to respond. And in the night, when the moon was as round and ripe as the fruit at harvest, he dreamed a dream more vivid and real than any he had ever known.
In his dream, Llyr saw a rich green land, full of golden sunlight, where summer reigned warm and joyous all the year long, a land where dwelt the children of gods. Beautiful they were, untouched by age or death, golden-headed and clear-eyed, and in his dream he walked among them. Yet though he stood out for his raven hair and dark eyes, as different from them as night from day, no one paid him any heed, as though they could not see him, and neither did any hear his greetings, or answer his questions.
He walked in this strange land for what seemed many hours, and found it ever fairer, its verdant hills thick with rainbows of flowers, its forests teeming with game of all kinds, its fields filled with sleek livestock, its villages with laughing children. Tempted to tarry, he journeyed on and knew not why, until on a high hill in the distance he beheld a castle with towers that gleamed as though fashioned of pure gold.
Drawn by the sight of this wonder, he followed the yearning in his own heart, until he came to the gates. They stood open, for the people of this land feared no invader, and he strode in unhindered. Many chambers he passed through, filled with wealth and riches and wonders beyond imagining, such that would make this tale go on for eternity to describe them, but never did he turn aside to right or left, nor lay his hand upon any treasure. For as the robin flies to the south every year, or as the iron is drawn to the lodestone, so he was drawn upward and inward, to the heart of the fortress, without knowing why.
He found there a tower, taller than all the rest, and his feet flew as though they bore wings, up the stair in its long spiral, that led him to a chamber at its height. He entered there, and beheld a woman, seated at the window, spinning golden thread.
Unlike all the others in the dream, she looked upon him, and rose from her wheel to greet him as though she felt no surprise at his coming, as though she had expected him.
She was fair as the morning, almost too brilliant to look upon, with the red-gold kiss of fire in her hair, and a light in her eyes as warm as sunlight. As they conversed there, together, Llyr found his delight, for she was as full of life and laughter as she was of wit and wisdom, and before an hour had passed he knew that she and no other would hold his heart forever.
But as the king knelt before her to beg her to wed, she faded from his sight, and he awoke in his bed alone, and wept at the loss of that he had barely known.
From that day forward Llyr, though a young man, hale and strong, was as an empty shell. His advisors despaired, and the kingdom mourned, for despite many inquiries, no one knew where the fair country and the golden castle were to be found, or whether such a place even existed in any place but the king's dream. In their grief the people abandoned their work and their play; their plows stood idle and fields fallow, and in their temples no incense burned, and finally Rhiannon came down from her path through the heavens, to learn what could be amiss with her people.
"My son," she asked the king, for so he was, "what is this grief I see upon you? This heart-emptiness that spreads among the people like a sickness?"
He told her of his dream, of the woman who held his heart, and her own heart sank, for she knew at once who it was, and the heartbreak her son had arranged for himself. "Alas, my Llyr," she mourned, "that you would fall in love with the fair daughter of the sun. For so she is; the golden castle is that which Belin, my brother, built for his children, the sons and daughters of Don his consort, in the fair Summer Country where they dwell. She is his eldest, Penarddun, the fairest of all and apple of his eye, and never will he consent to allow her to leave his country to wed you and live so far away, not though you could offer her all your kingdom."
"Mother," the king answered, "so you say. Yet I beseech you to ask Lord Belin for his daughter's hand. Surely, your own brother will not refuse, for love of you."
"There is love and there is love," Rhiannon replied, but her son would not be gainsaid, for his heart was no longer his own, and so at last, Rhiannon brought the suit to her brother. Thus the moon and the sun conversed together, so that the light of both was blotted out, and noontime turned to dusk, and the people trembled in fear.
Lord Belin, as Rhiannon had predicted, would hear no word of his beloved daughter leaving her family for a strange kingdom. "It is your land," he told his sister, "and fair enough it is, for you and yours, who love the cool darkness and the depths of the waters all around. But it is no place for a daughter of mine, accustomed to the warmth of an everlasting summer, and I will not have her leave her people to dwell so far away, nor live in the mortal realm where her days will be cut short."
Rhiannon pleaded with him, for the sake of her son's happiness, until he grew angry and swore an oath. "When your son moves earth and sea aside," he said, "to bring his kingdom nearer, then will he have my daughter as bride. Until then, let me hear no more, or else, my sister, our affection will suffer for it."
The goddess, in her grief and anger, shed one tear, salt water mingled of moonlight and starlight, as precious as the most rare jewel in all the world. She caught it, kept it safe, and bore it back to her son Llyr, along with the answer she had been given. He would have despaired, but Rhiannon only said, "Wait."
And taking her precious tear, by her power and secret arts she clove it into thirds. Three tears, three gems full of light, each one as the next, whole and perfect, yet separate. They are the tears of the goddess, Dagrau Rhiannon — once one, now sundered, always yearning to be one again.
One gem, Rhiannon kept for herself. The second she bound in a crown of silver, and placing it on the brow of Llyr her son, she bade him build a ship that could cross the vastness of the sea. The third she placed in his hand, to keep safe. "For what purpose, this last?" he asked her.
And again, Rhiannon said, "Wait."
Llyr set his people to the building of the great ship. As they of his land knew the sea as they knew their own names, it was done, such a vessel as had never been seen, as beautiful as a great pearl upon the waters, filled with provision to last a long journey, and crewed by the finest seamen in the land. Before the year's end, it was done, and after blessing his people, the king sailed away.
Rhiannon sent forth her sacred birds, white doves, swift of wing and tireless, to guide the ship. They flew over waters smooth and swift, for Llyr had been born of sea and moonlight, and the waters obeyed his command, and drew his boat onward even when no wind filled her sails. The king stood in the prow, with his dark eyes always turned north. The gem on his brow shone like a star, and he clasped the third in his hand, and wondered what would come of it.
And a year and a day passed as though they were nothing, though each day seemed long of itself, and at last the sharp-eyed seamen sighted land - an island, they said; fair and green, with a cove to make safe harbor. There were but few inhabitants on it, a magical race and ancient, who welcomed the king and his ship, for he was courteous and generous, and rewarded them richly for allowing him to land there. And the islanders called him Half-Speech, for he spoke their tongue oddly, and they promised him and his people refuge there for as long as they desired it.
Then came forth the king, the night of the first full moon, to the edge of the island, looking south toward the land he had sailed from. "Rhiannon, my mother," he cried, "I have done your bidding, and now what remains?"
She answered him in the roar of the tides, in the breath of the wind off the sea. "Take you the jewel upon your brow," she instructed, "and the jewel in your hand, and place them in the manner I will show you."
And he did thus, in a secret sign, and there he performed such magic as is known only to the ancients. And the two gems, thus arrayed, so called to the third, so yearned to be united again, that the very earth and sea between them moved of themselves. The sea swept itself aside, and the vast space between the homeland of Llyr and the new island was made as nothing, as mist, as a step through a gate, and through that gate came the people of Llyr, those he had left behind to sail away. In wonder and fear and great joy they came, as the king bade them, crossing through the mist in twos and threes, and then in scores and more. For long they came, until the entire kingdom of Llyr had crossed over, bringing their possessions, their flocks, their young and their old. And then the king took up the gems, and the gate was shut.
Rhiannon called to her brother Belin to go and see what had been wrought. "Behold," she told him, "my son has moved earth and sea aside, and nearer is his kingdom. He has fulfilled your terms, and you must keep your vow."
Then wroth was Belin, and the sun scorched the land, and there was drought in many places, but having spoken the words of his vow, he could not call them back to himself. The House of Don mourned, and the Sons of Don grumbled against Llyr and Rhiannon, and would have fought for their sister until not one was left standing. But Penarddun herself, when she heard that which had been promised, went to her father.
"Be not loath, my father," she begged him, "to grant me to wed. For two years past, I beheld a vision of a dark-eyed king, who came to my chamber, enchanted, like a man in a dream. He was handsome, courteous, kind, and clever, and never has an afternoon passed so delightfully as the one I spent in his company. I believed we were of one mind and heart, but just as he seemed about to declare so, he vanished away like mist. I despaired of seeing him again, and I wept alone, and could not be comforted, nor could I explain to anyone the reason for my grief, for the tale was as madness, a thing unheard of. Yet now I know, without doubt, it was this Llyr, and my heart belongs to him already."
"Alas, my bright one, fairest daughter," Belin replied, "for this love is your doom. Although Llyr is the son of my sister, and the blood of the gods runs in his veins, his kingdom is a mortal one. If you leave this country of mine, you will be as he. Age will steal away your beauty, and death will take you at last, and you will break the hearts of your family."
"My father," Penarddun answered him, "if you forbid me to join him for the sake of your grief, know that you will lose me nonetheless. For my heart will perish within me, and I will be nought but a fair and empty vessel, without even the blessing of death to be released from my grief."
Her father saw that he had no choice, and granted his permission. Lord Belin and Lady Don formed from their powers a great treasure: the golden Pelydryn, the little sun, a wedding gift for their daughter — to shine for her in the darkness, and brighten her spirit in the midst of so much that would be strange and alien to her.
So the Daughter of the Sun wed the Son of the Moon, and the children of darkness and light were joined together. Joy and sadness mingled as one, for Penarddun, after all, wept at leaving her home and her family. But happily the king and queen reigned, and bore children, and their love blessed the land, for it bloomed with color and health and life, and the people prospered and multiplied in abundance. And their neighbors called them the Sea People, for they seemed to have risen directly out of the waters.
Yet the island's first inhabitants grumbled, as time went on. "This land was ours," they said, "and now we are pressed back and back, with less and less to call our own. Would that we had refused to harbor this king when he first arrived on these shores, and that we had never promised him refuge."
Word reached Llyr of their grievance, and he was troubled, for though they were few, they were of a powerful race, and he did not wish to cross them. Nor did he, as some kings, always covet more land and power, for the sea supplied all the abundance his people required, and he remained always mindful that he had moved his kingdom to a land that was not their own. So he held council with the ancient race who had welcomed him, and conferred together with their king. Together they agreed that a portion of the island should be set aside, never to be inhabited by the people of Llyr, and there the ancient ones could live unmolested, in any way that pleased them. To show his goodwill, seeing that these folk loved jewels of every kind, Llyr gave to their king the third gem, one of the precious Dagrau Rhiannon, as a token of his gratitude for the welcome and refuge given to his people.
The King of these ancients knew at once the great value of the jewel, and swore that it would be protected, and honored the House of Llyr from that day forward.
Years passed, and the two sons and two daughters of Llyr and Penarddun grew fair and strong. And though his years were well beyond the span of mortal men, at last the king passed on to the next world, and queen and his people mourned him, and even the ancient folk came to pay him honor. Their king, remembering their friendship, allowed Llyr's barrow to be placed within the space set apart for them, that it would be safe from any thieves. For King Llyr was buried with the gem of Rhiannon still set into his crown, as the queen knew that its power, if set in the highest place, would help to protect the island from invaders.
Yet tragedy befell it from within. Before the king was cold in his tomb, the sons of Llyr began to quarrel over who would rule after him. Their quarrels turned to fights, and the fights to battles, and the battles to a war, and the land was torn asunder in their violence, and the women and children wept, as did Rhiannon herself, to see her people turn brother against brother, until the slain were piled together, and the waters of the fair island ran red with their blood.
And finally the sons of Llyr, in their lust for power, crossed into the land not meant for them, and despoiled their father's tomb in search of the gem, in hope that he who possessed it could use its power in his own favor. In their rage and madness they desecrated the body of Llyr, but they found nothing, for the ancient ones bewitched them, and set false visions before their eyes. The two slew one another, and the war was ended, but the gem was safe.
Penarddun the queen, when her grief had abated, summoned the king of the ancient ones to thank him for his people's service, and they made an alliance, that the barrow of the Llyr should be a sacred place, both for her people and his. They surrounded it by great sentinels, and set up a guard so dreadful and powerful that the mortals of Llyr dared not cross the boundary, and indeed, were forbidden so to do. And so would the gem be safeguarded.
And the rest, you children of Llyr, you know, how the Daughters of Llyr banned the names of his sons from their mouths and their history, and how they have ruled his land, from mother to daughter, now through many long generations. Long has this country prospered in peace, and now you know why. For it was a land born of love, and blessed of Rhiannon, and to this day she watches over it. The spirit of Llyr rests upon it in the tides of the sea, the blood of Llyr runs through the veins of its people, and the body of Llyr sleeps in peace in the sacred place among the stones.
And what of the Dagrau Rhiannon? The first gem still rests on the breast of the goddess, as all can see, for it shines near the horn of the new moon on dark nights, the fairest star in the heavens.
As for the others, only the ancient ones know what has become of them.
"And thus," rang out into the stillness, "is my story ended, and my magic finished."
Silence. Geraint waited, his arms lowered, his breath gone, heart pounding.
And then, like a wave, a roar rose up from the throats of the assembly, swept through the Hall and crested and peaked and crashed even to the crowd assembled in the courtyard, who had passed along every word as it had been spoken, and described what was witnessed within. Feet stamped and hands clapped in a raucous crescendo of approval, and cries of his own name echoed off the walls in a chorus.
He turned to the dais. The Daughters of Llyr stood as though frozen, stunned, in various attitudes mixed of wonder, revelation, fear, and hope. He feared to look too closely at the queen. He saw only Angharad's face, radiant as a diamond, as she smiled upon him through freely streaming tears.
Without thought, on impulse, he held out his arms to her, and she rose from her throne to run to him, but a commotion from the foot of the dais interrupted. Grimgower again thrust himself between them, his dark face livid, golden eyes flashing. "What trickery is this?"the enchanter demanded, facing the queen. "He used no sorcery known to me or to any magician. These were mere illusions, no magic at all — he is an imposter, a false enchanter. Your Majesty should cast him out!'
"Cast him out!" Gildas was puffing up behind, his jowls quivering. "Nay, he should be imprisoned for such deception! He has tried to dupe us. I heard no spells, no proper charms or incantations. An upstart and pretender with no power dares vie for the hand of the princess? This is a hoax, my ladies! He is a mere juggler!"
Geraint stepped away from them as the crowd gasped, and the cries of approval and joy turned to angry and outraged shouts for the two bested suitors to hold their peace. Their support brought him little comfort, though it was something; he knew well enough that none of his illusions could have fooled anyone of actual magical ability. But, for a moment, during his performance...it had almost seemed real.
Whether it were the magic of the story itself, or the gravity of the moment, the touch of Angharad's eyes upon him, or the touch of the Fair Folk lingering upon him, he had felt it. The white doves of Rhiannon, flying across the sea...the flowers that bloomed upon the fertile island, blessed with love and life...the gem glittering among the stars...his hands had never moved so fluidly, so effortlessly, and though he had practiced and planned most of the previous night, and knew exactly how each illusion was accomplished, even he had...for those few magical moments...believed. And he knew that his audience, their hearts captured by their own story, saw what he wanted them to see, and believed, also.
But now it was ended.
Angharad had begun to protest, but Regat held up a hand, and the crowd also fell into silence. The queen turned her severe gaze upon him and he met her eyes, finally, and found that he held no terror of her, after all, for behind the severity lay not the anger he anticipated, but regret, and a great gulf of sadness.
"You have heard these accusations, Geraint of Gellau," she said quietly. "Are they true?"
He saw Angharad make a halting, desperate motion from the corner of his eye, but he did not break his gaze from the queen's. "Yes," he answered. There was a collective sigh of dismay and disbelief in the Hall, and he raised his voice above it. "It is altogether true, Your Majesty. Sorcery is not my birthright, and I have no inborn power. What you saw, I fashioned myself. The doves of Rhiannon were bits of white parchment. The flowers, dry grass and tinted leaves. The stars were a handful of bright pebbles." He drew various of such from his cloak and pockets, displayed them in his open hands. "I only helped you imagine these things to be more than what they are. If this pleased you for a few moments, I could ask nothing better."
Regat sat silent, as though she weighed her choices heavily. "You have skill, of a kind," she acknowledged finally, "and we do not deny it. But daring to come here in the guise of an enchanter?"
Angharad made another involuntary motion, and Geraint broke the queen's gaze to hold the princess in his eyes instead. For just a moment she was the only one there, and his heart swelled with so much truth that it could not help welling up from his lips. "To win Angharad's hand," he said, low, "I would dare much more than that."
More murmurs of approval, even a few sentimental sighs, swept through the Hall. Regat surveyed the crowd gravely and spoke slowly, as though she would rather do anything else. "Even so, my daughter has chosen you in vain."
Angharad burst out then, crying, "No!" and he saw that Eilwen had been holding her back by the shoulders, but she broke free and actually stepped away, down from her throne and turned to face Regat. "Any other choice would be vain," she gasped, throwing her arms out wide, as though she would address the crowds, the throne, the gods themselves. "From whence come our powers? What is magic, but an inherited trait, bestowed for nothing but chance upon the unworthy and worthy alike? These two were born with their abilities, and have used them for nothing but vanity and selfish gain." She dismissed Gildas and Grimgower with a wave of her hand, then motioned toward Geraint. "Yet this man Geraint has earned his skills, and amazed us all, with tales we ourselves had forgotten. He has enspelled and bewitched this entire room with the magic of his words alone. And you would call this false?" She turned to look at him, her eyes full, and held out her hand to him.
"He is," she said, "the only true enchanter."
Geraint took her hand and clasped it, his heart in pieces. He knew that look, that tone, the quiet authority, and knew, somehow, that it could command thousands.
And knew, also, that here...it was not enough.