Angharad stood frozen at the door of the Great Hall, unable to believe in what she saw.
Bodies were strewn upon the floor, courtiers and half-a-dozen armored guards, like so many finely-dressed dolls carelessly dropped by a child called away to other pursuits. Among them lay the jeweled forms of Gildas and his attendants. From without the grand entrance came the sound of beating upon the doors, but they were barred, and before them, quivering like delirium, stood one of the nightmare-creatures of Grimgower's creation, its leathery wings spread out, barring any further exit or entrance from that direction.
But it was not at the death around them that she and her family stared, after their initial moment of horrified comprehension. Their focus was bent upon the dais, where Grimgower himself sat upon the throne, his gaunt face suffused, his golden eyes gleaming with a wild light of triumph. At his right, hovering like a black bird of prey, stood Achren.
"Ah." The dark enchanter raised an imperious hand, as if to beckon them all in. "My bride approaches. Welcome, Daughters of Llyr, to my new—,"
What else he meant to say they never knew. Even as he spoke, Regat strode into the Hall. Stepping over a prone body on the floor, her crimson gown streaming behind her like a river of fire, she raised her arms, calling out words Angharad had never heard. A sudden flash filled the entire room with blinding light; there was a crash, and Grimgower, engulfed in blue flame, crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, tumbling to the foot of the dais. The monstrous apparition at the door gave a single unearthly shriek and dissolved into nothing. Geraint, who had followed upon the women's heels, gripped Angharad by the shoulders and cried out in shock; she instinctively spread her arms wide, shielding him, her mind blank with horror.
Achren made no movement of either surprise or dismay; she looked down at the dead body of the enchanter and raised one dark brow in eloquent disdain. "Efficiently done," she declared, "and certainly not what he expected."
"What is this treachery?" Regat thundered, stepping toward her. The air crackled with residual magic, sparking, ready to break out once more, but Achren raised a white hand.
"It is not what it appears," she said. "He was a tool of Arawn, come to insinuate himself into your court. I sensed it today, during the presentation, but could get no word to you."
They all gasped, and Eilwen clutched Angharad's hand. Regat regarded Achren suspiciously. "Sensed it how?"
"I know the taste of his magic well enough," Achren answered, stepping down from the dais, "even from my chambers. The spell that killed those assembled here was one of Arawn's. Your guards also lie dead or senseless, all throughout the castle, thanks to his creatures. But this fool would not have been capable of so much, without help." She spurned the man aside with her foot as she passed, and surveyed the rest of those gathered, her icy eyes glittering. "I regret that I could not stop him from what he wrought here," she said flatly, "Without any of you near, I could work no magic to prevent it. But he was vain, and easily tempted, and I made him believe I had come to assist him." Her lip curled scornfully. "He was eager to proclaim his triumph to any who would listen, intending to hold you all hostage in the Hall until the princess agreed to his suit. No subtlety at all. He underestimated you, but....he had his uses."
Her gaze rested upon Geraint, openly keen. "He told me a most...interesting tale, before you arrived."
Angharad moved in front of him, intercepting Achren's line of sight, terror flooding her to the fingertips, filling her with certainty: Achren lied. "Whatever he told you," she said, in a desperate growl, "was no concern of yours." She turned to Regat in appeal, trembling. "Mother, please. Grimgower may have been her tool, as much as Arawn's, and think on how long he has been here, how much trouble he might have caused in that time, unbeknownst to us. Have we not had enough of these secrets? Of dealing in dark magic? Is it not past time to send her away?"
Regat took a breath, but it was Achren's voice, rising in a wave of cold laughter, that answered, cutting off the queen. "Clever child," she said, "you cannot send me away, not if you wish to keep your land safe. Look what has been done here already, because I could not warn you in time." She motioned around to the dead strewn about, and then indicated Geraint with a wave of her arm. "But now, thanks to this charming creature and his fantastic tale, you know what Arawn wants. He will not rest until he has it."
"Destroying the island will not help him acquire it," Arianrhod said, clear and quiet. Achren glanced at her scornfully.
"So I understand," she said, "and so must he, by now — I assure you he will have had ways of communicating with his spy." She motioned dismissively to the dead Grimgower. "So he will try other ways. Without me here to recognize him, to reveal his manipulation when it occurs, how will you know? Of course, you do have another choice — to use this thing for yourselves. If it protects the island from invasion simply by existing, think what it could do in your hands."
"In your hands, you mean," Eilwen spat, and Achren's face twitched.
"My hands are tied still," she pointed out. "Have I not kept your mother's terms? Send me away at your peril, for if I go, I take my protection with me, along with what I know - information that others might find excessively interesting. And should I meet my doom elsewhere, your land will suffer in kind."
"That is an intolerable connection," Regat declared, "and well you know it; too high a price for your assistance, which we no longer require." Her dark eyes flashed dangerously. "Break it."
Achren's crimson lips parted in a triumphant snarl. "In exchange for what?"
"Mother," Angharad gasped. Regat turned and looked at her, and in her mother's face she read utter despair. They were hemmed in, hands tied, every possible escape route broken and blocked. To give Achren what she wanted would mean death for untold thousands; to fight her would bring destruction to the island.
"What you want is impossible, Achren," Arianrhod broke in, a last attempt. "The power you seek, we cannot access. It is forbidden, protected by an alliance with creatures more powerful than any of us."
"You mistake me," Achren retorted. "I have no interest in these jewels." She swept past the High Priestess without deigning to look at her. "Your goddess abandoned and then spurned me long ago. She cared nothing for my tears. What are hers to me? I need no such trinkets, when I already have a treasure here, far beyond their worth." With the dangerous grace of a predatory animal, she stalked toward and stood before Angharad, her blue eyes hard as stone. "And I will protect it — from Arawn, and all others."
Angharad stumbled back, panicked, until she collided with Geraint, standing behind her. His chest was warm at her back and his arms went around her instantly, protective, but she felt no comfort, only a nauseous certainty. Achren knew.
She knew.
In a flash of fluttering robes, a silken sweep of black hair, Eilwen darted between them, shielding her sister. She hissed out a curse, impulsive and poorly-aimed; it crackled on the air and Achren, though taken by surprise, deflected it, unharmed. But the moment she raised her arms there was a loud crack, a movement in the ground beneath them, and the floor trembled. The pounding at the doors of the Hall halted, replaced by cries of fear, panicked shouts, loud crashes and crumbling.
Regat, broken from her paralyzing despair, swept between her daughters and Achren in a crimson fury. And then the room was filled with shouted words, waves of magic that singed and flooded its way through earth and stone and air to collide and clash in their midst. Shattered timbers and masonry, caught in the side effects, crashed to the floor. Scarlet streaked in the swirl of robes, in the flash of flame, in a slashing spill of blood from somewhere, and the screams from without were drowned out in the tumult from within. Angharad stood rooted to the spot; she felt the gathering force of water, pressing in, seeking its target, and realized why, all at once: Achren had broken the terms of her agreement, and now the sea, from leagues away, sought her with all its pounding fury. It was driving against the channels beneath the earth, the weaknesses that were already present, and the fissures would not last long against its inexorable strength.
Eilwen suddenly plowed into her, breaking her concentration. Her sister, white-faced and wild-eyed, pushed her frantically backward toward the rear door of the Hall. "Get out of here, you idiots," she rasped, "run. It's you she wants. Wait, take this." She pushed the spell book into Angharad's arms. "keep it safe. We'll hold her off."
Angharad gripped the book in one hand and grappled with her. "Run where? I don't know what to—,"
"I don't either," Eilwen cried, her voice breaking in a desperate sob, "but you've got to go. We'll find you later, after...I don't...Llyr, just go!"
She shook off Angharad's clinging, grabbed Geraint by the shoulders and shoved him after her, and turned back into the chaos of smoke and fire and magic.
Angharad stood in an agony of indecision, but Geraint took her wrist and pulled her through the door and into the hallway. "Come," he urged, "how do we get out?"
"I cannot leave them," she gasped, "I've got to help."
He pushed her back against the wall, forced her to look at him. "What can you do here," he asked, "that they are not doing already?"
She sobbed, trembled, tried to think, but the noise from the Hall, the magic overwhelming all her senses, drowned everything. She was drowning, drowning in all of it; drowning...as they all would, soon. "I've got to stop the sea," she burst out. "It's coming for Achren, and it will take all of us with it."
He released her in dismay, stammering, "It's coming...how?"
"There's no time," she cried, "come." And she grabbed his hand, and pulled him down the corridor, plunging ahead, down stairways, through courtyards. The grounds were teeming with people, their arms full of snatched possessions, fighting their way through the gates, trying to escape the crumbling stone of the castle walls as the earth continued to rumble and crack beneath their feet. The gates were blocked by their struggling mass; Angharad took one look and ran back, yanking Geraint along with her, sobbing as she shut her ears to the cries of those who recognized her, called to her, begging for help. Back, and down, through narrow passages and dark tunnels; she pulled out the Pelydryn and the light blazed, fighting back the blackness; in its light she could think more clearly. The secret gate opened to her hand, and they were under the wall, and out, beyond the castle, the open moor spread before them, and the dark line of sea lay flat on the horizon.
She stopped there, and Geraint stood with her, as she shut her eyes and reached out with magic; felt the water pulsing and pounding beneath the surface, the pull of her mother's spell drawing it in, angry, merciless, singular of purpose. It roared in triumph as a bit of earth crumbled away - from its assault, or because Achren was injured? There was no knowing.
"I don't know if I can stop it," she gasped out. "Not alone."
Geraint, behind her, reached for her hands, crossed their entwined arms over her chest and held her up. "You are not alone," he whispered.
Not alone. The warm and fluid darkness within her stirred and swelled again, and she stilled, allowed it to envelop her, and him, and the space around them, a darkness that was yet full of light, like a night sky full of stars. The two of them shone in it, in her mind's eye, glowing in two bright points, and as she examined it in wonder she saw a third, sparking and growing brighter, until it flamed between them. The three of them shone, a triad of their own, in vivid and wondrous connection. The miracle of it flamed within her, and she gripped Geraint's hands, filled suddenly with an incongruous and abandoned gladness. "We are not alone," she corrected, and he tightened his arms.
"I know," he said, his voice an undercurrent of pure joy. "Your mother told me."
The tremble in her limbs turned to a solid surety, a peace and strength that flooded her whole being. It flowed out from her in waves, light upon light, until she knew nothing but its warm embrace, sweet and whole and loving and perfect, a magic more true and real than any spell ever written in the book now clutched against her chest. The pounding of the waves fell away before it. The sea calmed itself, its fury bound and harnessed, and she wove her own will into her mother's enchantment, binding it; the water sought Achren still, but it would wait, patient, until she released it.
Geraint's wordless exclamation near her ear brought her back to herself with a gasp, and Angharad opened her eyes to see what had startled him. She looked down. The ground, previously carpeted only in gray-green saltgrass, now bloomed in a profusion of silvery-white flowers, their blossoms bursting directly beneath her feet and spreading out in thick patch all around them.
"What on earth..." Geraint blurted out, and Angharad laughed.
"Moonflowers. The blessing of Rhiannon. She's here." She twisted around in his arms to face him, kissed him, finally, desperately, at last...but of course, cut short, as the rumble of the ground beneath their feet brought her back to reality with a thud. "Rhiannon," she gasped, and the triad of stars in her mind blazed again, but this time arranged themselves into a symbol she knew, the thing that had called to them, spirals, connected. "I know what I must do," she said aloud, in wonder, "but I've got to get the gem, the one at Pentre Gwyllion."
"I thought you might," Geraint said, pulling away from her to rummage within his satchel, "and I can tell you how." He pulled out the last thing she expected: a battle horn, capped in silver, etched in strange designs. He held it up to his mouth and glanced at her, a little sheepishly. "I don't know exactly what's going to happen," he confessed, "but it's what they told me to do."
He put the horn to his lips and blew, a series of notes that rang out, clear, musical, ethereal; they drifted across the hills in a commanding call. Angharad caught her breath as Geraint lowered the horn, felt a prickling sense of presence, the hair on her arms and the back of her neck rising. Geraint's face changed, he was looking behind her, in wonder and trepidation. She whirled to follow his gaze, but saw nothing but the waving grasses and scattered stones that made up the familiar view. She glanced from it, back to him, and knew he saw something else. "Geraint. What is it?"
He looked at her in surprise. "You cannot see the door? But it's...wait a minute." He hung the horn at his hip, and took the spellbook from her, stowing it in his pack. Then he took her hand, and walked forward slowly, and the sensation grew, of an inhuman magic, of something watchful and wary; she clutched his arm and he drew her close. "It's all right. They promised not to harm you."
Suddenly the sky, the grass, and all else disappeared, and they were swallowed in darkness. Angharad gasped, but the Pelydryn knocked against her hip, and she pulled it out. The light flared, illuminated the ground before them, a tunnel of earth and stone, yawning ahead into darkness. She took Geraint's hand, and together they hurried ahead. All around them, the ground continued to rumble, and pebbles rolled, clattering down the walls.
"I thought you stopped it," Geraint panted, ducking beneath the low-jutting roof.
"I stopped the sea," she explained "but this is something else. Achren bound herself to the earth, and every blow she takes effects the island. I suppose," she said, shivering, as she pulled him forward, "we can assume that as long as it goes on, there's still someone alive, fighting her." She wanted to sob again at the thought, but there was no time; the tunnel went on and on, and then suddenly it opened before them and the light of the Pelydryn burst into a cavernous, round space, lined and roofed in stone. Flecks of crystal and mica bounced the light back in a glittering veil from every surface, dazzling their eyes. In the center of the space, a stone slab stood, high and forbidding, at the top of a tiered dais.
Angharad released her held breath in a rush of understanding. "Llyr," she said, a low murmur. "Good Llyr."
Geraint was staring up at the slab. "Is that...?"
"The king's barrow," she said. "Beneath the stones. How did we get here so quickly?"
He looked around uneasily. "Time works...oddly, somehow, with the Folk."
She frowned, and muttered, "Fair Folk magic. How did you see the entrance when I could not?"
"I've seen things," he said, "rather differently, since being with them."
Angharad cast him one puzzled and curious look, but the ground rumbled around them, and she turned back toward the dais, looking up, entranced.
"The bones of Llyr enthroned," she whispered, "in the stones of Llyr entombed..."
Around them, things writhed in the shadows, moving at the edge of her vision. A hiss as of many voices sounded in her ears. Only the blood of Llyr,they said, can for his shame atone.
Geraint tensed, and stepped in front of her protectively. "You gave me your word," he called out to the shadows, "she must not be harmed."
This is no longer your story, Not of Llyr. She knows what she must do.
Angharad took a step forward, and the voices gibbered in anger. Forbidden. It is forbidden. Release us, or release our wrath.
She stopped, confused, and glanced at Geraint. "I, er...I made an agreement with them," he faltered. "It is the only way you can get to the gem. They wish for the treaty to be dissolved, to be released from their service here. You have that authority."
Angharad considered this, in surprise, wondering about the implications. Their protection was a hindrance, and no longer necessary. But releasing these creatures, when she had no idea what they were capable of, or why they'd been imprisoned there to begin with...
There was a jerk in the stones around them, an ominous rumble, and the gwyllion moaned. No time. No time. The island crumbles. Angharad took a breath, resolute.
"Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg," she called out, "you have kept our law, and served us well. The terms have been fulfilled. Go in peace, thank your king for his friendship, and tell him that Angharad of Llyr has released you."
An earsplitting shriek of unearthly elation filled the cavern, deafening, and she and Geraint clutched each other, as all around them the air filled with invisible movement, as though a tempest were trapped underground, ripping at their clothes, their hair, pummeling them. And then the movement and noise ceased, and with it the sense of the gwyllion's presence. A dead and complete silence fell, filled with the noise of the anxious and hollow breathing of the only two still standing there.
"I hope that wasn't a mistake," Angharad said dryly, her voice echoing off the stone walls.
"Sorry," Geraint muttered, and she squeezed his hand and raised the Pelydryn high, stepping forward, the golden light brilliant around her.
She climbed the steps to the dais, Geraint behind her, and looked upon the slab surface, unsure of what she expected to see. Even bones would be gone after two centuries, assuming the sons of Llyr had left any of them to begin with, and Angharad saw, with relief, that the slab was bare; if there had been any debris, most of it had been swept away by the currents of the gwyllion's departure. What dust was left was sunk into a series of grooves etched into the stone, and she examined them with swift understanding, her heart pounding. "Geraint," she said, her voice shaking, "look."
She blew into the grooves, clearing the rest of the dust away, and before their eyes the triple spiral appeared, carved smooth into the stone, its sinuous lines connecting and weaving together. In the center of the symbol, in the triangular space made up of the spirals' joined lines, an iron knife lay as though placed there, waiting.
Nearby, upon the slab, sat a circular object, entwined lines of delicately forged metal, black and corroded with age. Angharad picked it up with trembling hands, holding her breath. A gem, identical to the one on her pendant, was set at its most intricate point. The light of the Pelydryn, fallen upon it, broke into fragments and scattered throughout the chamber, upon the walls, the roof, their faces.
"Blessed Rhiannon," Angharad whispered. She pressed the golden sphere into Geraint's hand suddenly, commanding, "Hold this," and reached into the folds of fabric over her heart, drawing out her silver chain and pendant from the place she had secreted it. Two gems, one in each hand; she felt the pull between them like two lodestones, an attraction as though invisible cords passed one to the other, ready to be yanked taught.
Her hands moved as of themselves, following some inner guide. She laid the crescent pendant upon one spiral cut into the slab, the gem in the exact center of the whirl. Picking up the knife that lay there, she pried with it at the gem in the crown. The ancient metal crumbled and the jewel popped free; she set it upon a second spiral, next to its twin.
"Are you sure this is—," Geraint began, but she shushed him, waiting; the pulse of magic welling up from the symbol, from the stone, from the ground and air around her was as welcoming and familiar as her own breath, like an embrace from the arms of a loved one. The gems flashed, glowing with their own milky light; the light flowed from them, filling the etched lines like liquid, traveling along the grooves until all their shallow channels glowed silver against the dark stone - all except for the third spiral.
Angharad picked up the knife again. Geraint's gaze flickered to her in apprehension. "What are you going to do with that?"
She shook her head at him for silence, her heart racing; she did not know if she could speak words other than those that seemed to form themselves on her lips.
"The bones of Llyr, enthroned,
In the stones of Llyr, entombed..."
A quick and efficient slice of the blade across her palm. Geraint cried out in alarm, and swiped the knife away from her, but it was done, and she had barely felt t. She held her fist above the symbol.
"Only the blood of Llyr
Can for his shame atone."
Three scarlet drops fell upon the empty space nested within the spirals. She gasped for breath.
"Cleave the tomb..."
The light in the grooves swept forward, filling the empty spiral, and suddenly it flashed, and within it shone a third light, brilliant as a star, flaring until they could not look at it for its brightness. Angharad fell back and Geraint caught her, pulling her backward as the cavern shook around them. The stone roof shivered and cracked, and chunks of it fell into the space. Daylight poured through from above, and then with a roar the walls collapsed around them.
Geraint cried out, but Angharad threw out her arms upon instinct, and a shield of power sealed them in, pushing the crumbling earth out and around so that they stood untouched within the destruction. In moments the stone slab stood stark against the sky, surrounded by the twelve stones of Pentre Gwyllion, the light from the Dagrau Rhiannon shining white upon them.
Angharad shook herself gently from Geraint's clinging grasp and moved to the dais again, climbed the steps, climbed all the way to the top of the slab, and stood within the center of the spirals, both knowing and not knowing why.
"The fruitful womb..."
She turned and fixed her eyes to the southern horizon, drawn by something stirring as deep as her heartbeat, as one with her as the new life that kindled and blazed within her body. The sea, the goddess, the womb, she herself...the distinctions did not matter. For now, they were all one and the same.
"...Shall bring Llyr home."
The stone sentinels of Pentre Gwyllion shook, crumbled, and toppled like dying giants, crashing to the ground in a cacophony of thunder. And with a sound beyond hearing, a sense beyond feeling, a light beyond seeing, the earth and sea were moved aside.