Blinded by tears, Eilonwy had not gone more than a few steps into the courtyard before she collided with someone…someone who said oof! in a familiar, beloved voice, who smelled like mint and leaf-mould and woodsmoke and comfort.
"Well, there you are!" Fflewddur exclaimed as she threw her arms around him with a strangled sob. "I've been waiting that long…oh, here now, what's this? What's all this?"
His long arms closed around her and she hiccupped into his jacket for a few moments while he crooned softly, rocking like a tree in the wind. Then he took her by the shoulders and held her out, his pleasant face furrowed in puzzled concern. "Dear heart, here I expected a joyous reunion. Who has made you so unhappy? Show him to me and I'll give him what-for, on my honor as a Fflam."
She swiped at her eyes the better to see him, and tried, unsuccessfully, to smile. "What makes you so sure it's a him?"
"Oh." Fflewddur pulled a wry face and shrugged. "Call it an educated guess, at your age."
His eyes wandered to something behind her, and his expression hardened a little, though it was conflicted, a mix of concern, affection, and dismay. She turned to see what he saw—Taran had followed her as far as the doorway, and now stood there uncertainly, watching them both.
Eilonwy huffed, and turned away, marching past Fflewddur. "Thought as much," he murmured, and followed her, adding, "know where you're going?" as she made one turn and then another, weaving around walls.
"Not in the slightest."
"They'll all be wondering where you've gone."
"Let them. It's not as if I can go far, in all this." She held up the ridiculous sleeves in disgust and waved them at him.
Fflewddur whistled. "Fine feathers, indeed. Not so easy to get used to, hm? But you do look quite lovely. Like a sunrise on the sea."
It was sincere, but she snorted, and turned to stamp up a staircase that led to the top of a wall, long skirt trailing behind. "Doesn't matter though, does it."
"Ah." His voice floated up from behind her. "Didn't anyone else tell you so?"
"No one whose opinion I care about. They were too busy telling me what I can't do, instead." Near the top of the stairs, she stepped on her hem, nearly fell, and hissed her displeasure out loud. A clump of dry grass, gathered in a nearby crevice of the wall, exploded into smoldering ash, singeing a gull that had been roosting in its midst. It careened off, shrieking expletives of its own.
Fflewddur whistled. "I know Dallben didn't teach you that one. Come, stand still a minute, love. Tell me what happened."
"Oh, Fflewddur," Eilonwy groaned. "What hasn't happened?" She leaned against the wall, covering her face with her hands. "Nobody asked me if I wanted any of this. I've been sent here with no choice in the matter, and already it feels like they're trying to turn me into someone else. They all keep talking about my mother, and about Llyr, and…it's not that I don't want to know about them, but I also…I just…don't…" She sobbed once, and let out a long, shuddering sigh. "I don't know what I want, except maybe, just maybe, to decide a few things for myself. And the one person I thought might understand…" She choked on the words and threw up her hands. "Doesn't care. Might as well have said I'm to stay locked up here forever and good riddance."
"Oh, come now." Fflewddur had listened to her outburst with a sympathetic mien, but he shook his head at this last. "I know that isn't true. And I'm something of an expert on discerning truth, you know. Hasn't he told you he cares?"
Unwillingly, she remembered the morning: Taran's confessing how he could not imagine Caer Dallben without her. His hand over hers on the ship railing; the raw intensity of his eyes as he bent his head. "He's made…certain efforts," she said, face going hot.
"Aha." Fflewddur coughed. "Take it from me, 'certain efforts' can take a truly stupendous amount of courage. Be patient with him if you can…trial though it may be. But what do you mean he told you you'd stay forever? I thought it was settled that you were only visiting for a while."
"I thought so, as well, but now…now he's saying I'm forbidden to leave, that there could be unknown dangers, and if he thinks I'm planning to get out he'll tell the king to set up guards over me! As if I'm going to go catch the first ship out of the harbor!"
"That does sound rather like you," Fflewddur quipped mildly. "Especially after everything you just told me. Did you threaten to run off?"
"No!" She caught herself, and stammered, "I mean…I did sort of present the idea that we…the four of us, I mean, you and Gurgi, and Taran and I…might wander out for a few days to see what else there was on Mona. It seems such a waste, when we're all together again, not to have a good roam like in old times."
"You mean sneak out." Fflewddur squinted at her. "You thought he'd agree to that? Now, love, be reasonable. I know it's been a while, but you can't have forgotten what it's like in a royal court—there are proprieties and procedures, you know. This isn't Caer Dallben. These folks know little of your histories and Taran's character. Do you know what kind of trouble he'd be in if he ran off with you like that?"
She colored at the implications, heretofore unconsidered, and sighed. "But I knew he wouldn't. I suppose I knew it was a mad idea to begin with. I don't know why I kept pushing it…maybe just to get him to say something. But, Fflewddur…" She stammered over her own confusion. "It was…was like going right back to the beginning. When he used to say he couldn't be burdened with a girl. As though I'm nothing but a nuisance that has to be coddled and dragged along and locked away with nothing to say about it, and this time he wouldn't even tell me why. He won't tell me anything."
Fflewddur opened his arms again and she collapsed into them. He patted her back, making soothing humming noises. "And the worst of it is I think sometimes he's right," she confessed into his shoulder. "I've done so much crying over the last months I could fill a bay. Just when I think I've got things sorted, something else happens and sets me off again, and I say a lot of rubbish I don't even mean—like just happened! It's no wonder anyone thinks I can't handle myself."
"Great Belin," the bard sighed, "what a lot you've had going on all at once. What's a wonder is that you're still as sound as you are! A weaker creature might have cracked by now."
"I'm not sure I haven't," she sniffed.
"Nonsense," he said gently. "Now you listen to me, dear girl. You must be here for a reason—Dallben always has one, I'm given to understand, whether he tells anyone what it is or not. But it's a hard business for you—no doubt about it!— not fair at all. You've every right to be angry, and one day I hope you'll have the chance to tell him off proper."
A weak huff, not quite a laugh, pushed past her lips. "Well, I did blast magic through the house when he first told me."
"Good!" the bard grunted. "It's not that I dislike him, you understand, nor doubt his good intentions. But he's a lofty-minded fellow. It's no harm reminding him, now and then, that the decisions of the powerful affect people's feelings in the here and now, as much as they may be needed in whatever far-off future he can see, that the rest of us can't.
"But be that as it may," he went on, squeezing her affectionately, "here you are, and you've got to make the best of it. Trust me, I know all about being tied to a role you didn't ask for, but it's not the end of the world."
"You can say that," she pointed out, a little sullenly, "because you can leave anytime you like."
He hesitated. "Well, that's partly true. But it wasn't always. I couldn't just leave my people unattended the first time it came into my head. I spent years learning how to be king before I went barding. Of course, the most useful thing I learned was how to put people in charge who could do the job better than I." He chuckled ruefully. "A Fflam knows when he's in over his head—but that's all neither here nor there. The facts are, you're here for a time—not forever! —and the best thing you can do is learn what you can."
"I don't know what I'm supposed to learn," Eilonwy groused. "So far the women here seem to talk about nothing but needlework and flirting."
"Well," Fflewddur said thoughtfully, over an undercurrent of amusement, "both could be useful skills, under the right circumstances. But in any case, I suspect you'll find more to occupy yourself. In fact, I'm certain of it. There's always plenty of goings-on in a court of this size. You've too active a mind to sustain it with wool-spinning, and if I don't miss my guess, the more trust you earn here, the more freedom you'll be granted to do your own exploring. The Queen may seem a smothering sort, but she's got Llyrian blood in her as well, you know, as do many of the household. Give them a chance, and you may find common ground…or at least an overlapping clump of moss or two."
The smooth, musical cadence of his voice soothed her more than his words, sensible though they were. Her breath had steadied; the tension drained from her shoulders and neck. Eilonwy squeezed him once more, hard, and stood back with a sigh, leaning upon the wall. Beyond him, on the sea shimmering beyond the castle and the cliffs, the sun danced upon the water, in a swath of silver light. "When I see a view like that," she said, motioning out toward it, "I'm glad for it, and then I feel all turned inside-out, because I don't want to be glad to be here. Not even a little."
He followed her gaze. "Mmm. Glorious, isn't it? I don't know a soul who isn't moved by the sight of the sea, and you've got more reason than most. It's all right to feel whatever you feel about it." He shook his head. "And Great Belin, don't refuse gladness when it comes upon you unexpected. Those moments are the beacons that shine through the murkiest nights."
They both fell silent, listening to the gulls crying.
"I'm glad you're here, Fflewddur," Eilonwy confessed, after a time. "When the queen mentioned you, I could hardly believe our luck. It was good of you to take so much trouble. Did you come just for my sake?"
"Oh, pish, what trouble? I was already in the area," Fflewddur said airily. "And I fancied a glimpse of the sea. One never knows—" A faint ping of a popping harp string emanated from behind him, and he stuttered to a halt, looking mildly embarrassed. She grinned, her heart warming, and he chuckled at the sight. "Now, there's the smile I've hoped to see. Of course I came for your sake, love, why else would I spend a day being sick on a ship? I thought it a good chance to see you both, and who knows when we'll have another."
"When, indeed." Her smile faded. "Dallben said I might be here for years. By the time I can go home, everything will have changed."
"Things would change even if you were home," he said, "and that's just the way of it. But take heart." He winked, inexplicably. "You may welcome a few of those changes. Now, suppose we head back to the Hall before they send out search parties for you."
"Must we?" she sighed. "I don't know what the point is of milling about in that Hall. Everyone stares at me and whispers. I'd like to just disappear for the evening until they've all forgotten I'm here."
"Ah, well, that's the trouble, you see," he said, moving slowly back toward the stairs, drawing her with him. "These folks don't get novelty very often, and you're the biggest news to come around since your island sank. They'll be getting ready for the feast in a few hours, and you're the guest of honor, you know; it wouldn't do for you to disappear. Besides, you'd miss my performance."
"Since my island sank," she repeated distractedly. "Seems so odd to think of it as mine. Where was it, do you know?"
Fflewddur swept an arm to the northwest. "Somewhere up that way. Too far to be visible from here, usually, though I've heard you could see the lights of Caer Colur at night from various points on Mona, and sometimes the merest glimpse of it, on clear days."
She stared toward the northwest, as though perhaps it would materialize if she looked hard enough, but nothing met her gaze but the shifting water and endless sky. After a moment, Fflewddur coughed, and she gathered up her long skirts, and headed back down the stairs, while he followed after.
"Oh, there you are!" Teleria came sailing over within moments of their entry, and Fflewddur nodded at her, grinning, before melting away into the crowd. "Good Llyr, I thought we'd have to send out a guard to hunt for you! Do tell me—head up, now, and come this way— when you need to step out like that; I'll have you attended next time so you don't lose yourself. I remember how long it took for me to find my way about when I first came here!"
"When was that?" Somehow it had not occurred to her that Teleria had not always lived here. The Queen seemed as much as a fixture of the castle as the stone arches overhead—gracefully curved and solid, weight-bearing, sturdy.
"When I married the King—though prince he was, in those days. I had visited many times, of course, but one doesn't get a real sense of such a large place until living here. Now, then. I noticed, dear, that you didn't curtsy at our first meeting."
"I…" Eilonwy slowed to a halt, taken aback. "No, I suppose I didn't. I never got into the habit. Achren didn't bother with such things."
"I thought as much," Teleria sniffed, "and as you outrank everyone here other than the King, myself, and Rhun, and you were coming from such barbarous conditions—don't scowl, it was next thing to a perfect wilderness— I overlooked it for the moment. But we should begin as we are to go on, so from now on you must observe the proper courtesies. I will not have the court thinking poorly of you. You are to curtsy to the King and me upon entering or leaving the Hall."
"I haven't been curtsying to Rhun all this time," Eilonwy murmured musingly, thinking of their casual days on the ship, and Teleria shook her head.
"No, no, you are his equal in rank, so there's no need for that under ordinary circumstances. On formal occasions, you should do so. If you see him bow to you, let that be your signal to curtsy in return. He knows what is appropriate."
The touch of pride in her voice was unmistakable, but the thought of Rhun navigating the complexities of courtly manners made Eilonwy bite back a laugh. But there, perhaps he did know! —after all, he had grown up in the castle, immersed in it all his life. There was no reason to assume that his incompetence at commanding a sea voyage was indicative of his skills, or lack thereof, elsewhere.
Teleria waved to someone, and in a moment the girls who had attended her materialized near them. "I think we've all had enough of introductions," the Queen announced. "And I can see some instruction is in order before tonight. Seren, run to a servitor and ask for two place settings to be brought to our dining chamber, and a light meal— a bit of bread and cheese will do, to tide us over until tonight."
They sailed from the Hall and through another corridor, into a much smaller space, an intimate chamber furnished with a table and a handful of high-backed chairs. The girls hastened to open casements and let in the sunlight while the Queen drew Eilonwy to the table.
"I daresay you've absolutely no training on proper behavior at meals," she said matter-of-factly. "Not that I blame you, darling; it isn't your fault—one doesn't expect much of a houseful of bachelors! But many eyes will be on you, tonight, and I shouldn't want you to not know exactly what to do."
There was a knock at the door, and a young man entered upon the Queen's command, bearing platters, goblets, cutlery, and crusted bread. He set places as bidden, then disappeared without a word. Eilonwy looked at the table with some irritation. The assumption of total ignorance of manners was insulting; perhaps they had not eaten off of fine linen and pewter at Caer Dallben, but there was general decorum at meals. Nor had Achren allowed her to eat like an animal. Her stomach growled at the fragrance of fresh bread, and she moved to sit down, but the Queen interrupted. "No, no. You don't seat yourself; you wait for a footman or a handmaid to draw out your chair." She nodded to Seren, who came forward and pulled the high-backed chair away from the table.
"Oh." Eilonwy frowned, recalling things. "Achren did do that. I always thought it silly. I'm perfectly able to pull out my own chair. Why should someone else be put to the trouble?"
"It's nothing to do with ability," Teleria insisted. "Of course you can pull out a chair, dear, no one doubts that. But you're a princess, and being served in this way is a mark of your rank, a payment of respect."
"It's no trouble, milady," Seren assured her. "It's a place of honor, to wait upon any of the royal family."
Eilonwy could see there was no use arguing any of it, so she shrugged a bit, and sat wearily, only for the Queen to gasp in horror. "Oh, mercy, child, don't just fall into your seat that way! You looked like a sack of turnips being slung into a wagon. Stand up and try again, gracefully. Be in complete control of your body at all times."
Belin, she thought, not daring to grumble aloud. And yet she distinctly recalled having tried to be graceful at Caer Dathyl and even when meeting Adaon at Caer Dallben. How was it that she had wanted to act properly in those circumstances, but faced with this prune-mouthed woman, her primary desire was to tilt her chair back, toss her feet upon the tabletop, and…and…belch, like Coll after a long swig of fresh ale?
Dutifully she rose, then lowered herself slowly into the chair, trying not to burst into laughter at the thought of their reactions if she followed her impulses. Teleria looked relieved. "That's better. Quite passable—you have your mother's grace, and you can only improve over time. Now, hands in your lap—no, your lap, not gripping the chair—until food is served. It will be displayed over your right shoulder, and you may tell the servers whether you desire it. Don't touch it until it's laid before you. Now, go ahead with the bread, let me see how you do."
How was one to eat, while being so scrutinized? Eilonwy picked gingerly at the bread, her appetite lost, but Teleria kept instructing as though it were all perfectly normal. "A lady consumes slowly, in small bites and sips; there's nothing less becoming than grease and crumbs all over one's face—Llyr, I wish more men knew that! With their dirty beards, how they endure themselves at meals I cannot imagine—and mind you keep your arms low so your sleeves don't trail in your food.
"You may make conversation with those near you at table, but keep your voice properly moderated. If anyone is too far away to hear you, then they've been seated that way for a reason; they aren't important enough—use the other hand to spread your butter, and hold your knife properly; it's not a dagger—to need to hear everything you say. There is to be no arguing at a meal; there are too many knives within easy access. No matter what the men start among themselves, you are to remain calm and composed and turn the conversation to lighter matters. It's up to women to civilize them or we'd all be running naked in the hills, so always set a good example."
"You don't seem to think much of men," Eilonwy observed when the Queen paused for breath.
Seren stifled an unladylike snort, and Teleria shot her a severe look before widening her pale blue eyes. "Oh, dear girl, it's not that I think ill of them. My dear Rhuddlum is the best of men—a loving husband and father, and a King devoted to his people. There's nothing so charming as a man at his best. I remember when we were courting, how…" She interrupted herself with a laugh, and suddenly looked very young. "Well, never mind. Only I assure you, Rhun will be just like him—he's just pure goodness all the way through, the love. No, no," she went on, "men can be delightful, overall, and goodness knows we need them. But they need us, as well, you see—oh, Seren, close that casement a bit, the glare is too much—to smooth out their rough places and talk sense into them when they lack it. They're impulsive sorts of creatures, prone to rushing into danger without thinking, and picking fights where none need be. Just look at the state of the mainland—all those petty kings squabbling and coming to blows, instead of sitting down like sensible grown-ups and working things out."
This was not untrue, but Eilonwy frowned. "It isn't just men who do that," she pointed out. "Achren would have started a war if she could."
"Hmph," Teleria said. "From what I hear, what she wanted was the crown. If there were a way to get it back without starting a war, which way do you think she'd have gone?"
This was not at all difficult. "Without," Eilonwy answered with assurance. "She was practical. She wouldn't go to the trouble of war if she didn't have to."
"You see?" The Queen nodded sagely. "That's the difference. Women are usually practical, for the results of such troubles always fall upon us to handle. Sometimes I believe men start wars from sheer boredom. They certainly seem to think waving swords about is as much fun as a feast."
"Well, that's what a tourney is, isn't it, waving swords for fun?" Aerona observed. "And it's not as though we don't enjoy watching one of those. I don't know, Majesty. I think we're as prone to liking a bit of bloodshed as they are, but just won't admit it."
"You are still very young," Teleria said, with wry indulgence. "Oh, gracious, girl, don't slouch in your chair that way! Sit up straight; you're not about to dive into a pudding."
And so it went on, for what must have been another hour, until Eilonwy's head swam with endless instructions, crammed with trying to remember everything she must and must not do. Finally, just when she was sure she could not take another moment without flinging herself out of one of the windows, the Queen pronounced her ready enough for the evening. "You won't embarrass your family name, at any rate," she said. "And everyone will be too well-fed to pay too much attention. Now, then, it's getting on, and you must be tired after so long a day. I suggest you return to your chambers for a rest before the feast tonight. I shall send down to the tailors and find out if your gown is ready yet."
Belin, she'd forgotten about that. "Is not this one fine enough?" Eilonwy asked, somewhat plaintively. The thought of repeating all the fuss of dressing gave her no pleasure.
"Oh, it looks very well on you," Teleria conceded. "But it's borrowed, and the one I've planned for tonight has been made just for you, after a pattern your people wore. It will make such a statement. Besides, your hair's dry enough now to do something with. Oh, my, but you'll be a vision! Run along and accompany her, girls. Ah-ahhh! No, don't get up, until your chair's been pulled back for you."
Eilonwy, at the end of endurance, blurted a choice word or two in frustration, banging her palms upon the table. The candles in its center sputtered into life, and the handmaids both gasped aloud. Teleria, startled, leaned back in her chair and eyed her in astonishment. "Good Llyr, child. What on earth was that about?"
Keep your temper. Breathe. You've got to earn their trust. "I'm sorry," Eilonwy muttered, after a moment of staring at her own hands crushing her napkin. "I don't want to seem ungrateful. There's just…so much to remember all at once, and none of it seems natural. I feel like a fish being made to fly."
Teleria tutted. "I know you've been let run—no, it's all right, girls, give us a moment—quite wild, and all this must try your patience. No doubt it seems very silly to you, but mark my words, there are real reasons for most of it." She was quiet, then, for such an uncharacteristically long time that Eilonwy looked up, to find the Queen's shrewd eyes fixed on her thoughtfully. "Your mother had a temper, you know," Teleria said, with a wry twist of her dimpled mouth. "She could set a hearth ablaze from across the Hall when she was angry, and I envied her that, too, sometimes. It was a different world, that island, shocking to me when I visited; she had freedoms there most women are never granted here. That even I don't always have, as Queen." The wry twist softened, infused with sadness. "But that world is gone, and we all must bloom where we are planted, as they say. And you are now planted here, Eilonwy of Llyr, so you must learn to bloom.
"Now." The Queen motioned to the handmaids. "Off you go; have a lie-down before it's time to dress for the feast—you probably haven't had a decent night's sleep in days; no wonder you're high-strung." She raised an eyebrow as Eilonwy rose, her mouth twitching. "If you feel the need for any more such outbursts, have it out before you come down for the feast. It's one thing to relieve one's feelings in private, and another—watch your sleeve; you're trailing it in the butter—to set your guests on fire."
Back in her chamber, the maids undressed her to her shift and bade her rest; Aerona disappeared into the anteroom while Seren departed altogether. Eilonwy, left to her own devices, opened the chest at the foot of her bed and rummaged in it, locating her old clothes. There were her things! The copper mirror and silver dagger, her bauble…she pulled out the slice of ormer and clutched it. No doubt it was all safe enough in the chest, but she felt incomplete without them. How was she to carry her bauble properly when none of her gowns would be made with pockets or pouches for it? It wasn't the sort of thing that could be shoved down one's bodice. She sat upon the couch, thoughtful.
"Aerona," she called, and the handmaid appeared at the door. "I need needle and thread."
The girl looked mildly relieved at such a banal request. "Of course, milady!" She plucked at a small pouch that hung from her girdle, pulled out a spool and a slim silver wallet, opened to reveal an array of needles. "Is there a bit of mending I can do for you?"
"No, thank you. I'll manage it. Lay those on the table, there, will you?"
The girl did as instructed, and then stood by watching, as Eilonwy shuffled through her old garments, pulled out one of her spare shifts. "Drat. I need scissors, as well. I don't suppose…"
The scissors silently appeared from the same pouch. "Belin," Eilonwy said. "You have a bit of everything in there, do you?"
Aerona chuckled. "Of course, milady. All of us carry our needlework and drop spindles, so that we can always occupy ourselves. The Queen does not bear idle hands."
"Is there nothing else to do in this place?" Eilonwy asked, snipping at the fabric. "You can sit, if you like."
Aerona did, dropping to the other end of the couch. "We wait upon the queen, work tapestries and lace, prepare herbs from the gardens, spin and weave, walk the grounds, play games. May I ask, milady…" She made a vague motion toward Eilonwy's industrious hands.
"I'm making a pouch. To carry this." Eilonwy tapped the golden sphere sitting next to her knee.
"It's a pretty thing…but what is it?"
"My bauble. It was my mother's, and I always carry it if I can." She threaded the needle and went to work, in an uneven and crooked seam. After a few stitches she jabbed her thumb and hissed.
Aerona sat silent, watching her, but the air was thick with her critical observation, and Eilonwy glanced at her ruefully. "I'm not very good at this; I'm sure you've noticed."
"Oh, it's not so bad," the girl reassured. "Only you're in a hurry, so of course it shows. Don't fret; a few months here and you'll be as skilled as any."
Well-meant, though not reassuring; Eilonwy stifled a groan at the implication that of course, this was one of her expected goals. She focused on her task, whipping two seams, hitching up the skirt of her shift, and attaching it to the interior with hasty stitches, biting off the thread. She slid her bauble into the makeshift pocket and stood up to examine the effect. The smooth weight dangled just below her hip, just where the fullness of her skirts began.
"Good enough," she pronounced. "I shall perfect it later, but it will do for tonight."
"It's…unconventional," Aerona said, with a cough, "but I suppose it does the trick." She grinned a little shyly, her formal attitude relaxing. "You're a funny one, Princess. But the Queen said you would be."
"Did she, indeed," Eilonwy snorted, handing back the sewing implements.
"I ought not to tell you, I suppose," the girl admitted. "But nothing she said was uncomplimentary. Only that it would likely take you some time to get used to our ways, and that if you took after the rest of your family, it would be like handling a spark in a haymow." She laughed. "And now I know what she meant. How did you make the candles go, down in the dining chamber?"
Eilonwy muttered and snapped her fingers, and the candles on her mantle ignited instantly. "Like that?"
"Great Belin," Aerona gasped, flushed with delight as she got up to examine them. "It just happens, does it? Because you want it to?"
"Sort of. It wasn't always like that, though. I only really got a handle on it last year, during our quest for the Cauldron." She stared into the dancing flames, thinking rather morosely of that time…how long would it be, before she got to go on any such journey again? To do something that mattered?
"Did all that truly happen?" Aerona blew the candles out and turned back to her. "All you were telling, down there in the Hall?"
"Of course it did."
"And that lad you were speaking to afterward. Was he the one you meant, who was with you on that journey?"
"Mmm." She frowned, without realizing she did it.
"He's a handsome one. Did you never want to just stay back at that farm with him?"
It stabbed her like that clumsy needle in her thumb, belying the playfulness of tone. Eilonwy, startled, glared up sharply, and the girl colored a little. "Beg pardon, milady. I meant no harm." She seemed hesitant. "Are you…needing anything else?"
"No, thank you." Silence stretched, awkwardly long. "You…you can go, if you want," Eilonwy added, and Aerona curtsied hastily and retreated to the antechamber. Belin, that's why she'd been standing there—because she hadn't been dismissed! How did one ever get used to having people just…hovering about, like dragonflies?
There was a flutter at her window, a scrabbling of claws, and then a familiar croak. Eilonwy ran to the open casement with a cry of welcome. "Kaw! You found me!"
He hopped up and down upon the sill, fluffing his feathers and purring in pleasure. "Princess!" he cackled. "Castle!"
"It is," she sighed. "I hope you're in a more cheerful spot, down among friends."
He fixed her with his beady eye. "Taran."
"Of course you would bring him up," she said, a bit petulant. But perhaps he had sent the bird with an apology. "Why? Does he have something to say to me?"
Kaw croaked a few nonsense syllables in response, and turned his attention to rearranging his back feathers. He picked out a loose quill and tossed it over the edge of the sill; the wind caught it and bore it away, soaring out over the water below. Then… "Gwydion!" the bird croaked, and fluffed up his neck like a hedgehog's prickles.
"Gwyd—well, what's he got to do with anything, I'd like to know?" Eilonwy sank down onto the seat in the widow alcove, frowning. "He can't be here; these folks would be out of their heads with excitement. What are you on about?"
The crow danced about in agitation; whatever he knew, he did not seem to know quite how to express it. "Taran," he croaked again. "Afraid."
She scowled. "Yes, I know. Afraid of some sort of mysterious danger, as if a place this dull could possibly have anything to hide. He's being ridiculous, and if he sent you just to try to get me to agree with him, then you can tell him to leave off."
Kaw burbled unhappily and hopped toward her hand on the window casement, reaching out to yank at the ribbon tie on her sleeve. "Princess," he said. "Safe. Keep safe."
"Ugh, not you as well," she huffed, and shooed him from the sill; he squawked indignantly as she reached out and shut the casements. So, discontent with forbidding her in person, Taran would send that meddling crow to wheedle her into submission? The insufferable boy clearly wouldn't be happy until she offered to lock herself in her chamber and never come out again!
She flounced to the high bed and hoisted herself into it, flopping down upon the quilts and staring up at the dark beams crossing the ceiling. Mother, she thought. You slept here. I suppose it all felt quite ordinary to you, that you belonged in this place. Did you lie here and think of my father? ….did you ever feel trapped?
She stared until her eyes closed, and must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew there was a knock at her door and then two ladies bustling in, arms full of sumptuous attire. Eilonwy sat up, blinking; the light at the window was the warm gold of early evening, and there was a charge in the air of people a-flutter with excitement.
"Oh, look here, milady!" Seren gushed, sweeping the pile of fabric over the foot of the bed so that it unrolled, a spill of opulent color, glittering with gold and silver threads. "It's your gown, only just finished in time for the feast!"
There were admiring gasps from the other ladies; Aerona had come running to see, and another from the morning whose name she had forgotten. Eilonwy, tempted to groan internally at the prospect of another long dressing session, nonetheless paused at the sight of the garment spread at her knees. It was beautiful, the cut and design unlike anything she had seen before, the embroidery entirely unique. What had Teleria said? Something about a pattern her people used to wear. She had never really considered that her people had meant another people entirely, as distinct from the folk of Prydain, as she knew them, as the Rovers were.
"It's lovely," she breathed slowly-and, to her own surprise, sincerely. "Your tailors did all this in one day?"
"Oh, we began work as soon as we knew you were coming," Seren explained, motioning for her to slide off the bed. "The embroidery has been going for weeks-not a single woman here hasn't had a turn at it. No one really remembered how the pattern went, but the Queen had an old gown she'd been gifted when she'd gone to Llyr as a young princess. It hadn't fit her in years, of course, but she'd saved it for sentiment, and we copied what parts we could, and improvised the rest to match. The best of our tailors worked out how it was all put together.
"Here, come, stand here. Cerys, loosen her shift ties; we'll need to drop this neckline. Hold your arms up, milady. There, now, just stand still. So the tailors made what preparations they could at piecing it, based on what the Queen had found out about your height, and all they needed were your measurements to get it just right, for the gown itself can be fit to the figure-ingenious, really! Turn back this way. Look, girls, how it adjusts here, and here. And you just lace it here and at her other side. There, now!"
They stepped back, and all four of them looked at her with something like awed pride. "Why don't we all wear such things?" Aerona sighed, a little plaintively. "It looks flattering and comfortable."
"It only works with this sort of weave," Seren said importantly. "Fine silk, and cotton from far exotic parts, too rich for everyday and just anyone. Look how it drapes! I don't even want to know what Her Majesty had to give the sea-merchants for it. Those Eastern traders are half-pirate. They say the Queens of Llyr had them wrapped around their fingers, but it's like bartering with Fair Folk with them, now. Well, milady? Have a look!"
Eilonwy took a long breath and turned to the mirror. Again, an elegant stranger met her gaze, more alien than ever, her body draped in fabric so light it seemed to want to float away at every movement. Bands of it gathered at her shoulders and crossed over her chest in every hue reminiscent of a sunset sky, bound at her ribs by a sash embroidered with pearls and tiny shells, carefully placed so that their muted, pastel colors drifted into one another. Layers of fluttering skirt alternated creamy white and shimmering blue-green silk. Filmy sleeves draped her arms, cut to leave them half bare.
Again that strange, contradictory thrill, pleasure at the sight warring with some strange sense of betrayal to her own identity. "It's...magnificent," she murmured honestly, answering the unspoken question beating in her mind from the gathered women. Here they were, all having had a hand in the creation, to some extent; they had vested interest in her response. She turned from the mirror, overwhelmed by the vision within it. "I've never worn anything so beautiful made only for me, not even at Caer Dathyl." She bit her lip. "I feel...I feel a bit like a child pretending to be grown-up. I don't know how long it will take to feel like me."
They all clucked and murmured, and Cerys beckoned her to sit on the couch. "You're just as much you in fine gowns as you would be in tow-linen and trousers, milady," she said briskly, "so long as you wear the clothes and not the other way 'round, so hold your head high and remember who you are, and who your mothers were. Seren, hand me the comb. Good Llyr, did anyone ever see such hair! " Deftly, her hands worked, combing, plaiting, twisting, coiling. Strings of pearls appeared and were twisted into the plaits. The others stood by, murmuring approval and offering suggestions. Eilonwy gulped as the cold weight of a silver circlet settled on her hairline.
It's a costume, she thought, suddenly. A disguise. Whatever she says, it's not really me, but something else, a role to play, like when a bard becomes the characters in a story. It was an odd thought, and yet strangely comforting. If she was someone else in these clothes, then how she behaved, and what people thought, were distant things that could not touch her. They don't really want me. They want the Princess of Llyr, whoever they think she is. Very well, they shall have her.
Bells rang out from somewhere within the castle, signaling for all to congregate, and she rose, upon the insistence of all, without looking at herself in the mirror again.
The Great Hall had been transformed in her absence. A long table was set in the center of the room with the king at its head. Rhun sat at his left hand, richly dressed. Courtiers milled about, and the Queen threaded herself among them, chattering to all and sundry as she passed. Upon Eilonwy's entrance, she rushed over with a cry of delight. "Oh! It's perfect...just perfect. I knew I kept that old gown for a reason!" She crooned and tutted and clucked, looking her up and down, patting her here and there, straightening seams. "Rhiannon, it's almost uncanny, the resemblance. You do your ancestors credit, love. Come! Now that you're here we can begin."
Teleria steered her as though captaining a ship to an empty space next to Prince Rhun. Taran sat at its other side. Both lads jumped to their feet as they approached, and Rhun made a small bow, beaming and bright-eyed at her appearance.
Teleria cleared her throat significantly, and Eilonwy remembered to curtsy. The Queen seemed relieved, and released her arm, sailing away to seat herself at Rhuddlum's right hand. A silent footman appeared behind Eilonwy, and she sank into her seat with excruciating self-consciousness.
Magg, standing in the King's shadow, clapped his hands, the signal for the feast to commence. Servitors appeared, bearing platters and flagons, and chatter and laughter rang through the Hall.
"I say, Princess, you do look lovely." Rhun had turned to her, with his usual bland affability. He said the words in a tone he might have used to compliment his own mother—sincere and admiring, with that undertone of eager surprise that was his most endearing trait, but without any deep significance. How was it that when he paid her such a pleasantry she felt nothing but a kind of friendly, easy gratitude, while the same sentiment from Taranwould have made her blush and stammer like a fool?
Not that there seemed to be any danger of that happening. She had caught Taran's eye before sitting, noted his stunned expression as he looked her over, and promptly averted her gaze to avoid being too confused and flustered to function. "Thank you," she said, loudly enough to be heard in all directions. "You're very kind, Rhun. I must say, you've cleaned up quite well, yourself."
He looked flattered, sitting up straighter. "Well, there's nothing like getting home after a long sea voyage, is there! A bath and clean clothes are just the thing, after all that salt and wind, you know. I hope you've found your apartments pleasing. Mother was very particular about them."
She assured him they were quite adequate, and turned her attention to the food being served, stomach growling as platters heaped with artfully-arranged edibles made their rounds. Not since their sojourn at Caer Dathyl had she seen such abundance, and she partook with pleasure only slightly hampered with trying to recall Teleria's rules. Even so, she was uncomfortably full long before the food stopped being passed, and pushed her platter away, thinking a bit wistfully of Coll's turnip stew. From the corner of her vision she saw that Taran's dinner was untouched. His hand lay beside his platter, agitatedly crumbling a hunk of bread into crumbs.
She had been steadfastly avoiding granting him attention, as much from embarrassment as anything, but now she turned to observe him. He had cleaned up as well in her absence, combing his hair and donning the clothing Magg had given him. Though simpler than the royal raiment of the monarchs, his garments were nonetheless suited for a courtier at a feast—fine, crisp linen and dark green jacket, bordered with embroidered trim. Not since Caer Dathyl, years ago, had she seen him so well-dressed, and the effect was striking, the skilled tailoring flattering his lean build, the rich colors setting off his complexion. He'd been set at a place of honor, so near the royal head of the table, and except for his obvious discomfort, could have passed for a Prince himself. Despite her annoyance, she found herself flushing at sight of him…nor did she miss the tone of the glances being cast his way by many a young lady in their vicinity. Would they be so interested if they knew he was an Assistant Pig-Keeper? There were whispers behind hands, side-eyes and giggles, to all of which he seemed to be completely oblivious, only sitting with that same air of distracted anxiety, as though armed rebels might leap from the shadows at any moment.
"You needn't look so gloomy," she murmured, leaning a little closer. "After all, you aren't the one who has to stay here. If I'm trying to make the best of things, I must say you're not exactly helpful."
He jerked his attention to her instantly, and she saw by his expression that he was about to start lecturing all over again. Even now! Could he not spare one moment to remark upon the feast, on the pleasure of seeing Fflewddur, on how she looked, on their conversation of the morning? She could not bear another disappointment from him. "No," she cut him off curtly, "don't. If you're only going to fuss, then don't talk to me at all. I want to remind you I'm still not speaking to you, after the way you behaved earlier."
He froze, open-mouthed in a pre-tirade breath, long enough for her to whirl back to Rhun. The Prince was relaxed in his chair, looking satisfied and a little sleepy.
"Tell me something of the folks gathered here," she prompted him. "Are they all part of the court, or are some of them visitors as well? I suppose I ought to get to know the familiar faces."
Rhun brightened, sitting up straight, obviously pleased to be asked about anything. He launched into fluent description of the men in the surrounding crowd, dropping the names of nobles and dignitaries, the known qualities of each, their lands and loyalties, their filial and social connections. Had he been speaking of the ladies, he would have sounded exactly like his mother.
Eilonwy nodded politely, interjecting murmurings at regular intervals, but listened to none of it. All her attention was consumed by the sense of desperation from the boy at her other hand, his agitation churning as the evening wore on, her own will to ignore him weaving back and forth by turns. If he wanted her attention, he knew what to do. She had enough on her hands with managing her own feelings, without feeling responsible for his, as well.
And yet all the same she ached to turn to him, to seek the comfort of his companionship, the reassuring warmth of his good humor, the novel, uncertain thrills that accompanied all their interactions of late. The bitterness of wishing for what might be happening between them now overshadowed any contentment she might have felt at having him beside her. Why did he not just apologize for his behavior earlier? Why must he insist on wasting their last few days together with his incessant worrying? But there, why should she care? If ordering her around and making sure she was practically too tied-down to breathe was so much more important to him than everything else, then there was nothing he could say that she wanted to hear, anyway.
The sun was setting in the western windows when bells were struck to signal for all traces of the feast to be cleared. Servants whisked the platters out of sight, leaving flagons of wine to be savored. And there was Fflewddur, striding to the center of the room and sitting in the seat of honor placed for him. He bowed to the monarchs, caught Eilonwy's eye, winked, and grinned, before settling down to tune his harp.
Eilonwy watched him with affectionate pride, recalling how he'd been invited to sing with the bards at Caer Dathyl, the night of their feast there. Unofficial he might be, but he had clearly not been barred from bardic status because of poor performance— when he struck the strings the harp poured forth a melody, jaunty in rhythm, and his pleasant, even voice rose and fell in a complimenting narrative. By the second line, she realized he had composed a song about their quest to find the cauldron...a song which mentioned her by name, and in fact, turned out to devote an entire verse to her courage and fortitude. Many pairs of eyes turned toward her, lit by varied expressions of curiosity, admiration, doubt. She wished more than ever that she might turn to Taran, to enjoy the reminiscence with him and share a laugh at the private jokes Fflewddur had woven into the verses. Instead, she hid her face often behind her goblet, sipping its riched, spiced contents no doubt faster than Teleria's approval allowed. By the time the song ended she had the strange sensation that the room revolved slightly every time she turned her head.
Other songs followed, and the sky darkened to velvet blue, stars winking in the windows as torches and braziers flared in the Hall. Finally the King signaled for an end, and guests began to dissipate. Eilonwy would have liked to approach Fflewddur to say good night, to thank him for the music, but he was lost in the crowd as the courtiers rose and milled out. And then the Queen was handing her off to her handmaids, and she was stumbling back through the dark hallways and stairwells to her chamber, over-filled with food and wine and bitter disappointment. Taran had spoken not a word to her throughout the evening.
Which was exactly what she had demanded of him.
Stupid Assistant Pig-Keeper!
Anybody out there? The chirping crickets are deafening, folks. This is the story I've most looked forward to writing, and I hope my readers similarly anticipated it and are enjoying it. But I don't know unless you tell me. (Longtime reviewers, you know this is not directed at you!)