Bedcurtains. Gold brocade bedcurtains. She hadn't slept under curtains since-
Eilonwy sprang up in a sleepy, confused panic, and fell back with a groan. Everything ached. But pain brought clarity; she remembered where she was, and sank into a pile of pillows with a long, deep breath.
The curtains weren't drawn - she had insisted upon that, she remembered now, last night when they'd brought her here, barely lucid - and she blinked at the view: a chamber elegantly furnished, draped in crimson and gold. Through a tall casement, the rosy light of sunrise warmed the room.
She stretched, easing the stiffness out of her muscles, squirmed a little to untwist herself from the voluminous nightshift they'd dressed her in, and tried to piece together her memories of the day before.
It was a jumble of disjointed recollections, which came as no surprise. When shortly after the unexpectedly easy rout of an enemy army, Caer Dathyl had witnessed the presumed-dead Crown Prince appear at the gates with an unconscious boy strapped to his horse, a ragged waif he declared was a princess of Llyr, and a pig who, despite his command that she be treated like something divine, had immediately bolted to begin rooting in the manure piles by the stables, one might just expect a few moments of confusion.
Taran had been taken straight to the healers, somewhere in the north wing of the fortress. Eilonwy, incensed at being separated from him, had broken away from her own escort, and tried to follow. But the courtyard was teeming with re-assembling warriors, and she'd quickly gotten lost in the unfamiliar surroundings. She'd been caught - twice. The second time, her guard lifted her bodily and carried her, furious and sulking, to the eastern keep, and turned her over to the ladies in charge there.
They'd immersed her in a tub of hot, rose-scented water, washed her hair and combed its tangles out with lavender oil - which took an hour - and tended all her scrapes and bruises while she ate the most marvelous dinner in living memory. All the while they squawked and clucked like a flock of hens. Eilonwy couldn't remember ever having been so fussed over, and might have found it pleasant, were it not for her worry over Taran and the rest of her companions.
Her inquiries about whether anyone had seen a bard, dwarf, and strange dog-man creature anywhere in the fray had brought only patronizing assurances that she would be informed when there was any news, admonitions not to worry her pretty head, and, finally, a terse declaration from the head nurse that young ladies should not show such untoward interest in the affairs of men. Lurid description of the affairs she'd already seen had only raised horrified eyebrows and cemented the opinion that it was all the more reason she should be protected from further trauma now that she was among civilized folk. Too spent to argue further, Eilonwy had fallen into sullen silence, and dozed off into her dinner. The subsequent insistence on open curtains was her only other memory.
Eilonwy wiggled her toes under the bedclothes, which were thick and luxuriously heavy, before throwing them back and scooting out of the bed. Thick carpet muffled the thump of her feet hitting the floor. She noticed her bauble sitting on a small table by the bed and picked it up; then crossed to the casement and looked out.
The window looked due east, and she found she was midway up a tower, with treetops shimmering in the dawn just below her eye level. Beyond them, the land rolled gently down, green and verdant fields broken by winding patches of darker green where trees filled the hollows. Stone walls marched down from the castle and wound through the countryside like grey rivers, with towers standing sentry at intervals. Large halls and houses filled the landscape nearby, and further off, cottages dotted the green meadows. Birds twittered their morning songs, and the lazy clang of a cowbell floated from somewhere far away.
Eilonwy breathed deep and smiled. What a lovely place. All she'd imagined and more. As soon as Taran was able, what a time they could have exploring it.
She whirled from the window. Taran. And Fflewddur and Doli and Gurgi. If no one was going to tell her where they were, she'd find them herself, and she wasn't going to be put off another minute.
Just as she put her hand to the doorlatch, however, it moved, and the door swung open to reveal the same head nursemaid who'd cared for her the night before.
Unpleasantness followed. The nurse, a brisk, no-nonsense type, was less interested in supplying information than in ensuring her charge was properly dressed and fed, and all-too-obviously had long experience in weathering the tantrums of royal children. She paid no attention to Eilonwy's grumblings or complaints, and had no sympathy for her impatience. Young ladies, she said, must always control their tempers.
Young ladies also, it turned out, were dressed in several layers - several more than necessary, in fact - of very pretty and restrictive clothing, of a cut and length to discourage any activity more strenuous than sitting or walking. No, they did not run or climb. Or scratch, no matter how bad the itch. Especially not there.
Breakfast was all that could be desired. Eilonwy was tempted to dispense with any notion of table manners just for the amusement of shocking her attendants. But this had been one of the few points of ettiquette Achren had insisted upon that she had not rebelled against, the only other example being that of the resident men, who'd eaten like starving wild boar - and it was too ingrained a habit to break.
She was mulling over the potential consequences of several different strategies for escaping her chamber and finding her friends when there was a knock at the door. Eilonwy jumped up to answer it and found the nurse blocking her way. There was a quick murmured exchange with someone outside while she attempted to shove her way past the woman's ample figure.
Her protest died when the nurse stepped aside, revealing a richly-dressed page; a boy slightly younger than Eilonwy, his self-importance almost a tangible thing around him. He bowed to her. "Prince Gwydion requests the presence of the Princess Eilonwy," he announced, with a saucy glance at the nurse, who was frowning her disapproval. "Would my lady be pleased to accompany me?"
"Very." Eilonwy leapt into the hallway, grabbed the boy's arm, and nearly dragged him around, stopping only when he dug in his heels. She looked at him in annoyance. "What's the matter?"
He was freckled and red-cheeked, with a pair of impish dark eyes that twinkled at her. "It's the other way, my lady."
"Oh." She blushed. "Sorry. Lead on, then."
She followed the twitching feather in his velvet cap, down long twisting corridors and several spiral staircases, lit dimly by narrow windows at intervals. They crossed quiet cobbled courtyards and entered into a walled garden, where a fountain burbled amid rows of sweet-smelling herbs. A tall figure stood before it, his back to them.
The page boy halted so suddenly that Eilonwy, following close at his heels, nearly ran into him. The boy cleared his throat. "The Princess Eilonwy, my lord." He bowed himself out, after shooting her a grin she was sure was not at all appropriate for their respective positions.
The tall figure turned and Gwydion's rare smile shone upon her as she curtsied. "Princess. A good morning to you." He held out a hand to her. "I hope you have found our hospitality to your liking."
Eilonwy took his hand, feeling awkward at the formality. "I..." she hesitated, frankness battling with an unfamiliar sense of tact. "I've been...taken good care of. Rather-" she caught herself scratching, and snatched her hand hastily behind her back. "Rather better than I'm used to, actually."
Gwydion, himself dressed in fine linen and velvet that looked only a bit more comfortable than her gown, laughed in sympathy. His rugged face was shaved clean and his hair groomed back, though no amount of brushing could have tamed it completely. "The trappings of royalty are not always the luxury they appear," he acknowledged. "But come, be as easy as you can. We have much to discuss." He led her toward a low stone bench and motioned for her to sit. She did, chewing on the insides of her cheeks, and tucked her feet under her endless skirts to try to hide their agitated twitching. But Gwydion had not missed it. "I think you have some questions for me first," he observed, lowering himself to the other end of the bench.
"I've heard nothing of my companions," Eilonwy burst out. "I'm sure Taran is in good hands - though someone might think to let his friends know how he fares. But we left the rest in mortal danger, and there's been no word at all." She sniffed, and looked away from Gwydion in embarrassment, for hot tears were brimming in her eyes, as always happened when she felt angry and helpless.
Gwydion politely made nothing of her outburst. "I can set your mind at ease on all points," he said gently. "Taran of Caer Dallben has been tended all night by the most skilled of our healers, and he will soon be moved to a place where he may rest until he awakens. His recovery will take some days, but I shall see that you are brought to keep him company as soon as he is settled."
Relief made her gasp out a sob in spite of her resolve, and he silently handed her a handkerchief produced from somewhere on his person. "Fflewddur Fflam Son of Godo, Doli of the Fair Folk, and Gurgi are likewise safe, and are resting in other quarters. From them have I heard much of the journey you have taken. They all asked for you, but it was late when they arrived, and your need of rest was deemed of the most importance."
Eilonwy had buried her face in the handkerchief, breathing long, shuddery breaths in an effort to control herself. Belin, she could hardly have felt more like crying hysterically if she'd found out they were all as dead as doorposts. Surely she must be going mad. It was the only explanation for wanting to cry and laugh all at once so many times a day.
Gwydion no longer spoke aloud, but his presence next to her was solid as an anchor, a spirit kindred enough to sense without sight. She felt his mind drifting around her, observant, but courteous; he pressed nowhere. She swallowed, put down the handkerchief, and sighed. "You want to know how I came to be with Achren."
"Among many other things." He wave a dismissive hand. "But only when you are ready."
She shrugged, and, in bursts of long narrative interrupted by his occasional questions, told him everything. What she remembered; what she didn't. It seemed pitifully little, and she was compelled to apologize, but Gwydion shook his head.
"I expected Achren to cover her tracks," he said, "and you would have been too young to remember much, even without her interference. I would that I knew what she had intended, and whether she had a hand in the fall of Llyr, or only seized the opportunity." His fingers drummed on his knee. "The timing hardly looks like coincidence."
Eilonwy shivered as cold fingers prickled down her back. "Medwyn said Llyr was destroyed. It's true, then."
His silence was affirmation enough. "So I have no home, and no family," she said, in a hollow voice.
"Not quite," Gwydion returned. "You have kin on the Isle of Mona, distant cousins I believe, in the royal family. They would happily offer you a home. For that matter, you are welcome here as long as you wish to stay." She felt his gaze upon her, sympathetic and gentle. "But as concerns your immediate family, I fear the fate of your parents must remain a mystery. If I know aught of your mother, nothing but death would have prevented her from finding you."
Her heart fluttered strangely at the unsaid thoughts behind his words. She looked up quickly; but he was, all of a sudden, a blank stone wall, his gaze clouded and fastened on something beyond her. "Did you know her?" she queried, trembling.
He focused on her and then looked swiftly away, but not before she saw pain in his eyes. "Indeed. We met."
Silence. His apparent disinclination to elaborate was more than Eilonwy could bear. "And? Only once? What was she like?"
She leaned into his line of sight and Gwydion broke into a reluctant laugh. "Very like you, in both look and manner. Forthright. Courageous. And unfailingly winsome." He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his green eyes wistful. "And though once would have been enough never to forget her, we met on numerous occasions." His gaze turned inward again and he repeated, "numerous occasions," in a murmur, as though he'd forgotten what he'd meant to say next.
Eilonwy sat back, puzzled. She wanted to pepper him with questions, but his short, distracted answers were so discouraging they were almost worse than no answers at all. She cleared her throat to bring him back to the present. "And...what of my father? Who was he?"
Gwydion blinked at her, the wistfulness melting from his face, leaving behind the firm, strong lines and serious expression she knew. "Very little is known of him," he said. "I cannot even tell you his name, for the queen forbade it to be spoken. Angharad married against her mother's will, you see. She deserted Caer Colur - the stronghold of Llyr - defying the queen and forsaking her heritage, and disappeared."
Achren had taught her something of her ancestry, but she had never breathed a word of this. Eilonwy sucked in her breath, tingling all over. "Queen Regat didn't approve of him? Why not?"
"It was understood that an enchantress of Llyr must wed another enchanter, preferably one with a noble lineage," Gwydion explained, with a wry smile, "to keep the magic in the family, so to speak. It runs in the blood. But it seems - or so we heard some time afterwards - that Angharad chose, from among her several suitors, a man with neither title nor magical ability. She married for love." His eyes twinkled at her, mouth curling with gentle irony. "Which is an unpardonable offense for someone in our positions. Remember that."
Eilonwy giggled. "I will. But...oh, it's lovely." She sighed, her eyes on the sky, enraptured at the thought that her parents had been happy. In love. "Terribly romantic."
Gwydion grunted. "Perhaps." She looked at him quickly, took in his thoughtful frown, read his general sense of disquiet.
"You think she was wrong," she said flatly.
He shot her a piercing glance. "No. But I do wonder. Your mother was the only heir to the throne of Llyr, which was a great power and important ally. Its destruction happened, as far as we know, almost immediately after she disappeared. The entire island collapsed into the sea; a disaster unparalleled in written history. Thousands of lives were lost."
"Oh." Eilonwy swallowed hard. "And you...you think it was her fault."
"I do not say so," Gwydion said, after a long pause. "It would not have been like her to leave, had she known it would provoke such disaster. But it has always troubled me. Something happened there, that none has been able to discover. How she was involved, exactly why she left when she did, and what she may have taken with her...it may never be known. But at least now we know that she survived long enough to bring you into the world." His smiled at her warmly. "Surely a worthy legacy."
His gaze suddenly froze on her hands. She had, in her agitation, pulled her bauble from her pocket and was twirling it in her fingertips. Seeing his expression, she stopped, cupping her hands over it. "Sorry. It's an old habit. I daresay young ladies aren't supposed to fiddle with things."
"No, no," Gwydion protested. His serious expression had broken into wonderment. "May I see that?"
Eilonwy held up the golden ball. He did not touch it, only examined it with reverence, and whispered something she could not make out. He looked her in the eye. "Did you know that was your mother's?"
Warm gladness bloomed in her chest. "I thought it might be," she said, "because I couldn't imagine Achren giving it to me. But I wasn't sure. She never tried to take it."
"No," Gwydion said, that wistful smile back on his face. "She coveted it, beyond a doubt, but it would have done nothing for her. But for you-" he hesitated. "Can you use it?"
"I can do this." She cupped the smooth sphere, felt it ignite, and held it glowing before his face. A spark of gold mirrored it in both his eyes. She felt from him a rush of emotions so palpable it almost knocked her over, too many, too intense even to unravel one from the other. He was looking at the light as though transfixed, and with an effort that felt like a dam breaking, he tore his eyes away and gently pushed her hand down, blocking the glow from his vision.
"Is there more than that?" she asked.
Gwydion's mouth was a straight, grim line as he looked at her. "That is enough," he said in a low voice, "for now."
Abruptly he stood up. "Well then. I believe I know a few noble warriors who will be as glad to see you as I am, and who ought to be finishing their breakfasts by now. Come." He held out his arm; she took it, glad the conversation was over, and hurriedly pocketed her bauble.
It seemed there really were things you were better off not knowing.
This chapter dedicated to Prydain's Chief Lurker, in gratitude for fanchats at ungodly hours, broken writer's block, and a thousand new plot bunnies just waiting to be swept up. :)