Chapter Text
The trouble with a woman’s heart is that
it knows nothing of boundary.
~Segovia Amil
Chapter Nineteen
The stones towered tall, dark giants rising from mist and shadow. They seemed to loom inward toward the space they encircled, as though to intimidate anyone foolish enough to enter it. She stood in the center of the ring, turning slowly to regard each one in turn, feeling an odd inclination to bow to them. Whispers teased at the edges of her hearing, as though the moment her back was turned, the ancient sentinels discussed her presence with disapproval.
I didn’t come to take anything. She tried to say it, but no words came out. Only an empty breath, but the whispering ceased, replaced by foreboding silence. The mist swirled and quavered as though shaken by a draught, but there was no wind.
She tried to speak again. I’ve brought something instead.
A surge of magic condensed from the air, from the ground; it pushed her backwards and then forwards and she stumbled and fell, cutting her hands upon the rough stone beneath her. The same power buoyed her back up, enveloped her, shrank itself small and potent, a pulsing light that came to rest on her own breast. It was searingly hot; she grabbed it away from her skin and realized she held her own pendant. The gem glowed like captured fire, azure and emerald and gold and sunset colors she had no name for. She pulled the chain from her neck and held it up like an offering in her scraped and bloodied fist.
The whispering began again and rose to a murmur and then a roar, full of sounds that made no sense, voices speaking in a cacophony of unintelligible words. A sudden gale tore at her, swinging the pendant wildly in her grasp; she clutched it and curled herself protectively away, crouching. Below her the ground glowed as though on fire; a path of golden light spiraled out from her feet, out and out; it reached the boundary of the stone ring and then broke beyond it, and the towering monoliths roared and crumbled, flinging shards and splinters of stone around her in a dusty grey storm. Beyond them, shimmering through the mist, she saw light, and sea, and sands silver-white stretching up to green hills under a full moon, felt a longing so powerful that her heart leapt and her body tensed to run toward it. But the ground shifted beneath her feet, groaning and quaking, and threw her down amongst the rubble of the stones, and the sea rose up in mountainous waves and rushed toward her, the roar of the water drowning out her scream...
“Milady!”
Angharad opened her eyes with a jolt, cold with dread. She found herself staring into Elen’s face, pale in the light of a single candle. Elen had her by the arms, gripped as though in the midst of tussling with her; her eyes were wide and frightened.
“Llyr,” the girl gasped, “I thought you’d never wake up.”
“A dream.” Angharad clutched at her, panting, trying to shake off the fear that gripped her. She shivered, realized she was sweating. “How did you...”
“You were shouting. Strange words I couldn’t understand. And then you shrieked to wake the dead. If no one else heard it I’ll be skinned...we’ll have guards as guests any minute, I daresay. What was it?”
Angharad raised a hand to her pendant; the gem burned scalding hot beneath her fingers and she hissed and let go, shaking the pain away, pulled the chain off to look at it. The facets caught the candlelight and reflected them dimly, tiny sparks trapped within the depths. “It’s happened again,” she whispered. “It’s...wait. I’ve got to write it down.” She turned to her side table, laid down the necklace with trembling hands, and lit the Pelydryn as Elen scampered away and returned with parchment and an inkwell.
“You’re shaky,” Elen fussed, propping cushions behind her back as she sat up to the table. “Should I call for someone?”
“No,” said Angharad, dipping the quill and writing feverishly. “I’m all right. Or will be.” She shut her eyes and tried to recall it; the towering stones, the spiraling light, the green land under the moon. The feather scratched gratingly at the parchment; ink blobbed and dripped, small inconveniences that somehow seemed enormous; she grit her teeth. “Penknife, Elen.”
“Drink this first.” Elen handed her a cup; Angharad, without looking, gulped at it, coughed and made a face.
“Ugh. Just water next time.”
“Fine. But you needed something to stop that shaking.” Elen took a quick swig of her own from the wine jug she held, corked it and set it back in its cabinet. She returned with the knife and sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, jumping back up at a sudden knock at the door. “Llyr! I knew it.”
“Don’t let them in. I won’t be interrupted,” Angharad ordered, continuing to scrawl. She vaguely heard Elen admonishing someone at the door. Yes, her highness was safe. Just a nightmare. No need to raise an alarm.
I wonder, she thought, and tapped the quill on her chin.
Elen returned to her bedside and sank to the edge again, waiting silently until she saw her lady pause in her writing. “All right? Can you tell me now?”
“You can read it.” Angharad pushed the parchment toward her.
The girl looked it over, pursing her lips. “Belin. Earthquakes and floods and magic. You can’t get away from calamity even in your sleep. It’s no wonder, with the way you’ve been carrying on. I wish you’d rest more. But no, there you go.” For Angharad had pushed her bedclothes back and stood, sliding on her slippers. “It’s barely sunrise,” Elen protested. “You ought to go back to bed.”
“I couldn’t, now, if I tried.” Angharad pulled off her nightshift hurriedly. “I need to go to Arianrhod while it’s fresh in my mind.”
“Best take this with you.” Elen picked up her pendant from the table and held it out; Angharad touched the glimmering gem and held her breath, but it was cool now, familiar, and she wondered if she’d only imagined the burning against her palm. Elen helped her dress with obvious reluctance, and glanced at the parchment once more before handing it to her. “You aren’t going to tell the queen?”
“No,” Angharad stuffed the scrawlings into a satchel and shuddered at the thought of bringing up the grim circle of stones to her mother. “Not this one.”
The light of the Pelydryn flowed like water over the stone walls as she strode down the hallway, pushing shadows away from its edges, rippling away from the darkness that chased at her heels, reminding her vividly of the spiral of light in her dream. What does it mean?
Sunrise at the grove was a beautiful thing, glimmering with the first pale-gold rays that filtered through the willows and played across the turf in dappled pools of light, while white-robed girls sang the morning rites around the fragrant altar as they placed the day’s supply of wood and sweetgrass around its base. Angharad paused near it, but she saw nothing of Eilwen. Even priestesses rested occasionally; in ordinary times the acolytes did as well, the fire left to die and be rekindled the next morning. She inhaled the cloying sweetness of the smoldering grass, coughed, and wondered if even the goddess got tired of breathing incense eventually.
Arianrhod was in her garden, puttering among the herbs; she straightened at Angharad’s approach, her face breaking into a somewhat weary smile. There had been several early morning gatherings with her nieces, the three of them working at various warding spells in preparation for Achren’s arrival - a thing still cloaked in uncertainty, in time and manner - and both the work and its subversive secrecy, Angharad knew, were draining for one as even-tempered and peace-loving as her aunt. Eilwen had told her that Arianrhod was, of late, frequently up nearly all night meditating before the altar fire, trying to divine anything its colors and shapes might tell her, anxious lest an important message be missed by an inexperienced or inattentive acolyte.
Angharad embraced her warmly, noting the new silver strands glittering in the dark braids that crowned her aunt’s graceful head. “You’re out early, dear heart,” Arianrhod murmured, “what’s the reason?”
“Another dream this morning,” Angharad answered; Arianrhod stiffened in expectation, and the princess pulled her to a stone bench nearby and sat, pulling the parchment from her pack. “Nothing more on that dratted symbol, but still significant, I’m sure. I followed my orders,” she added, with a touch of humor, “and wrote down everything I could remember.”
Arianrhod took the parchment and read silently and soberly to the end. “Good Llyr. It is Pentre Gwyllion; it must be. And your gem—,”
“It was hot again when I awoke; blazing. I couldn’t touch it.”
“Rhiannon,” Arianrhod breathed forebodingly. “If only Regat...” She fell silent, brooding, staring at the gem dangling beneath her niece’s throat. “This jewel, and Pentre Gwyllion, somehow connected. What it has to do with our current situation...” she shook her head. “That, I cannot understand. Our petitions go unanswered.”
“Maybe this is the answer.”
“Perhaps. But so vague.” Arianrhod shook her head, glancing over the writing again. “A warning, or a prophecy, or both? I do not know whether it is cause for hope or dread.”
“Do you see nothing in your divinations?”
“I see change…even great change, possibly. But it has no form. It is still unknown.”
Angharad stood from the bench and paced the garden path broodingly, gathering her courage. “I think…I think I must go to Pentre Gwyllion.”
Arianrhod looked at her with alarm. “You cannot. Regat will never allow it, and it would be impossible to go without her knowledge.”
“I could invent some other reason for being gone for a few days.”
“It’s too near your wedding. She won’t agree to your going anywhere at all longer than a day’s journey.”
Angharad winced at the mention. “But—,”
“Even if she did agree, you cannot breach Pentre Gwyllion,” Arianrhod decreed. “We cannot afford to lose you to Fair Folk justice.”
“Then what are we to do with this? They gave us the gem. They guard the stones. They are the only ones who can, perhaps, explain what it is we need to know,” Angharad pleaded. “We cannot just wait forever for dreams and visions that only bring more questions.” She paced along the shell-lined path, feathery herbs brushing at her skirts, butterflies fluttering up at the disturbance. “There were two more quakes this week, and word of more red tide from the south. Achren will be here any day and who knows what will happen then. I am wearied to death with waiting, doing nothing but defensive spellwork that accomplishes so little.” She plucked a sprig of mint from along the path and crushed it in her fingers, breathed in the sharp scent and forced herself to think. “What…what are the terms of the treaty, exactly? Do we have it in writing at all?”
“We do now, I think,” Arianrhod answered carefully. “It was made before we had any written records, and the details had been lost through the years. But of course, the Folk forget nothing, and two hundred years is as a handful of days to them. In their eyes, it was a simple matter. After my father’s trial, Mother insisted that they clarify the terms, and it was turned over to the scribes.”
“Then it should be in the records. That is where to begin.” Angharad straightened up decidedly. “There must be a way around it. It’s ridiculous to be allied with a people and then have rules that prevent your contacting them. But it’s rather like the Folk to play such a trick, if what’s said of them is true.” She tugged thoughtfully at her pendant, troubled. “Eilwen thinks perhaps we should hide the jewel when Achren gets here.”
Arianrhod raised her eyebrows. “Eilwen is more shrewd than it often suits her to appear. Most of our implements are beyond Achren’s ability to use, but that gem is an unknown. We know only, now, that it has power - nothing of its nature. It may well be that she could use it in some way; certainly she would covet it. But hiding it anywhere in the castle where she might be drawn to it won’t do. Where—,”
“I know somewhere,” Angharad whispered.
Birds twittered into the silence as Arianrhod studied her seriously. Finally she spoke. “You trust him that much?”
The princess breathed into the mint again, threw up her chin and looked her aunt fearlessly in the face. “I do. So would you, if you knew him.”
“As I wish I could.” Arianrhod smiled wistfully. “Anyone who has won your heart so completely cannot be other than remarkable.” Her smile faltered. “Are you prepared for what you must do at summer’s end?”
The familiar chill swept over her and Angharad shut her eyes as she swayed on her feet. “No. But it doesn’t matter, does it? We must all face the inevitable someday, whether prepared or not.” She opened her eyes again, dropped the mint leaves and crushed them underfoot, filling the air with the scent. “I never thought I’d have to die more than once,” she said bitterly.
“You will not.” Arianrhod stood and crossed to her, taking her by the shoulders and looking her in the eye. “You are a Daughter of Llyr, and your mothers were queens every one. You will survive this and more. And you will find a way to keep your heart whole. That, I need no divination to see.” She kissed her on the brow, breathed in the scent of her skin. “You are so full of your joy in him that it shines on you like the glow in the summer sea, even when you are here, away from him. Take your strength from it. Let it carry you through the darkness.”
“Is that what you did,” Angharad asked slowly, “with Llewelyn?” Arianrhod’s grey-blue gaze lost a hint of its glow at the mention of her late consort, and sadness drooped her graceful shoulders.
“My Llewelyn,” she sighed, “indeed. I did, and do. I weep for him still, some nights, alone; but I see him in my sons, hear his voice when they speak, and my memory of him is all joy. Pity your mother, Angharad, for she has not even the memory of love to carry her.”
Angharad nodded absently, and submitted to another kiss on the brow. “I’d better get back and look up the records.”
“Let me know what you find,” Arianrhod answered, as she turned to leave the garden. “I do agree we must pursue the matter somehow.”
Angharad had visited the records vault - the dark, smoky undercroft lined in chests and shelves stacked in parchments and books containing every written law and history of the kingdom - enough times to know the futility of finding any specific document without the aid of the stewards who kept a mental map of the apparent disorder. Regat had once remarked, with humor, that it was the office’s way of making itself indispensable. It should be a simple thing to ask any of them for the item she wanted, of course, but she mulled it over anxiously on her way there. Suppose word got back to the queen.
By the time she had descended into the lower level and entered the dim room she had a plan she hoped would deter suspicion, and requested from the scrivener on duty every treaty that had been recorded within the past thirty years. As there had been so few new alliances and no major conflicts with foreign powers at all in that time, there shouldn’t be much to search through - and indeed, there wasn’t; the dusty little man rummaged among the shelves, passed her three parchment scrolls without asking any impertinent questions, and bowed her out of the room.
Elen, sewing before the hearth, looked up in surprise when Angharad returned to her chamber. “Back already?”
“For now.” Angharad tossed her armload onto her bed and took up the first scroll.
“Did you find any answers?” Elen rose and looked over the jumble of parchment. “What’s all this?”
“Treaties. I’m trying to find—oh! Here it is. Regarding Relations between the Royal House of Llyr and the Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg. Oh, bother; it’s long.”
She sat down, scanning the contents, Elen perusing over her shoulder and observing,“Bit wordy. Seems like you could say as much in half the space if you tried.”
“They’re all like this,” Angharad muttered, frowning. “When I’m queen I shall make the scribes write everything in sensible language. Look here: ‘inasmuch as they hath bestowed their beneficent, inestimable and invaluable assistance’ - lays it on thick, doesn’t it; I wonder if that was the Folk’s assessment or ours - ‘in the protection, during the blasphemous desecration committed by the accursed sons of Llyr’ - well, that’s lovely - ‘upon said hallowed ground, of the third of the Dagrau Rhiannon’ - what on earth is that? - ‘we therefore declare that the aforementioned territory shall be set aside in perpetuity’..mmhmm… ‘bordered by the sentinels of Pentre Gwyllion’…hmm…mph.” She fell silent, reading to the end, then, in surprise, read it again. “Elen. There’s nothing in here about the forbidden quarter. Only Pentre Gwyllion itself.”
Elen had resumed her seat and was sewing placidly on. She glanced up, looking bemused. “Why would the rest be forbidden if it’s not part of the terms? Seems like a lot of wasted space we could be using.”
“I suppose…it could have been to keep anyone from wandering into the ring by ignorance,” Angharad mused. “Better to discourage people from going anywhere near it, and let legend do the rest. This is what comes of depending on oral agreements and not having it written down for so long. Everyone thought they knew the terms.” She tapped the parchment against her chin. “It makes it a bit more accessible, at least.”
Elen fumbled, poked her finger with the needle and shook it, staring at her wide-eyed. “You’re not thinking of going there!”
Angharad sighed. “I don’t know. We need to talk to the Fair Folk, I think, about this gem they gave Mother, and the only way Arianrhod knows to summon them is Pentre Gwyllion. But it’s complicated.” She rubbed her temples, impatient and frustrated. Today, miraculously, she had no pressing duties, and no intention of spending such a boon poring over a moldy old document in her chamber. Making up her mind, she rolled the scroll up and stood. “I’m going out. If Mother sends for me, tell her I’ll be back in time for the rituals tonight.”
Elen’s expression took on a knowing air of disapproval. “No need to say where you’re off to. Need a lot of extra wood lately, don’t we? That altar must be a right bonfire, if the sea is as diligent as you’ve been all this week past. I wonder what the urgency is.”
“You needn’t torment yourself with wondering,” Angharad retorted, flushing, “about what you know quite well.”
“You don’t have a court session?”
“That’s tomorrow; you know that.”
“Hmph. I daresay you’re out of form. Sparring practice?”
“No.”
“Heard back about the evacuation at Abegwy yet? Suppose word comes today.”
“The contingency left three days ago; they can only have gotten started with the proceedings yet, much less come back to report to me. Good Llyr, Elen,” Angharad snapped, exasperated, “are you my lady-in-waiting or my advisor?”
“You seem to need both, these days,” Elen said flatly. “I just want you to be well, you know, and happy. You’re wearing yourself out, and binding yourself heart and soul to something you know can’t last.”
“That may be,” Angharad admitted. She chewed her lip, and looked stormily out her window. “But I’m not allowed happiness forever. So I’ll have what I can of it now.”
Elen sighed. “What shall I say if the queen asks where you went?”
“Tell her I’m meditating and forbade anyone to interrupt. I’ll be sure to do a little, so it won’t be a lie.”
“No doubt you’ve got plenty out there to meditate on,” Elen snorted, and indicated the scroll with a nod. “I thought you had to think about all this. Seemed rather urgent a moment ago.”
“I’m taking it with me so I can think on the way.”
“Yes, I’m certain you’ll give it your undivided attention.” Elen rolled her eyes. “Mind you don’t lose it out there. Imagine explaining that to Caradoc.”
Angharad shouldered her satchel again and hesitated. “Do you know where my old pendant is, the plain one I wore before Mother had this one made?”
“Bottom of your wardrobe, boxed away for your firstborn; why?”
“Find it for me, will you? Today, if you can.” She huffed at Elen’s alarmed look. “Oh, Belin, I’d hardly need it for that yet, would I? I’ll explain later. I’m off. Don’t look at me like that. We don’t have much time to ourselves left, and I promised him.”
“Moon’s waxing,” Elen said ominously.
“I’m well aware, thank you.”
Grey eyes softened at last. “Be careful,” Elen murmured, helping her into a cloak and tugging it into place. “Oh! Wait, you.” Snatching a comb and brush from the side table, she brandished them, her eyes glinting, and shoved them into the satchel, with an expression that silently communicated volumes. A reluctant half-smile tugged the corner of her mouth up. Angharad, seeing it, pulled her in to kiss both her cheeks affectionately and left the room, mollified. On Elen, any smile at all was a minor victory when Geraint was the topic of discussion, acknowledged or otherwise.
It had been many days since her dream among the trees. She had made a few attempts to recapture it, on Eilwen’s advice, to no avail; she had not been able to fall asleep in the woods again on the occasions she could get away. Possibly there could have been more such occasions, once new moon was over and the cleansing ritual baths had been completed, had she not spent every spare hour at her disposal with Geraint. Her conscience pricked at her over this, but its voice was weak and faint, bleating somewhere beyond the driving song of desire. In her rational moments she worried over it; told herself she could resist the siren call of the cove if she would just exercise a little self-discipline where he was concerned. But her rational moments seemed fewer and fewer, and she had gone to him repeatedly, stealing hours from early morning or late evening on days when her duties did not permit more sensibly-timed visits; more than once she had gone on foot again, through the hidden gate, to avoid the questions that might result from ordering her horse saddled at such odd hours. No wonder Elen was chronically cross - besides all her worries over Angharad’s well-being, the boredom alone at having her closest companion so often absent was no doubt oppressive. I’ll make it up to her, Angharad thought. Later, when...
But she would not think of later, would not cast her mind beyond the end of this desperate, gold-fired summer. She shook her head, and shut her thoughts to all but the next few hours.
Tan, left to her own lead, made her way to the cove now out of habit, and as soon as she was out of sight of the castle gates Angharad tied the reins to the saddle and pulled out the scroll again, unrolling it to peruse it once more. She read it over twice to make sure; the document specified only that the citizenry of Llyr were barred from entering the stone ring itself - for reasons that were left annoyingly unclear. Someone might have thought to have the Folk clarify that, along with certain bits of related history, while they had them handy. But then, the Gwyllion were an intimidating lot by all accounts, and the whole place must have been in an uproar over the banishment of the queen’s consort…my grandfather, she thought deliberately, painfully. She did not know his name. Even Arianrhod, who had loved him, hadn’t spoken it. Llyr. Forgive us. It should not be so…that our fathers might as well be nameless. Forgotten.
As the father of my own daughters will be…
Because it wouldn’t matter, would it. Unless…
The father of…
She caught her breath, arrested her thoughts before they could travel further. Her heart thumped wildly. Mutinous things stirred at the bottom of her mind; too nascent and shameless to be called thoughts; they were whispers, unspeakable, unthinkable. Stop this. She had already pushed the boundaries of her conventions to their limit; she could not reduce them to utter ruin, annihilate them completely. There was no use even entertaining the idea of things that could never be.
But voices rose unbidden to her mind.
Are you prepared for what you must do at summer’s end?
I see him in my sons; hear his voice when they speak.
Pity your mother, Angharad, for she has not even the memory of love to carry her.
A sob burst, like an escaped prisoner, from her throat. What if memory is not enough?
Binding yourself heart and soul to something you know can’t last.
Boxed away for your firstborn, why?
Moon’s waxing.
Her hands trembled as she rolled up the parchment.
