She was, in fact, a child of the moon.
Wandering around aimlessly, in the dark.
Bringing light to everyone around her.
~S&A
Chapter Thirty
Midsummer feast was a gala occasion. The Great Hall was hung with sunburst banners, and long tables brought in to accommodate the royal house, the court, the priestesses, and important dignitaries from all over their territory. Minstrels played from the corners and the upstairs galleries. All guests were plied with the firstfruits of early crops and savory roast meats of young stock and game. Wine and ale flowed freely, bearing equally welcome tides of laughter and song upon their crimson and golden waves.
Angharad sat at the head table and gazed upon it all with numb distaste and no appetite. She crushed her bread into crumbs and apathetically pushed food about on her platter, like a child attempting to give the illusion of having mostly eaten some loathed but insisted-upon vegetable. The noise of the assembly, the flash and color of festive garments, all beat on her senses. She wanted to slide under the table and disappear.
At her right, Eilwen elbowed her. "You're not eating."
"I'm not hungry."
"It won't do you any good to waste away while you wait, you know." Her sister waved her empty goblet at a handsome young servant, who hurried over to fill it and then backed away, red-faced. Angharad tried to ignore his expression, and her own guesses at whatever Eilwen had done to cause it.
"Behave yourself," she admonished her.
Eilwen twinkled at her over the rim of the cup. "Oh, I am, believe me. I wanted to pinch him." She set her wine down and bent her head nearer, speaking low. "Did you notice your new suitor there?"
Angharad could hardly have missed him; as round and bald as an egg, covered in jewelry, he glittered like mica in the torchlight. He had arrived the day before, and both her would-be husbands were now seated at a table below, an honorable but respectful distance from the royal family. The other man was dark-haired, with a nose like a hawk's beak, and somehow gave the impression of gauntness despite being tall and broad-shouldered. He was robed in black, and wafted a self-aware aura of ominous mystery like a priestess swinging an incense-burner. Angharad had hated them both on sight, and was thankful that Regat had insisted that they were to have no contact with her prior to their official presentation, to avoid any accusations of unfair advantage given.
"He's ridiculous," she muttered. "Look at that neckpiece he's wearing, and the trinkets sewn onto his robe. He looks like a walking dragon-hoard."
"But how he sparkles," Eilwen whispered. "Such lovely jewels. I daresay he leaves a trail of them wherever he goes."
"Like mouse droppings," Angharad snorted. "I suppose he wears diamond-encrusted nightshirts."
"You're the only one who could find out," Eilwen said wickedly. "But think what you might be missing. The other could be hiding even finer jewels under all that black."
"He looks like he sleeps in a shroud. Fancy wearing black to midsummer! I doubt he's seen the sun in the last six months. He'll likely burst into flames during the ceremony tonight," Angharad said, knocking breadcrumbs into her lap in agitation. "Am I really so undesirable that these were all that were interested?"
"I think you know better than that," her sister muttered. "More likely they were the only ones who qualified. If these are the best available, magic arts really are in dire straits among our neighbors. But buck up; there could be more on their way. Mother should have cast a wider net. Just think, you could have some lusty blue-painted Eirian druid if she'd give it a bit more time."
Angharad choked on a sip of wine, and buried her face in a linen napkin to hide her…what were they, laughs or sobs or something in between? Her chest ached with holding back a flood of hysterical tears. She felt her mother's frown from her left, turned upon her at this unseemly display, and tried to turn her noises into coughs. Eilwen squeezed her hand beneath the table, waited until she calmed herself, and whispered amusedly, "Sorry."
"No you aren't."
"Well, someone has to make you laugh…or as close as you can get to it." She lowered her voice again, and spoke behind the rim of her cup. "Been back yet?"
"I went this morning for the first time," Angharad murmured. "Nothing yet." The cove, once her sanctuary of peace and solitude, had screamed its emptiness at her, in a cacophony of silence that had paralyzed her with grief. It had taken an hour before she could rouse herself to collect what she needed and leave.
"It's only been six days. Counting two to get there and two to get back, that leaves two to deal with whatever he found. And it might take longer for him to get back, anyway, you know, rowing against the current."
"I know."
"He'd likely be better off circling the island and coming 'round again from the northwest. We should have told him."
"He's clever enough to know that," Angharad answered, a little crisply.
"There you are, that sounds more like you. Just…don't worry, darling. I'm sure he's all right."
Angharad sighed. Heartsick as she was, she had tried not to worry. Eilwen was correct, after all, about the timing of it, and she had determined not to visit the south shore at all until five interminable days had elapsed.
By the time they had, she was more than eager to escape the confines of Caer Colur, which had become ever more fraught with tension. Regat was bitterly angry over Achren's manipulations — whether more at the danger they posed or at her own humiliation at being the means by which they had come about, no one dared ask. It was not the queen's way to rail in a temper, of course. She remained icily calm, as steady as ever, but she felt, Angharad thought, something like the island itself: solid on the surface, while deep beneath it, fire waited to erupt.
Except that it hadn't. Regat had made an explanation to the anxious court and staff regarding the tremor they had felt during the spell, a reassurance that it had been due to particularly potent magical activity but completely under control. There had been some dissatisfied grumbling, but in a few days it was noted that reports of new tremors upon the island had ceased. The procession of fisherman, farmers, and crofters displaced by rockslides and begging for assistance trickled to a halt. Further reports from the evacuation of Abegwy mentioned a return of wildlife to the affected areas, and announced that the illnesses spawned by the poisoned air were fading seemed that Achren's work, whatever else it had done, had indeed been successful at quenching the turmoil underground, for now. Angharad resented the relief they all felt at this, her own included. The attention of the court had been cautiously diverted, rumors of trouble giving way to excited chattering about the arrival of foreign enchanters, anticipation of the pomp and ceremony of a royal wedding. She wanted to scream every time it was mentioned.
Achren herself remained sequestered in her apartments, doing goodness only knew what besides living on their hospitality. Arianrhod had set about searching through every spell they knew in hopes of finding a way to undo the connection Achren had formed, a process both exhausting and, so far, unproductive; meanwhile there was the midsummer ceremony to prepare for, which took additional supplies and time for all of them, on top of their usual duties. There had been no time for any secret scrying with her aunt and sister to see if magic might show them anything of Geraint's whereabouts or welfare, and Angharad had had no dreams of him. She had tried not to hope too hard that he had already returned, but had realized, upon cresting the edge of the cliffs that morning and seeing no film of blue smoke rising from the chimney of the hut, just how much hope had remained in spite of her resolve.
"I'm not sure of anything," she whispered now, "except that I want to be out of here."
"Can't blame you for that," Eilwen sniffed. "Look at those two glowering at each other! They'll be throwing food any minute. It's a crying shame. If I were queen, the first thing I'd do is abolish that stupid law and then marry whomever I pleased. You might consider the same."
"If you were queen, a number of things would be different," Angharad snapped in exasperation, "as they would if I were queen now, for that matter. But since I'm not, I'd rather not discuss choices I don't have." Her throat burned with suppressed tears, and Eilwen squeezed her hand again.
"Stay angry," the girl whispered. "It's better than feeling nothing." She pushed a hunk of uncrumbled bread across to her, and Angharad grabbed it, suddenly ravenous, and glared at her while she chewed.
Upon the watchtowers, great unlit torches were set, ready for the lighting of the midsummer fires. The enchantresses of Llyr gathered upon the terrace in the courtyard, before an audience comprised of all those who had attended the afternoon feast. The western gates were thrown open, their placement aligned so that all could observe the setting of the sun, the ending of this longest day of the year.
Firstfruits lay upon altars placed at intervals, awaiting the appointed time. Regat, stately in scarlet and crimson, her silvering head crowned in gold, addressed the assembly with formal grace, calling upon the blessing of Belin for another year, thanking him for the light that gave them warmth and sustenance and cheer, wishing him peace as he began his slow descent into the restful darkness of harvest and winter. She motioned, at length, for her daughter to join her. Angharad stepped forward, as she had every year since her childhood, and placed the Golden Pelydryn upon its stand, a miniature sun that ignited in the last rays of that which it modeled, glowing in the gathering dusk.
There was a hushed murmur of appreciation from the crowd as the princess stepped back into place, joining hands with her mother and aunt, flanked by her sister and a scattering of higher-ranking young women from the grove. They all raised their arms and voices in a chant, the words familiar, the accompanying magic redolent with summer. The shaft of sunset light poured radiance in a red-gold river across the terrace, and the Pelydryn flamed like a beacon.
Angharad, secure within the triad, drifted into the flow of sunlight and flame that comprised this spell. It filled her up, in a rush of vitality and heat, a sense of joyful triumph that was a relief to her troubled spirit; it was the one time they need not maintain the delicate balance of their elements, but could give fire its free and fierce rein. She gathered it up, allowed it to pass between and through her and her companions, in all its pulsing and potent exhilaration. In moments they would release it, and all the watchtower fires and altars would ignite at once, in a spectacle of sparks and smoke that would be repeated, without magic, all along the island, as villagers and farmers, fisherfolk and crofters lit their own bonfires to commemorate the day.
The sun sank lower. Any moment.
Angharad stiffened. Something was…wrong, or different, at least: a break in the flow of magic, small, almost imperceptible. Perhaps she had imagined it, but…no, there it was again: a dropped stitch in the weave, an extra note in the music, a crack in the fire where water seeped through, sizzling, insistent. She barely had time to do more than discern it, to wonder if she were the only one who sensed it, when Regat spoke the final words, and all hands gestured out toward altar and sky. The Pelydryn flared, and every waiting pile of kindling erupted as the sun disappeared over the horizon.
The assembled crowd cheered and whooped, their shouts drowning out the cry of surprise from their princess. Angharad had fallen back, and only the quick reactions of Regat and Arianrhod kept her on her feet. She clung to their hands, terrified, beset by sensations she had never known. It was as though at the last moment she had not just released fire but…expelled it; the element bursting away, suddenly opposed by everything in her. The aftermath of it left her shaking, gasping for breath, as though she'd been physically shoved by a mighty, invisible force. Her limbs tingled with residual magic, and she was conscious of a flow of darkness and water into the spaces fire had left empty; the fierce energy was gone, replaced by a slow, rich heaviness that dragged at her spirit. She felt vaguely as though she'd been wrapped in warm quilts, and odd, disconnected images flitted through her mind.
Regat called her name sharply. Fright gave way immediately to embarrassment as she caught the expressions of shock and dismay turned upon her, not only from her aunt and mother but from all others in close vicinity. A murmur arose from the priestesses, and Eilwen, after a piercing look of concern, hurriedly began another song to distract them. Angharad pulled at those that held her and forced herself all the way upright, throwing her head back, though she still trembled, and the scene swam before her eyes. Her hands stayed clutched tightly on either side; her mother's grip was iron; her aunt's was ice.
They joined in the song long enough for the people to be reassured that whatever had just happened was a mere aberration, that their leaders were in calm and complete control - if anyone were still watching, though blessedly, most weren't; there was dancing and hand-clapping around the fires, merriment and song, for midsummer was a time to forget worries and rejoice.
A tug at her hand; she was being pulled back hastily, through a door and into a nearby passageway, Regat leading the way. "Up," the queen said tersely, "to my chambers at once. Both of you," she added, though Arianrhod had shown no signs of allowing them to leave her. Indeed, the priestess now clung to her arm with both hands, and her shallow, quick breath chased Angharad down each dark passageway until they arrived at the queen's apartment.
All the servants were still in the courtyard and the room was silent, the ashes cold in the grate. Regat turned to Angharad, dropping her hand; her expression a terrible mix of anger and disbelief. "Light the fire," she ordered her daughter.
"Regat—," Arianrhod blurted out, but her sister silenced her with an abrupt motion of her hand.
"Angharad," she repeated, slowly, in a voice that wavered, "light the fire."
Angharad, frightened and mystified, motioned toward the hearth, with the careless flicker of thought she had commanded since childhood. Nothing happened. She stared at the hearth, at her own fingertips; she tried it again, with the same result. It was baffling, unbalancing, as though she had lost one of her hands. Behind her, she heard Arianrhod gasp, and mutter a phrase in the divine language of the grove.
Regat went white —with shock or fury, or perhaps both; for a moment Angharad thought she would strike her, and she took an involuntary step back. Arianrhod's arms went round her shoulders protectively. Angharad wanted to cry out, to ask what she had done that warranted such a reaction, but her mouth seemed glued shut.
"Impossible," the queen gasped. "Where have…who…?"
"Do not be hasty, Regat," Arianrhod broke in urgently. "This need not be a crisis unless you make it one."
Angharad twisted around to look at her. "What crisis? What is happening?"
Her aunt gazed upon her, her eyes stricken, expression a cross between dismay and a strange, bittersweet reverence. "Oh, Angharad." She cupped her cheek in a wistful caress. "How can you have been so careless, love?"
Regat made a jerky move toward them both, glaring at her sister. "You…I…." She made a wordless sound of outrage and fell silent, speechless. Angharad stared at them both blankly, mind in a spiral. Careless?
There was a scuffling, a muffled exchange of harried voices, and Eilwen burst in, slamming the heavy door behind her. She carried the Pelydryn, still alight, and tossed it to the couch. Ignoring everyone but her sister, she flew across the room and threw her arms around her. "You precious, beautiful fool," she whispered, as Angharad weakly returned the embrace, still lost in confusion. "Why didn't you tell me this afternoon?"
"Tell you what?" Another moment of this and she would lose control completely, run screaming from the room. "I don't know what's—,"
Eilwen pushed away and held her at arm's length to look at her, her emerald eyes wide with amazement. "You don't know?" she repeated. "Oh, honestly, Angharad. And here I thought you'd done it on purpose. Don't you know what it means when the power balance upends itself like that? You're pregnant, you idiot." Eilwen cupped her crescented hand to her breast, shaking her head at such willful ignorance even as she murmured, "Blessed Rhiannon," for once, reverently, as if she meant it.
Angharad stared at her stupidly, uncomprehending. Her mind raced backward, counting the days. "That's…not possible."
Eilwen raised one black brow wryly. "I assure you, with the way you've been carrying on—,"
"You knew." Regat's voice broke in like a falling axe. They all faced the queen, took in her pale face, the two spots of red flaming in her cheeks, as she glared accusingly at her sister and second daughter. Angharad reached back and clutched at Arianrhod's hands. "All of you," Regat gasped, "how dare you keep such secrets? How long has it gone on? Have you lost your senses completely?" She halted before Angharad, trembling with fury. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What man dared to touch you?"
Never had Angharad seen her mother so lose her composure. The shock of it only added to the numb bewilderment she felt, but this question ripped through her stunned paralysis, leaving one blazing certainty: she would never betray him. The princess raised her head, faced the queen, and shut her mouth.
Regat read her expression clearly, and her own mouth pressed into a thin line. Angharad, her heart racing, saw the mind churning behind her dark eyes. Regat whirled; in two steps she was at her couch, jerking the bellpull that hung at its end to summon a messenger.
"Sister—," Arianrhod began again, but the queen quelled her with one glare. A dreadful silence fell, so thick Angharad felt she could have poked holes in it if she reached out. Her mind still refused to wrap itself around reality; she felt faint and distant, as though she watched herself from somewhere else, and from somewhere else she heard her own breath release in a whimper, startled by a knock and a respectful, inquisitive voice at the door.
Regat crossed to it and opened it a crack; Angharad could not see the face on the other side, but neither could the queen, for she did not take her eyes from her daughter's face as she spoke. "Take a message to Gruffydd Hywel," she ordered, naming the captain of the guard. "Send five guard to the old fisherman's cove on the southern coast, east of Llanisfair. Whomever they find there, bring him in. Alive. I want a report by midnight."
Angharad could not hear the response. She felt rather than heard the strangled sound that tore from her throat, and sagged against Arianrhod as her knees gave way in a dizzy wave. Her vision filled, at its edges, with darkness, like curtains being drawn, and she fought it off as her aunt caught her and lowered her to the couch. Arianrhod's clear eyes flashed fire, but her voice was low, crooning, "It's all right, darling. It's all right. We will not let him be harmed. Stay calm."
"He's not there," Angharad whispered. "He's not returned." Unless he had come today, after she had left. Oh, please, Llyr, let him not have returned. Regat had shut the door and stood by the cold hearth; Angharad caught her breath around a sob, choked out, "They won't find him there. He's gone."
"I see," said her mother icily. "The typical way of it — amused himself and then left you, did he?"
"I sent him away," Angharad retorted, indignant, but Regat ignored her.
"That I should see the day when a Daughter of Llyr would be played a fool by any man. My own daughter. My own heir!" The queen threw her hands toward the grate and the cold embers roared to life. "Blessed gods, how could you betray us this way? And at this time? The law, Angharad!"
"Oh, Mother, for goodness' sake." Eilwen, who had curled next to her sister on the couch, threw back her black head defiantly. "You keep Angharad so chained up with rules and duties and obligations and then have the gall to be shocked that she might crave a little happiness and affection? And you call her a fool?"
"Silence," Regat gasped, but Eilwen jumped to her feet, her face crimson.
"It's marvelous you can rant about keeping secrets, given what's been going on for months," she cried. "You've put countless lives in danger and invited dark magic into our circle instead of asking for help, yet you're angry at her? For daring to seek out what you always rejected? At us, for being glad she was happy?"
"Enough," the queen ordered, and the air crackled around them. Eilwen, unsubdued, stared her down, stepping in front of Angharad.
"You know blasted well how hard she's tried to live up to your ideals and do everything you ask of her. She's too concerned with pleasing you to tell you how it's killing her, but I'm not. It's your own fault, Mother, and if you hurt her even more now, by the goddess, I swear it, I'll—,"
"Eilwen!" It was Arianrhod this time, breaking in none too soon, for the crackle in the room had reached a breaking point; the hearth-fire was roaring, candles were sputtering to life of their own accord, and the leading in the windows had begun smoking. The priestess stepped between her sister and niece, laying a hand upon her subordinate gently. "Your sense of justice is admirable, love, but remember to whom you speak. Come, Regat." She took the queen by the arm and steered her toward the other side of the room near a window, pushing open the casement to let in more air. They conversed there in low murmurs, urgent and intense, the queen pacing before the open window, her sister standing straight and still.
Angharad stayed motionless on the couch, barely comprehending all that had been said. Her mind felt tethered in a sphere of blank emptiness; all the harsh words bounced like blunt arrows from its surface. Eilwen sat beside her again, warm and trembling with defensive anger, and wrapped her tightly in her arms, laying her silken cheek against her sister's head. "I don't blame you," she whispered, "not one bit. I'd have done the same thing. Now you've got something of him to keep."
Memory stirred, pushed itself into the emptiness. "That's what I told him," Angharad murmured, in wonderment. "It's what I wanted, but he wasn't sure. But I thought…" She shook her head. "The timing, Eilwen; it's all wrong. I had no signs. He left before full moon. How—?"
"It's rare to conceive out of season," Eilwen sighed, with a shrug, "but not entirely unheard of, especially when someone's been under as much worry as you've been; things get all unhinged. And besides that, Rhiannon does what she wills. Even Mother can't thwart the goddess, much as she'd probably like to."
"How did you all know?"
"That spectacle of yours at the fire-lighting. Don't worry - I don't think anyone else there caught on, though everyone was a bit concerned. I knew as soon as you tossed the last spark; I felt that flood on its heels. You're the goddess now, all water and womb; there's no room for fire, except what'll be hers. Those powers will come back in time. Fully, after she's born."
After she's born. She. Angharad rolled the words in her mouth, tasting their solid reality. A daughter. Geraint's child. Their child. A wondrous, disbelieving sweetness filtered through the haze of her thoughts, finally, a spark of joy that caught and blazed in a tremulous, flickering glow. She let her stiff body soften into her sister's embrace, laying her head on her shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered, clasping Eilwen's hand, "for all that, just now. I'll make it up to you somehow."
Eilwen chuckled, very low. "Llyr, don't be daft. Just….oh, name her after me and we'll be even." She kissed her cheek and sighed, a mingling of resignation and joy.
The voices from the other side of the room rose in a heated debate. "…so early," Regat was arguing, "it would be a small thing to…"
Arianrhod cut her off with unwonted vehemence, hissing. "Do not even speak what is in your mind. You would allow your fear and anger to drive you to blasphemy. If Rhiannon abandons us what will we have left?"
The girls glanced over at this, took in the priestess's outraged, flashing eyes, her usually-mild face flushed with anger. Regat looked frustrated and slightly cowed. Angharad shivered, and instinctively curled herself forward, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She thought anxiously of Geraint, of his ambivalent response to her bringing up this very possibility, that last day with him at the cove. How could she tell him? Would he be happy or dismayed? Would he think she had tricked him? Would he stay?
Where was he?
Turned inward, she realized presently that the murmurs from the corner had ceased, and looked up. Arianrhod stood at the window, looking out upon the darkness, her expression tense. Regat had returned to the hearth and was staring into the flames. She had removed her golden crown, and turned it in her hands slowly; the light slid over its gleaming curves, turned its set gems and ormer to muted pearlescent rainbows. When she spoke, she sounded less angry than hurt, her voice breaking in ways Angharad had never heard. "My daughter," she said, without looking up, "what have you to say for yourself?"
Angharad considered. What had she to say? She could tell the tale from the beginning, describe Geraint and all his attributes, rail against their restrictive law, point out all the ways she had continued to fulfill her duties, give weak excuses for the carelessness that had resulted in such a scandalous outcome. But even as she opened her mouth to begin she found she had no desire to do it, no sense of obligation to bare her soul, and somehow it felt as though she must either say everything or…
"Nothing," she declared.
Eilwen tightened her arms around her in approval as Regat stiffened and jerked her disbelieving gaze to her. Another long silence. The queen stalked to the table that held all her documents, and laid down her crown with slow, careful restraint.
"You will remain in the castle from this point forward," she said. Her voice was tight, but it had regained its familiar tone; the one that made everything she said the final word on any matter. "Tomorrow," she continued, "While the crowds are still assembled, I will announce the public presentation of all the enchanters who have come to seek your hand, to take place in ten days' time. At which point you will choose one, and be wed in a fortnight."
Angharad gasped, jerking away from Eilwen. "Ten days—but there are only two arrived. And they're both horrid."
"I will not have it known that the next heir to the throne is a—," Regat cut herself off with effort, and took a breath. "We may hope that someone more amenable to your tastes arrives in the interim, but if you are unhappy with your choices, you have only yourself to blame for limiting the time you have." She laid her hands heavily upon the parchments strewn over the table. "Meanwhile, no one will breathe a word of this to anyone. There will be time enough for the appropriate response and ceremony after you are properly wed. Arianrhod can instruct you enough on how to care for yourself until Branwen takes over."
Angharad glanced at her aunt, and Arianrhod hurried over, and laid her hands on her shoulders. "Regat," she said, "please console yourself. You know well enough that it is not the first time in our line the heir was conceived of someone other than the royal consort. Several of our greatest queens came from such unions."
Regat frowned and did not look at them, but Angharad gave a little surprised start. "Did they?"
Arianrhod smiled down upon her with a face lined in weariness and anxiety, but her eyes were soft, and glowed with quiet happiness. "Indeed. A child born of love is doubly blessed, and the goddess has smiled upon you since the beginning, dear heart." She bent and kissed the crown of her head. "Remember what I told you. Love is a magic all its own, as powerful as any other that we wield. Never," she added, with a significant look at her sister, "allow yourself to reject that truth."
Regat cast her a baleful stare. "There are other truths," she said, "that seem to have been forgotten in this madness. The most pressing being that we are still at war with a formidable enemy, one to whom love is a meaningless word. It is rather a shame," she admitted, with a dark frown. "If this had to happen, it would have been more useful days ago, before Achren's treachery could take place. You could have been even more effective than she was, had we known," she said, addressing her daughter.
"It would have been too early," Arianrhod said. "She is a week quickened, at most; probably today was the first detectable. You know that power does not reach its full strength until a few weeks on."
Angharad glanced from one to the other in confusion. "I don't understand."
Eilwen patted her hand. "You'll be a force beyond imagining, soon, that's all," she muttered, "a manifestation of Rhiannon herself. You could pick up the island and move it a mile out to sea if you wanted, or send a tidal wave to raze Annuvin to the ground."
"That's a bit of an exaggeration," Arianrhod remarked mildly, "but certainly you'll experience some dramatic effects — though without access to fire, I do not know what, exactly, you could have done to halt Arawn's progress. You would have had to use an entirely different method than Achren's. In any case what's done is done. Certainly, the increase in your power could be helpful if he attempts a counterattack, but more importantly," she added, with a frown, "you must protect yourself. Regat, I suggest Eilwen take Angharad's place in any more work in which we must involve Achren. Which I hope will be limited."
Regat had sat at the table, her proud bearing finally slumped in exhaustion. "I will put off, for now, the question of how Eilwen knows anything about this at all, which I specifically forbade," she growled, "but yes. Achren's chamber window opens upon the courtyard, and there is no question that she watches everything she can. It will be a miracle if she missed that performance, though whether she knows the significance of it is anyone's guess. I would not put it past her." She waved a hand at them wearily. "Go, all of you. I wish to be alone. Angharad, keep your peace if it comforts you. But I will know who the father is, one way or another."
Angharad, rising from the couch, froze in place. "And what will you do?"
Regat looked stony. "By law his life is forfeit." She held up a hand to halt the outraged and anguished cries of the other women. "But I am not the monster you appear to think me. I know not yet what I will do, save that I will not completely destroy what faith you have in me—if any remains." The imperious hand dropped once more. "Now go."
Eilwen sprang up, and pressed a cold weight into Angharad's hand; she looked down in surprise and saw the Pelydryn, its light gone out. Her sister pulled her up. "Come. Aunt and I will walk you to your chambers."
Angharad stepped away and hesitated next to the table, looking down at her mother's bent head. She wondered what Regat had thought when she had learned she was carrying her, whether she'd been happy at all, or just resigned to her duties, perhaps relieved that she need not even pretend any longer to desire her husband's attention. She reached out slowly to touch her mother's hand.
Then she thought of the two men who waited like wolves for their chance at her. They were no comparison to her own father, probably, but even should a perfectly affable man walk into court tomorrow, even Gwydion himself…she shuddered. No. It was a horrible thought in every respect, even more so now, a nightmare from which she could not awaken, her mother unyielding in its enforcement. Perhaps Regat had no choice. Perhaps neither of them did. But she could not forgive it.
Angharad drew her hand back, and left the room without a backward glance.
So. This has in fact been the plan since I started this, but I can't express how difficult it was to actually go through with it. As the spark that lights the fuse for the ticking time-bomb that leads to tragedy, it got harder the more I got to know my characters. But such is the way of it.
Thanks to all readers and reviewers from the last chapter - it was lovely to see new names and know this is meaningful for you, and it really helps keep me going in all this madness. Like probably all of you, I am struggling with anxiety and grief and depression and All the Things, and I can't predict at what point I'll post again, given my inability to concentrate on writing. Keep checking in, and I'll do my best. I feel a personal responsibility to survive Pandemic2020 just so I can finish this story, or nobody will ever know how this ends.
