'What were you thinking?'

The High King's voice was low, his green eyes alight with anger. Rhys had not seen him like this in many years.

His mother, arms folded, leaned against a chair by the hearth. He'd been brought into the council chambers to face the wroth of his parents. Meeting his mother's gaze, he tried to gauge whether she'd have any sympathy for him. Sometimes the High Queen would have a kind word in his favour, place a hand on her husband's taught shoulder, interject with a complex simile.

Today, her blue eyes were as hard as jewels. Rhys would receive no support from her.

'There was no time, Majesty,' Rhys replied. 'Gareth and one other patrol guard captured the men. He needed reinforcements sent.'

'What, alerting me would have taken too long?'

'You were in council.'

'A council that you were supposed to join me in.'

The family were ensconced in the King's privy chamber. The King was standing by a long table, arms folded across his chest. The Queen, dressed in a blue frock, touched the silver chain at her throat as she regarded her son.

'It would have taken too long. We needed to act. Quickly.'

'By dragging out Matilda with you? By putting her in danger?'

Rhys gritted his teeth.

'Good to see you are capable of remorse,' the King muttered, rubbing his temples. 'Her ransom is coming to an end this year. If I cannot deliver her unharmed there will be trouble. We are not in a place to afford such difficulty with a foreign ruler.'

'She was unharmed!' Rhys countered.

'There are more harms that can be done to a lady than a few scratches,' his mother cut in. 'The whole keep saw you bringing her back on Melynwyn. The courtiers will talk.'

'Then let them,' Rhys shot back. 'Without her we never would have known what those men were doing in Prydain. They would have escaped regardless.'

'It doesn't matter-'

Rhys scoffed, 'The safety of the keep-'

'Caer Dathyl has the strongest walls in Prydain!' The King slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the sparse dishes that had been placed there.

Rhys promptly shut his mouth.

'I have half a mind to send you to a farm for a year. Teach you what real responsibility is,' his father said.

Rhys opened his mouth to speak, but The High King held up a hand to stay him. 'Instead I'll settle for you mucking out stables.'

Rhys gave a mock bow. 'As you wish, your majesty,' he said.

'Anything else you wish to tell us?' The King asked pointedly.

The gold pendant suddenly felt heavy in his pocket. 'No,' he said, taking his leave.

'Obstinate boy.' Taran sat by the fire, running a hand through his hair.

Eilonwy poured them both a goblet of wine, handing one to her husband. He took it wearily from her outstretched hand.

'What? Nothing to say?' He immediately regretted the words. 'I am sorry,' he added hurriedly, 'but did you see the way he-'

'The two of you should shake hands,' Eilonwy said, the ghost of a smile playing in her lips. 'I remember a certain pig keeper being equally as brash in his youth.'

'That was different,' Taran replied, taking a long draught of wine. 'You know that was different. Kingdoms didn't hang in the balance.'

'Did you expect our children to be born diplomats?' she asked, running the outside of her hand down his cheek. He leaned into her touch. 'That's like expecting a horse to know how to accept the bit a few days after birth. Rhys is young. He needs to make his mistakes.'

'He is on the threshold of true manhood,' Taran agreed. 'But by his age I'd already walked most of Prydain and was readying myself to ride into battle with Gwydion.'

'Oh come now,' Eilonwy said with a snort. 'You cannot blame Rhys for being born into a time of peace and prosperity. Nor for being born into the comfort of his station.'

Taran bristled at that.

'He needs time, Taran. And a good deal more responsibility than you've given him.' Eilonwy had softened again, and she took her place across from him in a wingback chair. She kicked off her slippers and tucked her feet beneath her.

In these moments, Taran could still see the precocious girl who'd found him mouldering on a dungeon. He knew the boy he'd been at the time was still within him; an untried youth, full of vigour and fear. Had it really been so long since then?

'Well I did invite him to council for that reason,' Taran said, propping his boots closer to the fire.

'A Prince is not made tallying grain tax.' Eilonwy rubbed the back of her head and groaned. 'Remember Rhun? We all have to meet our making eventually.'

The two of them were quiet after that. Rhun had indeed been made a Prince, but it had ended with him in an early grave. Even now Queen Teleria still carried the shadow of grief with her.

Taran thought about Rhys meeting the same fate and felt his free hand instinctively clench. Dyrnwyn was leaning against the mantle, poised and ready to defend whatever calamity might present itself to his family. He itched to grab it, a sudden surge of protectiveness washing over him.

He glanced over at Eilonwy and knew she was thinking the same. A hand was tracing her lips and she stared into the fire, a furrow between her delicate brows.

Life had been kind to them, far too kind in some ways, though they themselves had known loss. A fever had taken away a babe of theirs fifteen years ago, and nearly killed Iola, who was so young at the time. Eilonwy had been distraught with grief, and for a while Taran wondered if a mother's broken heart would be her end.

Then someone had suggested bringing Queen Teleria to court. A few years and two children later, Eilonwy was more or less back to herself. Though Taran noticed little things about her had changed; things only a husband would notice. It was difficult to explain. Perhaps it was that she had a little more gravitas now, as though she'd been shown some secret knowledge through her walk with grief.

'Our children are here to be themselves,' she whispered. 'We can only do our best to guide them.'

'That boy is being guided directly to the stables,' Taran answered.

To his delight Eilonwy laughed. 'Yes that will be good for him. I am a little worried though,' she added, 'that my court ladies will be taking the long way round to my chambers. A handsome man with a pitchfork can be quite a distraction.' She winked at Taran.

'We both know he only has eyes for that girl,' Taran replied.

'Yes but that doesn't solve my problem. The High Queen is supposed to keep her ladies chaste and safe.' She lifted her goblet in the air and did a mock impression of a courtly accent.

It was Taran's turn to laugh. 'Spoken like Queen Teleria. What would the young Eilonwy think of that?'

Eilonwy arched an eyebrow at her husband. 'Go and lock the door and perhaps she'll show you.'

Rhys took the stairs down into the great hall two at a time. He brushed a hand over the pocket of his trousers, where the pendant lay, and searched the long tables for Gareth.

The guardsman was sharpening his sword with a whetstone next to Owain, who had his head buried in a pile of scrolls.

'So,' Gareth said, not looking up, 'how long are you shovelling out the stables?'

'A month,' Rhys replied, taking a seat next to him. 'Owain, what are you reading there?'

'I found a tome on the war strategies of the king of old and I'm searching for a reference on something…' he trailed off, tracing his finger down a long bit of script.

An older serving woman dropped off a few pots of ale, some bread, and cheese. Rhys sighed, reaching for the metal tankard, taking a long sip.

'He's wrong you know, my father,' he said finally.

Gareth just laughed to himself.

'It's true! He's so concerned with keeping Caer Dathyl safe from larger threats he hasn't noticed the smaller ones.' Rhys reached into his pocket and fished out the pendant, throwing it on the table.

'What's that then?' Gareth glanced at the pendant for a quick moment and then went back to his work.

'Dropped by one of the men.' Rhys picked it up and examined it. There was a series of symbols on one side, perhaps relating to a language he could not read. On the other side there were four precious stones embedded in the gold gilt in a haphazard manner.

'It is not a pretty thing,' Gareth mentioned. 'Doesn't look fit for a princess, not even a common lady.'

'It's old,' Owain said, snatching the pendant from Rhys hand. 'These symbols, I think-'

'Shouldn't you be covered in straw?'

Iola was striding into the great hall, Matilda on her arm.

'News travels fast,' Rhys muttered.

'It's the least you deserve for torturing our mother's ladies in waiting,' Iola said, clicking her tongue.

Matilda, whose cheeks glowed from fresh scrubbing, refused to look at Rhys. She glanced over Gareth's shoulder to look at the trinket Owain now held in his hands.

'What an odd thing,' she hummed. 'Not another one of your forge projects?' she added, smiling down at Gareth.

Rhys was surprised at the pang of jealousy in his gut.

'One of the captured men dropped it as he was trying to escape,' he said.

'Did you tell father?' Iola's blue eyes regarded him in earnest.

'He wouldn't care,' Rhys sneered.

'What is it, exactly?' Iola fingered the piece of jewelry as it hung from Owain's outstretched hand, watching the afternoon light streaming in through the windows glint off the jewels.

'It's Brythonic,' Owain finally finished. 'At least, I think it is.'

'What's that?' Matilda asked.

'An ancient language of Prydain,' Gareth replied, sheathing his sword. 'From its earliest people.'

'Can you translate it?' Rhys snatched it out of his younger brother's hand to read the script for himself.

'Maybe,' Owain shrugged.

'Well we shan't be part of your scheme,' Matilda piped up. 'The Queen has asked us to help plan celebrations for the spring equinox.'

Rhys fought the urge to roll his eyes. 'Yes go on then, we wouldn't want to interfere with your insipid traditions.'

He smiled when he saw Matilda's cheeks bloom. He started when he felt the sharp dig of an elbow in his ribcage. Iola shook her head at him, an amused look on her face.

'Enjoy the stables, Your Highness,' Matilda snapped. She turned and walked away, Iola trailing the train of her dress.

'I'm not sure if she'd rather slap you or kiss you,' Gareth said in that usual, matter of fact way of his.

'Kiss? I'd kiss a viper first.' Rhys was nettled by the comment. 'Besides,' he said, nodding over to a few court ladies that were looking over at them and whispering, 'why chase the shrew when there are far more willing birds about?'

Gareth only shrugged.

Rhys pushed up from the table. 'Well, I'd best go see about Melynwyn. The sooner I start my chores the sooner they'll be finished.'

'And good luck to you,' Gareth said.

'Can I keep this?' Owain asked, holding the golden chain aloft. 'Only until I find out about what it means?'

'And when you're done you can give it to me and I'll melt it into an engagement ring,' Gareth teased.

Rhys made a rude gesture as he strode off.