Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

~Robert Frost

Chapter Six

"Angharad!"

Her mother's voice cut into her mind like a dagger. Angharad blinked, remembering that she was at supper. Elen, who had already kicked her twice under the table, was now glaring at her in exasperation over its top.

"I'm…sorry," Angharad stammered. "What is it? I wasn't listening."

Regat laid her wine goblet down with the painstaking gravity of one who intended to make a point by the gesture. "Have you heard a word since we began? I asked whether you have gathered the implements for tonight."

"Oh." Angharad cleared her throat. "Yes. The ormer's been cleaned, the sweetgrass is dried. There's enough."

"Indeed," put in Arianrhod, smiling at her from the other end of the table, a softer mirror of the queen. Though only a few years younger than her sister, Arianrhod was comparatively unmarked by signs of age; her black hair did not bear the silver that streaked Regat's proud head, and the lines around her grey-blue eyes were fine and shallow; the life of High Priestess, though full, was easier and far more pleasant than that of a queen. "I looked it over this morning. All is ready. Though I still think you should wait."

Regat waved this away. "We've discussed this. New moon might be preferable for scrying, but too much is at stake. We need to know what is behind the troubles, if anything; I dare not put it off another fortnight."

Angharad smoothed her skirts nervously under the table. "What is it? Is this because of the message from Abegwy yesterday?"

Regat sighed. "There is a strange illness there that looks as though it will spread. The village is quarantined until we know for certain."

"More ill news," Angharad muttered. She pressed her hands to her temples. "Did you send that emissary you promised to Llamorset?"

"Of course." Regat took a breath as though she meant to say more, paused, and closed her mouth, looking away as though preoccupied. She folded her linen slowly and rose, signifying the end of the meal. "I shall retire," she announced, "to rest and prepare for the ritual. You should do the same." Angharad watched her leave the chamber in silence, trailed by her two ladies-in-waiting.

"Where have you been?" Elen hissed at her, when the door had shut. "You really didn't hear a thing, did you?"

Arianrhod raised an eyebrow in agreement. "You have seemed rather preoccupied, love. Is everything all right?"

Angharad felt her face grow hot. Her own self-consciousness annoyed and perplexed her; why should a simple question discomfit her so much? Perhaps it was that knowing look in her aunt's eyes, glinting at her over the rim of her glass; Arianrhod took an embarrassing level of interest in the personal lives of everyone in court and out of it, and had a knack for sniffing out romantic entanglements. Understandable, given her line of expertise, and Angharad knew the sort of conclusion to which her aunt would immediately jump. And though she had nothing of the kind to hide, visions of Geraint would keep pushing themselves into her mind; something she knew Arianrhod would find intensely interesting. Confound him and that direct blue gaze of his. She could not stop thinking about it. Why could she not stop?

"I'm fine," she huffed, tossing her napkin to the table. "But all this trouble has me worried, just like mother."

"Is that why you wanted to be up sparring at sunrise?" Elen demanded. "Waking me up and dragging me out just to knock me down a dozen times? You can't beat back plague and earthquakes with a staff, you know." She rubbed her shoulder, wincing.

"No, but it made me feel better," Angharad growled, resisting an urge to throw a hunk of bread at her, as she would have when they were younger. Elen, like all able-bodied Llyrian nobility, was competent at various forms of weaponry and self-defense, but she complained incessantly when Angharad insisted on training together, and rarely extended herself to her full abilities. Angharad herself was not immune to the amusement of the quieter hobbies that Elen preferred, but she found physical activity cathartic. Particularly this morning.

Arianrhod leaned back in her chair, looking at her levelly. "Hm. Finding yourself with a bit of extra energy, are you? Even after your excursions yesterday?"

There she went again. "It's full moon," Angharad pointed out flatly. Elen rolled her eyes, but Arianrhod shrugged, a knowing smile playing upon her pretty mouth.

"True enough. And you're young. I remember how that felt," she sighed. "Well, save your strength for tonight. I'll join you both at sundown."

Elen signaled for the servants to clear as Arianrhod departed. "There's something you're not saying," she stated, looking put out. "I can tell. But have it your way. Are you going up?"

Angharad had always confided in Elen, in all things; now she cringed internally with a sense of betrayal. "Yes, but not to sleep. I've got laws to look over. You needn't come up if there're things you'd rather do. Unless you want to hear about the precedence for judgement on pillaging accusations."

"Was that what all the commotion in the Hall was about this morning? As fascinating as it sounds, I think I'd rather be in the kitchens," Elen answered. "It's pie day tomorrow, you know. I'll sneak some up to you later."

Angharad made her way to her chamber alone, not without a sense of relief for the chance of solitude. She was glad for the quiet; it had been a long morning involving a particularly obstreperous court. Sea-raiding was one of the few capital crimes on the island, condemned both for its own unethical ends and for the the blight it made of them in the sight of the neighboring kingdoms it victimized; it was unnecessary, inflammatory, and had never been tolerated under the rule of the Daughters of Llyr. But once in a generation or so some rogue with a wandering eye tried to make a name for himself and was met with swift justice. The accusations made in this case had, thankfully, turned out to be unsupported. Regat's skillful handling of the matter had been satisfying to watch, but when it came to sentencing the accuser for the serious crime of false accusation, she had turned the task over to Angharad, who had found herself floundering with an unfamiliar and unsettling loss of decisiveness. And though she had rallied within a few anxious moments, delivering an appropriate outcome, the queen had been displeased with her hesitation and ordered her to review the relevant law.

Angharad plunked herself onto the seat by her casement, a pile of parchments in hand, and tried to concentrate on the legalities recorded therein, legends dating all the way back to the arrival of the Sea People upon the island from regions hazy and unknown; histories recording the building of their swift, light watercraft and the victories over the larger, clumsy warships of their neighbors; the truces and alliances made and enforced as their power grew; the decrees decrying the practice of plundering and looting and carrying-off of women and children as the barbarism it had been; the laws set in place to prevent and punish such atrocities and the recordings of the cases that had enforced them. History was always bloody, theirs as much as anyone's; it turned her stomach, and she sighed and frowned out the window.

History, legend; how much of it was even accurate? The scribes said if it was written it must be true; the bards said truth was not something that could be written but must be held in the heart. She wasn't sure she believed either of them; after all, she could take up a quill this minute and scribble a gull just flew through my window, dropped a fish in my lap and said hello at the bottom of one of these parchments, and laugh at what future generations would make of it. As for the bards and their stories…

Her breath slowed and mellowed; the documents slid from her fingers to the floor, forgotten, as she gazed at the early evening sky with eyes that did not see it.

When you have your listener's heart, they will see whatever you want them to see. What she saw were pebbles and shells disappearing behind quick, skilled fingers; flowers blooming as though magically at their tips; white teeth bared in a sunshine smile; golden curls tumbling about his brow as he bowed; mirth-filled blue eyes twinkling at her from beneath them.

"Is my debt paid, Princess of Llyr?"

"Yes."

A whisper, breathless, beyond thought.

"Oh, yes."


The moon swung, a white pearl, directly overhead, full and ripe, with no shred of cloud to mar its milky surface. Its soft silver light bathed the three women standing upon the tallest tower of Caer Colur.

"Blessed Rhiannon. Look how she smiles on us," Arianrhod declared with satisfaction, her hand crescented at her breast. She looked benevolently down at the view; the sleeping island, dark under the stars. "Many healthy children will be conceived tonight."

Angharad let out an awkward sigh, catching her mother's amused glance. The outspokenness of her aunt on subjects arguably left better to the imagination had been a topic of heated discussion between them more than once. It was, of course, Arianrhod's jurisdiction to be concerned with all matters pertaining to the fertility of the island and its people - but even so. Everyone over the age of twelve knew what the full moon portended. Must it be announced like a tournament?

"It will be little cause to celebrate," Regat said, "if we cannot make their home safe for them. Come." She motioned her daughter to stand with her at the center of the tower, where an altar stood waiting, incense of smoldering sweetgrass rising from the pearly ormer shells arranged around its jeweled rim. Arianrhod stepped forward, an ancient, leather-bound book in her hands, and placed it upon the pedestal in the center. Regat opened the worn covers. "Angharad, the Pelydryn."

The princess palmed the cool weight of the small golden sphere she kept in her pocket, and pulled it out. In her hands it flared into light - warm and golden, bouncing sparks off the silver implements on the altar, glittering in the strands of her unbound hair. The pages of the book, apparently blank until now, suddenly crawled with ink: the sprawling lines of written symbols, the flare of colorful figures in the margins, depictions of flora and fauna both imagined and referenced, marching up and down. Angharad set the glowing sphere upon a silver stand and stepped back.

Regat turned the pages deliberately, alternating each flick of parchment with graceful movements of her slender hands. Pearls and opal set in silver rings glittered on her fingers as they twisted in space, tracing symbols upon the air. Angharad watched, with silent respect. Though they disagreed on much, she could never but admire the queen's grace and skill, in magic as much as in magisterial responsibilities.

Her skin prickled, downy hair rising on her arms, as the familiar sense of power rose around them, flowing from the stones under their feet, condensing from the air. It burned in her mouth, both hot and sweet, two forces intermingled, and she shut her eyes, allowing it to wash through her. Light and dark threads twisted together; fire and water in union, and she mentally adjusted the strands, melding them here and separating there, that neither might have dominance, even as each sought to consume the other.

Regat found the page she wanted, and stepped to the side so that Angharad might stand directly before the book. The women joined hands - there must always be three - and the current of light and dark ebbed and flowed amongst them.

The princess opened her eyes and glanced over the page; a familiar enough scrying spell, one she knew by heart, but it was prudent to have a reference to fall back upon. Rituals were unpredictable, and a slip of a tongue caught off-guard could have disastrous consequences.

The images on the page seemed to writhe at the edges of her vision, distracting, as though at any moment they would slither away. She willed herself to look only at the written words, and began to read out loud.

The words were old, in a strange tongue now taught only to those in her line; they burned in the mouth, heavy like solid stones, smooth like sips of wine. Around them, between them, magic crackled and flamed and surged; the queen and priestess stood with closed eyes and bowed heads, keeping it in balance, waiting for whatever it had to show them.

The spell wavered before Angharad's eyes, as though she saw the book through water; the pages turned black and the figures upon it stood out, lurid against the dark. Her heart raced. Wrong; it was all wrong…

The faces of the creatures seemed to leer out, snarling; then they leapt upon and devoured one another, and the spoils of their carnage turned to a sickly miasma that drifted across her line of vision, obscuring it. She gripped tighter the hands that gripped hers back as the world seemed to shift dizzily beneath her feet, and the pestilence spread into the outer edges of her vision, blinding her. Her words went on, though she no longer knew she spoke them; her ears were full of a roaring as of the fires in the very belly of the earth. The darkness was broken suddenly by livid red light; lines of flame ran, like a profane river and its tributaries, across the darkness of the land below. The lines grew, sending out rivulets and streams, breaking apart the solid earth until it crumbled into bits, and the flames merged until she stared into a gaping pit of fire. Writhing black shapes twisted within it, shrieking, and she would have shrieked herself, had she any breath. But for breath one must have a body, and her mind was untethered, lost over a void, over chaos.

And then the fire was rent asunder by a thundering, pounding wall of water, a cresting wave that obliterated everything in its path; it swept over the fire and quenched it, and steam rose up in blinding clouds, but when it cleared there was nothing. Nothing but darkness and silence, a silence so thick it was like a solid thing, pressing on the ears, and suddenly she realized once more that she had ears, and hands which were being wrung painfully by other hands. She opened her eyes with a gasp, and the light of the Pelydryn flashed and died.

They were on the tower roof, and the moon swung overhead, silent and still and beautiful. Yet now its play of silver light and shadow made the faces of her elders into terrifying masks. Both wore expressions of mute horror, the like of which she had never seen, their naked emotion a mirror of her own.

Arianrhod dropped the hands of her sister and niece and sank to the cold stone with a keening cry. Angharad backed against the battlements, mouth dry. "Mother." It came out in a hoarse whisper. Regat did not look at her. "Mother, what is it?"

The Queen of Llyr reached out with a trembling hand and shut the spellbook, its pages blank once more. Her face was white and drawn; she swayed, knocking over the silver stand that held the Pelydryn; the golden sphere bounced to the flagstones and rolled to Angharad's feet.

"The quakes?" Angharad gasped, and her mother turned her dark eyes upon her, dull and full of dread.

"It must be. Fire under the stone, tearing it apart."

"Can nothing be done?" Angharad stooped to retrieve the Pelydryn; its cold weight in her hand steadied her and she clutched it to her breast. Her fear was burning under a wave of anger. "Is it natural, or an attack?"

"No," Regat breathed. "No, this is calculated. Not only the quakes: the pestilence, the terrors. This is a siege, already underway. But who? Who would dare it?"

They stared at each other, stunned, speechless. Arianrhod stirred, and looked at Regat warily. "Did you…recognize anything in it?"

Regat shot her a quick, quelling look. "There was a signature. I know your thoughts. But it is impossible. She no longer has that kind of power."

Angharad looked from her mother to her aunt. "She?" Her heart sank. There was only one she, beyond the line of Llyr itself, who had ever been capable of such work. "I thought Achren-"

"This is not Achren's doing," Regat said sharply. "It is not possible. She lives yet - so much, I know. And power she has still. But not to this extent. And she has no reason to attack us. Even when she ruled, Llyr had no quarrel with her."

"Perhaps we ought to have," Angharad muttered under her breath, but it was futile to conjecture; Achren had been deposed from the throne of Prydain over a century ago, and none of the matriarchs of Llyr yet lived who could explain why they had turned their faces away from her infamously bloodthirsty rule over their neighbor. Their histories recorded her distantly, as one might write a moral tale for children, designed to warn both against a lust for power, and trust in any man.

"Who dares it?" Arianrhod echoed Regat in disbelief. "And why? We have no enemies."

Angharad stood up straight, shakily. "If it's a new threat, we should warn our allies."

"Our allies," Regat returned, in a grim voice, "may be the trouble."

The princess turned upon her, aghast. "King Math would never. Mother, you shame yourself."

"You trust the Sons of Don too much," Regat said coldly. "But you mistake my meaning. Math is not behind this. He has no notion of subtlety - like most men. When he wants something he sends a war band to the front gate, not magicians to the back door."

"None wield this level of power but Dallben," said Arianrhod.

Regat shook her head. "Unthinkable. None of that bore his mark, and he has always desired peace. But there is one other, both with the power to wield and the will to destroy."

"You speak of Arawn," Angharad said, cold dread creeping up her spine at the name and its implications. "But why?"

"Because it is his way to take what he can and destroy what he cannot," the queen answered, "and though our powers are out of his reach, we have certain treasures he may covet." She darted a swift, sharp glance toward Angharad, so brief that the princess barely took note. "And because we are allied with those who tore him from his throne. Destroying us could be his way of tightening the noose around the House of Don. Math has always warned us to be wary of him."

"Can we know for certain?" Angharad whispered.

Regat was silent. Somewhere below, an owl hooted.

Finally the queen took up the spell book with a hand that no longer trembled. Her face was white and set, and Angharad shivered at the sight; her mother looked, she thought, like someone who knew she was headed to her own execution. "There may be a way. I must think in private."

"Will you inform the council?" Arianrhod asked.

"Not yet." Regat looked at them both severely. "Say nothing of this to anyone. I will not have the people thrown into a panic."

"But they should be warned," Angharad blurted out, shocked. "If what we saw should come to pass - Mother, they must be warned. We could evacuate all to the mainland; send to the Sons of Don for aid and they would not refuse to give the people sanctuary."

"No," Regat said again, turning on her. "We know nothing as yet, and I will not disrupt the peace of this island, nor throw ourselves on the charity of men without grave cause."

"The danger of thousands dead looks like grave cause to me," Angharad retorted. "How can you even think of entertaining the possibility? What peace is there to disrupt? Already we have lost lives. Even if we stop this, it cannot but grow worse before it improves." She flung her hands out over the land, the sleeping green hills and the people sleeping among them. "You would allow your contempt of men to put your people in danger? They trust us."

"Be silent!" The queen straightened to her full, impressive height, her dark eyes flashing dangerously. Angharad bit back her fury at this admonishment, unheard in years, but she stood and faced her mother, every bit as tall, unflinching. Arianrhod rose to stand between them, holding up her hands placatingly.

"The danger is not immediate, Angharad," her aunt said, low and measured. "What we saw was a possible future - one of many. And we have been given warning. Let us be thankful for it. Now that we know, we may act. Evacuating the island would disrupt our way of life in a way that would take years, perhaps more, to recover, even if we ever were able to come back at all - it is a last resort." She looked gravely at Regat. "But one we must consider, should the situation worsen. What is your plan?"

The queen took a breath, long and deliberate. "We shall shore up what we can. Magic can be fought only with magic, and it has been long since we were obliged to fight. Keep the grove fires burning, day and night, and your girls at their rites." She frowned in annoyance. "No more of this nonsense between your son and that new initiate. We need every voice and every hand."

Arianrhod looked sheepish, cleared her throat and nodded. "I'll attend to Oren. Shall I tell Eilwen?"

Regat hesitated at mention of her second daughter. "Not yet."

"We may need her."

"She is often indiscreet. I will tell her myself if necessary."

"Very well," Arianrhod sighed, looking a little defeated. Angharad, knowing the difficulty of hiding anything from her sharp, insatiable younger sister for very long, pitied her.

She dared to return to an unwelcome subject. "Will you send word to Math for aid?"

"What can he do?" Regat demanded scornfully. "This threat cannot be met with a sword, and that is all he knows."

"He should be warned," Angharad insisted. "A threat to us is a threat to Prydain. And Dallben might aid us as well."

"True," the queen admitted. "But it would be better to wait until we know for certain who is behind it. An alarm without useful information will only cause fear and distrust. A fortnight, Angharad. If what is in my mind is successful, I will know by new moon." Her expression brooked no argument. "Then, if I deem it necessary, we will send word to them. Until then you will say nothing."

The words hung in the air, heavy, binding. Angharad sucked her breath in slowly, held it while she counted to ten. "We'll need more of everything," Regat added. "Driftwood, sweetgrass, rosemary, blackthorn, nettle. Arianrhod, send out your girls. Angharad, you have a knack for finding the most potent supplies, and I know your fondness for the shore. Go as often as necessary. Do not let us run out. I will release you from council in the meantime. Court as well, if you must, though do try to be there as often as you can - only avoid the kind of weakness you displayed this morning."

Angharad blinked, and let her held breath out all at once in surprise. The last hour's turmoil had driven out the thoughts that had plagued her all day. Now they came rushing back like a tidal wave, the shock of it leaving her breathless. She nodded, gulping, and edged toward the stairwell; Regat noticed, and gave her leave to go with a wave of her hand.

She tumbled down the spiral steps blindly and ran along the corridors, not stopping until she came to her own chamber, shut herself inside and leaned heavily against the door, her heart pounding. The chamber was empty; Elen went home to visit her parents at full moon. Angharad was glad of it; she would not have been able to hide her agitation from someone who knew her as Elen did.

Madness, this. It couldn't be happening, couldn't…

What could she do?

She could defy her mother's orders. Send word to the Sons of Don; Gwydion would take her seriously; would, in fact, be more than glad to be of aid. Her mother's reluctance to rely on the strength of their primary ally was ridiculous. More than that: dangerous. And inexplicable.

But how on earth could she get any message to Gwydion without Regat's knowledge? She dared not trust something so critical to any common sailor or merchant. It would mean sending an emissary, and the absence of one would be obvious; word might get back, somehow. Not that there weren't bigger things at stake than being the target of her mother's anger, but…

She paced the floor distractedly. Perhaps it was best to wait until they knew more. Until she knew more about what the queen had in mind. What could she send in a message, after all? Having visions of possible island destruction through magical attack; send help? What were any of them supposed to do with that?

Angharad sank onto her bed, and groaned out loud at the irony. She had just been given free rein to visit the cove as much as she pleased. She would see Geraint again, even sooner than…than she had hoped. Yes, she admitted frankly now, to herself. She had hoped for it.

And then she must tell him to leave.


For all of you who expressed anticipation at hearing Geraint's story in the last chapter, my apologies. I'm too busy coming up with this one to make up all of his. Be assured, based on the impression it made, it was a good one...and/or, at least, he told it very well. And, no, that was not a metaphor. /winks/