Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one can break an ocean,

darling, all you are doing,

is breaking the glass that is holding you back,

going deeper into your own depths,

discovering yourself in pockets

of the most somber waves,

rebuilding your heart with coral,

with seaweed, with moon colored sand dust.

~from The Ocean You by Nikita Gill

Springtime, Eilonwy thought, sliding her bare toes through the cool prickle of young grass, was a thing one might never, never tire of.

It was odd, that, seeing how it happened every year, at the same time and in the same way. Yet there it was. She threw her head back and inhaled rapturously, filled herself with the smell of damp earth and green things coming alive again under the sun. The pleasant hum of bees reacquainting themselves with wildflowers mingled with the twitter of robins and sparrows returned from sojourns south. The breeze was mild, the sun warm upon her face, the morning sky a blue field grazed by clouds soft as new lambs.

She paused as she entered the chicken run to admire the graceful shape of her favorite tree in the orchard, its branches lifting masses of fragrant pinkish-white frill to the sky, beckoning her. Oh, to be in those branches this minute! She’d have to take time later, after chores were done, to have a climb. Just now there were eggs to gather.

“They’ve come!”

Taran’s shout interrupted her reverie, and she turned in surprise as rapid footfalls announced his approach; he vaulted the run fence and hens scattered, clucking in alarm.

“Mind the chicks!” Eilonwy yelped, as he stumbled and danced to avoid several balls of peeping fluff scrambling after their mothers. But despite a display of clumsiness that should ordinarily make him cross with embarrassment, he only laughed as he regained his balance, eyes aglow with excitement.

“They’ve come!” he repeated, bursting with the importance of bearing news.

“Who?”

Kaw, sweeping in over his shoulder, cackled raucously. “Rovers!”

Taran’s grin widened at her gasp of surprise. “Yes!” he enthused. “They’ve come again, after more than two years! Camped just north of here, not an hour’s ride out. Coll is preparing the wagon, and we’re to go this very day!”

A little thrill swept through her, perhaps inspired as much by his demeanor as the prospect of a meeting with the roaming foreigners about whom she had only ever heard tales. “Does this mean new clothes at last?” Eilonwy asked, shooing the crow away from the egg basket.

Taran laughed. “Oh, let him have one. It’s he that spotted them and came to tell us.” He pushed his arm out and Kaw lit upon it, preening and bobbing delightedly at his cleverness. “Yes, linens and woolens and everything you can think of, and more that you haven’t. Make haste and gather up anything you want to trade, and pack a cloak and shoes in case of weather. We’ll likely stay the night.”

And he was off, leaving her tingling with excitement. Hastily she finished her duties and raced back to the cottage.

Gathering her things took but a moment. She had little of value. There were her beautiful gown and silk slippers from Caer Dathyl, long outgrown, too impractical to have been worn on the farm but too fine for the rag bin. She took a few bunches of herbs and mushrooms she’d foraged and dried, more exotic than those grown in the garden; perhaps there would be someone among the Rovers with a use for those with magical properties. And a quartz crystal she’d found last summer near the spring. She bundled them all inside a cloak and tied the bundle about with her sandal thongs, tucking them inside. No sense wearing shoes unless she must.

Taran was alive with impatience as she joined him and Coll in the barnyard. His enthusiasm infected Gurgi, who leapt about like a squirrel until Coll steadied him with an order to go saddle the horses. Together they all loaded the wagon with trading goods: cheese and hard cider, herbs and turnips, sacks of barley, whittled spoons and tanned leather.

And then they were off, under the noonday sun, with gladdened hearts and loosened tongues.

Taran talked freely, eager to impart all they might see and do. Eilonwy was as glad of his acting like himself as she was at the journey. He’d been so odd lately, so maddening, in ways that were new and profoundly confusing. For years now, they had been constant companions, their friendship the vital center of her new life. But for the past few months, he had treated her with an awkwardness that made her demand explanation, to attempt to drag words out of him with all the vigor of a robin yanking worms from the ground. But she could not, herself, find words to describe what piqued her, so there was no use expecting him to explain it.

But now he chattered as of old, laughing at her dry remarks and tossing a few bantering barbs back at her, trading memories with Coll of previous years’ visits to camp, shouting encouragement to Gurgi, who loped alongside them. They rode side-by-side, Coll whistling as he drove, Kaw drifting overhead like a scrap of black rag upon the breeze. It seemed no time before the tents and wagons of the Rovers appeared between a gap in the slopes, and Eilonwy exclaimed in delight at the sight. “Oh, the colors! Like someone scattered bits of rainbow.”

Within moments of picketing their horses, they were cheerfully mobbed by Rover youth. Two boys and a trio of girls—dark-headed, rosy-cheeked, clad in garments as colorful as their painted wagons—gathered around them. They exclaimed over the beauty of Melynlas and Lluagor, commented admiringly upon Eilonwy’s hair, and tsked over her shabby state of dress, chattering to one another in their own language. Their speech had a musical, lilting cadence that carried over even when they spoke the common tongue, and Eilonwy stood enchanted at the mere sound of it. She turned from one to the next, feeling uncharacteristically shy at so much attention.

Next to her, Taran had genially clapped hands with the boys. He seemed not to know what to do with himself as the girls gathered around him to admire Kaw, who was perched upon his shoulder and squawking out every word he could think of. Coll, busy anchoring the wagon, laughed at their bewilderment and told them to go and learn to enjoy themselves with folks their own age.

The Rover youth needed no further encouragement. Eilonwy’s hands were taken by two of the girls, who pulled her through a succession of wagons with booths attached, dazzling her eyes with available wares. Not since Caer Dathyl had she witnessed so much wealth —tables of polished weapons, of shaped and embossed leather sheaths, purses, pouches, sandals and boots. Jewelry in silver and copper dangled on display; ribbons and scarves of every hue fluttered in the breeze. There were lengths of woven linen, dyed and undyed, felted wool, spun thread on spools, sewing needles, shears, garden implements, leather-working tools, bowls of wood and crockery, cups and goblets of copper and even glass, shimmering in the sunlight.

One of the boys, whose rather bold manner she had marked at his first greeting, noticed Eilonwy admiring a velvet ribbon sewn with tiny silver bells. He took it from her with a beguiling grin and knelt before her. “‘Tis for your pretty ankles,” he explained, motioning for her to set her foot upon his knee. “Come, I’ll tie it on for ye.”

He was a handsome lad, brawny and sun-browned, possessing a rakish, very white smile and brilliant grey eyes. She knew quite well, having been warned, that every warm gesture the Rovers made was with intent to sell her something, and yet there was that in his twinkling gaze and mischievous grin that imparted a delightful challenge. Impulsively she lifted her bare foot and set it upon his knee, allowing him to fasten the bells around her ankle. “And now,” he said, when the ribbon was tied, “to dance the choscloigini , ye kick, like so!” And he took hold of her foot in his warm hand, swinging it in a narrow arc with a sudden hitch, so that the silver chimed like Fair Folk music. “Sure now,” said he, twinkling at her, “ye’ve the knack for it already.”

One of the girls, standing at her elbow, said something in their tongue that made the others giggle, and then three more be-ribboned ankles flashed from beneath colorful skirts and stamped out several steps, their bells jingling in unison, as the boy clapped out a rhythm. “If ye stay this evenin’,” he suggested, “we’ll teach ye the rest.”

Suddenly, Taran, who had been looking over hatchets at a nearby booth, was standing at her shoulder, glowering at the boy as though he’d found a use for one of them. “We aren’t staying that long,” he said shortly. Eilonwy, startled by his abrupt appearance, jerked her foot away and blushed, as though she’d been caught doing something untoward.

“Did Coll say so?” she demanded, instantly annoyed at his authoritative disapproval. “I thought you said we might stay the night. In fact, you said the evening would be splendid fun, full of songs and stories.”

“Aye!” The boy leapt up with a laugh and grabbed Taran by the arm, clapping him on the back as if they’d been comrades for years, and swinging him about. “Songs and stories there will be, music and dancing and magic! Ye must stay!”

She would have laughed at Taran’s expression, all bewildered outrage, had it not boded so ill for the rest of the day. He shook himself stiffly from the boy’s friendly grasp. “We’ve got to get home for chores,” he huffed out, in a voice that seemed to want to choke on itself. Behind his shoulder, Eilonwy saw two of the girls nudging each other as they watched him. One whispered something to the other and both tittered, drawing his attention.

They were pretty pair of creatures, identical, with charming smiles dimpled at the corners, and flashing green eyes. Their long black curls were bound in vivid ribbons, their wrists and ankles glimmering with silver bangles. When Taran turned toward them they bounded forward and flanked him, plucking at his sleeves and guiding him toward the next booth, chattering over one another so quickly and in such similar voices that it was impossible to tell which one was speaking. But together they raised a duet of vivacious protest: “Nay, ye must stay wit’ us! Chores there will be, waitin’ for ye always; ‘tis only rare ye get to visit camp. Is it the dance ye’re worried about? No fear, we’ll teach ye all ye need.”

They hustled him past her, commenting admiringly on his height and slim build and what a fine dance partner he’d make. He made no protest, though whether he were relenting in his resolve or too overwhelmed to speak was impossible to say. Eilonwy felt a sudden irrational impulse to set fire to something. She wrestled it down in confusion, but an odd, unsettling anger simmered at the base of her mind as she followed the noisy group to the next booth.

The Rover boy tried in vain to draw her attention to this or that trinket; she was too preoccupied watching Taran to pay any heed, growing more and more annoyed by the interaction she witnessed. The girls kept touching him, laying hands on his arms to pull him along, pushing him playfully between them as if he were the sought object in a game, bumping into him continually as they maneuvered him about. Like a ship being steered, she thought disdainfully and, with even more disgust: and he likes it. He spoke little, but she could see that he was flattered by the attention, smiling at their jokes, his ears going red at their compliments. There was a jaunty tilt to his posture and the faintest hint of a swagger to his walk. The cocky figure of Kaw, strutting up and down his arms and over his shoulders, flirting his tail feathers and screeching out monosyllabic comments that made the girls squeal with laughter, was the final straw. Her fingertips were sparking with an anger she recognized as dangerous; with a huff of fury Eilonwy whirled and stalked away, ignoring the calls of the group, blindly plunging through the clusters of wagons until she came to the outer edge of the camp.

A tangle of dead and dried-up brambles stopped her progress. She growled out certain words she knew, threw her hands out toward the thicket, flinging the hot, bright focus of her fury into its midst. The thorns erupted into flames, sparks shimmering the air. Blistering heat bathed her face. She stared at the conflagration, letting it vent out her frustration until her breath no longer felt that it would burst her chest. In moments the brambles were ashes, their annihilation so quick that no one in the camp had even raised an alarm at the sudden smoke…just another blaze among dozens of cook-fires, and she had ensured that it did not spread. She could do that, now. Even Dallben admitted that she had made remarkable progress in her control over the last few months.

When the last spark had winked out, she turned back to the camp, meandering slowly between the booths, brooding. Why had she gotten so angry at something so stupid? Who cared if Taran was flattered by a couple of silly girls? Even if he did act ridiculous about it; his being ridiculous was nothing new, and certainly she ought to be used to it by now.

Presently she caught sight of him, alone but for Gurgi, all the Rover youth mysteriously disappeared. He stood before a table laid with various copper tools and ornaments; nearby, a young woman hammered at a small anvil, while a gray and grizzled old granddam sat on a stool, puffing on a pipe and observing all before her.

Eilonwy stomped up to the table, where Taran was fiddling with a selection of spoons. “What did you mean by all that fuss?” she hissed. “You spent all morning talking about the fun tonight, and now suddenly you can’t wait to get back to work? I didn’t think you were so fond of plowing you’d be in a rush to return to it.”

He ignored the question, picking up a bundle of copper bracelets and jingling them at her. “Here. You seem to be quite interested in jewelry. Shall I call that friend of yours over to help you try them on?”

Her face grew hot, but beneath her embarrassment there was a tiny flicker of inconsistent, inexplicable pleasure. Even more confusing! She pushed the bracelets away, glaring at him. “If you’re upset about this, Taran of Caer Dallben,” she said, pulling her skirts back and pointing out her foot, its ankle still tied with the ribbon and bells, “why don’t you come right out and say so. Though why it should bother you, I can’t imagine. Didn’t Coll say we could pick out a few things we liked, as long as we got what was needed first?”

Taran glanced down at her foot and then quickly looked away, going red and scowling. He moved to the other side of the table and picked up a hand-mirror, its surface polished to a sheen that bounced the sunlight off like a deflected arrow as he turned it in his hand. He gave his reflection a curious glance, and his scowl lightened, as though he hadn’t realized it was there until he saw it himself. Eilonwy wondered waspishly if he were thinking of the compliments those doe-eyed girls had paid him.

“‘Tis a handsome face,” the young woman at the anvil piped up, winking at him, “but ‘tis bad luck to admire yourself too long. Show the lady, boy, or ye’ll deserve whate’er befalls ye.”

He looked at her sheepishly, and Eilonwy took the mirror—admittedly, with a touch of curiosity. She had not seen her own reflection since being at Caer Dathyl two years ago, at least not in anything but the dark stillness of a filled kettle or bucket from the well, which was only so effective. The bright copper threw back her face in startling detail: clear brow, bright blue eyes, a freckled nose, a full mouth, sharp chin. Overall the effect pleased her, but she squinted unhappily at a few tiny pink spots that dotted her nose and cheeks, irritations that returned with dismal regularity at every new moon; she’d never realized they were so visible before.

The old woman with the pipe rasped out a stream of unintelligible syllables, pointing at Eilonwy with a gnarled hand. The younger paused in her hammering to look at her with more interest, and replied in their language. Eilonwy laid the mirror down, feeling rather indignant, but the young woman motioned to her throat, where her crescent pendant dangled above the threadbare neckline of her gown, and said, “She asks if ye’re descended of the sea-witches.”

Eilonwy started, as a tremulous little thrill ran down her back. She looked at the old woman in wonder. “I’ve never heard them called that. But Angharad of Llyr was my mother, and an enchantress like all of our line.”

The young woman translated, and the elder sucked vigorously on her pipe. She raised her clawed hand again and beckoned to Eilonwy. Her pale eyes seemed to focus better as the girl drew near, growing sharp and bright, and the woman reached out to touch her hair. A note of surprise floated upon the next stream of foreign speech, as tangible as the smoke that accompanied it.

"She says ye look like another she saw once,” the young woman explained, her glance growing ever more interested. “Before Moira moved into our camp, she lived wit’ a different clan. And there were a girl there, one of the sea-witches she were, with hair and a necklace like yourn.”

“Like mine?” Her scalp crinkled, and her pulse leapt into her throat and throbbed at her wrists in excitement. “What camp? When was this; how long ago?”

They traded words. “Old Moira’s been wit’ us sixteen years, an’ it were jus’ afore that. Says this girl came to camp wit’ her man and they was taken in. Moira had no chance to know ‘em well, but some in the camp knew him already. He weren’t Rover, but he spoke our tongue. No tellin’ where they are now.”

Taran, his ire overshadowed by curiosity, had come to stand near, listening almost as intently as she. Eilonwy unconsciously tugged at the old woman’s sleeve. “A man? What was he like?”

Moira chuckled when the question was put to her, and patted Eilonwy’s hand with her shaky claw. She gestured toward Taran when she spoke, and the young woman laughed. “She says he was nigh as handsome as yer lad here, but as light as he’s dark. Tall, and clever wit’ his hands, and golden-headed.” They exchanged another round of speech. “Seems like they was in trouble, or maybe had just come from it. They wouldn’a speak o’ their past. Sad they were, but sweet wit’ one another as only newlyweds is. She were expectin’ a child soon. They didn’t say she were one o’ them witches. But it were common knowledge what that moon meant, and she could do some strange things, or so t’was said.”

Taran’s hand touched her shoulder and Eilonwy whirled to look at him, stricken. His eyes were wide. “Do you think—?”

“It must have been,” she gasped. “Oh, if only this were the same camp! Is there any more?” she asked, turning back to the two women, but after a final chattering exchange the younger shrugged.

“‘Tis all she remembers. ‘Twas your hair caught her eye, but she says ye have her way o’ speakin’, too. Were she kin o’ yourn?”

“I think so,” Eilonwy whispered, barely audible. Taran glanced at her anxiously.

“She’s never known what became of her parents,” he explained. The young woman’s expression went from curious to pitying, and she spoke again to her companion, who nodded, reached out to touch her hand gently, and spoke again.

The young woman picked up the mirror that had spawned the conversation, and handed it to Eilonwy. “She says to keep it, and ye shall see your mam’s face near eno’w, every time ye take a look.”

“Oh.” Eilonwy sucked in a sob. “I don’t think…we’ll have enough…”

The old woman shook her head, and leaned forward, gesturing firmly with her pipe. “A gift,” she grunted thickly, speaking directly to her for the first time. “For keep.”

Eilonwy gulped, and clutched the thing to her chest, the lump in her throat blocking all the questions she wanted to ask; they had always been questions with no answers, paths that led to nowhere and disappeared, and she feared now they would do the same, despite this new bend. “Thank you,” she gasped out, and wished desperately there were someplace she might go where she could have a good howl, but at that moment they were descended upon by the young people again, and she was dragged away to admire skeins of dyed yarn.

Desperate as she was to think over what she had learned, she had no chance now. Rover children were taught the art of charming a customer from the cradle, and this troop, realizing that their previous method had backfired, now had changed tactics: divide and conquer. The boys shooed Taran and Gurgi toward booths of leather gear, while the girls took her in hand, chasing away her confusion with action. They flattered and teased, holding up colored fabrics to her face to test their effect upon her complexion, sliding bracelets up her arms, tying ribbons into her hair and bright embroidered silks about her hips before she even knew what was happening.

Eilonwy would have rather looked at the leather and weaponry, and felt that she should be annoyed by this fuss…wasn’t it like how the ladies had dressed her up at Caer Dathyl, those years ago? She had detested that, yet here she found she could not be angry —not even with the twins whose attention to Taran had so irritated her; she realized, now, it had all been simply part of the game. The girls were blithe, and healthily good-humored. They had no artifice or snobbery; they took no offense when she refused any ornament or garment, merely set it aside and moved her on to the next thing, chattering the while as though they had known her for years, by all appearances so glad of company that it was immaterial whether she agreed to any of their bargains.

The day passed pleasantly, and when her companions scattered to their wagons in late afternoon, she returned to Coll with her arms full of linen goods, ribbons and beads braided into her hair, silver bells upon her feet, a scarlet sash knotted at her waist, and a shining new dagger tucked into its folds. Coll looked her over and laughed loud and delightedly.

“Is it too much?” she asked breathlessly. “I don’t need so much, I know…and it’s not all practical, either, but…”

He waved it off, his bald head pink with pleasure. “Oh, get on with you, cariad. It’s glad I am, to see you hoist colors that match your spirits for once. So what if not everything’s practical? We’ve enough, after last year’s harvest, for a few luxuries, and you’ve earned them by your own hard work.” He glanced over her shoulder and then around them expectantly. “Taran with you?”

She shook her head, piling her goods upon the ground for his perusal. “He went off with a load of boys. Probably they’re all somewhere giving each other black eyes.”

He looked at her sharply. “How’s that, again?”

“Nothing.” She sat herself upon the wagon tongue, swinging her feet. “Are we going to stay the evening, then? They’ve promised us a marvelous time.”

Coll stretched his back, studying the sky. “I had better get back. Don’t like leaving the chores for Dallben; his head is so full of great thoughts he forgets to shut gates behind him. But I won’t break my promise —you two and Gurgi may stay the night, and come back in the morning. Good and early, mind! I’ll expect you all back within an hour of sunrise, whatever, or I’ll know the reason why.” He jerked his head back toward the caravan. “Find our lad and send him to me. I’ll need to settle up soon to get back before dark.”

She did so, locating Taran at a booth where he was debating the value of a woolen hood with its proprietor. He had outfitted himself with a new belt and boots, and carried an armful of other odds and ends Coll had sent for.

He seemed in better spirits, and she thought better of asking where the other boys had gone, merely approaching him and passing along Coll’s instruction. His swift, admiring glance at the colorful results of her day filled her with an odd impulse to twirl around, the better for his appraisal. She suppressed it in annoyance. When on earth had she ever preened like some idiot bird in front of him?

“Coll says we can stay the night,” she informed him, “and I should like to see how it all is, once they leave off pushing things at you and just enjoy themselves. Are you going to be cross about it?”

He shouldered his pack ruefully. “No. And I’m sorry I was, earlier. I just…” But he could not explain himself, apparently, for he said nothing more on the topic, only marching along in silence until they reached the wagon and laid out his goods.

Leaving Coll to barter totals with the elders and return home, they ambled back through the camp in search of supper. “I’ve been thinking,” Taran murmured, “of what that old woman said. I wonder where they were, if it were really your parents.”

She sighed. “I can’t stop thinking of it. But there’s no way to know, is there? They seem to go everywhere, even outside the borders. They’re selling things here I’ve never seen—things that must have come from beyond the sea, even.”

“Doesn’t mean they go that far,” he countered. “They collect goods at the ports and bring them inland.”

“Didn’t they come from across the sea?”

“Yes, but ages ago. Fled Iwerddon because of some war and landed down on the southwest coast, or so the story goes. But they aren’t seafarers by nature or trade.”

All around them, families were gathering in front of their wagon steps, stoking cookfires. Gurgi, attracted by the smell of meat roasting, ran from one to the next, provoking mad barking from watchdogs and squeals from children. Near them, a toddler clad in a short grubby tunic escaped from a woman occupied with minding a hanging kettle. The child chased Gurgi as he gamboled past, and a young man raced from the wagon, caught up the youngster and swung him high into the air, eliciting shrieks of laughter.

Eilonwy realized, after a few moments, that she and Taran had both paused and stood frozen, watching the scene. She wondered if he felt the same heavy, squeezing ache in the throat that she did.

A clear call from behind them interrupted her wistfulness, and she turned to see one of her friends of the morning waving at them from her steps — Niamh, the oldest of the girls, quieter than the twins, with an appealing air of amiable practicality . An elderly man and a handful of children were also gathered there around a fire. “Come!” Niamh said, beckoning. “Ye must sup with us, if ye’re to have enough life for the ceilidh tonight.”

Taran hesitated, but Eilonwy grabbed his arm and pulled him into the group, calling for Gurgi, who came leaping. In no time they were seated and served, the center of lively attention, peppered with questions. Presently, she found herself telling of their adventure the previous year, with Taran interjecting or carrying the narrative at various points. The little ones’ eyes popped as the story unfolded, their attention held in rapture at her description of escaping from Huntsmen, bartering with the three powerful old crones in the Marshes of Morva, battling for the cauldron before it was destroyed. For extra effect she demonstrated how she could play with the fire, twisting the flames into shapes before their eyes, making it dance in time to the piping flute one of them produced and played.

Taran leaned over at one point as the children cooed in awe. “Dallben would be cross with you,” he murmured, “using your magic so irreverently.”

“Dallben’s always cross,” she retorted, “but he’s not here, is he?” His eyes widened in mild, amused shock at such rebellion, and she felt a little thrill of perverse excitement at her own daring.

Dusk was falling like a cloak, and voices trilled from the center of camp, overlaying the sound of flutes warming up and drums given experimental thumps. Niamh and the children scrambled up and led them toward the sounds, until they joined a central congregation in a clearing around a bonfire.

Eilonwy looked around in delight. The Rover caravan numbered well over two hundred, a large portion of which were children and youth. An additional handful of outsiders, others like them who had traveled to barter and stayed to enjoy the fun, were integrated into their midst. She had never seen so many young people in one place; in fact she had never seen so many people gathered anywhere other than a war camp, which was a decidedly different thing.

Children scampered through the crowds, shouting with excitement and arguing over toys. Adults greeted one another, sharing food and passing around flasks as they settled upon the ground. Infants were cooed over and toddlers traded from hip to hip. Everywhere, hands were clasped, arms laid over shoulders or around waists, small heads were patted, kisses exchanged. Niamh herself, before she sat next to them, was waylaid by a tall youth, who caught her from behind and buried his face in her neck, provoking a protesting oath in their language. But far from seeming displeased, the girl laughed and turned toward him, and what followed was a display of affection unlike any Eilonwy remembered witnessing in her life.

Within seconds she wished, heartily and hot-faced, to be anywhere else. But she was, simultaneously, so mesmerized she could not look away. Clearly the couple involved must not mind witnesses, given how they performed in the middle of such a crowd. It seemed an uncomfortably long time before they remembered the existence of anyone else, but eventually they parted and Niamh’s merry glance fell upon Eilonwy. The Rover girl laughed at her expression. “Here’s my Oisin,” she explained, plunking upon the ground and pulling him down next to her. “It’s wed we’re to be, this summer, soon as he finishes buildin’ our wagon.”

Oisin extended his hand to both of them in turn as they stammered out their names. Neither he nor Niamh appeared the least bit aware of anything unusual in their conduct. Indeed, no one else in the crowd gathered ‘round had taken any notice, either. Was such an embrace, then, typical for them, Eilonwy wondered. Was she the odd one, for being so startled by it?

From the corner of her eye—she would not look at him— she saw Taran pull up his dropped jaw like a fisherman reeling in a trout. “Best wishes,” he croaked out, and obviously could think of nothing else to add. Attuned as she always was to his emotions, she could make no sense of what she felt from him now; the jumbled mass of it was too overwhelming, or perhaps she was too muddled by her own confusion. In any case she felt relieved when Gurgi inserted himself and sat between them, gleefully gnawing on a bone left of someone’s dinner. His simple animal presence and mildly offensive smell provided a barrier both familiar and comfortably prosaic.

The random, disjointed sounds of various instruments around the fire suddenly organized themselves into a spirited tune, and approving shouts from the people around her turned into a rousing chorus everyone clearly knew well. She could make nothing of the words, but the drums and strings and high lilting whistle were enough to capture her heart, and in relief at the distraction Eilonwy clapped along with the crowds and cheered when it was done. Another tune followed, and then a story, a rousing tale of a wicked giant defeated by trickery, and then another tune, in a rhythm that instantly set her toes tapping. Niamh leapt up and reached for her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Choscloigini!” she exclaimed. “Come, ye must learn it!”

Any protest was futile, lost on the wind as they were joined by a dozen other youth and propelled to the center of the circle. The girls surrounded her, hitching their skirts up to display sun-kissed bare feet, their movements a chorus of silver chimes as they demonstrated the steps. None were overly difficult; a short series of stamps and kicks that repeated itself again and again; only the rhythm took a moment to feel out, and the timing of when to reach for the hand of a partner. “But don’t fret,” one assured her, “for it’s his duty to be sure ye’re in the right place!”

And then she was shoved into the colorful lineup, laughing with the rest, filled with the giddy delight of music and movement joined. No one minded her looseness with the steps; always when she stumbled, there was another hand held out, pulling her back into the rhythm. Black curls and streaks of color flashed past like dreams. Though the dance involved switching partners many times, somehow she found herself repeatedly paired with the boy who had tied on her bells that morning; his bright smile had grown no less mischievous in the meantime. He was beside her when the music beat its last echo into the evening, and stayed next to her as they all moved off to make room for the next performer.

“Yer lad’s been watchin’ ye all this time.” He leaned in close to inform her of it, his voice low, with a wink and a jerk of his head toward the crowd. Automatically she looked where he indicated; there stood Taran at the edge of the firelight, staring at her with an expression as though someone had struck him and run off before he could retaliate.

She was already heated from dancing, and could flush no harder, but…“He’s not my lad,” she grunted, between her teeth.

“Is he not, now?” The boy took a flask as it made its rounds, sipped from it languidly, and passed it to her, his grin knowing. “Then why does he frown so to see ye at the dancin’?”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea.” She raised the flask to her lips, expecting water; instead a liquid burning with sweetness filled her mouth and she gulped it down, gasped and coughed. “Good Llyr, what is that?”

He laughed. “Blackberry wine. Never had it?”

“No.” She took another sip, slower, and rolled it in her mouth before swallowing, the warmth of it spreading deliciously into her throat. “It’s marvelous.”

“Just a nip, though,” the boy said, eyes twinkling as he took the flask back from her and handed it off to someone else. “‘Tis a specialty of ours, but strong stuff for them as not used to it. Now, then.” His hand rose, inviting her back into the circle. “Shall we make ‘im frown some more?”

Her glance strayed to Taran again; he had not moved, was still glowering, too ridiculous. Why didn’t he join the dance himself, if it upset him to see her so entertained by another? In any case he was not going to spoil her fun—let him scowl as he liked from now ‘til harvest time! She tossed her head, turned her attention back to the boy, took the offered hand, and smiled. The music shifted, winding again to a rhythm that compelled movement, and she allowed him to pull her back to the firelit circle.

They taught her a second dance, and a third, and all the time she sensed Taran’s eyes on her. It vexed her, confused her; she resented him for watching and yet she threw herself all the harder into the music because he watched, unconsciously seeking to provoke any reaction. Other boys swept past her, swung her around until she was dizzy with movement, with the strange thrill of touching hands and the slide of their nimble arms at her waist. If Taran weren’t so stubborn, he might be the one to do so, and then they’d both be enjoying themselves, but no… there he stood, like a stone. A frowning stone.

The moon was high, a pale slice like a thumbnail paring, when the last song was sung. The Rovers called their good nights, and drifted back to their wagons in clumps, mothers carrying sleeping children, fathers dragging those who should have been sleeping but were not. Eilonwy looked for Taran, but he had, at the last, disappeared into the crowd with Gurgi.

Rover youth pressed around her in the thinning herd. “Ye’ve a place to sleep?” Niamh asked, falling in step with her as she wandered to the edge of camp, flanked by Oisin and the twins on one hand, and Fiachra, her eager dance partner, on the other.

“Near our horses,” she answered shortly, for Coll had instructed them so, and Fiachra nodded, his mouth forming a sardonic curve.

“Or ye might find ‘em taken in the mornin’, eh?” he suggested. “We know ‘tis what folks say about us, but it an’t truth.”

“I didn’t think so at all,” she said indignantly. “Only we’ve got to leave very early, so we want to be near them. But it’s all right. I’m quite used to sleeping outdoors.”

“‘Tis the only proper place!” He winked at her. “Ye’d fit right in wit’ us.”

She ignored the obvious bait. “Don’t you sleep in the wagons?”

They all hooted with laughter. “Only when the weather drives us in,” Oisin answered. “Wagons is for old ones and babes-in-arms.”

“And newly-weds,” a twin piped up wickedly, shoving Niamh so that she jostled into her betrothed. This did not appear to vex either of them, nor did the subsequent whoops and whistles from their observers as they made the most of the opportunity.

Eilonwy fell back to the edge of the group, once again both embarrassed and fascinated. The words of the young woman at the copper booth whispered back to her: as sweet with one another as only newlyweds is. Was this what she’d meant?

They had come to the cleared space where horses were picketed, and she spotted Melynlas’s pale hide glowing like a ghost in the moonlight. Taran and Gurgi were already there, dark shapes huddled upon the ground. She hesitated, grateful for the friendliness she’d been shown by these youth, but now wishing she knew a polite way to shake them off. It was obvious that Taran would not welcome them. She was not sure he would welcome her.

She turned to them all earnestly. “I’ve got to leave by sunrise tomorrow, but…oh, I’ve enjoyed myself! Everything—not just tonight, though it was lovely. Taran’s told me for years what it’s like to visit your folk, but it’s been better than imagined.”

The girls cooed, and kissed her cheeks, exclaiming that they’d look for her when they came that way again. Fiachra took her hand and bowed over it flamboyantly. “‘Tis a pity,” he said loudly, and she knew he meant for Taran to hear. “Rumor it is that ye might have been born in a camp! —yet here y’are, leavin’ us already. Are ye that set on breakin’ me heart?”

“Get on, ye daft rooster!” One of the twins smacked him over the head, and the sisters shoved him about in exasperation, breaking his grasp upon her hand. “Don’t be listenin’ to a thing he says,” Niamh told her, with a grin. “He speaks such blarney to every pretty lass, every stop we make.”

Eilonwy was tempted to be offended, but Fiachra’s rakish grin flashed from beneath a twin’s restraining arm, so unashamed and silly that she laughed instead, heart lightening at the joyful nonsense of it all. Bidding them all good night and a regretful farewell, she turned and wove between dozing horses until she came to her own, and the heap of tack upon which Taran was leaning, his eyes shut, while Gurgi snored at his feet.

She would have hesitated to rummage through their pack, but she knew by his breathing, and the stiff set of his head, that he was not really asleep. Pulling out her cloak and a spare blanket, spreading them out upon the cool grass, she flopped down and sighed contentedly. “Oh, it’s been marvelous! They’re not like anyone I’ve met anywhere. I never knew it could be such fun to be around other young folks.”

“Yes,” Taran grumbled, “It’s been very dull for you the last couple of years, hasn’t it? What a shame there aren’t dozens of such admirers at Caer Dallben to keep you entertained all the time.”

She ignored his tone, going on wistfully, “Can you imagine living within such a clan, always surrounded by your family and friends? Think how delightful!”

“Think how noisy,” he retorted. “One person who never stops chattering is quite enough.”

This nettled her at last. “Better than one who sulks about and won’t join in the fun or...or do anything,” she shot back, “except stand about looking like they’re smelling horse-apples! If that person feels left out of things, they’ve got only themselves to blame.”

She expected him to get angry; indeed, wished he would—a proper row would be better than one of his awkward silences. But he only muttered, “Better get some sleep,” and turned his back on her.

Eilonwy stared up at the stars, scowling. Let him be difficult, then! She pulled her cloak about herself and felt the thump of her bauble knocking into her arm. Automatically she grasped it, its round surface cool and comforting in her palm. Her mother’s gift.

Mother, she thought. My mother was with the Rovers, and my father, too. Had they danced in the firelight as she had tonight? Listened, laughed, cried at the stories shared, sung along with the flute and drums? Stolen away from the noisy crowds to be alone, sharing kisses and dreams of the future, like Niamh and Oisin?

Her father had spoken their language, but he wasn’t one of them. Where had he come from; who was he? How had they come to be with the Rovers? And what had happened after she was born? Achren had always told her that her kinfolk had sent her as an orphan to Spiral Castle, ostensibly to be trained in magic, but—it was implied—really, to get an unwanted child off their hands. She had believed it less as she had gotten older and wiser to Achren’s lies, and at last, Gwydion had confirmed that although she did have distant relations, none of them were aware of her existence. Her parents had eloped and disappeared, and were assumed perished in the cataclysm that had destroyed her homeland.

So many questions, and no place to go for answers. Frustration bubbled up in a low, grumbling groan, unintentionally released out loud. She heard Taran shift a little back toward her, and then his voice, irritated: “All right. I’m sorry I didn’t tie bells on and go jumping about like a…”

“It’s not you,” she snapped, with such vicious intensity that he cut himself off and swallowed whatever else he’d planned to say. She shut her teeth, wrangling down her anger, weighing the silence. It shouted with feelings she could not shape into words, the loudest silence she could imagine. “Sorry,” she whispered at last. “I didn’t mean to grouse. Be a grump if you like; I don’t care.” Not quite true, but she was not ready to lay down arms just yet. “I was just…thinking of that old woman’s story again. Wishing I knew more about it.”

She sensed his better nature warring with his sullenness, before he sighed, and turned all the way over so that he faced her. “It’s more than you’ve had, before, at least.”

“Yes. It’s something.” It’s more than he has, she thought, a little unwillingly, as a trickle of guilt found its meandering way through the maze of her thoughts, forcing her to acknowledge his empathy despite herself. She kept her gaze turned to the stars, but could see, from the corner of her eye, how he studied her profile. “Who would have thought? All the times you’ve told me how marvelous a visit from the Rovers is, never knowing I’d been with them before.”

"You really think you were born among them?”

“You heard what she said. Mother was already expecting me.”

“How do you know it was you? Perhaps you’ve a brother or sister you’ve never dreamed of.”

This brought a tingling mental jolt, and she examined it in surprise. “I…I never thought of that. I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. She said it was around sixteen years ago, and that’s close enough to my age, if Dallben’s guess is true.”

“Younger, then,” he suggested. “They may have had more, after you.”

“Maybe.” The grey haze of empty memory made her chest ache. “But somehow that makes it worse. Because that would mean there are even more lost.”

He made a quiet sound of affirmation, and she reminded herself, again, that he knew this same sadness. “Well,” he said, “one day we can go search out other caravans, perhaps even the one they joined, if it still exists. Surely some still live who would remember. I should think your mother,” he added slowly, “might be difficult to forget.”

She digested this in silence, suffused with a fluttering, not unpleasant curiosity. Gwydion had once said she was very like her mother, and then called her mother unforgettable, in a tone that implied that his memory of her was somewhat more precious than mere diplomatic relations might account for. But Taran had little notion of such subtleties, and rarely complimented her outright. Did he mean to do so now? She wondered, if she turned her face toward him, whether he would keep looking at her, or glance away, with that nervous cough he always affected in order to pretend he hadn’t been staring. But she could not raise the nerve, somehow, and presently his breathing changed to the slow rhythm that heralded sleep. A glance confirmed that his face was serene, lashes fringed upon his cheeks, dark brows relaxed.

So, that was the amount of interest he took in the subject, was it? With an angry huff she turned her back on him and yanked her cloak over her head, curling up as though she had hidden her own dignity in the hollow of her ribs for protection. Why had she expected anything different from him? And what did it matter? No one had asked for his compliments nor wanted them. After all, what were they worth? Fiachra had paid her more compliments in one day than Taran had in two years, without meaning a thing by them. Just empty words to turn the heads of sillier girls than she.

And yet she had blushed and smiled and laughed at them, and willingly followed him through the dance for the pure pleasure of such attention. Perhaps she was as silly as the rest.

But…oh, why wouldn’t Taran join in the dance?

Good Llyr, she would not cry over this, she would not. She would go to sleep like a sensible person, unconcerned with such matters as boys and their myriad baffling, ridiculous ways.

Stupid, stubborn assistant pig-keepers.

Chapter Text

Taran shook her gently awake at first light. It was a bleak morning, chilly and overcast, as though spring were having second thoughts, and glancing back wistfully to winter. "We'd better get on," he said regretfully. "It feels like rain."

"Oh, drat." Eilonwy sat up and drew her cloak about her, wrinkling her nose at the sky. "What a shame, after such a day yesterday! Like getting a worm on your last bite of an apple." Remembering the previous night's squabble, she cast Taran a questioning look, gauging his mood; he made no response to her comment, but then he was never very talkative in the morning.

The Rovers were already up and about, tending to morning chores. Eilonwy waved several farewells as voices called out to wish them safe journey and wind at their backs until their next meeting. She gazed back in admiration of the bright wagons as they saddled the horses and mounted up, set the pale smudge of sunrise to their left, and headed toward Caer Dallben. Gurgi trotted alongside, investigating every bush and clump of grass. Kaw had disappeared.

The horses needed no guidance, sensing their destination, and Eilonwy let Lluagor amble along, her thoughts intensely occupied with all she had seen and heard. Not a quarter-hour into their journey, a cold droplet of water hit her cheek, and then another; the horses snorted and steamed from their noses as the pattering sound of light rain rose from the rocks around them. Taran muttered under his breath as they pulled their hoods over their heads. Presently Gurgi came galloping toward them, having made investigations from the crest of a nearby ridge.

"Gurgi smells rainings and drainings!" he announced. "Oh, many cold streamings coming from the hills. Master and wise princess must make haste to get home, or be drenched with great soakings!"

Taran clucked to Melynlas, propelling the stallion into a trot. "We're aren't too far out. We'll be all right."

Eilonwy urged Lluagor to speed up, grumbling to herself. The wind was indeed increasing, cold and wet, catching at strands of her hair and lashing her in the face with them, despite her hood. She pulled her hands into the folds of her cloak, but the jogging of the horse kept shaking the cloth free. In minutes her fingers were clenched upon the reins, white with cold. Though she had taken the time to put on her sandals, she had not thought to don leggings; her toes were going numb, and her legs prickled where the raindrops found bare skin between wind-whipped folds of cloak and tattered skirt.

Gurgi's nose was a reliable prophet; before they'd covered half their distance, the sky opened and sent forth a deluge. Wind blasted them with gusts of freezing rain, and now they were leaving what little shelter the hills provided, as the swells of land and rocky outcroppings melted into gentle rolling fields. Eilonwy, miserable and shivering but determined not to complain, huddled into her cloak, as Taran reined up and hesitated at the base of the last series of ridges.

"I think perhaps we should wait out the rest of this," he called to her, his breath puffing white before being carried off by the wind. "I thought we could make it back before it got so bad, but there'll be no shelter at all the rest of the way, and Caer Dallben is a league off, still."

"But wait it out where?" She looked around them, seeing nothing that offered anything better than a windbreak, if that. "Shouldn't we just gallop home quick as we can, and warm up once we get there?"

He shook his head. "It's not good for the horses, galloping in this for too long. Especially Lluagor; if she takes colic she could lose her foal. It's bad enough she's out in this at all. Come, follow me — even a few trees would be better than nothing."

He turned Melynlas downhill to the west, heading for a dip in the landscape, and Eilonwy followed, turning their backs to the wind. Gurgi tore ahead of them, rounding a bend where a pile of rock jutted from the landscape like the foot of some great beast. Presently he came loping back. "Haste, make haste!" he urged. "Clever Gurgi finds hollow places within mighty stones! Not as dry as a cozy cottage, no, but out of the flowings and blowings of the wind!"

He scrambled back, beckoning them earnestly, and they trotted the horses around the outcropping. The change of angle revealed heaps of great stones, tumbled about and leaning against one another, as though a giant had been building a wall and then knocked it over in a rage. But if so, it had happened so long ago that the rock bases had overgrown with turf and moss. Their craggy tops had caught enough earth to support the growth of a few small and very bold trees, which clung tenaciously here and there, overhanging the narrow spaces between the stones.

"Well done, Gurgi!" Taran exclaimed, and the creature wriggled all over, joyful at being praised. Wearily, they dismounted, and led the horses into the hollows; the space was cramped, but a blessed relief from the elements. Only a misting of the rain managed to reach them here; the wind occasionally flung a cold arrow between cracks, but otherwise it was an impotent fury, shrieking overhead in rage at their escape.

"It's like a maze," Eilonwy remarked, as they twisted and turned their way through the monoliths, seeking a spot where they could all fit comfortably. Taran halted at last, and squeezed his way past Melynlas, back to where Eilonwy led Lluagor by the bridle.

"Let her go," he advised. "There's a wider spot up here that's as good as we'll find, I think, at least for the horses. I don't want to lead them somewhere so tight we can't turn around. Come."

She followed him forward, past the horses and into a vaguely semi-circular space against a low cliff, its upper edge overshadowed by the grim stones and a few of the stubborn trees. Slightly more rain found its way in here, but the horses seemed content, huddling against each other for warmth. Taran dug into the saddlebags and found the blanket Eilonwy had used as a bedroll. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "Take this and find a dry spot, if you can."

Beneath the overhanging cliff there was a shallow recess; Eilonwy backed into it, shivering, wishing she had something to burn. There were scattered dead twigs fallen from the trees above, but nothing that would make a fire of any lasting heat. Taran, after filling nosebags for the horses, shook the rain off his cloak and joined her, folding his long limbs up tight. It was a small space, and it made her feel odd…jumbled-up and fluttery, for him to be so close. She scowled at her own confusion. For goodness' sake, she had often ridden horseback behind him, arms tight around his torso, with no thought except staying seated…and now the mere possibility of brushing shoulders with him made her nerves fray like old cords, made her reluctant to offer him the shared warmth of the blanket. She forced down her foolishness and held out its edge. He wrapped it around his shoulders, the press of the cloth pulling her closer; his solid warmth soaked into her side.

"Coll said to be home within an hour of sunrise," she said, to fill the silence, and deny the quiver in her breath.

She felt him shrug. "Even Coll can't predict the weather. He'd be more upset if any of us were ill. We'll just wait for the worst of it to pass."

They watched the horses switch their tails, draw their heads together and nicker quietly to one another. "I suppose the Rovers are all huddled in their wagons, back there," Eilonwy mused. "It must get cramped when the weather's foul."

"They're used to it, I should think," Taran said. "Perhaps they find it cozy. But they've got their own troubles. They were telling me yesterday how bad the bandits in the southern hills have been, the last few years. That's why it's been so long since any camps came this way."

"I never even thought of that," Eilonwy confessed. "What a target for thieves they must be, with all the goods they're carrying! And so many children and families to protect. I wonder how they manage it."

"They've got their ways," he said. "All the women and children travel and sleep in the center of camp or in wagons. The men and older boys stay in stations 'round the edge. Did you not notice, last night? I suppose you were too distracted with your dancing." She swept him a sidelong, warning glance, but his expression was mild, his tone neutral; if he meant to annoy her she could not tell. "And they're all fighters when they need to be. The lads showed me hidden compartments all over the wagons, where they store weapons. They've quite a lot of protection spells and luck charms hung about. Who knows if they really do anything, but they seem to think so."

"They may be right. I met at least one who knew something of magic." The day before, she had acquired her new dagger from a sturdy, matronly woman who had been very interested in her bundles of herbs—one who, upon noticing her pendant, had sweetened the bargain, adding in the scarlet sash to bind the blade to her waist. The woman had ended the transaction with a little head bow, curling her hand into a crescent shape and touching it to her breastbone— a gesture that had felt startlingly familiar, and spawned an instinctive impulse to return it. Eilonwy had done so automatically, and instantly a smooth, sweet sensation had rippled through her, like the rings on the surface of a pond when you tossed a pebble in. It was the signature of magic she encountered but rarely, a birthright Achren had denied her: water, the cool, heavy, balancing counterpart to the swift fire element that came to her so readily. Always it left her trembling and yearning, though for what, she could not say…beyond, simply, more of it.

And that single gesture had drawn it as easy as breath. Cautiously she performed it again, now, touching her curled hand to her heart, but the sensation did not repeat itself. Perhaps it was only meant to be something communicative, then; a salutation of sorts. She would ask Dallben when they got home.

Assuming he would tell her anything. Maddeningly, Dallben seemed indifferent as to whether she ever accessed her magic or not —certainly his reaction to seeing her newfound abilities after the quest for the Black Crochan had been ambivalent, at best. Concerned, at her confession of how she had allowed herself too much liberty; relieved, that she seemed to realize it. But never encouraging her to do more, never directly teaching her much of anything that did not come to her on its own.

Gurgi came scampering up and shimmied off a dirty spray of rain, before crawling next to them and curling up at the foot of the rock face. Eilonwy watched him somewhat enviously. If only it were so easy to get dry! Surely there was magic she ought to be able to use that could accomplish the same. But control over water eluded her. A few brushes with it in times of desperate need, that was all—reins that were placed in her hands and then ripped away the moment she thought she held them fast.

But there was no use grousing about it now. Her current situation was tolerable enough. For all that Taran's closeness made her feel like she'd swallowed moths, the sensation was strangely compelling; he felt…safe. Protective. At her other side Gurgi lay curled like a hound at a hearth. The little hollow beneath the stones was a secret space, outside which the wind and rain howled but could not reach them. If the interior of the Rover wagons were anything like this, they might well be called cozy. "I wonder if they usually go the same route," she said. "Was this clan the same as the one you'd seen before?"

"More or less," he said, "but they change often. I recognized some of the adults, and saw a few whose names I remembered. But when I asked about another fellow I'd met before, they said his family had joined a different camp. Sometimes branches break off and start their own caravans, or folks marry into different clans and take their kin with them."

"It must be hard for them to start over like that," she said. "Being always on the move, never getting attached to any one place, I should think they'd be all the more attached to one another. But I suppose it's interesting to travel about and see how people and places have changed since the last time you were there."

Taran hemmed agreeably, and she continued on. "Only think, by the time we see them again, Niamh and Oisin may have children of their own. Can you imagine? They're no older than…"

She trailed off, and Taran coughed self-consciously, the prelude to an awkward silence. The memory of the young couple absorbed in their amorous embrace was burning her mind like a brand, the heat of it pulsing into her face. Was he thinking of it as well? —blast it, what made her wonder such things?

Suddenly she was oppressively hot. Taran's presence radiated like an oven. She threw the blanket from her shoulders with a huff, and from the corner of her eye saw him glance at her in surprise. "Warm enough?"

"Mmmph." She wasn't; she missed the comforting sense of his nearness immediately, despite being so flustered by it moments before. Belin and Llyr! Why did nothing about her own feelings make sense where he was concerned? He was like the wild piece in the strategic battle-game Coll had taught them to pass the time on winter evenings: that one red-painted knave that upended all the rules when it was brought onto the board. He had not always been so. She could not stop resenting the change long enough to decide whether it might be welcome.

Silence stretched again, thick and uncomfortable, and then Taran spoke again, lightly. "This reminds me of when we were stuck on top of the mountain pass in the rain with Fflewddur. You remember, just after we left Medwyn?"

"And we all sang to brave the storm," she exclaimed, in relief at the safe change of topic. "Better shelter this time, though. I wish Fflewddur were here! Who knows when we'll see him again."

"Odd, isn't it," Taran said, "that we should make such a friend of someone we've only seen during a crisis of some kind or other."

"You could say that about nearly everyone we know. When has Gwydion ever just popped in to Caer Dallben for a chat? Or Doli? We're so far away from everything. Perhaps that's why a Rover visit has always been so exciting for you."

"That's true," he admitted. "But their visits are so brief, there's never a chance to make true friends among them. You've got to do things together, I think, for someone to become dear to you. Things that matter. So you'll always be close to those you've traveled and labored with, even if that's the only time you've spent with them."

"Maybe." Eilonwy squinted thoughtfully. "But you've still got to like them. We traveled and labored with Ellidyr, and that didn't make him any friendlier. I think you could likely make as dear a friend of someone just by talking with them, even if you didn't do much of anything."

"That would still take time, though."

"Yes, of course. But think of all our moments of being with Fflewddur…which stand out as the best? The battles and dangers? Or just sitting 'round the fire, telling stories? Do you know what one of my favorite memories of him is? That one evening, coming back from Caer Dathyl, when he and Doli got into a quarrel about rabbits."

A brief silence —then Taran broke into a chuckle. "I forgot all about that. How did it begin?"

"That old chestnut about carrying a rabbit's foot for luck. Fflewddur swore by it, but Doli told him the Fair Folk made it up to make fools of humans. Fflewddur didn't believe him, or pretended not to. And they went back and forth until I couldn't breathe for laughing." She was laughing, now, at the memory of her friends: the bard descending into more and more outrageous anecdotes of lifesaving fortune by rabbit appendages, each of them ruthlessly shot down by the dwarf, whose dry irascibility increased in proportion to Fflewddur's silliness. They threw so many insults at one another, any strangers watching might have thought they would be at one another's throats any moment, but their twinkling eyes had given the game away to all those who knew them.

"I think my favorite," Taran said, "is the time you and I couldn't stop laughing at his snoring, that night in Medwyn's byre."

This memory of inexplicable, uncontrollable hilarity threatened instantly to repeat itself. "Oh, Llyr," she gasped, after an explosive giggle, "I remember how loud he was! It was like boulders crashing."

Taran was laughing, too, his face rosy with it, the blanket falling from his shaking shoulders. It didn't matter; they were both warm, now, flushed with shared memory and mirth. Oh, if he would always be just like this, just himself, an easy and affectionate companion! Laughter, she thought suddenly. Laughter does it, too…makes friends out of strangers, and family out of friends.

But the laugh subsided, and nothing took its place; she glanced up to find him looking at her…looking at her in that intense way that made her break her gaze at once, eyes darting to find a safe place to land— anywhere but upon him! Her cheeks burned; she cleared her throat, and noticed that the wind no longer shrieked overhead. "Storm's quieted down," she observed.

He said her name at almost the same moment she spoke, in a murmur she pretended not to hear as she scrambled from beneath the hollow. "We should get on," she said briskly, "don't you think? The wind's stopped, and without that, a bit of rain doesn't hurt. I hate to worry Coll and Dallben."

She thought she heard him sigh, but when he appeared in his turn he only looked up at the clouds appraisingly, and nodded. "Yes, you're right. Best to get back, and properly warmed up. Come, Gurgi."

As they gathered the horses Eilonwy gazed about curiously at the stones that hemmed them in. "Funny" she said aloud, "this spot. It looks almost on purpose, how these were arranged, doesn't it?" She pointed to various tumbled slabs. "If you imagine that one and that one standing up straight, and those over there moved just a bit over, we'd be in a sort of half-ring, with lintels across."

Taran paused to follow her gaze. "Now you mention it…yes, it does. Almost like columns 'round a doorway."

They both stared at the cliff wall that backed the masses of stones, as though a door might materialize there. Eilonwy felt her the back of her neck prickle. Stone rings were always places of power, according to everything she had ever heard or read, and not always safe ones; they were ancient, built by beings older than men, and the old magic lingered on long after understanding of it had faded, even after the stones themselves had succumbed to time. "I think we'd better go," she whispered.

Taran nodded uneasily, and they wasted no time guiding the horses back out. The wind had stopped, the rain slowed to a chilly misting. A brisk trot warmed them all as they left the hills behind.

In less than an hour they were cantering into the barnyard, and she was pushing open the door of the cottage while Taran and Gurgi took the horses off to the stables. It was warm inside, the hearth fire fresh-kindled, the iron kettle hovering over it, ready for the morning's grain. Bread and honey were laid upon the table. Eilonwy sighed happily as she crossed to the fire and hung her wet cloak from the mantle. Coll must be out doing chores; Dallben was likely still asleep; for now, this cozy space was hers alone, the only sounds the rain upon the shutters, the crackle of the flames, and the boiling of the kettle. By the time Coll and Taran and Gurgi came in, she'd have breakfast ready.

How sweet and lovely it was, to have a home to come to! She did not, after all, envy the Rovers.

Puttering about, setting the room in her preferred order, she did not hear Dallben enter…but then she never did hear him, and had become used to turning around and seeing him sitting in a chair that had been empty a moment before.

"Morning," she said happily, planting an impulsive kiss upon his wrinkled cheek as she passed.

His shaggy eyebrows twitched in surprise. "Well, then. Brought the sunshine in, since it's blocked without, eh? You enjoyed your time at the camp, I see."

Eilonwy plunked upon the table side-bench, beaming. "It was marvelous. Did Coll tell you what all we found?"

He waved a hand lazily. "I have seen the fruits of your labor, of course. But I think your current mood is based on more than linen and thread —both of which, I suspect, you will despise before the day is out. Come, what did you make of the people?"

"They were lovely," she sighed. "I never had such fun. And Dallben," she continued eagerly, "they knew something of my parents."

A spark of real surprise crossed his watery gaze at this, an occurrence so unusual that she marked it. Quickly she related what she had learned from the smith and old Moira, and was gratified when he asked several pertinent questions. "And another thing," she added, after a pause for breath. "The woman who bartered for my herbs did this." She cupped her hand to her breast and bowed a little, as the Rover woman had. "I did it back to her before I thought, and I felt something happen. Not to anything around me, just…there was magic in it. Do you know what it means?"

Dallben's brows shot up like startled caterpillars, then settled into his somber, thoughtful gaze. He maintained this silently for a few moments before speaking. "That was the mark of reverence," he said, "from one devotee of Rhiannon to another. A salute your own people brought to Prydain."

Rhiannon…queen of the moon, mother of Llyr. Of course, the hand made the crescent; she ought to have guessed. "Then that woman was my kin?"

"No, I think not. The Rovers adopt what customs they choose from all with whom they have business. Most likely she was a midwife; Rhiannon is their matron, and she would have recognized your lineage." He nodded at her pendant. "She may not have been aware of any magic, though midwives do tend to be dabblers. But you felt it, did you?" He grunted…a sound she had learned to interpret as mildly ominous, as it often preceded a tiresome new edict.

"But I've done it since, and felt nothing," she added, by way of reassurance that no more rules were necessary.

"Not surprising," he said. "It is a mode of communion from one woman to another. An empty gesture, otherwise."

Before she had time to digest this, there was a tromping of boots and a scratching of claws at the door, and then the little room was full again, with rain shaken from hoods, with jokes and affection, and all sitting down to breakfast. Pottage and weak ale were passed around, as tales were retold of what they had seen and done —with certain bits, she noted, carefully omitted from Taran's narrative, as they were from hers.

"You did well to take shelter," Coll assured them. "I did worry, when that wind picked up, and wished I'd had you come home last night, but all's well that ends by a warm fire. Weather's a fickle companion, whatever," he added, with a rueful glance to the window, where a steady rain still beat against the shutter, "and there'll be no plowing today. But take heart!" He winked. "A rainy day is perfect for sewing, and I've already pieced out both your new clothes."

He laid his chuckle over their groans: a homely, familiar chorus.

Chapter Text

Climbing the tree was different, again.

She'd expected it to be. She knew, of course, it was she who had changed, who needed time to test the new length and breadth of her body, as one needed time to move about in new shoes to decide how they really fit. But of course that change had been happening gradually, imperceptibly, all the time over the winter months, and so when she set her hands upon the bole of the monarch of the orchard it always felt as though it had changed, not she.

But it was familiar, too, a return to a pattern she loved as she found the notches and limbs she knew, their bark worn smooth over two summers of visitation. The tree seemed to greet her hands and feet like an old friend, clasping them in welcome.

Well, her hands, at least. It would be a ridiculous thing to clasp someone's foot as a greeting. She thought of Fiachra and his warm grip while he tied bells at her ankle, blushed at the memory and giggled before suppressing her own frivolity with a frown, and pressing onward into the upper branches.

She paused at her old favorite perch, glancing at it regretfully before climbing past it. The hollow junction of three limbs that had fit her like a throne when she first arrived had been too small for her by last spring, a rude awakening to the truth of how she was changing. There was no point even thinking of trying to settle there now, after another winter of letting out the seams in her clothes, of piecing gussets into the places there was no longer any extra seam to be let out. The rainy days since their visit to camp had been productively, if tediously spent—her new gown fit her perfectly, without pinching under her arms, or stretching its laces embarrassingly across her chest, or being patched at the ribs and hips until she looked like a walking rag-bag. It felt fitting, now, to greet her tree in a garment as new as the spring.

She found a notch where she could sit comfortably, and leaned against the trunk, smiling into the stillness of warm air and humming bees. It was good, to get away from everyone for a while, to think where she wouldn't be interrupted. The tiny cottage, as much as she loved it, seemed very full at times, and the enforced confinement of inclement weather so soon after the release of spring had made her feel too big for her own skin. Moreover, she was not fond of sewing, finding it a difficult thing to attend to under any circumstances. Constructing a new garment to Coll's exacting specifications while sharing space with Taran, who was supposed to be working on his own new tunic and leggings but found the task as dull as she did, had been an exercise in frustration.

Her smile faded as she thought of him, almost resentful at how he seemed to intrude on her… even here, where she'd come explicitly to be alone! Her inability to be anything but distracted by his presence anytime he was nearby was frustrating enough, without it plaguing her when he wasn't even there. How like an Assistant Pig-Keeper to be so aggravating.

But there —she'd come up here on purpose to puzzle over him; what use was there in denying it to herself? If his behavior, and her own reaction to it, had been confusing before their camp visit, they had been nothing short of baffling since, with everything made all the worse by not being able to avoid him while they worked. The number of seams she'd had to rip out and re-work had testified to her mental state, and certainly not improved her mood.

It might be easier if she thought he piqued her on purpose—if she knew that those intense looks in her direction, the sudden silences, the stammering attempts at conversation deeper than supper's ready or the rain's letting up were meant to make her blush and look everywhere but at him. Perhaps then she could decide whether she wanted to feel so fluttery and breathless about it, and either encourage him to continue, or tell him where he could leave it. But he seemed as muddled by it as she was, and the easy camaraderie they had regained during their brief sojourn had evaporated, over the following days, into a haze of awkward communication and irritable bickering. She didn't mean to be short and cross with him, but somehow it happened, again and again. Even Coll's good nature had been tried, and on the second day he had ordered Taran off to his barnyard chores with an exasperated comment about finding fewer creatures to argue with outdoors. Dallben had withdrawn entirely, taking his meals to his chamber, to meditate over his turnips in peace.

Eilonwy laid her hot cheek against the cool bole of the tree with a sigh. All had been lovely last fall, after they had returned from the quest for the cauldron. When had everything changed? She could not put her finger on any single moment. Taran's odd behavior at the camp was only the latest in a series of encounters that had left her unsettled.

There was that moment, during a winter evening by the hearth, as they had listened to Dallben read an old romance from The Book of Three, when she had let herself admire how the firelight played over the planes of Taran's face, sculpting out his brows and cheekbones and strong, clean jawline…how it captured the skill in his hands as he worked the leather on a pair of new shoes…how it kindled his green eyes to gold when he had looked up and caught her watching. How that single glance had shot her through with heat that had nothing to do with the fire.

There was the sight of him working at the anvil a few weeks ago, stripped to a leather apron as he managed the forge. How she had paused on a trip from the well, fascinated, to watch the interplay of muscle and bone in his back and shoulders as he wielded the hammer. How when he'd come to ask for a drink from her bucket, lacking a dipper or cup, she had impulsively offered him water from her own hands, and shivered when his chin grazed her fingertips.

There was the way he put Melynlas through his paces in the barnyard, Coll shouting instruction as the boy and the horse battled imaginary adversaries, all unaware that she was watching from a spot in a tree near them. In two years, he had gone from an ignorant novice in horsemanship to a master of the spirited stallion, and the two of them, moving as though with a single mind and heart between them, were a lovely thing to watch from any perspective. But she found it mesmerizing in ways she was sure Coll, focused purely upon its practical applications, did not.

And then there were all the excuses Taran made to find her, and cheerfully join in on the chores he had always groused about before. He came to the scullery and helped scour the iron pots and kettles, organizing them into their places on the shelves, lifting with ease those whose weight gave her difficulty. He skimmed the cream off pans of milk and thumped away at the butter churn while she hummed to its rhythm, stood beside her to chop vegetables for the animal troughs. He scrubbed laundry at the brook with her, hauled the heavy waterlogged linens back to be hung. And she would catch him grinning at her: that crooked, sideways slice of smile that made her heart skip, all the cheekier when she said something particularly tart. He seemed lately to be continuously underfoot, and if she were excessively aware of his eyes on her it was only because they so often were.

Innumerable glances, too long or too short, accidental brushes of hands, small acts of unusual thoughtfulness, each insignificant on its surface. None of these encounters were unpleasant. No, quite the contrary. It was the compelling pleasure of them that was unsettling. They left her warm and tingling, full of yearning for…what?

How did he have the power to make her feel such things? While simultaneously seeming unable to speak to her as he used to? It annoyed her; she should not allow him to affect her so much. Yet the more she tried to ignore and deny it, the more she lay awake every night in her loft, waiting for the soft tap upon the floorboards that signaled his goodnight, and wondering what he was thinking about in the meantime.

She groaned quietly to herself, in a turmoil of unfamiliar indecision. And at that inopportune moment, a familiar voice drifted up from below.

"Eilonwy!" Taran's voice; her mind rebelled against his intrusion even as the rest of her responded with a traitorous little thrill. "Eilonwy, come down from there!"

The note of anxious urgency in it was the only thing that kept her from snarling at his barking an order at her in such a fashion. As it was she did move, but not down…she pulled herself from her makeshift seat and reached for a higher limb, propelled by rebellious impulse. Let him grouse about it. She was not obliged to do anything on his say-so.

"Eilonwy, please!" His voice cracked on the end. She had not heard that in a long time. "You're too high! If you fall from there—"

"Don't be silly," she called down. "You know I do this every year."

"You get heavier every year!" he yelped—not an untruth, but its implications annoyed her. She pulled herself up further.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I just…" He was stammering in his dismay. "You've grown, that's all, and those branches are thin!"

She rolled her eyes and set her foot upon another branch, sliding along it before shifting her weight. The limbs here were a bit smaller, but surely still able to bear her. Of course he would assume she didn't know how to gauge their soundness! "You sound like a wet rooster," she called, "fussing like that. You could come up and join me, instead of…"

A treacherous crack. A frozen moment when she knew, with dreadful certainty, what was happening, and her heart plunged before she did, left her suspended for an empty beat without time to scream or think or reach for an anchor. And then the terrifying chaos of falling: slashing twigs, bruising branches, a bone-rattling, lung-crushing impact.

For a moment everything stood very still. Her first attempt to breathe knifed sideways through her chest. She gasped, and groaned as her ribs expanded, shaking with the effort, but a painful breath did come, and then another, and she opened her eyes.

But nothing she saw made sense. A jumble of patchy green and brown and fluttering white, that was all. Her nose filled with the scent of apple blossom and bruised grass. And something else, warm and familiar. Her body was curved over something solid…something that moved, unless her shaken senses were mistaken. No, there it was again. The surface beneath her rose and fell gently, like a boat going over a swell.

Suddenly she recognized the smell and color in her line of vision: the rough homespun of Taran's jacket. He was flat on his back, lying beneath her on the ground, and the movement she felt was the rise of his ribs as he took a breath. He had…caught her, or at least he had broken her fall, and she…oh, gods, perhaps she had broken him.

"Taran?" she whispered, "…are you all right?"

He groaned a little in reply. "I'm…not sure yet."

A flood of relief at hearing his voice crested at the startling sensation of its vibration so near her ear, and Eilonwy stiffened as she took stock of herself —sprawled brazenly across his chest, facing him, her arms flung wide to either side, her cheek pressed against his left shoulder. His heartbeat thudded, strong and loud, at her chin. His arms were around her. The gentle weights that pressed between her shoulder blades, weighing her firmly against his chest, were his hands. Perhaps they'd landed there accidentally, upon impact. Or perhaps…

His ribs rose in another breath, buoying up her whole body, and she clawed into the grass, pushing herself up until she felt his arms slide away. Her own arms were weak from fright, trembling and unwilling to bear her weight. At best she could only put a few handbreadths of space between them before she had to pause. His hand gripped her wrist; perhaps he meant to steady her. Her hair had tumbled over his face in a tangled mess. She reached up shakily, caught its waves over her forearm and swept them aside, and there he was, looking up at her, as dazed and disoriented as she felt.

For a moment she stared at him, motionless, as though even to breathe might shatter both of them. Taran's eyes were wide, and bright with ambient sunlight; Eilonwy saw the shape of her own face reflected in them, as though there were a tiny version of her held captive in his irises. He let his breath out, finally, in a strained whisper. "You?"

She had already forgotten what she'd asked him, could not place the context of the returned question. "I…" she began, but could go no further. Her thoughts tumbled over like pebbles in a stream bed until she realized he was asking her if she were all right. Was she? She was not in great pain. But that wasn't exactly the same thing.

"I…" she tried again, trailing, "I…I'm…."

"You scared me," Taran interrupted, low, and somehow reverently. His face was serious, gaze intent, locking that tiny image of her inside, and for a moment she wondered wildly if she really existed there, instead of in her own physical body and its melting constellation of sensation.

Why hadn't he shouted the words, or gotten angry, admonished her and filled the air with told-you-so's? To that, she would have known how to respond. But this vulnerable admission was a novelty, a creature she did not know how to hold, for fear it would strangle in her hands, or turn and claw at her.

"If you say you told me so," she breathed, gazing steadily at him in defiance, "I will never speak to you again."

She watched his throat move as he swallowed, waited for him to take the bait, to snap back at her. He did not.

"I wasn't." His hand tightened at her wrist, but his eyes did not move. It occurred to her that he looked sad, somehow —stricken, as though he had lost something and only just realized it. A breath went by, and then another — hers, or his? She didn't know. She held the next, feeling that she might fly apart if he didn't say something.

"But I do wish," he murmured finally, "that you'd be more care—"

She muffled the rest, clapping her hand over his mouth, and smiled a little at the reassuring sense of restored normalcy. There it was—that resistance, that old, safe boundary. Taran's brows tightened just slightly, a sign of mild annoyance that was comfortably familiar, but he made no move to push her hand away.

"You just can't help it, can you?" she said, shaking her head, smugly triumphant at knowing him so well, at the solidity of her own defenses. "It's like an itch you've got to scratch."

Too late, she realized she had bent toward him, overly confident in her upper hand. Now his face was only inches away. Taran's eyes finally broke their steady lock upon hers, wandering instead over the rest of her face, lingering on her mouth. His chest rose and fell as he sighed, warm breath feathering her fingers. He let go of her wrist, and reached toward her cheek.

Her heart stuttered; she would have sworn it stood utterly still for a breathless moment. From the corner of her eye she saw his fingertips close on something entangled in her hair, felt a tug at her scalp as they slid down the length of one gleaming strand. The tension released, and she stared at a tiny apple bud nestled in his hand—a sprig of new life, torn from its place by her fall.

Something in its fragility, held fast in his gentle grip, caught her breath and held it hostage. She stared at the waxy sheen of its closed petals, and wanted, inexplicably, to cry. It would never bloom; she and her stubbornness had denied its right to summer, to warm rain, to the delicate dance of nectar-hungry bees, to ripening fruit.

What would he do with it? Toss it to the ground, most likely, which made perfect sense, and yet she couldn't bear the thought, and her mouth went dry as she searched for words that would implore him, nonsensically, to hold it safe. Taran gazed at her from above the muting wall of her hand. Apple petals drifted, bruised and scattered around them in layers of white ruffles like sea foam. They nestled in his hair, in the folds of his shirt; the sweetness of their fragrance made the air heavy. Too heavy to breathe. She couldn't…

"Mchamphbreef," he mumbled, behind her hand, startling her.

She hastily uncovered his mouth. "What was that?"

His face flushed, and his voice was strained. "I can't breathe."

"Oh!" she gasped, realizing how her weight must affect him, and pushed away in a desperate, clumsy scramble, falling back upon her heels in the grass. Her hands twisted into her disarrayed skirts while he sat up slowly and stretched his back. She wanted to ask again if he were all right, but her mouth felt glued shut. He rose and brushed himself off, and held his hand down to her; she hesitated, reached up, and let him pull her to her feet.

She swayed, dizzy from the fall and the fright and the…whatever this was, this thing that was still throbbing at her wrists and throat and melting away her insides. He reached out a hand at her back to steady her, and it stayed there, even after she was past danger of toppling over.

The silence stretched again, and she stared at their clasped hands, knowing that Taran did the same, sensing there was more he wanted to say, to do, waiting for him to do it. Why didn't he?

She swallowed and spoke. "Is there something else?"

His eyes met hers, then, feverish with something that seemed to pull her heart to her throat, instinctively she gripped his hand tighter as he opened his mouth to speak, hesitating —once, then twice, then…

He dropped her hand. "Dallben wants to see you," he said, in a tone from which each word had to fight its way out.

Eilonwy stared. The rapid rhythm of her heart stumbled over itself. Her spurned hand still hovered in midair. Taran looked away again, his features tight, almost as though he were angry.

"Oh," she whispered, a word pushed out before a flood of heat rose to her face. Humiliated, she dropped her hand, and muttered flatly, "Is that all."

The stricken, inexplicable grief in his eyes would have terrified her, had she not been so furious. Eilonwy turned on her heel to march to the cottage, leaving him standing beneath the tree, alone in that shower of ruined blossoms and broken limbs. She was halfway across the garden before she realized that he still clutched that single bud in his hand, held like a talisman over his heart.

Was it this that made her pause at the cottage door? Or the sense of foreboding that slid into her wrath, like a spreading drop of dye into a vat of water? She stood with her hand upon the latch, fighting for control of her own breath, of the sobs trying to rise to the surface of her aching chest. She should not go in to Dallben's chamber in such a state. But neither would he look kindly upon a delayed response to his summons. There was no time even to vent her feelings upon the fire, for Dallben would sense it if she used magic that way, and no doubt have questions she did not wish to answer.

Breathe. It's nothing, all nothing. You fell, but you're all right. Taran caught you because he happened to be there, that's all. How fortunate! Nothing to be so turned inside-out over. Nothing.

The cottage was quiet inside, empty of all sense of life, but Dallben must be there. She never did feel his presence as she felt the others; he was too good at shielding himself. She knocked at his door, heard his raspy "enter", stepped inside and shut it behind her, feigning neutrality.

"Taran said you wanted to see me."

He waved her to her usual spot on the bench with a grunt and she sat, and stared at the uneven edge of his worn table, trying to think of something other than the grip of Taran's hand at her wrist, the sense of his protective arms surrounding her and the steady, wistful ache in his eyes. What had that expression of his meant; why had…

"Princess," Dallben said, "I have news that will be difficult."

The gravity in his voice, missing its usual undercurrent of amused irony, arrested her thoughts at once. She snapped her gaze to his face; his pale eyes were thoughtful as always, but also sad and guarded, an expression she had rarely seen from him.

"First of all," he said gravely, "despite what you will be tempted to believe, hear me. You are very dear to me…to all of us here."

How could such a lovely sentiment sound so ominous? She twisted her skirts in hands suddenly gone cold.

"It is a rather strange circumstance," Dallben continued, "for a young lady to grow up in such company, but you have been happy here, I think. And so have we all. The years you have sojourned with us have been brighter and merrier for your presence, and while it is in my power, you will always have a home at Caer Dallben if you so choose."

She stared at him, heart pounding, through this mesh of words that seemed to be going somewhere, leading like a path to a door she felt was about to slam behind her. "I…I don't…"

"You have kin, as you may remember," Dallben went on, very gently, as one might speak to a wounded animal. "Distant relations of your mother's people. I contacted them shortly after you came to us, and discovered that, as had been guessed, no one knew anything about you. They wanted you to come at once, but I felt that it would do you good to live with us for a time. I believe it has. However…" He hesitated, as she began a slow shake of her head, but nevertheless continued relentlessly, "It is time you learned more of the world, and your place in it, than you can experience here."

"My place in it?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "This is my place in it. Here, right here! I want no other."

He maintained an even look that said he had expected just such a reaction. "Nevertheless, you were born to more," he said, "and though you may, in the end, choose the simplicity of this life, let it not be because you had no other choices. It is hard to understand now, I know—but all signs tell me this must be done."

"What signs? What must be done?" she demanded, voice rising in alarm. "You make it sound like I'm about to have my throat cut on an altar."

"You will journey to the land of your kindred," he said, with excruciating calm, "where the rulers of the isle of Mona are eager to welcome you into their household. They are good folk, and those with the strongest connection to the House of Llyr. There, you will have a chance to learn much more about who you are."

"But I already know who I am!"

"Ah," Dallben said. "Do you?"

She gripped the table edge and took a breath, but no words could push themselves past the choking tightness in her throat. The room tilted savagely around her. Dallben's face swam in a haze. His eyes were compassionate, empathetic, but he wouldn't stop talking, wouldn't stop saying these terrible, unfathomable things.

"This is no place," he said, "for you to learn to conduct yourself as befits one of your lineage. Despite the fall of your House and its domain, you do have some responsibility toward your heritage —even if it is only to choose wisely what of it to keep. That is wisdom I cannot give you, but I hope you may find it yourself near the land of your ancestors, and in the company of women who can guide you as I cannot. The Queen of Mona is no Daughter of Llyr, but their blood runs in her veins nonetheless, and she knows as much of your history as anyone living."

Was this intended to comfort her? "In the company of women!" she exploded. "In a royal house? I remember what that is—being dressed up like a doll and told that everything I most enjoyed was unladylike! Is that the wisdom I am to learn?"

The candle on Dallben's table sputtered to life of its own accord. He pinched off the flame, and held up a warning hand. "Gently. You must stay—"

"And there's that!" she interrupted. "Who will teach me how to control it? Who but you can show me…"

"You already have all I can give you," he said, laying his gnarled hand over hers. "The powers of Llyr are none that I can wield, for its mysteries were shared only from mother to daughter, woman to woman. I have allowed you space to learn, to be safe from your own mistakes and heal your mind and heart. Should you follow the path of your foremothers, your feet will be steadier than they would have been otherwise. But I cannot tell you how to follow it. If you are meant to do so, it will come to you."

"If it's meant to be, why must I go somewhere to find it?"

He sighed. "It is not just anywhere. Your connection to your homeland and heritage—what is left of it—is part of you and your magic. How much, and what it will mean for your future, I cannot say. But I believe it is crucial that you discover it."

"But now? Why now?" She scrubbed angrily at her eyes, at the hot tears that welled uncontrollably up, despising them; why must she always cry when angry, lose all control just when she most needed it?

"There are reasons," Dallben answered, "above all, your age and season of life. I am not privy to the rites and rituals of the Daughters of Llyr, of course, but I do know that you are at the cusp of a transition. Had you grown up in your designated role, there would be certain ceremonies. An awakening of power…a transferring of responsibilities. A dedication to your people's ways and all that they reverenced." His gaze strayed to her pendant, thoughtful. "Not that I say you must do any of these things. Only that the time is ripe for a turning point, in one direction or another, and there are choices you must make that will be better made independently of…" He hesitated a little, cleared his throat, and finished, "…of influences here."

Her lungs heaved on a voice-cracking breath. "When?"

"Not for a month, I think," he said. "Likely you will leave just on the brink of summer. I have sent my decision to Mona with Kaw, and you know what he is. Once he has delivered the word, it will take some time for them to arrange an emissary for you; Mona is typically a three-day journey by ship. I tell you now, to give you the chance to make peace with the idea. Believe me, dear one," he added gently, "your departure will give me no pleasure. We shall all miss you, and look forward to your eventual return, if you choose it."

"Eventual," she gasped. "What does that mean? How long must I stay away?"

"That depends on many things," he said, and ran his hand across the leather cover of the book before him. "I cannot say for certain, but you should prepare yourself for a few years at least."

Years! An eternity. She felt dizzy, almost sick. She knew well enough that when Dallben passed a decree, there was no use in making a scene. A quiet, well-reasoned response would be the sensible thing, now, proof that she was stable and trustworthy and didn't actually need any more training in secret mysteries or time in self-examination, was perfectly able to make good decisions from right here where she belonged…

The bench clattered as she sprang up. Magic flung itself into every corner, blasted his chamber door open, rattled the crockery on the shelves, banged shutters against their frames. The hearth fire roared and the water in the hearth-kettle went up in a cloud of steam as she stormed through the common room. At the doorstep she slammed blindly into Coll, come hurrying to investigate the commotion; he fell back before her with an alarmed oath. By the time he rallied to call after her she had fled, and his faint cry was drowned out by her own grief.

She ran through the garden, the orchard, the barley-field, soft with new planting…her feet knew these paths, and needed little help from her tear-blinded eyes; just as well. She did not want to look upon any of it, not when she was to be ripped away.

What good was it to love things, if you could not hold onto them? Perhaps she had loved her parents once, too, and her childhood home; perhaps she ought to be thankful not to remember them, if it felt like this…this tearing out of heart, this shattering of self.

At the edge of the woods she snagged her gown in the underbrush and went down, heard the ominous rip of her brand-new garments, came up with mud down her front, grass stains smeared over elbows and knees. This is no place for you to learn to conduct yourself as befits one of your lineage.

Blast my lineage! No doubt her ancestors never tripped in the mud or ripped their gowns or fell out of trees, or lost their tempers and burned things to the ground. If the Daughters of Llyr were too proper and royal to put their bare feet on the earth then she wanted nothing of them. She hadn't asked for such a heritage; her own mother had abandoned it. She had always been Eilonwy of Llyr in name only, and now that name would bar her from her only home.

She would gladly have been Eilonwy of Caer Dallben, forever, if anyone had bothered to ask. But no one had, and now she would be Eilonwy of nowhere.

Chapter Text

Eilonwy returned to the cottage late that evening, after supper was done and the table cleared, well after she knew Dallben would have retired. She did not want to see him. Not that she was angry with him—at least, no angrier than she was at everything else—but she dreaded any reference to her outburst at his news. Coll jumped up from his chair when she came through the door, and he made a move toward her, but she ran to her ladder without looking at anyone, without answering his gentle enquiries. She could not bear being questioned, embraced, comforted. She scrambled up the steps and jerked the loft curtain shut behind her, threw herself upon her straw pallet and buried her face in the bedclothes.

They all knew. The silence from below testified to that, but she had already guessed, had realized the truth the moment she recalled Taran's strange sadness beneath the apple tree. If there were any space in her to feel anything good, she might have been gratified by how sorry he was. As it was she could hardly bear to think of him at all.

She thought she'd done all the crying she could, out in the woods and fields. But the tears kept coming, endlessly, until she slept, and everything in her dreams tasted like salt.

The next day seemed the same as all others, unchanged on its surface, the sun rising, somehow, outrageously indifferent to human tragedy. She rose, ate, and did her chores as always, in the usual rhythms of springtime: young livestock to be tended, earth prepared and seeds planted, all things that looked forward, in hope and expectation.

That very looking forward hurt her. She turned away when Taran and Coll spoke of the harvest, and how the apples would ripen in late summer, or whether Lluagor's foal next year would be filly or colt—things she would not be there to witness. She snapped when Taran tried to speak with her. He kept trying, opening with optimistic phrases like once you've come back or it'll feel like no time. But his cheerfulness was hollow, and the stumbling attempts at solemnity that had previously made her heart flutter now only made her angry. Anger was uncomfortable but it hurt less than fear, and sadness, and confusion. It had always been her shield; now it was sword as well. Taran's patient, apologetic responses made her feel worse. It would be so much better if he'd give her reasons to snap.

But the days passed, and the sharpness of the first grief dulled to an ache, and then somehow they were all pretending that everything was fine, and not speaking of her departure at all, as though if it were not mentioned it would not come. Sometimes they pretended so hard that she forgot, for the briefest of moments, and caught herself laughing. Reality stalked her like a predator, waiting to eat her joy the moment it was birthed, leaving her empty again.

The rain fell, sun shone, and then it was late spring, and summer on the horizon. There were tiny green apples in the orchard, milk rich as cream, golden new honey, the first strawberries peeping green heads from their leaves. They moved the cookfire outside as the days grew long and warm. There was weeding and hoeing, weaving new willow fences, exercising the horses, cleaning and repairing tools and buildings, escaping to the spring in the woods for a swim, late in the afternoon before getting supper on, and she began to hope against hope that perhaps Kaw had forgotten his mission, or that her Mona kin had decided not to have her after all.

And then one clear evening as they sat at table, in through the open window swooped a black arrow, lighting upon the sill with a silken rustle of wings, and fixing them all with his glossy ink-drop of an eye. He laid down something he was carrying, straightened up, and announced, "Home," in a satisfied squawk.

Eilonwy sat back, staring, her heart dropping into her toes. Across from her, Taran had paused with a hunk of bread halfway to his mouth. Coll glanced at both of them uneasily before turning to the crow and holding out his arm.

"So you are, you rascal," he said, with forced cheerfulness, as Kaw flapped to his wrist. "And what have you to tell us?"

Kaw bobbed, cocked his head from one side to another, shifted his feet, and ruffled his neck feathers—delay tactics indicating an unusual reluctance to speak. Eilonwy held her breath.

"Mona," the crow croaked at last. "Ship. Coming." He hopped to the table, made a series of skips between the bowls and cutlery, and stopped in front of Eilonwy, bowing and flirting his tail. "Princess," he said. "Ready? Soon."

"How soon?" Dallben murmured.

Kaw looked at him sideways, in a manner that seemed rather petulant. "Tomorrow," he squawked.

Eilonwy breathed again. A quiet sound, like a small and forlorn sob, escaped from her lips before she could stop it, and fell into the silence. The crow flew back to the windowsill, retrieved the small object he had dropped there, and returned, placing it gently upon the table before her and then hopping back. She picked it up with trembling fingers: a chip of something smooth and slightly curved, dark on one side, the other a sheen of silvery, iridescent colors, rose and turquoise, lavender and gold. Somehow it seemed to sing when she touched it, glow with a vibration beyond the reach of her ears.

"What is it?" Taran asked, low and hoarse.

The muted colors ran together in a liquid haze, and she blinked it away. "It's a bit of ormer shell," she said. "I haven't seen ormer in…well…not since…actually, I can't remember." And yet she knew what it was —naming it without thought as she might have named a spoon or a nail or any other commonplace object. Kaw, with his crow's penchant for shining things, had brought her a treasure from the sea, and she had known it at once. Her thumb fit into its curve and pressed its cool surface. It was comforting, somehow—a tiny sliver of beauty to cling to, amidst this flood of numbing sadness.

"Well, well," said Dallben gently. "We knew the day would come. If there is anything in particular you want to take with you, now is the time to gather it up. Taran and Gurgi, make ready for the journey, and for a stay on Mona until you make passage back home."

"Taran and Gurgi," Eilonwy repeated blankly, looking at each of them in turn. Taran looked a bit embarrassed.

"Dallben said we could journey with you there," he explained, "and stay just until you're settled. He thought it might, erm…make it… make it easier for you."

She couldn't speak, felt as though words might push her heart over the edge of the precipice on which it tottered, and instead only nodded at him, in mute appreciation.

Coll waved her away as she stood and moved to collect his platter. "Don't, cariad."

She hovered uncertainly. "But it's my turn to wash up."

"'Twould be poor sport to spend your last hours here doing scullery work," he grunted. "Run out and enjoy the evening. I'll wash."

Eilonwy looked toward the door, where the golden rays of the westering sun lay upon the garden. The brightness of them was an insult, a mocking dismissal of her sadness. She felt slow and dull, and would have preferred to work, to distract herself with manual tasks until she was too exhausted to think. "I think I'd rather just go up to bed early," she murmured, and crossed to her ladder. Her limbs felt heavy, dragging up its steep-set steps.

When she had ascended and dropped her curtain behind her, she crossed to the window and sat, looking out at the gardens and the trees and the eastern sky turning dusky. For two years she had gazed upon this view, loved it as she had never loved any place, though there was nothing particularly wondrous about it. Trees and grass, rows of vegetables, stone walls and willow fences, that was all…yet her heart had woven so many threads of happiness within them that they made a tapestry as lovely as any hung in the halls of the High King.

Tears tracked her face and spotted the windowsill; gods, she was tired of crying, what good did it do? No amount of tears, pleading, or even dispassionate argument could change a decree from Dallben, once made, and it was too late now, anyhow, with a ship arriving. She could run away, but that would still mean leaving. No, the thing was happening, barring a miracle; she must go, and had been given no choice in the matter, as she had never in her life been given any choice about where she would live or what she would do, not really. The freedom she had enjoyed here was illusory, only extending as far as Dallben's good graces. Perhaps she ought to be grateful it had lasted as long as it had, but gratitude was out of her reach, just now, with anger and grief sparking at her fingertips and hot in her throat.

In a flutter of black wings, Kaw lit upon her sill and surveyed her quizzically. "Princess," he cackled, "present!"

A small, wry laugh twisted itself between her tears. "You mean this?" She held up the shard of ormer shell, still clutched between thumb and finger. "Thank you, it's lovely. And appropriate, too, I suppose. Though I don't know how you knew that."

He cocked his head and pecked at the bright shell. "From sea," he croaked, "far away!" The black beak pinched her fingertip affectionately. "Like princess."

She could not help smiling, though it was wistful. "If I am, I don't remember it, Kaw. And you can't miss what you don't remember." But she turned the shell thoughtfully in her fingers, conscious again of the thrill it gave her — a tiny, ephemeral thing, like touching the edge of a moonbeam, barely brushing against something just out of reach. The heat of her anger banked against curiosity as she smoothed her thumb over the muted colors. Would there be more of such things on Mona? Perhaps enough to follow this elusive trail of tugging, tempting sensation? It was an island, after all. Perhaps she would be near enough to the sea to get a glimpse of it…to smell it, to taste it on the air, to hear it…

A little wave of…something… rippled from her fingertips and swept her from head to foot, leaving sweetness in her mouth, warmth in her inmost being, and she caught her breath and tried to grasp it. It was already gone, but she reached semi-consciously for her pendant, and pressed the silver crescent between her fingers. It seemed to hum with the same inaudible chime as the ormer shell.

A compelling thing. Yet the last time she had followed such a compulsion it had turned out to be dangerous, to herself and to others. Magic was a double-edged sword in her hands. How would she manage it, without the safe haven of Dallben's protection, without the boundaries of his guidance? What was it he had said? Something about magic only other women could teach her. The only woman who had ever taught her magic was Achren, and it had never been anything good.

Kaw fluttered off into the dusk. Eilonwy sat and watched the night fall. A glowing round moon, ripe sister to the slender crescent at her throat, rose from the treetops—a beacon of light in a vast, endless darkness.

By midnight she slept, clutching the shell in her palm, and dreamed of dark waters, the gentle pull of tide, the rush and crash of breakers that breathed out her name.

Eilonwy. Come.

Her hand slipped into another, soft and warm. Someone held her close, sang of the rolling sea and safe harbor. She was cradled in an embrace, gentle and safe, rocked like a boat on the waves. It was lovely, and yet she wept as though her heart had shattered.

Eilonwy.

A shriek on the wind, a scream of desperation. Someone held her, still, but now the arms were like shackles, gripping her; there was a hand at her throat, over her mouth. She tried to scream, to answer the frantic call, only choking on her own breath.

Eilonwy. Eilonwy.

"Eilonwy!"

Her eyes flew open, her mind bare and exposed, jerked from sleep by the sound but still stupefied with terror, uncomprehending of what she saw and heard. Something touched her shoulder and she recoiled, lashing out at it with a gasping sob. Pale, mottled light and black shadows mixed confusedly in her vision.

"Eilonwy, wake up. It's just me, you're all right."

A face swam into view, but the shadows turned it unfamiliar and inhuman and she pushed away from it in horror, even as her mind struggled to make sense of the words from its mouth. Everything was moving too fast, too fast...

"Look, it's me. Shhhh. Here, take my hand."

Warmth and strength engulfed her palm. She fought it for an instant, pulling her hand away, but it was caught again and the voice went on. "It's all right. Just a dream. Come now, wake up, you're safe."

Taran's voice. In an instant she knew him, knew where she was; here, in her loft, the moonlight slanting through the half-open window, dust motes dancing in the beams. Taran knelt by her pallet. She toppled into his arms, shaking and senseless with panic. He stiffened in surprise, patting her back awkwardly as she sobbed into his shoulder.

"What was it this time?" he murmured.

"The sea," she gasped out—nonsensically, but they were the only words that would come. "The sea."

He said nothing. His stiff posture was softening, his arm tightening around her.

"I was there," she stuttered at last, between sobs, "and I was safe and happy, and then…then it turned into something else. Someone was calling, screaming for me, but I…I couldn't get to them. There were hands around my throat. I couldn't make a sound."

"Shhh." He was rocking now, back and forth, an instinctive movement as though he were cradling a newborn animal, breathing out the same gentle sound he made to calm Melynlas. The hypnotic rhythm of it overlaid the ragged surface of her mind, like a balm spread across roughened skin. Her breath slowed as she sank into it, her sobs fading into occasional hiccups, then stillness. She rested against him in a half-trance. The dream-images still drifted in her mind, awful, but without the venomous bite of terror.

"I'm sorry," he murmured at last. "I always hoped your being here would stop your nightmares."

She released a shuddering sigh. "If they didn't stop here, I think they never will. How shall I bear them on Mona?"

Without you? She did not say it aloud. Barely allowed it to herself. But the rhythm of his rocking hitched for just a moment, before continuing on, and she felt his arm tighten even further. "I'm sorry I woke you," she whispered, suddenly self-conscious. "Did I wake Coll, too?"

He let out an amused huff. "Nothing wakes him up. Not even his own snoring. Don't fret. I was awake already, just…thinking. I don't think I'd have heard you crying otherwise."

His voice shivered against her ear, low and quiet. His breath stirred her hair. The curve of his shoulder was firm beneath her cheek, the curl of his arm solid and strong. The frightening images from her nightmare were fading, muddled by other sensations, almost as terrifying in their way, full of incomprehensible yearning. Her heart seemed to beat oddly near her throat, so hard she was sure he would hear it.

The silence grew long and nerve-wracking; she thought of sitting up and pushing him away, but to do so would be to admit that it was a scandalous thing for him to be sitting here, by her bed, with his arms around her. So she sat still, and tried to breath slow, and wondered what to do with her hands. They lay awkwardly in her lap, when what she wanted was to lay one upon that patch of shirt in front of her nose, and find out if his chest beneath it were as warm as his shoulder, and whether she could feel his heart beating through it...

Taran shifted his weight, and instinctively she followed his motion, allowing him to settle her gently back upon her pallet. He straightened up and rested on his heels, looking down on her, his face limned with silver light from the moonbeams slanting through the loft. "All right, then?" he murmured, "Can you sleep, now, do you think?"

She tried to whisper that she could, but nothing came out, so she nodded, and wondered if he even noticed. He was not looking at her face; his gaze was pulled sideways, and she realized that the wide neckline of her nightshift had shifted askew, leaving her shoulder exposed. Her bare skin glowed like white marble in the corner of her vision. She dared not reach over to tug her sleeve back into place, dared not even acknowledge his transfixed eyes upon it. Watching him watching her, she wondered recklessly what he would do if she took his hand and pulled him down next to her. What it would feel like, to wrap herself in his warmth.

Taran looked away suddenly, as if an unseen force had dragged him to it. "I'd better get back to bed." It was a strained whisper. She could only nod again, but he did not look at her as he turned toward the loft ladder. She listened to it creak as he descended, to the muted shuffle of his bare feet upon the slate floor as he returned to the small chamber he shared with Coll, beneath the loft.

Eilonwy reached out and tapped quietly at the floorboard, that old code they had developed over the years to communicate without waking anyone. Two taps, pause, and two more. Good night.

Pause. Then - tapping from beneath, the same pattern. She pictured him, lying there upon his pallet, staring up at the ceiling as she now stared at the rafters.

It was, perhaps, overly optimistic to tap good night. At any rate, she did not sleep again, not haunted by nightmares, but hounded by notions whose novelty made them all the more difficult to set aside. Images of the young Rover couple and their sensuous delight in one another kept pushing themselves to the front of her mind. The temptation to put other faces on them tugged at her irresistibly; she ignored it with every ounce of will, but even the ignoring forced an acknowledgement of empathetic curiosity that made her throw off her blankets, sweltering with the heat of her own thoughts.

Eventually the reality of what awaited her in the morning clouded its way into her mind, cooling it. Taran, all these strange feelings…what did any of it matter, when she was leaving, and wouldn't see him again for years? The ache in her chest was like a swelling wound, throbbing larger every time she thought of parting from him, until she felt it would burst her open, leave her heart to bleed out. Perhaps it would be easier to be away from him. Indeed, perhaps his accompanying her to Mona was only prolonging the pain of the inevitable; a clean break might have been better than this fracturing by degrees. But the thought of riding away from Caer Dallben while he watched from the doorway or the barnyard was a thing too painful to be borne, a clenching fist at her throat that made it difficult to breathe. Had she ever told him what he meant to her? Even told him how she would miss him? No, she had spent the last weeks snapping at him any time he tried to be sentimental. For all he knew she was glad to be leaving. Oh, why did such torments only come upon her in the wee hours of the night? She could bear anything in the daytime, with its bustle and busyness and sunlight. But now there was nothing to distract her.

Shortly after her arrival there, Dallben had discovered that she could read and write. Pleased, he had supplied her with parchment, and told her to write down her thoughts when they seemed overwhelming. She'd been dubious, but had found it surprisingly helpful. Now she rose, lit her bauble, and knelt at the wooden chest she used as a desk for the purpose. She scribbled feverishly for some time, blushing at the first three scraps she produced and reducing them to ashes with a snap of her fingers, before looking with satisfaction upon the last, folding it, and setting it carefully in the bottom of the chest. There. Even if no one ever saw it, a bit of her would remain here, where she belonged.

She dimmed her bauble and saw that there was still light in the room—a glimpse at the window revealed the torturous day breaking upon the horizon. Slowly and mechanically she set her bed in order and wrapped her few belongings in a bundle: her Rover ribbons and bells and scarf, the silver dagger, extra shift, shoes, stockings, brush, comb, and hair thongs. The little copper mirror showed her a pale face and dark-ringed eyes before she wrapped it away. Her bauble slid into a pocket of her cloak, followed by the sliver of ormer shell. She descended the ladder without looking back.

Breakfast was swift and simple, and then Taran and Coll were heading to the stables to saddle the horses while Eilonwy packed up the leavings to take with them. Conscious of the surreptitious glances everyone kept casting at her all morning, she affected a brisk and desperate cheerfulness that made itself the only alternative to bursting into tears.

Dallben was waiting for her on the doorstep, looking careworn, as she stepped outside. She had looked up at him when she had come two years before; now she wondered if she had really grown so much, or if it was the fragile bend of his back that had lowered him until they stood eye-to-eye.

He took her hand and patted it. "I meant all I said. You shall always have a place in Caer Dallben, and a larger one in my heart. But alas, raising a young lady is a mystery beyond even an enchanter's skill. I have had enough difficulty raising an assistant pig-keeper."

He glanced wryly at the approaching horses, and Taran leading them. She saw the quick flash of unguarded affection in his lined, ancient face, and it was this that crumbled her resentment. She threw her arms around him and hugged his frail middle, so fiercely that he grunted uncomfortably, but he patted her back and did not put her off.

"Yes, yes," Dallben rasped. "I wish you fair voyage to the Isle of Mona. King Rhuddlum and Queen Teleria are kindly and gracious, eager to stand in your family's stead and serve as your protectors. From Queen Teleria you shall learn how a princess of Llyr should behave."

"I don't care about being a princess," she growled, into his bristly ear. "And I'm already a young lady, raised or no. How else should I behave? It's like asking a fish to learn to swim."

His ribs jerked in a chuckle, and she released him, stepping back. "I have never seen a fish," he chided, "with skinned knees, torn robe, and unshod feet. They would ill become him, as they ill become you."

She huffed at this, and he shook his head, dropping the jest and growing somber. "But there, such trappings are not what I meant." He laid his hand on her shoulder. "Child, child, do you not see? For each of us comes a time when we must be more than what we are."

She did not see, but his watery grey eyes pierced her heart with their gaze, and she wondered what that time had been for him, and what it had entailed, for him to be so certain of its universality. How could anyone be more than they were?

Taran had come to stand near them. Dallben turned to him with a return of his usual severity. "Watch over her carefully," he commanded. "I have certain…misgivings about letting you and Gurgi go with her, but…if it will ease your parting…" He took a deep breath, as though reassuring himself of his own wisdom. "So be it."

"Don't worry." Taran stood straight, in the posture he always adopted when he wanted to assure Dallben of his competence—succeeding, as usual, mostly in giving the impression that he was trying too hard. "The princess Eilonwy shall go safely to Mona."

He glanced at her swiftly, his eyes uncommonly dark, and she swallowed her irritation with a gulp. In that one look, all the strange emotions of that stolen moment in the night came flooding back, mingled now with the pain of imminent loss. His gaze held hers, even over Dallben's shoulder, as the old man embraced him. "And you return safely," Dallben murmured. "My heart will not be at ease until you do."

He straightened up, looked at both of them and said, "Well, then." And disappeared into the house, shutting the door. Eilonwy stared blankly at the faded wood, feeling dizzy. Movement caught her eye; Taran's hand, held out to her.

"Come," he said gently. "We must be off."

Numbly she followed him to Lluagor, where he steadied the stirrup and handed up the reins as she scrambled onto the mare's back, courtesies he rarely extended her. Gurgi, mounted on his shaggy pony, watched mournfully. Coll, also waiting on horseback, whistled tunelessly through his teeth as Taran, Kaw on his shoulder, swung astride Melynlas and clucked a command.

And thus they rode from Caer Dallben. Eilonwy, tempted to glance behind, instead thrust her hand into her cloak pocket and pinched the ormer shell in a trembling grip. She had no will to endure the brisk trot set by Melynlas, and let Lluagor lag behind in a steady walk as Taran and Coll forged ahead into the hills.

They rode long, into bright mid morning, and then midday. The voices of her companions drifted back to her in low, indistinguishable murmurs, blending into the quiet sounds of the landscape: the swish of the breeze in tall grass, the burble of a nearby brook, the twittering of birds in the furze. Eilonwy thought of quietly wandering off into the hills before anyone noticed, or sliding from Lluagor's back and lying down in the grass and refusing to budge, no matter what threats were offered. Silly…she knew quite well she would do nothing of the kind. Yet there was an odd comfort in imagining it, in thinking of Dallben's face when he was told she had run away, in the idea of Taran sent searching for her, in the fantasy of convincing him to come with her instead of dragging her back.

Not that he seemed terribly keen to stay with her at present! Riding ahead as though he couldn't wait to reach the river, with barely a glance backward to see how she was getting on. What could he need to tell Coll that was so urgent it could not wait until his journey home? Meanwhile he would not see her for years, and might have made use of this time to keep her company, especially after such moments as they had shared. He had not even asked her how she'd slept, whether she was all right; he had made no mention of the previous night at all, in fact. Of course they'd had no chance to converse privately…until now. Yet here she was, riding at the rear, alone. Obviously it had all meant nothing to him. Ludicrous, clueless assistant pig-keeper! Let him do as he pleased, then. She didn't mind…or rather, she could make herself not mind, and set about doing just that, sitting up straight, tossing her hair back and clucking to Lluagor until the mare broke into a trot, catching up with Taran and Coll just as they rounded the edge of a ridge.

There, she reined up with a sudden sharp gasp. Before them, at the bottom of a long slope, broke the view of the Avren, lying like a blue and glistening snake in the hollows of the land, one wide curve forming a serene, hill-ringed harbor. Small, grey cottages dotted the land near the water's edge. A long, slender craft bobbed in the shallows, its square white sail filling with the same breeze that had arrested Eilonwy the moment it had hit her face.

Sea air.

She shut her eyes and inhaled, deep and long and ravenously. Oh, that smell! Barring the distant briny tang on the wind at the Marshes of Morva, she had not breathed sea air in all her living memory…yet she knew it at once as she knew her own name, and the taste of it stretched back past memory, filling the spaces in her mind that should not have been empty, but were. It burned in her lungs, sizzled into her limbs until she tingled from head to foot. Tears of wonder sprang to her eyes.

"Oh," she exclaimed aloud, enraptured. "I can smell the sea, can't you? Look at the water shining! And the ship! Oh, isn't it beautiful!"

Taran and Coll, though not quite as transported as she, had both brightened at the view, throwing their heads up into the wind and sniffing appreciatively. Gurgi waved his woolly arms and whooped. "Yes, oh yes! Bold, valiant Gurgi is glad to follow kindly master and noble Princess with boatings and floatings!"

Kaw cackled in delight, and then they were flowing down the slope like water itself, the horses cantering into the wind with their heads up as though even their blood was quickened by it. Eilonwy leaned back, reveling in the air drifting over her face, lifting her hair, filling every fold of gown and cloak; perhaps she could hold onto it, could soak it in until she herself smelled like sea. When they reached the riverbank she was breathless and windblown and oddly exhilarated, the sadness of their errand blown away, for the moment, by that magic upon the wind.

The ship's crew, seeing their approach, had run a plank from the vessel to the bank, and as they dismounted a single figure clambered onto it and strode toward them. After only a few steps, however, this stranger tripped and toppled with a yelp, hitting the water with a clumsy splash. Taran and Coll rushed forward, but the water was shallow, and the unfortunate figure was already picking himself up with a good-natured laugh, and sloshing toward them. He waved cheerfully as he came, calling out, "Hullo, hullo! Is that Princess Eilonwy I see? Of course, it must be!"

Taran turned to glance back at her with bewildered disbelief, and she shrugged at him, suppressing a giggle. The stranger paused while still ankle-deep in the river, swept a very low and grand bow, and straightened up. He was a youth around Taran's age, garbed in very fine raiment, now sopping wet. But he appeared unconcerned with his sodden state, taking a deep breath and announcing, in the manner of one who had practiced in earnest, "On behalf of Rhuddlum Son of Rhudd and Teleria Daughter of Tannwen, King and Queen of the Isle of Mona, greetings to the Princess Eilonwy of the Royal House of Llyr, and to—well—to all the rest of you." He paused, and blinked a pair of pale blue eyes, adding thoughtfully, "I should have asked your names before I started."

A laugh burst through Eilonwy's clenched teeth and she forced it down with a gulp and a hiccup. Llyr, if she had to make introductions now she'd absolutely howl. Hurriedly she motioned to Taran, who nodded at her somewhat shortly, clearly put off by the odd behavior of this emissary. "You guess rightly, friend," he said. "This is the Princess Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad, and these others are Coll son of Collfrewr, and Gurgi of the forest. I am Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper of Caer Dallb—"

"Oh yes, splendid!" the other boy interrupted, sloshing forward to grasp Taran's hand and give it a quick, hearty shake. "You must all introduce yourselves again later, one at a time. Otherwise, I might forget…oh! I see the shipmaster's waving at us." He waved back at the ship, where a handful of men were gathered at the railing to watch the encounter. "Something to do with the tides, no doubt," he murmured to them sidelong, as though imparting a great and important secret. "He's always very concerned with them. This is the first time I've commanded a voyage. Amazing how easy it is. All you have to do is tell the sailors—"

"But who are you?" Taran burst out, it being obvious he was not going to get a word in otherwise.

The boy halted his chatter, looking surprised and a little silly, his wheat-straw hair still streaming river water into his eyes. "Oh," he said, pushing it back, with a smile. "Did I forget to mention that? I'm Prince Rhun."

Chapter Text

“Prince Rhun?”

It came out like an invective. Taran could hardly have made his dismayed disbelief more evident. Eilonwy frowned at him for such rudeness, but Rhun seemed unperturbed. “Quite so,” he said, beaming. “King Rhuddlum is my father, and of course, Queen Teleria is my mother.” 

He was round-faced, with red cheeks, a wide, pleasant smile, and pale, high brows that made him look perpetually surprised. Not quite as tall as Taran, slightly stockier, he was not exactly an imposing personage, but his face was cheerful and open, and somehow made Eilonwy feel a little less stiff and lonely. Rhun inclined his head toward her politely. “Shall we go aboard? I should hate to upset the shipmaster. He does worry about those tides.”

Aboard. Aboard the ship that was taking her away. Eilonwy caught her breath, staring at its curved wooden sides and its lashed sails, her heart rising up to her throat, ready to choke her again. Coll’s strong hands enfolded her shoulders, and she whirled to face him, flinging her arms around his neck with a sob. 

“Ach, now,” he clucked, patting her back. “‘Tisn’t forever, cariad. When we meet again I doubt we shall recognize you. You shall be a fine princess.”

A horrifying thought. “I want to be recognized,” she said fiercely. “I want to be me.”

He held her at arm’s length and looked her in the face, his eyes suspiciously shining. “Never fear,” he said gruffly, and winked, chucking her chin one last time before turning to Taran. “And you, my boy, farewell. When you return, send Kaw ahead to tell me, and I shall meet you here again.”

“Oh!” Rhun exclaimed, turning to Taran, “are you coming as well? I thought it was only the princess.”

“I am,” Taran said shortly, “and Gurgi. Dallben asked us to ensure her safe arrival on Mona.”

Rhun looked puzzled. “Well, if that’s all, I can assure you she’ll be quite safe with…”

“Nevertheless,” Taran broke in, “we shall accompany her.”

He was fuming—irrationally, inexplicably angry; he made no obvious sign, but Eilonwy could see it in his bearing, knew it by the clipped tightness of his voice. Ridiculous boy! No one had forbidden him to come, but he would be cross about it anyhow! And here stood the both of them, talking about her as though she were luxury goods about to be loaded and exported, with nothing of her own to say about the arrangement.

“Taran and Gurgi are my friends,” she said aloud, rather coolly. “Dallben granted them permission to keep me company on the journey. I should very much like to have them along, if it’s all the same to you.”

Rhun’s bewilderment evaporated into another guileless smile. “Oh, certainly! The more the merrier, of course. I only thought it might be an inconvenience, but if it isn’t…off we go, then!”

He held his arm out to her, in a manner no one had shown her since she’d last seen Fflewddur. Really, it was rather nice to see courtly manners now and then! She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow with a smile, conscious of Taran’s simmering as he fell into step behind them. 

“Watch your footing, now,” Rhun murmured, as he guided her to the plank. “As you might have noticed, it’s a bit dodgy! Forgive me for dripping all over.” He did his best to hold his sodden cloak away from her as they made their way up, a gallant gesture that threw him further off-balance. She looked down at her own dark reflection on the rippling surface of the water below them, wobbling along, and almost laughed. It would have been safer, probably, to walk herself across, but somehow they made it to the ship without mishap. Taran and Gurgi scrambled after.

Rhun led them to the center of the deck, where the man he had identified as shipmaster  conferred with several of his crew. “Master Owain,” he said importantly, “I present the Princess Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad of Llyr, and…and, er…her companions.” He motioned to Taran and Gurgi. “Blast! I’ve already forgotten. Please introduce yourselves.”

The shipmaster was a tall man, swarthy and bearded, with dark eyes that looked upon her with wonder. He took her hand and bowed over it, speaking in a voice rough but rich, like gold-flecked gravel. “A great honor it is, milady, to have y’aboard. The blessing of a Daughter of Llyr on my ship is a thing I never dared to dream of. All has been done to ensure your comfort.” 

“Thank you, sir.” She blushed, flustered by so much formality. The blessing of a Daughter of Llyr? Would she be expected to wave smoldering herbs and say significant things? Hastily she introduced Taran and Gurgi by name. 

The man seemed puzzled about what to make of Gurgi, but he brightened as he shook Taran’s hand. “A good strong grip! You’re a hearty-looking boy. Ever thought of joining a crew? Going to sea? If you’ve an appetite for adventure, there’s none better.” 

Taran flushed a bit, and his eyes shone. “It hadn’t occurred to me, sir, and I’m needed at home. But I shall be glad to learn what I can on this voyage.”

“Good lad!” Owain clapped him on the back. “We’ll give you a taste for salt, and have you halfway to a seaman before we’re done. Keep a sharp lookout as we get underway, and you’ll begin to see the way of things if you’re a quick one. Now, Lady, if you’ll permit me—have a set here, midship near the cabin. There’ll be a lot of hullabaloo, and here you’ll be safe from anyone stumbling over you.” 

He motioned them to a crate beside a square, platform-topped structure like a shed, and then hurried off into the general hubbub of preparing to cast off, shouting orders. Oarsmen took their places at benches along the sides. Sailors scrambled over the deck. Ropes hissed and flew like living things. The deck suddenly swayed underfoot and Eilonwy grabbed at the wall of the shed for support, startled.

With a communal shout, answering the chant of their leader, the oarsmen plied themselves to their task, and the boat moved swiftly away from the riverbank. Coll ran along the waterline, waving his cap. Eilonwy thought she heard him calling, but the chanting of the men, the creak of the boat, the splashing of the water all drowned him out. She raised her hand to him, waving wildly, and he disappeared as they rounded a bend of land. How swiftly they were moving! Faster than galloping horses, as fast as flying, perhaps.

Tears stung her eyes, but she turned to the wind, now flowing strong as the boat sped forward. Rhun, standing near the front of the ship, waved to them, beckoning. “I suppose we can leave this spot, now,” Taran said. “Everything seems to be going smoothly.” 

Eilonwy rose, and had moved three steps when the swaying deck met her foot before she was quite ready. She stumbled, disoriented. Llyr, the floor was never where you expected it to be! There was a thump beside her, and she realized Taran, following her closely, was experiencing similar difficulties. He stood with his feet wide, knees bent, his face clenched in anxious concentration. Beside him, Gurgi was bent on all fours, his arms splayed to steady his balance.

Eilonwy could not help laughing. “You look like you’re trying to step over the whole river in one go.”

Taran scowled, and then paled as the deck pitched. “I didn’t know it would feel like this! And we’re not even out in the swells, yet. How do they manage?” He glanced up at the men as they  bustled about the deck, unconcerned with its constant motion. 

“I suppose one gets used to it,” Eilonwy murmured, and took another experimental step. With some difficulty she made her way, pausing when the sway threatened her balance, looking ahead for support. The Avren was wide, here, but fingers of land still looped ahead of them, greyed out in the distance. How far off was it, the ocean blowing its breath to her, pulling her along on its current? When would she see it at last? 

“Hullo, hullo!” Rhun’s cheerful voice rose above the wind as they joined him. “Splendid, isn’t it!” he exclaimed. “I do like to stand in the bow, myself, looking out ahead. When you’re out on the open sea with the wind in your face, it feels just like flying.”

“The bow?” Eilonwy said, puzzled. 

Rhun’s face brightened even further. “Quite so. Have you never been on a ship? The front, here, is the bow, and that thing sticking out is the bowsprit. Back there is the stern, and that little shed-looking thing is the cabin, where you’ll sleep…” He took her arm again and eagerly set off across the deck, rattling off a litany of ship anatomy as Kaw might show off a collection of shining debris—though with none of Kaw’s cockiness, she noted. The prince was all eager enthusiasm and wonder, like a child immersed in a new and exciting environment.

Leaning on Rhun’s arm, Eilonwy managed not to stagger quite so much, but Taran, who stuck to them like a shadow, moved like someone drunk. He stumbled and swayed, at one point jostling into her and upsetting all their balance. Rhun, interrupted in his chatter, let go of her arm to steady him. “Easy, there! It takes time to get your sea legs. Try bending your knees a bit, and look out at something fixed on the riverbank.” He laughed, not unkindly. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it in a day or so. By the time we get home, it’ll feel odd to walk on land! Always takes me a bit to adjust. That’s why I fell off the plank, back there. Oh, that reminds me—I should go change out of my wet things. Make yourselves comfortable; I’ll be back directly!” He scrambled away, leaving them stranded in the middle of the deck. 

Gurgi moaned. “Poor Gurgi’s tender head is spinning from all this dashing and splashing! He does not like sailing. The good, safe earth does not move with such heavings beneath Gurgi’s feet!”

“Oh, but you’ve lived in trees!” Eilonwy exclaimed, kneeling beside the forlorn creature as he clung to the deck. “Think of how the branches move in the wind, yet you haven’t any trouble climbing through them. This is new, that’s all.”

“That’s right,” Taran added, distracted from his ire for a moment. “Come, stand up; it’ll take some time for all of us, but you’ll probably get it before we do.” He reached a hand down and Gurgi took it, and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. “There, now. Take a few steps and pretend you’re up in your favorite tree. You’ll be used to it in no time.”

Gurgi wobbled forward cautiously, testing each step, and Eilonwy caught Taran’s eye. He offered her a somewhat sheepish smile, and she felt, despite the bob and sway of the ship, that they were once more on even footing. He was always at his best when he was helping—when concern for someone else’s troubles distracted him from his own. Perhaps we’re all that way, really, she thought. He just… shows it more.

“Does it really feel like this?” he asked her quietly. 

“Does what?”

“Being in a tree.” He nodded at Gurgi. “Does it sway like a ship?” 

The significance of the topic made her face warm, and she cleared her throat, and answered tartly, “If you’d ever bothered to join me in one, you’d know the answer to that.”

“It’s a good thing I wasn’t—” he began, and she cut him off in haste. 

“It’s not just like. If a limb I were on moved this much, I should think it could only be in a gale, and I’d be daft to be up a tree in a storm. But…” She shut her eyes for a moment, to better take in the sinuous movement of the boat over the water. It rose…fell again…slid to one side…then to the other. The sound of the water rushing by was a low, hissing murmur. She imagined sitting in the apple tree, pressed against its trunk as it rocked back and forth in a summer wind, the leaves whispering around her. It had startled her, the first time she had encountered it, made her dizzy until she had learned to relax into the movement…like now, as she let her weight settle into her legs, felt the shift in her ankles and knees and hips as the next wave rolled underfoot. “It is like enough,” she breathed at last. “Like enough.” 

She opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her…watching her with that look again, the one that pushed her pulse to her throat and made her breath catch. He looked on the verge of speaking, and she took an involuntary step back, just as…

“Hullo, hullo!”

Taran’s face, as his gaze shifted over her shoulder, turned instantly to a stiff mask of frustration. Eilonwy turned, pulled between a strange mix of relief and reluctance, as Rhun came bounding up, arrayed in dry clothes, his damp hair combed back. “Now, then!” he said cheerily, “where was I? Oh, I should show you the cabin so you know where your belongings were stored. Although…” He looked around, suddenly puzzled. “Oh, dear. Did we leave your things behind? I don’t recall—”

“No, it’s all right,” Eilonwy assured him. “I haven’t got much—just this.” She indicated the pouch slung from her shoulder. 

“That’s all?” he exclaimed. “Oh, my. I suppose I thought…well, the ladies of my acquaintance always seem to have such piles of spare clothing and jewelry and such. I thought you’d need much more space.”

“We don’t have much call for such things at Caer Dallben,” Eilonwy explained, amused. Taran was growing red around the ears. Why did simple statements of fact make him so upset? 

Rhun beamed. “Well that’s all the simpler then, isn’t it!” Nothing seemed to discomfit him for very long. He called for a sailor, who took her pack and moved off with it toward the cabin. Just then, a commotion near the bow drew their attention. Several of the oarsmen, released from duty now that they were under sail, had gathered there, pointing down at the water, smiling and laughing at what they saw. “Come!” Rhun said, and propelled her forward, Taran and Gurgi on their heels. 

The men parted to let them through as they came near, and Rhun hooted excitedly as he leaned over the bulwark to see what they had been observing. “What luck. Look, dolphins!”

Eilonwy peered over the curved side of the boat, to where the wooden side met the water and skimmed along like a knife cutting through butter. Near it, grey shapes were emerging and disappearing at the surface. They were slick and shining and swift, moving almost too fast to get a proper sense of their shape. As she watched, one of them suddenly launched itself all the way out of the water.  A long tapered body, set with fins like wings, arced over its mates and dove back in a single, effortless move. 

“Oh!” Eilonwy exclaimed, as the creature soared past them. “It was smiling!” She craned over the bulwark for a better look at the rest. “Look at them! They’re all smiling!”

“Not just that,” Taran said, in wonder. “They’re laughing! Listen.”

She fell silent, straining to hear. Over the splashing and the wind she heard them —a series of chirps, chitters, and clicks that did sound remarkably like laughing. She joined them in it, her spirit suddenly lifting. “Aren’t they lovely! Oh, I never saw anything so delightful.”

“Yes, yes!” Gurgi cried, gripping the railing. “What leapings of joy! What dashing and splashing! If Gurgi could swim like these fishes, he would never leave the water!”

The dolphins cavorted as though they knew they had an audience, racing alongside the prow, now nose-to-nose, now darting ahead of it, then falling back, taunting and teasing the great wooden beast in their domain. They leapt and soared as though they might transform to birds at any moment and leave the river altogether. Some turned in the air full circle, spiraling back into the water, scattering diamond-sparkling mist into the sunlight. 

There could be no such thing as sorrow when watching them; they were creatures made of play and joy. Eilonwy forgot everything but the delight of watching them. Her companions joined her in shouted choruses of laughter, exclaiming over each new exhibition of exuberance. Rhun, as enthusiastic as the rest of them, leaned so far over the bulwark that he seemed about to tumble out of the boat. His jeweled sword hilt caught itself on the railing and upended. The blade slipped from the scabbard, and would have slid right into the river, but Taran, next to him, noticed in the nick of time. With a shout of alarm, he jerked forward and snatched the handle, nearly toppling over the bulwark himself in the process; Gurgi seized him and hauled backwards, and he stumbled and fell, but he and the sword somehow landed safely on the deck.

Rhun turned to him, blue eyes wide. “I say, that was quick thinking! Many thanks.” He took the blade again as Taran held it out, returning it to his scabbard. “Mam and Tad would have never let me hear the end of losing this.” 

Taran was straightening himself up, his brows knit together, his mirth muddled by annoyance. Eilonwy offered him a sympathetic half-smile over Rhun’s shoulder, guessing at his thoughts. Poor Rhun! Prince he might be, but…well…

She peered over the edge again. The dolphins had apparently tired of the game; she saw the flashing of fins and tails as they moved off, and sighed regretfully. 

“They’re going after a school of fish, most likely,” Rhun declared. “We ought to try to catch some! Ever had fresh fish for your dinner?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “We’ve often caught trout from—” But he had already scrambled away, heading toward the stern, and gestured to them to follow. She and Taran exchanged glances—amused on her part, exasperated on his—and strolled after. 

Presently Rhun saw that they were all outfitted with fishing gear and stationed at various points of the ship. Eilonwy perched at the stern, near the tiller, and let her line trail in the water, uninvested in the results. She cared little for fishing, but it was something of a relief simply to be alone with her thoughts for a moment. 

The river melted away behind them in an ever-widening blue trail, the land at its banks slowly lowering from rolling hills into gently undulating plain, green with marsh grass. How far must they be from Avren harbor already? Every minute took her further from Caer Dallben, the distance stretching like strained cloth. If you stretch cloth far enough, she thought, it rips, and you can never bind it back quite the same way again.

It was no use thinking such things; it only brought that painful tightness to her throat. She turned her mind deliberately elsewhere. 

Dallben had said nothing of King Rhuddlum’s and Queen Teleria’s having a son. Perhaps he hadn’t known. At any rate, she was mildly glad that there would be someone there near her own age. Rhun might not be brilliant in terms of conversation, but he was cheerful and courteous, and if his unflagging eagerness was somewhat exhausting, at least it wasn’t depressing. He could, possibly, turn out to be a decent companion, in a place she had had little hope of finding any.

Of course she might not be allowed to make anything like a companion of him. Perhaps he had been sent only to ferry her to the island, and once she reached Mona she’d be cloistered away with a flock of girls with nothing amusing to do. She groaned softly to herself at the thought, morosely leaning her chin on her forearms, and watched the water churn in their wake, a fluid swirl that seemed to catch her mind upon its current, turning it upon itself in an endless round of uncertainty. 

Eventually a shout from Rhun drew all their attention. She turned in time to see him haul a very large fish onto the deck, where it flopped in vain. The prince picked it up, wrestling to constrain it. 

Taran had joined her at the commotion; he had caught several fish himself, stowing them without fanfare in the barrel they’d been given for the purpose. Rhun came running up to them, his face flushed scarlet. “Look at this cod!” he crowed. “What a monster! Have you ever seen such a trophy! I’ve got to bring it all the way home; my parents will be so pleased!” He shoved the squirming thing at Taran. “Just feel how heavy it is! The biggest I’ve ever caught. You all are good luck, that’s what you are!” 

Taran, who had thrown his arms out automatically, clutched the writhing fish to his chest, his face fixed in a valiant, rather frozen smile. “Yes,” he choked out. “It’s quite impressive.” 

Eilonwy had to hold her breath. Taran’s being subjected to such thoughtless indignity irritated her on his behalf…and yet his obvious outrage over it was such an overreaction that she wanted to laugh. It was too clear that Rhun meant no ill. He was as simple as a child, that was all, innocently expecting everyone to be as amazed by everything as he was, lacking any notion of self-awareness. You couldn’t be angry with someone like that…not really, not with any sense of fairness. 

“I must find an empty barrel large enough for it,” Rhun gasped, and was off again, shouting for a crewman. Taran looked ready to drop the cod unceremoniously onto the deck, along with a few choice words.

“You don’t have to—” Eilonwy began, and stopped. The fishing line tumbled from her hands, forgotten.

Come.

She turned her face into the flowing wind. The air had changed. Salty, biting, it nipped her nose anew, parted her lips and filled her mouth and pushed into her lungs like something that wanted to possess her. A new sound had risen above the general ambience of air and voices and commotion: a low rumble like distant thunder, incessant, compelling. It whispered again into her mind: come. 

The tiny hairs rose on her arms, on the back of her neck; sensations prickled over her as though threads of magic had encircled her unaware and were now drawing tight, tight, burrowing into her skin and her blood and her bones, as her very essence allowed and welcomed what her mind still wanted to hold at arm’s length to examine. She trembled and swayed, and suddenly Taran’s face was interrupting her line of vision, and saying her name, with the concern of someone who had said a thing several times already without a response. 

He had deposited the fish somewhere, and reached out to her cautiously. “Eilonwy, what is it? Are you all right?” His voice seemed to come from far away, barely reaching through the roaring in her ears. 

“I must…” she gasped, and interrupted herself to inhale again, deep and ecstatic. She turned as though by a outside force, one that pulled her toward the bow, toward the sky that rose above it in a vast blue haze, curving down, down, until it reached a dark line that stretched, endless, across the horizon. 

There it was. The river had brought them to the open sea.

She did not know that she ran across the swaying deck, and that only the bulwark stopped her from tumbling straight out into that endless swale of blue. She leaned over the bow, hands reaching out for the crash of spray as the prow cut into the surf. The vibration of it rose through her feet and all through her, its thunder shaking the loose chinks in that stone wall between mind and memory, until she wept, salty tears blowing from her eyes and melting into a kindred wind.

Somehow she remembered this. This! How could one ever forget so much water? So much sky. That infinite indigo stretch moved on and on to the edge of the world. Over and over, the white frills upon the swells rose and fell, weaving in and out of themselves like the embroidered trim on a fine cloak, or like court dancers, moving in a ceremonial welcome, upon the return of their queen. 

She knew not how long she stood there, wrapped in recognition. Only that when she turned, at last, remembering herself a little, that the land was already a grey mass in the distance to their right, glimpsed in the gap beneath a billowing white sail, and that between her and that glimpse stood Taran, well back on the deck, watching her. He looked forlorn, somehow, and far away; his face was wide-eyed and awed, almost fearful, as though in that moment she had become someone else, someone he did not recognize, and he did not know how to call her back.

She called to him instead, held her hand out, motioning him up to stand next to her. “Oh, Taran, come! Come and look out at this!”

He answered the invitation, looking relieved but still bewildered, and when he was beside her he looked not at the vast view but studied her face. “You’re crying,” he murmured, and reached up to brush a salt droplet from her cheek. “Why?”

“Am I?” She reached up in surprise, touched her own face to affirm it. “I don’t know. I suppose I…it’s like…oh,” she sighed, “it’s like nothing else I can think of. There aren’t words for it. Only, just…like I’ve heard something calling all my life, and never knew where it came from ‘til now."

His gaze on her was troubled, but he broke it at last to take in the great blue gulf before them. “It is marvelous,” he said. “But I thought you’d been to the sea before, when you were little. You spoke of the white horses of Llyr that night in the mountains, the first time Fflewddur played for us.”

She shut her eyes, recalling it. “I know. But that was like remembering a dream, and I don’t know when or how it happened. I don’t remember ever feeling like this.” She threw her head back, inhaling deep, feeling the wind lift her hair, tasting the salt on her breath, and laughed. “Oh, Llyr! I don’t even know what to do with myself. I could dance over this deck; I could fly.”

She opened her eyes again to find him watching her with a wistful smile, and her face heated at the open admiration in his expression, at the warm rush of emotion she felt from him. “If I could,” he said, a little hoarsely, “I’d give you the wings.” 

Before she could answer this, a familiar call broke their reverie. “Hullo, hullo!” 

Eilonwy barely restrained the groan that almost tumbled from her lips. Taran was less restrained, but his grumble of annoyance was drowned out by the general noise as Rhun hurried toward them. “Isn’t it grand?” the prince gushed, waving out in a general gesture toward the sea. “Now you’ll see some fine sailing. We on Mona have the best seamen in the country! There’s nothing like handling a boat in open water…at least, that’s what they tell me. I’m about to try steering a bit, myself. I’ve been watching, and it doesn’t seem so difficult.”

Gurgi, loping up next to him but out of his line of vision, rolled his eyes skeptically, and Taran snorted as Rhun scrambled back astern, up the steps of the cabin and onto the helm. They watched him exchange words with the steersman, who finally relinquished the tiller with obvious reluctance. The shipmaster hovered nearby, looking on.

The moment the tiller was in Rhun’s hands, the boat lurched violently starboard. Eilonwy yelped as the bow swept sideways, flinging her off her feet; she landed at Taran’s elbow, heard the crack of his head upon the bulwark as he went down. The sail flapped wildly at the change of direction and the coxswain bellowed at his oarsmen as all strained to regain the balance of the ship. Gurgi howled in terror as a water cask snapped its ropes and rolled helter-skelter across the deck.

In moments the steersman had wrestled the tiller back away from Rhun, who, nothing daunted, bounced cheerfully to the head of the platform and called out “Lash up the sail! Steady the helm!”

“Steady the helm!” Taran exclaimed in disgust. He sat up, rubbing the side of his head and scowling. “As if it wasn’t he that upset it in the first place!”

“No one’s paying any attention to him, anyway,” Eilonwy observed, watching the sailors methodically returning to their places as she picked herself up off the deck, sitting safely with her back to a barrel. 

“Just as well,” Taran scoffed. “Prince of Mona, indeed! He’s no more than a—a princeling, a clumsy, muddle-headed baby. Commanding the voyage? If the sailors listened to him, we’d be aground in no time. I’ve never sailed a ship, but I’ve no doubt even I could do it better. I’ve never seen anyone so feckless.”

This tirade bore all the signs of one that had been building for some time. Eilonwy sympathized, and yet it pained her to hear him be so uncharitable. Not since Ellidyr had he spoken so ill of anyone. Ellidyr had deserved it, of course. But Rhun? She shook her head. “Feckless? He does seem a little dense, but…I’m sure he means well. I’ve a feeling he has a good heart. In fact, I think he’s rather nice.”

Taran scowled. “I suppose you do, because he gave you his arm to lean on. A gallant, princely gesture. You’re lucky he didn’t pitch you over the side.”

“Well, it was polite, at least,” she replied coolly, “which is something Assistant Pig-Keepers sometimes aren’t.”

She meant to nettle him, but as usual he missed the point, adopting a withering look of self-pity. “An Assistant Pig-Keeper! Yes, that’s to be my lot in life. Born to be one, just like the Princeling of Mona was born to his rank. A king’s son! And I—I don’t even know the names of my parents.”

It was an old, familiar refrain, but it never grew less tiresome. “You can’t blame Rhun for being born,” she pointed out. “I mean, you could, but it wouldn’t help matters. It’s like kicking a rock with your bare foot.”

“I dare say that’s his father’s sword he’s got on,” Taran went on, taking no notice. “And I dare say he’s never drawn it, except to frighten a rabbit.”

“Why do some people judge everything in terms of fighting,” Eilonwy sighed to the clouds. Taran twitched irritably. 

“Well, at least I earned the right to wear mine,” he growled. “Yet he still calls himself a prince.”

“He might call himself a crow to please you, I suppose,” she said, amused, “or a pebble, or a moonbeam, but he’s still a prince, whatever anyone calls him. He just is. He was born one and it isn’t his fault. Why are you so upset about it?”

He was nearly squirming with outrage. “But does his birth make him worthy of his rank? As worthy as Gwydion Son of Don?”

She faced him then, in real dismay, surprised that he could be so unjust. “Prince Gwydion’s the greatest warrior in Prydain. You can’t expect everyone, not even every prince, to be like him. Besides, what does it even mean, princes and nobles and anything else? They’re all just…we’re all just…just people! And it seems to me that if an Assistant Pig-Keeper does the best he can, and a prince does the best he can, there’s no difference between them.”

His eyes widened, and she felt the brunt of his bruised pride hit her like a blow. “No difference!” he exploded. “You spoke well enough of Rhun!”

Oh, for goodness’ sake, he was determined to misunderstand her. “Taran of Caer Dallben,” she retorted, “you’ve stopped making sense altogether! I really believe you’re jealous. And sorry for yourself. And that’s as ridiculous as—as painting your nose green!”

With a huff she pushed herself to her feet and strode away, leaving him to sulk. Idiot boy! What did he want her to say? That he was ages more capable than Rhun in almost every way? He knew that well enough already, but it had  nothing to do with anyone’s rank. Did he want her to run down the prince as he had done? That, she would not do—not to someone so harmless, and what good would it have done? It wouldn’t stop Rhun from being a prince, which was apparently the thing Taran found so unbearable. What did it matter to him? 

Typical nonsense! Ruining things, just when she’d been happy, just when she’d seen the sea for the first time in her memory and only wanted to share her joy with him. Well, she needn’t allow it. She could, at least, find that space of happiness again. 

But as she stood at the bulwark amidship, Eilonwy felt a curious unease. Looking back at the deck, surveying the sailors going about their tasks, she became conscious of strange behavior among them. To a man, none came nearer to her than twenty paces. Some would not even look in her direction; others averted their gazes instantly when she intercepted them, and then muttered to each other. When she reached out with that internal sense of people that had always served her, she felt a baffling mix of things: Reverence and fear. Awe and distrust. Curiosity and interest, some of it darkly edged with something vaguely like hunger, something that brought back unpleasant associations with the men Achren had employed. She shied away from all of it in confusion. What had she done to invite any of this?

Taran was still standing near the bow. Instinct pressed her to go to him, to share her impressions and lean on his reassurance, and take comfort in the protective stance he took anytime she was uneasy. But he was still frowning moodily out to sea, now, too wrapped up in his own discontent to listen to hers. Rhun’s would be a sympathetic face, but not one in whose understanding she felt much confidence. 

The wind was picking up, the waves growing choppy, eerily synchronous with her mood. She noticed the shipmaster standing at the helm, looking appraisingly at a mass of gathering clouds on the southern horizon. He had been both courteous and respectful, and had an air of practical soundness that she trusted instinctively. He would do.  

Eilonwy marched purposefully toward the helm, fully observant now of how the sailors scattered out of her path. She climbed the steps to the platform, as master and steersman both took note of her with amazement, and faced the master squarely. “Master Owain,” she said clearly. “I think some of the crew mislike me. Why?”

The steersman, a young man, looked intensely uncomfortable at this, and averted his eyes when she glanced at him. Owain raised his craggy brows in surprise, and his voice rasped sternly as his gaze swept the deck. “By the tides! Has any mother’s son of my crew been discourteous to you, milady?”

“No,” she assured him, “not exactly. It’s more as though they’re trying to pretend I’m not here at all, but not doing it very well. They won’t look at me, and I haven’t tried, but I’m almost certain they won’t speak to me. Will you?” she demanded of the steersman, who snapped his eyes to her face, and then just as quickly looked down, in sudden panic.

“I…” he stammered. “It’s not that…it’s just….”

“Spit it out, Tygs!” Owain grunted. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d never seen a woman in your life. What’s caught your tongue?”

“But she’s not just a woman, is she?” Tygs blurted out, and turned red as a strawberry. “Beg pardon, Master…Milady…I mean no disrespect. It’s only…we’ve all heard tales of your people. ‘Tis said time out of mind among us that a man who looked a Daughter of Llyr in the face would perish on the spot.” He glanced at her again, quickly, as though he couldn’t help testing his luck.

Eilonwy stared. A bewildered laugh burst from her lips. “Good Llyr! I never heard such rubbish. You saw your own prince look at me and not drop dead. And you appear to be breathing still.”

Tygs shrugged sheepishly.  Master Owain shook his head. “Sailors are a superstitious lot, milady. There’s a hold’s-worth o’ wild stories and rumors about Llyr and his daughters, and what happened to the island, and o’ course there aren’t any left who can set the lines straight, as it were.” He rocked on his heels. “For that matter, many of these dogs believe it’s bad luck to have a woman aboard ship, no matter who she be. Don’t pay it any mind. If any man says an uncivil word to you, I’ll have him swabbing the deck ‘til his hands bleed.”

Her skin prickled at this cavalier assurance. “I don’t want anyone to bleed because of me,” she exclaimed, “and I’d rather uncivil words than none, or things whispered behind my back. I know little of Llyr, or his daughters, my House or my land—just myself, and if I’m bad luck, then it’s the first I’ve heard of it. I don’t want to be made a fuss over, or treated like more than I am. Will you tell them that?”

The Master’s dark eyes twinkled. “Aye, milady, an’ it please you, though I think you’ll have them well eno’w in hand. But just now,” he added, motioning to the gathering clouds, “if you’ll take an old dog’s advice, find a sturdy spot to land for the next few hours. We’re in for a rough patch of sea.”  

She descended to the deck and leaned against the mast, brooding, watching as Taran joined the sailors in coiling up lengths of rope, moving ballast, and other odd jobs. She would rather have liked to make herself similarly useful, but not if the sailors were going to side-eye her the entire time. Who would have known such strange things were said of her ancestors? What other rumors would chase her, single her out before she were even aware of it? 

The ship was indeed beginning to rock more roughly. She saw Taran stumble to the deck again, coming up rather green and leaning against the bulwark. She felt none too serene herself. The mast tilted as the deck heaved beneath her feet and she clung to it, stomach lurching. Somewhere near the bow she heard Gurgi wail a complaint. Even a few of the sailors looked a bit pale.

A cheery “hullo, hullo,” fell upon her ear and she sighed. Rhun was striding toward her cheerfully. “I’ve just been having a word with the cook,” he announced. “It’s nearly time to eat!”

“Oh,” said Eilonwy politely, though the thought of eating just then was a wretched one. “And where does that happen?” There was nothing resembling a kitchen, or tables…for that matter, how did one cook on a ship? Surely they did not build fires on this wooden structure. 

Rhun gestured toward the oarsmen’s benches. “Oh, there’s just stuff passed around on deck. We won’t get a proper dinner until we dock for the night, and can go ashore to cook. Are you hungry?”

The ship dove into a trough between swells and Eilonwy clung to the mast and groaned. “Not at all.”

“I say, you do look pale!” Rhun took her by the arm. “Come, you should lie down in your cabin. It was done up just for you, you know. Here!” He steered her toward the door and opened it, handing her inside. The interior was dim, but she could make out a low berth, a small table, a lantern hung from the rafter, and a few stacks of crates and chests lining the walls. Narrow vents near the ceiling admitted air and a bit of light. “Now then,” Rhun assured her, “have a lie down and you’ll feel better directly! I’ll make sure you’re saved a serving.”

Eilonwy thanked him —he was thoughtful, whatever his other failings—stumbled to the berth over the heaving floor, and fell into it. Fighting down a wave of nausea by breathing deep and slow, she grimaced wryly into the dim room. Who would have imagined a Daughter of Llyr, seasick! I don’t suppose that’s one of their stories, she thought.

The rocking did not cease, but it was more tolerable this way. She rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling, feeling mildly guilty that she was given privacy and comfort while Taran and Gurgi had to weather their suffering out on deck. Inviting them in was no doubt out of the question for propriety’s sake; neither would Taran ever agree to trade places with her, she knew. No, the only sensible thing to do was rest while she could, and perhaps later when she was recovered, she could be of help to her friends. 

Wrestling off her cloak, she felt her bauble bump against her arm, pulled it from the pocket and made it glow. The golden light illuminated the little chamber in greater detail, tossing glints off the lantern and chest hinges and the odd nail driven into the walls, pinning up parchment maps and shells hung upon hemp strings and bits of netting. Llyr, she was wearier than she’d realized…no surprise, after a near-sleepless night. She sank, almost unwillingly, into the sultry memories of those small hours of the morning, but they felt, already, a lifetime ago. Caer Dallben itself seemed like a dream she had awakened from, a place that might or might not actually exist. 

She brought forth her ormer slice and watched it glisten, giving off every color of the sunset. Somehow, holding it settled her spirit, and she lay with it clenched in her fist, resting over her heart. Her breathing slowed. From without came the crash and roll of the waves rushing against the sides of the craft, roaring and whispering as she fell into sleep, voices pursuing her into dreams she did not remember on waking.

Chapter Text

The ship made port in a sheltered cove at dusk, allowing all to disembark for a proper supper and a rest on land. Eilonwy, emerging from her cabin sleep-rumpled, found Rhun waiting to lead her ashore, his mood as light and eager as ever. But once they were on dry ground, he was immediately distracted by the hustle of the crew, and wandered off to give more cheerful, useless orders. She watched him go, bemused, before glancing about with interest.

The cove was a pretty place. White sand drifted in smooth ripples from the waterline up into a gathering of boulders and grass-topped cliffs. To the west, the sun was an egg of fire in a nest of rose and fuchsia clouds, resting upon the rim of the sea. Its reflection glittered upon the water in a path of molten gold; the flash and dance of it mesmerized her gaze and stole her breath.

The breeze caressed her face and played at the flyaway strands of her hair; gentle now, but ceaseless. Beneath her feet the sand crunched, eliciting a vague sense of familiarity and longing; she kicked off her shoes and dug her bare toes into its warm surface, delighted as it crumbled into cool dampness just beneath. This, she knew, also…how? When…how long ago had she felt it? How did her every sense remember something that her mind could not?

With a mingling of pleasure and frustration, she turned toward the flicker of a campfire a few yards away, studying the figures gathered around it. There were Taran and Gurgi, along with several of the crew, who were busied about a large cook pot. Forgetting her earlier annoyance, Eilonwy ran, and Taran looked up as she plopped to a boulder next to him. Even in the warm glow of the firelight, his face was still a bit green, his expression wan. Gurgi, slumped beside him on a driftwood log, was as limp as a used dishrag.

"Oh, you look like you've felt awful," she exclaimed. "Poor things. I wish you could have rested like I did."

"No, no," Gurgi whimpered. "Kind, noble princess must have her own space for sleepings and snoozings! Weary Gurgi did not mind, even though his poor, tender head was filled with dizzy sloshings and washings."

Taran patted him on the back, grimacing ruefully at her. "It got a bit easier toward evening," he said. "I'm sorry we didn't wait for you, but the sailors promised we'd feel better after getting on land again. They say we'll get used to it after a day or two. I hope they're right. Was it better for you, getting to lie down?"

"Much," she said. "I didn't just lie down—I fell asleep."

"Good," he said, "you must have needed it. I don't suppose you slept much, last night."

An awkward silence descended upon them, broken as Rhun ambled up. "Hullo, hullo, here we are, now!" he said cheerfully. "Your first day of sailing, already done! Master Owain says we made uncommonly good time. Shame about you all getting sick. Feeling well enough for supper?"

Taran made mumbling, ambivalent noises, but Gurgi sat up a bit straighter. "Perhaps if Gurgi's belly is full of crunchings," he said hopefully, "it will not feel so full of worrisome grumblings."

"That's the spirit," Rhun urged him. "I say, it's a fine evening, isn't it! Just wait 'til the crew gets going. There'll be songs, perhaps even dancing if they're in the mood."

"Lovely," Eilonwy remarked, sensing Taran tense. Belin, dancing was the last thing they needed, just the thing to put him in a temper! And what sort of dancing would a lot of men do by themselves, with no girls about for partners? She would not be expected to dance with them, would she? Their behavior on the ship still rankled, and she felt no inclination to join hands with any of them. Though it might, perhaps, be amusing to stare each man in the face, just to watch him squirm.

"Don't worry," she whispered aside to Taran, prodded by some imp of mischief. "I won't join in; you'll have no reason to be cross."

He looked irritated. "Who said I was cross? Dance or not, as you please; what is it to me?"

"Hm," she murmured, content at this protestation. An odd thing, to be glad about an obvious lie, but perhaps no stranger than anything else concerning him, lately.

A kettle over the fire bubbled promisingly; bowls were produced, and steaming clam stew brought to them all, supplemented with hard bread. They ate in the gathering twilight with the sea wind at their backs. The sound of the surf drowned out all but the nearest voices, a hypnotic, low rhythm that somehow gave almost the same impression as silence. When she had finished, Eilonwy rose and left the firelight circle, though pipes were beginning to lilt into the evening. It was merry music, but a stronger, older tune was seeping into her marrow, its steady thrum drawing her down to the waterline. She stood at its edge, watching the pale gleam of each wave ripple toward her.

The sand was cool, hard-packed and damp underfoot, then with a rush and a soft splish, a sheet of liquid glass slid up to her toes. She gasped as cold enveloped her bare feet, pooling around her ankles, where tiny bubbles gathered, foaming and prickling. Goose flesh erupted up her legs, racing the river of sharp, tingling sensation that ran beneath her skin, filling her up as light fills a room, poured through an open window.

She had sometimes felt glimmerings of her affinity to water. In moments of great need, she had unexpectedly harnessed its power. But no wade through a stream, or dive into the clear spring at Caer Dallben, had ever struck her with such buoyant, vivid energy as now seared into her veins and lungs and heartbeat. Her limbs rebelled against their own stillness; impatient and without thought she dropped to a crouch and plunged her hands into the water just as the wavelet began its roll back toward the sea. The pull of it tugged the hem of her gown, the ends of her braids, dangling in the current. It swirled and eddied around her wrists as she dug her palms into the sand, as though the sea wanted to take her hands, greet her like an old friend, pull her further into its embrace.

"Hullo," she whispered. "Do you remember me?"

The crash and thunder of each breaker seemed full of an answering voice, murmuring in a language whose words she did not know but whose essence she understood. Magic filled her lungs and mouth, but not the acrid tang of fire, nor the mellow sweetness of freshwater. It tasted like salt and darkness; it was enormous, deep and cold and ancient, ancient…older than earth, older than stone, unfathomable. Its endless space yawned before her, a chasm she could tumble into, to fall forever through a mystery so vast it could not be qualified in such human terms as terrifying or beautiful or awesome. It existed, a realm unto itself, irresistible and vital as breathing.

The sheet of water drifted back toward the depths and she scrambled to follow it, splashing into the shallows up to her knees, heedless of the cold. The ebb and flow of the current caught at her now, swaying her back and forth in its movement, like a skilled dance partner who knew exactly how to coax her into the right steps. It led her forward, relentlessly deeper, up to her hips, her waist, until with a pull and crash, a breaker smacked her squarely, head-on, drenching her entirely.

She gasped and cried out at the shock, exhilarated rather than frightened, and stumbled about, laughing, to find her footing on the shifting sand below. Bracing as another wave rolled toward her, she watched its rolling crest in the darkness, rising higher and higher. For a breathless instant, defiant water rushed uphill, gathered itself together and…oh, now! On instinct, she kicked, and felt herself lifted upon the roll and heave of the swell as it curled over in a foaming crescent, smashing itself to bits just past the place she had stood, and rushing on to the shore.

Glorious. The water was only up to her chest, in the trough between waves, but for a heart-pounding instant she had been lifted up high, as though the sea would raise her up to touch one of the stars now dangling just overhead, diamond fruit waiting to be plucked. Its lift was effortless, requiring almost no movement she would have considered swimming; the buoyancy of this salty embrace felt more like flying. She laughed again, turning her back to the next wave and tipping into it as one might fall into bed, letting her feet flip up to the surface and over the swell.

Twining her fingers behind her head for support, she floated, serene, and gazed into a sky gone dark, at the stars splashed like spilled milk across its velvet-black expanse. She felt oddly as though she were suspended in the sky, looking down into a vast abyss, instead of the other way around. Was this what it was like to be a star? An infinitesimal pinpoint of light, floating in a vast and eternal darkness? Perhaps every speck in that glimmering array had its counterpoint, drifting here beneath it: a star for each fish, each shell, each strange water-breathing plant, each unnamed, unknown creature hidden in the depths.

For she could feel them. There was life all around, penetrating the surface of her mind like raindrops pattering on a pond. The sea was full…oh, full of life, more even than the woods and fields where she had first discovered she could sense such things. There was no word for this…this abundance, this sense of vitality greater than the sum of all the lives within it, perhaps their very source: a womb from which countless lives were springing up, blooming for their time, and then winking out, in an endless circle. She felt a strange, creeping sense of desperation, a compulsion to find some name for such infinite fecundity, some sense of authority over it before its very fullness burst her from the inside out. Overwhelmed, heart pounding, she kicked and floundered until she stood upright again. Another breaker hit her almost instantly, knocking her toward the shore.

She tumbled within the crumbling foam, tripped into a hidden sunken place and splashed about clumsily, just as she heard her name being shouted by several anxious voices, rising in urgency over the crash of the surf.

Many figures were silhouetted against the firelight upon the beach, milling quickly about or standing at the water's edge. A shaggy shape crouched low, its head near the ground, and then straightened up, waving long arms. The figure nearest it turned, froze for an instant, then raced into the water toward her; in a few moments she recognized the gait and shape of Taran. He came plunging to meet her as she sloshed into the shallows, grabbing her by the arms when he reached her. "Eilonwy," he gasped out, "what on earth are you doing out here?"

She recognized, all at once, that her absence had caused a general alarm, and pulled back, embarrassed, breaking his hold. "Seabathing," she said, as though it should be obvious and unremarkable.

"Seabathing!" Taran threw his hands up, his eyes wide. "Are you out of your mind? Coming out here in the dark and not telling anyone? You could have been swept away; you could have drowned and none of us would have known!"

"But I didn't," she said shortly, face going hot despite the chill seeping through her wet clothing, "so there's no need to go blathering on about it."

"What were you thinking?" he spluttered. "I don't…I can't believe…and now you're soaked! You'll be freezing! Do you even have any spare clothes?"

Weary of his scolding, she pushed past him and splashed toward the beach, her elation deflating by the second. "I'll dry by the fire," she snapped. "Stop nagging. You're worse than Dallben."

"Dallben bade me keep you safe," he protested, stumbling after her. "How could I ever go back if—"

His voice cut off abruptly, and she felt the grief and frustration between them, teetering like a stack of firewood; she could pull one stubborn stick from its base, perhaps, and make it topple, somehow make him say whatever he was holding behind his clenched chin. But then, there it would be, hanging in midair until she decided what to do with it, and fear that she would choose the wrong thing bound her tongue to all but answering anger.

"I'm not a bit of cargo you're ferrying to Mona," she growled, continuing to stalk away without looking at him. "Nor a child who can't look after myself. I had a quick swim, that's all, and I think I can be allowed one thing I want, in the middle of a hundred things I don't." Her voice was wavering, tone rising, teetering on the edge of control; the familiar prickling was filling her fingertips and hot in her throat, seeking an outlet. Belin, not now, not here; she was the center of enough attention already, held in uncomfortable awe; the last thing she wanted was to make more of a scene.

Suddenly there was a shout and many murmurs from the men gathered onshore, and behind her Taran exclaimed wordlessly, then stammered, "What…what is…Eilonwy, look at the water!"

Startled, she stopped stalking, looked down, and exclaimed in her turn. The ripples and splashes where the sea churned around her legs were glowing…glowing a brilliant turquoise, an ethereal light that flashed and brightened at every disturbance, winking out only to flare again when she moved. She turned to look behind her; the light followed her movements, in a swirl of scintillating color.

"What is it?" Taran gasped again. He was standing still, staring down; the glow surrounded him as well, splashing around his thighs at every step.

"I don't know," she murmured, realizing that it was extending farther; where moments ago only dark water splashed, they now stood in the center of a patch of radiant wave-caps, every small shallow breaker topped by a blue-green beacon. These moved like ghosts up to the shallows and shattered into sparks as they crashed, tossing luminescence upon the beach as though the sea were bailing out stars by the pailful.

Entranced, Eilonwy bent and plunged her hands in the water again. Brilliance burst around them in a fluid cloud. She cupped and lifted them full of light and dripping cool green embers, watched it run between her fingers. Taran reached out as if compelled, caught the shimmering droplets as they fell. His hands glowed for an instant in the darkness, bright enough to reflect upon his face. The illumination was caught in his eyes as he looked at her in wonder and consternation.

"Is it magic?" he whispered. "Are you doing this?"

She shook her head. "No. I mean, it may be magic, but I'm not doing it. It feels like…" She huffed a little, the wonder of it almost drawing tears. "It feels like magic. I don't care if it is or not."

He looked around them, awed and anxious, and then back at her. She saw fear in his face. "Come. This…this is…all so strange, and…you must get to shore and dry off before you catch cold."

Feeling somewhat dazed, she permitted him to guide her toward the beach, the ghostly light drifting in their wake. Gurgi bounded up to her delightedly, but the sailors upon the shoreline parted, giving her a wide berth, whispering and muttering among themselves. Several pointed out toward the water, to the glowing wave-tips. She heard the phrase Tân Llyr repeated several times, in hushed tones.

"Hullo, hullo!" The usual cheery greeting was an anxious shout this time. Rhun ran toward them as they emerged from the crowd. "Oh, thank goodness!" the prince panted, his round face wide-eyed. "Everyone's been looking all over for you! We thought you'd wandered off into the cliffs."

"Brave Gurgi found her!" Gurgi bleated proudly. "He follows his nose with wiffings and sniffings, and it has never failed him! But why would wise princess go straight into the water?"

Rhun looked her over in astonishment. "Why, he's right, you're soaked! Did you fall into a tide pool? Come, get by the fire; it's far too chilly to be standing about all wet."

He urged her to the campfire and called for a spare cloak or blanket. Someone tucked one about her shoulders. The sailors all drew back, leaving the space thick with their murmurings. But it was Taran's brooding presence she felt, hovering over her like a shadow until she wanted to snarl at him to sit down. He saved her from it, dropping to the sand nearby and stretching out toward the fire to dry his own wet clothes. With a pang of irritating guilt, she noticed that he had not even removed his shoes before plunging into the water after her.

Gurgi ran to tell the still-scattered searchers of her return. Rhun hustled away to try to find dry clothing for her. She and Taran sat alone, wrapped in silence.

Eilonwy stared at the fire moodily. Perhaps she had been a bit foolish. Certainly impulsive. But there had been no harm done, and it had been lovely, a stolen moment of freedom. If only she could make Taran understand, even a little; she wanted to tell him of it; of the voices that called her in the thunder of surf, the strange sense of fullness in the water, the depth and breadth and endless mystery of sea-magic and starlight; she must tell someone.

"I didn't mean to worry you," she said at last, "or make trouble for the crew. I only wanted to look at the water when I walked down. But everything just seemed to pull at me."

He turned to look at her, his expression confused and anxious, not reassured at all. "And how far would you have followed it? It's not the brook at home, Eilonwy. People can be lost at sea."

"I know that." She looked away from him, watched the embers glisten. "But I know I was safe, out there."

"You thought you were safe in the tree, as well," he retorted. "You're always putting yourself in danger without thinking and getting angry at anyone who tries to talk sense into you."

She bristled defensively, but could think of no answer, too mindful of all-too-accurate examples of the accusation. Blast him! "It wasn't like that," she protested, twisting her hands into the borrowed cloak. "I know…Taran, I know I can be stubborn. I don't like being told I can't do things, and sometimes I go too far, to prove I can. But that's not what it was, this time. It…it called me, and I couldn't help myself. I wish you could understand."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, resting his head wearily in his hands. "Maybe I can't understand it. Maybe I don't want to, if it makes you do such foolish things."

She flinched. How did mere words hurt more than a blow, sometimes? "Fine," she said, hating the tremor in her voice, powerless to stop it. "I thought perhaps you might at least try, but if all you're going to do is sulk, I won't bother trying to tell you."

And then the tears came; of course they did, just the thing to make it all perfect. She buried her face in her arms, despising the tears, furious with herself for not being able to stop them, furious with Taran, possibly, most of all, for ruining something that should have been beautiful, rendering it bitter by his rejection.

She could sense his frustration and dismay, but he said nothing. His very silence was provoking; why did he make no attempt to comfort her, or even to explain himself? Even arguing was better than silence, would mean he hadn't just…just given up, just acquiesced to her dismissal, as though a stalemate was the best that could be hoped for. Stupid Assistant Pig-Keeper! Stupid herself, for that matter; what foolishness to keep hoping he would ever say or do what she wished he would; when had he ever? Wish in one hand, Coll said often, and spit in the other, and see which fills up faster. All the more fool, she, after years of wishing, not even quite knowing what she wished for.

A small commotion from behind them made her lift her head, hastily scraping away her tears; the shipmaster was hurrying toward her, Rhun and Gurgi on his heels, trailed by a handful of crew. Eilonwy gulped, and stood up to meet him. "Master Owain," she stammered, "I'm sorry that I caused so much…"

"Be it true?" The old seaman interrupted, his eyes shining like a child's, his hands spread out eagerly toward her. "You brought out the Tân Llyr?"

Apology halted, she stood in confusion. "I…I don't…"

"The blue fire!" He gestured out toward the water. "Light in the water, the fire of Llyr! The men say they saw you do it—ach, to have missed it! I saw it once, in my youth, by chance near the northern coast… 'twas magic, milady, a thing never to be forgotten. To have it find us here —near my ship, on my watch! 'Tis a thing dreamed of, hoped for, but…"

Master Owain trailed off, rendered apparently speechless with awe and happiness, gazing at her as though she were something more than human. Eilonwy gulped again, going hot with embarrassment. "Oh, I…I'm…glad for you," she blurted out, "but I really…I didn't do anything. I've never even heard of…Tân…Tân Llyr. I went into the water for…just for a while, because…well, anyway, the light just happened, all on its own."

He shook his grizzled head, and bowed slightly, his rich voice low and reverent. "Nay, milady. It's in your honor it came; no doubt. Know you so little of the legends of your people?"

She stood silent, stricken, wanting to hear him, wanting also to turn and run, off into the darkness where she could be alone, or perhaps just crumble here on the sand and weep out all the overwhelming feelings of the past day until she was empty. But on he went, relentless and eager. "Tân Llyr was the wedding gift of Llyr to his bride, his Penarddun who come from the Summerlands, that when she missed the sunlight of her home she could conjure this light in the darkness, a fire made just for her. And ever since, the Daughters of Llyr could call it as they pleased, and it marked them, following whenever they went in the water. The sea knows its own." He laid a hand over his heart. "We men of the sea, we know. We don't forget. We reverence your ancestors, and their Mother, too." His gaze dropped to her pendant, and he gave a quick nod that seemed directed at it, rather than her. "All hope to see that light; a good omen it is, of fair winds and swift passage."

"Oh," she sighed, knowing not what else to say, and shivered.

The shipmaster gave her a keen look and dipped his head. "Ach, lass, 'tis exhausted you are, and here I keep you, cold and wet and listening to me blab on. Forgive me; I've been too keen about what I didn't see, to see what was before me. It's back to the ship you must be going—all of us, for the night is short, and we'll be on our way at daybreak. I'll leave you to our prince while I gather my crew."

He bowed to her again and strode away, calling to the sailors, issuing orders. Rhun stepped to her side instantly, flush with importance. "It's been quite an evening," he exclaimed. "Astonishing! I've heard of that glowing water, but I thought it was just stories. Sailors have so many of them, you know. I wish I'd seen it, but I don't suppose you're up for doing it again tonight." He offered his arm sympathetically. "Come, I'll help you back, and you can dry off and warm up in your cabin. I'm sorry no one had extra clothes, but I suppose you've got some things there?"

Eilonwy nodded, looking wearily at his offered elbow; she felt Taran standing behind her, his presence a glowering weight in her mind. "Thank you," she said, "but…Rhun, I'd like to walk on my own, if you don't mind. You're very kind; I just…I'd rather not be touched, just now, by anyone. I know where the ship is, and I know how to board it. And I'm sure the sailors would benefit from your command," she added, on impulse.

She thought she heard Taran snort, but Rhun had already stood up straighter, his face, which had been clouding at her rejection, brightening instantly. "You think so? Yes, perhaps you're right —if you're sure you don't mind." He began to turn, and then hesitated. "I don't know…Mother told me I should attend you most carefully. I wonder if…"

"I'm sure your mother is very wise," she interrupted. "So, if I tell you that what would make me happiest just now is to take myself to my cabin, surely she would agree that it's your duty to allow it."

He froze, gazing at her in puzzlement as though trying to work out knots, and Taran spoke up from behind her. "I'll make sure she gets there safely."

She bristled at this, turning toward him with a frown, and he shook his head ever so slightly, over an almost imperceptible shrug. "She's right; you're needed here," he added to Rhun, and then, to her, "No one here should be going about alone, in the dark. That's just plain sense; even the sailors stay in groups of two or three, by orders. Gurgi and I will walk you back— from a few feet away, if you like —and make sure you're on board and safe in your cabin. We'll stay down and help the crew with whatever else needs doing."

His logic was sound, annoyingly so, and she shrugged in frustration. "Very well. If that's agreeable to everyone."

Rhun still looked as though he weren't quite sure what had just happened, but he shrugged affably. "All right, then. A good night and pleasant sleep to you, Princess." He bowed to her and hurried off, his head a little cocked to one side, in a manner she had often seen Gurgi hold when faced with a human conundrum.

Taran stood, looking at her, and when she didn't move, raised an eyebrow. "Well? You said you knew the way."

She huffed at him, not knowing why she waited…was she expecting him to say something? To offer his arm like Rhun? She was the one who had said she didn't want that. In frustration she turned on her heel, marched to her discarded shoes and picked them up, and strode down the beach without looking back. She heard him call to Gurgi, and then there was only the crunch and squeak of sand beneath her feet, and the soft murmuring of the two of them talking to one another, several strides behind her.

The ship waited in the dark, waves lapping against its sides; she waded to the wooden plank, hailed the two sailors guarding its entrance and strode up, hoisting herself over the bulwark. From there she looked back down. Gurgi capered on the beach, going from rock to clump of grass, turning over every pebble, but Taran stood at the waterline, watching her.

"Lock your cabin door, if you can," he called up.

Not even a good night. Eilonwy pushed away and stomped across the deck, ducked into the low shed and slammed the door shut behind her. It did have a bolt; she drew it, resenting him for telling her to do it, resenting that, down deep, some nagging sense of uncomfortable caution agreed with him.

She lit her bauble and tossed it onto the mattress, peeled off her wet clothes, wrung them out over a bucket, and hung them from nails in the wall; squeezed the seawater from her hair, leaving it distastefully stiff and sticky. There turned out to be spare linen in a cargo chest; she dried herself off, dressed in her spare shift, and fell into the berth.

Her bauble bounced against her side, making the shadows jump like living things all over the room. She picked it up and turned it in her hands, comforted, as she always was, by the weight and warmth of it, the way things seemed to look a bit clearer in its light.

Conjure this light in the darkness, a fire made just for her. The shipmaster's words drifted back to her, and she smiled a little wistfully to herself. I understand that. Sometimes you just want a bit of light. Only this was far more like sunlight—if it was Summer she'd missed, then what a pity Penarddun hadn't had something like her bauble to hand.

And yet…the blue fire within the water had a beauty of its own, a light that was suited to darkness, to night, blending with it in harmony, existing comfortably within its embrace. A more fitting gift, perhaps, from the sea-king to his bride, than the bright flame of sunlight that would always fight against and obliterate darkness.

She doused the golden glow, and wondered, not for the first time, exactly how she did it. She willed it, and her bauble responded, that was all, but sometimes it flared of its own accord, in sympathy with her moods. Could that flare in the sea do the same? Had it come because of her, and could she will it herself, as the legend suggested? Had she seen it before, and, like so much that was locked away inside her memory, lost the knowledge of it?

We reverence your ancestors, and their Mother, too.

Mother, she thought, and clutched her cool crescent in the dark. But I lost her. I lost her long ago, and there's no one left to teach me.

My husband accused me of making Taran unusually obtuse in this chapter, what with his scolding and obstinate silence. I fully admit he is not at his best, but between the reason behind this journey, his stress over keeping Eilonwy safe, and watching her grow farther away from him even before they even arrive on Mona, I think maybe we can forgive the poor boy.

Chapter Text

Eilonwy awoke the next morning to the bob and sway of surf, the creak of wood and the muffled shouts of sailors. The day’s journey was already underway.

At Caer Dallben she was accustomed to rising with the sun like Coll and Taran, to begin the day’s chores. It felt odd, now, to know she’d been sleeping while others worked, as though she’d been left out of something vital, and she scrambled from the berth just as the pitch of the floor changed, and nearly tripped over a chamber pot. Oh…that. Where did the crew…? Never mind, she didn’t want to know.

Hurriedly she gathered her garments, still quite damp, unpleasant to don, but she had no other outer clothes. A glance in the little copper mirror showed her hair in wild disarray, an aureole of waves and tangled curls; she put her hand to it in astonishment and found it stiff and somehow…crunchy. Seawater, of course; it must be full of salt. It looked and felt as though it would take agonizing hours to sort out, yet…there was something in its untamed frenzy that made her feel satisfyingly rebellious, and after a few halfhearted efforts with a comb proved quite useless, she tossed the lot over her shoulders with a shrug.

Skipping her shoes as well, she stepped out onto the deck, and beheld a day poured full of brightness like a cup of golden wine, so much light it hurt her eyes. Pale clouds soared in an azure sky; the sea shimmered below, infinitely blue. She squinted, stumbling about until both legs and vision adjusted, and looked around for her friends.

She was somewhat ambivalent to see one of them. Taran’s behavior the previous evening still rankled in her chest. If he was determined to spend the day sulking, he’d be dreadful, yet the thought of avoiding him all day was worse, when they had so few days left in one another’s company. How like an Assistant Pig-Keeper to spoil things! She’d not put up with it.

A commotion on deck caught her attention and she found him, following a couple of sturdy crewmen, all wielding mops and buckets. “We swab the deck,” she overheard, as she approached, “with seawater every day, to keep the mold off and the boards swelled tight, so’s they don’t leak into the hold. ‘Tis a simple task for a land-walking farm boy.” Grinning at the good-natured ribbing, Taran took the mop held out to him.

Eilonwy stepped up. “May I do it as well?”

The sailors blinked at her in consternation, apparently too shocked to remember not to look, and the one holding mops almost dropped them. “Beg pardon, milady?”

“I want to do something,” she said, embarrassment making her more tart than she meant. “I’m accustomed to working, not sitting about like a piece of furniture. I don’t know anything of sailing, but I’m sure I can do most of the things Taran can.”

“Llyr’s bones,” someone muttered, and the mop-holder stammered wordlessly, but there was a chuckle from another. “Oh, let her do it, Niss. She’s a smasher, that one.”

Niss looked around helplessly for support. Taran, grinning, handed Eilonwy his mop. “There now,” he said, turning to the sailors and reaching out for another. “If anyone makes a fuss about it, I’ll take the blame. Best to let her do what she wants, usually.”

Insufferable cheek, that, after his attitude last night! But he winked at her and set to work without another word; she followed his example while the sailors gaped. She could not decide whether to be grateful for his stepping in, or profoundly annoyed, but the slap of the wet mop upon the deck was a satisfying outlet for whatever it was she felt.

After a few minutes the sailors seemed to shrug off the oddity of her presence, and then all were working together. Squish…plop…smack…the mop plied the bucket and dragged across the boards in a vigorous pattern that captured the body, left the mind free to wander in peace. The sailors took up a song that followed the motion, or perhaps their movements automatically fell into the rhythm of the tune; she found herself joining in after a few repetitions of the chorus, humming along where she did not know the words, stepping to its beat and swinging her mop to follow. There were flashes of grins like tiny crescent moons on the men’s sun-browned faces as they worked near her. Perhaps she could convince them that she wasn’t ill-luck after all.

Taran had worked his way near her; she refused to look at him until he was so close by she could no longer pretend not to notice. Staring at their respective mops, they both spoke at the same time. “Thank you for…”

“I’m sorry for…,”

They both stopped, sheepish. “Wait, hush,” Taran murmured, “let me go first.” She stilled, waiting, and he continued to scrub the same board repeatedly.

“You terrified me, you know,” he said. “Not just when I couldn’t find you, though that was bad enough. But then when I did find you, it was as though…you weren’t you. You seemed so changed, yesterday.” He paused, faltering. “I know I can’t really know what it’s like for you…seeing the sea again. I never realized just how much this is all part of you; I suppose I had never really thought about it. You’ve always seemed to fit in so well at Caer Dallben, and now…”

She glanced up as he paused, and when their eyes met he looked away as though it pained him. “I know you wanted me to listen to you, last night, but I couldn’t, not then. I was too upset. But I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. If you want to talk about it now, I’ll try to understand.”

“Oh,” she sighed, her anger deflated; she barely knew what to say. “I don’t…Taran, I haven’t changed.” But had she? If she had the choice, would she sail straight back to Caer Dallben and stay here? Never see the sea again? She chewed her lower lip anxiously, unexpectedly pulled in two directions. “I…want to know more,” she said finally. “I feel things I’ve never felt, or at least, don’t remember. And I want to know where they come from, and what they mean. But I’m not intending to go sailing off into the sunset and never looking back. I mean to come straight back to Caer Dallben when I can.”

He glanced up at her swiftly, his eyes full of doubt. “I am sorry that I frightened you,” she went on. “It was thoughtless of me to go off without telling anyone, and I’ll not do it again. Only don’t be cross with me for needing to go.”

Taran hesitated, and then nodded, a little reluctantly. “Just…tell me, next time, before you head down any wild side trails, will you?” His gaze tripped lightly around her face, and his expression softened, infused by a touch of amusement. “Your hair’s gone absolutely wild, by the way.”

She reached up self-consciously, and made a futile effort to smooth it down. “Ugh. I know. It’s the seawater, I think, and the wind. Do I look dreadful?”

From the corner of her vision she could see him watching her intently, and for several long moments there was silence. “No,” he murmured at last. “You look like you belong out here.”

Something in his tone made her slide her hands from her hair to her cheeks, to cover the heat rising in her face, and she stared steadfastly out at the horizon. She thought he moved, reached out a hand toward her…

“Hullo, hullo!” Prince Rhun appeared at her elbow with a parcel so suddenly she jumped. “I’ve brought your breakfast!” he announced. “What on earth…are you swabbing the deck?”

Seeing Taran stiffen and turn away, Eilonwy summoned up a smile with every ounce of self-control. Really, he did pop up like a mushroom at the most untimely moments! “Good morning, Rhun. I was just taking a breather, but yes. I asked to help, and this is a task I can do. I rather like it.”

“You don’t say,” he remarked, in genuine amazement. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never seen a lady doing such work.”

“Are there no washerwomen or scullery maids in your castle?” she returned briskly, wielding the mop with renewed vigor.

“Oh, yes, of course there are,” he said, “but they’re not ladies. I mean…”

She paused again, squinting at him. “If doing scullery work makes a girl not a lady, then you’ll have to stop calling me one. Because it’s what I’ve been doing at Caer Dallben for years, along with washing clothes, gardening, feeding pigs, milking goats, hunting eggs, and shoveling dung.”

“Dallben made you do all that?” Rhun gasped, aghast.

“Not exactly.” She nodded toward Taran. “It’s what we all did, because it needed doing, and there was no one else to do it. What do the ladies of your acquaintance do with themselves all day?”

He looked puzzled. “I’m…not quite sure. There’s a whole wing of the castle where the ladies mostly keep to themselves, until there’s a gathering of some kind, or a dinner. They seem to carry needlework about quite a bit.”

She suppressed a groan, and turned back to work.

The day passed in a tangle of similar experiences, as she elbowed into tasks alongside Taran, to the astonishment, amusement, and occasional disapproval of members of the crew. Rhun tagged along, invariably expressing his wonder over this or that. He joined in with them in several occupations, but often wandered off in the middle of them, leaving them short-handed and short-tempered. Gurgi spent his time below deck, disposing of food deemed unfit for human consumption, or climbing through the rigging in pursuit of Kaw.

The ship made harbor in a sheltered cove, but all were bidden to stay aboard unless part of the landing crew, as the area was known to have treacherous terrain, and was home to dangerous beasts. The rest of them sat in small groupings around the deck, passing around the day’s rations. Sailors, fed and plied with their draughts of ale, grew energetic and prone to bursting into rollicking shanties at a moment’s notice. Pipes rang out, and feet beat the deck in blood-quickening rhythms. Those who did not dance clapped their hands, shouted and whooped. Their songs poured into the twilight and on into the night, vibrant and virile.

Rhun was even more cheerful than usual the next morning. “We’re making excellent time!” he told her. “Master Owain says the sea favors us because you’re on board. If that’s true, I wish you were with us on the way down. It stormed for two days.”

“I couldn’t have done a thing about it,” she said, with a wry shrug. “I know nothing of calming storms, or sailing.”

“You know more than you did when we began,” Rhun pointed out practically, “and that’s something.”

It made her smile. “Did you grow up sailing?” she asked. “It seems like something you’d do often, living on an island.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I do love a day at the shore! But the real sailing, the long voyages…we leave them to the fishermen and traders, mostly. I’ve other duties at home, you know—a prince mustn’t roam too far. It was my father who insisted on my coming on this trip. Mother didn’t like it at first, but he talked her into it, somehow.”

He had strolled with her to the side, midship, and together they leaned upon the bulwark, looking out. Eilonwy swallowed, thinking ahead. “What are they like? Your parents?”

“Mam and Tad?” His pale-blue eyes went round and thoughtful. “Why, they’re grand, generally. Very kind and patient. Mother’s a bit of a worrier, you know, like they all tend to…” He stopped, looking at her in sudden dismay. “Oh. I’m sorry. She told me, but I forgot. Your mother was…”

“It’s all right,” she said, shaking her head, though it didn’t feel all right, and less so all the time. “It’s just…how things are. But I suppose that’s why I asked. I’m not sure what to expect.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Rhun assured. “Father’s a good sort, but you likely won’t see much of him. He’s very busy, and doesn’t meddle in the ladies’ affairs. Mother will see to your comfort. She’s quite pleased that you’re coming. I still remember the tizzy she was in, a few years ago, when Dallben first sent word of you.”

“Was she?”

“Oh, yes,” he laughed. “Though I didn’t hear much, myself—not being part of her circle, you know. Only it trickled down through the court; her ladies were so distracted it was all anyone talked about for days. First she didn’t believe it. Then after they exchanged a message or two she changed to wanting you to come to us at once, and was very indignant when you weren’t sent immediately. I heard her storming to Tad about it, calling Dallben a meddling magician and an eccentric, cantankerous old coot.”

An hysterical laugh burst from her at this, an odd and contradictory mix of shock, defensiveness, and defiance. To hear such words applied to Dallben! Dallben: the generous, the wise, the powerful and compassionate, who had done so much for her. And yet…a sense of strange affection for this outspoken queen poked at her with subtle, perverse amusement. Was there not something…just a tiny bit…satisfying…

“That was unjust,” she gasped, to cover her own rebellious impulses. “Dallben knew what was best, I’m sure.”

“Oh, she didn’t mean anything by it,” Rhun said, mollifying. “Mother rants when she’s crossed, that’s all. But she’s jolly most of the time. You’ll be in good company.”

With the ladies, she thought morosely, and made no answer.

The day passed all too swiftly, growing overcast in the afternoon. Mountainous clouds sat upon the horizon at twilight, blooming with the glow of distant lightning. They made port in another small cove, shallow enough to cast anchor but with no beach large enough to disembark. No stars broke through the cloud cover, and only a few lanterns were allowed on board. The moment she had to squint to see her food, Eilonwy brought out her bauble and lit it out of habit, to startled exclamations from all in the vicinity.

Rhun, just climbing down from the helm to join her where she sat with Taran and Gurgi, gave a hoot of surprise. “I say, what’s that?”

“It’s my bauble.” She grinned at the bouncing shadows it threw upon his face. “I always carry it with me. You never know when it might come in handy.”

“Amazing!” He goggled as she held it up for him to view. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” He took it from her, and the light winked out at once. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve broken it.”

She laughed. “No, you didn’t. It’s just that it doesn’t work for everyone.” Reaching out, she took it, and the light shimmered over the dark water below.

“Unbelievable,” Rhun enthused. “You must show that to my parents! I wish we had a few trinkets like that about the castle. It looks far more efficient than torchlights and lamps, without the danger of setting things on fire.”

“Yes, indeed,” she agreed, setting it upon a pile of netting. “It’s quite useful.”

“That’s how she found me,” Taran was sitting across from her, unraveling a knotted ball of twine. “When I was in Spiral Castle, she accidentally dropped it as she went by, and it rolled into my cell through a grate. And because my hands were tied and I couldn’t get it for her, she came in after it, and I asked her to get me out, as well.”

“That was clever,” Rhun said. “But what were you doing in a castle dungeon?”

Taran’s mouth twitched. “It’s a long story.”

“But that was when happy Gurgi found his friends!” Gurgi piped up jubilantly. “And all were chased by fearsome dead warriors, chased through the fields and woods with great terror! They found hidden places of wondrous magics, and met the Horned King with great smitings and fightings!”

Rhun was wide-eyed. “I say, you have had adventures! Was that the battle of the Southern Cantrevs at Caer Dathyl? We heard about that—well after the fact, of course. The Horned King was Arawn’s warlord, wasn't he? You actually met him in battle?”

Eilonwy exchanged a rueful glance with Taran. “I wouldn’t call it meeting so much as running for our lives,” she said, “but Taran did stand against him in the end.”

“Much good it did us,” Taran muttered, with a shrug. “It was Prince Gwydion who defeated him.”

“Oh, but it took courage to stand at all, didn’t it!” Rhun exclaimed. “Astonishing! It’s just like the stories visiting bards tell in the Great Hall! My goodness, I can’t wait to get back; the court will want to hear it all. We’re rather dull on Mona, you know…we’ve not much fighting force to speak of, so we never get called up for war, and it takes so long for news to get there that we often don’t find out about big doings until they’re over. I’ve never even met Prince Gwydion, though Mother says he used to visit the area quite often when she was young.” His pleasant face clouded a bit. “I don’t think she’d allow me to join a war band, even if we did get called up.”

“That’s odd,” Eilonwy said frankly. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen, a few weeks ago.” The prince grinned. “This voyage was my birthday present. A test of mettle, Father said, though I must say it hasn’t felt like much of a challenge. But perhaps seeing me return in one piece will convince them to let me do more.”

A thoughtful silence fell. No wonder he’s so simple, Eilonwy thought, with a twinge of pity. He’s not been allowed to do a thing, barely ever left his parents’ castle. Surely a prince should be sent out, to do…well, whatever it was they did. He must have education and training of some kind.

“So tell us,” she prompted, “what sorts of duties do you have at home?”

Rhun fiddled with his bread, crumbling it to bits. “Oh, you know, the usual things. Weapons training, horseback riding, lessons on history and law, etiquette and courtesy, sitting in court with Father while he hears petitions and such.”

She got the sense that he was rattling off a memorized list, rather than speaking of things he greatly enjoyed.

“I see,” Eilonwy said. “And what do you do when you aren’t at your duties? When you just want to enjoy yourself?”

Rhun looked startled, his mouth left slightly ajar, as though he had never been asked such a question in his life. “Oh, I like to…well…you know just…just explore the gardens and grounds, and go out for walks. I sometimes head out to the beaches and collect shells and such, and I like to…erm…it’s rather silly, but…I like to draw things. You know, make pictures. On parchment or what-have-you.”

“That isn’t silly,” Eilonwy told him. “I’ve seen such things. Dallben’s books are full of them. He has an herbal with drawings of leaves and flowers you feel like you could lift right off the page. I learned about everything in the garden and all the fields around, just from looking at them.”

“Yes, quite so.” Rhun gripped the edge of the bulwark, his eyes alight. “Then you’ve seen how it can be! Mine aren’t so much, really, but I do enjoy it. One of my tutors began teaching me when I was young, but he left when I was twelve, and no one else around really knew how. So I’ve just sort of kept on, on my own. It’s quite a nice thing, when you’ve got nothing else to do.”

“I should like to see you do it sometime,” she said, and he turned a wondering gaze on her.

“Would you? Really?”

“Of course. I’ve never seen it done, but it sounds fascinating.”

His round face turned pink. “Well, I don’t know about that. Anyway, my writing-master didn’t think so, always catching me drawing in the margins when I was supposed to be working at calligraphy. But I’ll show you some when we get home. We’ll be there tomorrow, you know!”

Home. Tomorrow. The two words seemed like a dissonant chord, cruelly incongruent. Taran made an odd little jerk, correspondent to her own mental hitch. Eilonwy glanced his way in silent sympathy, catching the golden light gleaming in his eyes. The glow of her bauble lit his face as soft and warm as firelight, but without its impish flicker; this clear steady burn seemed to illuminate things invisible to all other sources.

She had first seen him in this light, bruised and hollow-eyed in his cell. He’d been traumatized and terrified, but even then, that overlay of golden gilding had showed her something more…something unidentifiable, that had made her stay with him. Now once again she had no name for what it showed her, in that steady meeting of eyes she finally had to break, its intensity unbearable. She had a sudden reckless desire that there were no one else around to see it, that they could be as alone as they had been in that cell, once upon a time. Bother these sailors, bother Rhun, bother even Gurgi and Kaw; she wished them all a thousand miles away. Perhaps then she could be brave enough to find out what she saw, to face this formless thing that hung between them, both desperate and terrified to be acknowledged.

The rambunctious sea shanties had mellowed with the gathering darkness; now a single pipe lilted a mournful tune into the night, joined by a few of the better voices. They sang of the siren call of the merciless sea, and of their lost loves, left behind for it. The light seemed to waver with longing, of mingled grief and desire that wound its way into her very breath.

She shivered, and Taran rose, walked away and returned with his cloak, laid it over her shoulders, and sat again next to her, so close she could hear him breathe. Llyr! How did he always seem to do what would fluster her the most? For that matter, why was she flustered, when it was exactly what she had imagined him doing? There he sat, close enough for her, by the smallest movement, to lean against him, rest her head on his shoulder, as she had two nights past after her nightmare. A simple thing, to give in to this compulsion…one that felt as strong, as heady as any magic.

Suppose she did it. Would he respond as he had, that night in her loft? Would she enjoy that same sweetness and safety again…only to have to bid him farewell, in another day?

We’ll be there tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t bear it all…Taran, this journey, the music, her own snarled-up feelings. With a heave she threw off the cloak, snatched her bauble and rose to her feet. The others all looked at her in concern at the abruptness; Rhun stammered, “I say…” but she was already gone.

She shed no tears, alone in her berth. But she lay awake long, listening to the roll of the distant thunder, and the mournful songs of men in love with the sea.

Chapter Text

"There it is! Land, ho!" Rhun's glad cry rang out in the early morning from the helm. Eilonwy looked up to see him waving wildly. "Come up!" he cried. "Come up here and see!"

Taran met her there at the foot of the steps, and moved aside for her without a word, his face unreadable. They ascended, and followed Rhun's excited point -there, rising from the water like some great sea-beast, a rolling grey mass broke the blue line on the horizon. Eilonwy gazed upon it, ambivalent and anxious. She feared nothing awaiting her on those shores…only the way every league closer to them made her feel further from all she knew and loved.

Taran came to stand beside her, silent and alert. Had he been Coll she would have thrown herself into his arms for comfort without a second thought. Why could she not do so now? When a friend's embrace, or even clasped hand, might serve to hold this aching loneliness away a little longer? And yet she made no move toward him, though he stood close enough that a mere twitch of her hand would have closed the gap between them.

Rhun was beaming next to them. "We're almost home, at last! As soon as the watchmen see our flag they'll raise the alert, and there'll be a welcoming party waiting for us. I say, it'll be good to be back! We'll have a feast, and sleep in proper beds tonight! I must go round up the men below deck."

He scampered off, and after a few more moments they followed, climbing back down to the main deck. "I don't know how a proper bed makes any difference," Taran muttered as he left the stairs. "He can't possibly sleep any sounder than he does on deck, if his snoring is anything to go by."

Eilonwy chuckled and then sighed. "Don't be mean. For all you know, you might snore and nobody's ever told you. I've slept well enough, but a feast does sound nice, after all the hardtack we've been eating."

They made their way to the prow, and watched the grey mass in silence. It did not seem to be getting closer at all, though she knew it was an illusion; the wind in her face and the cut of the spray told her they were racing over the water. "It's so much faster, traveling like this," Taran said at last. "We're as far from home as I've ever been. Further even than Caer Dathyl, I think, and that took much longer than three days."

"It ought to have taken even longer," Eilonwy pointed out, avoiding the uncomfortable thought of the distance. "We were weeks coming back—do you remember? I've always wondered how we managed to get there so quickly."

"I've thought about that." His voice dropped a little, as though he were speaking of secret things. "I think it may be due to our time in the Fair Folk realm. You know how the stories always make out that time works differently there."

"That's true," she said, "though you're usually there a longer time than you think, not shorter. But perhaps Eiddileg really did put us on a quicker path, despite all his bluster. Certainly we avoided having to cross the mountains. I believe you're right."

He cast her an amused sideways glance. "I think my ears are playing tricks. Did you really just say I was right about something?" 

Eilonwy huffed, turned her face away to hide a sheepish half-smile, and gazed steadfastly out at the water. But she was troubled. He was only teasing, of course…but did she really cut him down so often that he must remark upon it? Did he have no notion of her real esteem? Even a jest could spring from a real hurt, and it was intolerable that he would leave her on Mona believing she thought so little of him.

"Taran," she blurted out, as much to her surprise as to his, "I know I've never flattered you. I should think less of you if I thought it was what you wanted. I've always told you straight out when I thought you were wrong, and goodness knows that's been often enough." He snorted quietly and she hurried on. "But I've also told you when you'd done well, and I've stood ground with you and defended your decisions when everyone else was against you. I hope you notice those moments just as much as the others."

Taran was silent for several breaths, the silence of surprise at an unexpected and serious shift. "I do," he said finally, low and a little rough. "I do notice them…all the more because such commendation from you is hardly won, and thus worth far more than it would be from anyone else."

Both words and tone made her breath catch, but Eilonwy tossed her head lightly. "That makes me sound like Dallben. Do I snipe at you too much? Tell me plainly." She turned to face him, to prove that she could, that it was not awkward and overwhelming, this square meeting of eyes.

He paused, looking befuddled. "I don't know how to answer that. I suppose…I suppose if we are generous, we could say you mostly criticize me when I earn it fairly, and in that case, it's definitely far too much." He laughed, and then his smile faded, and his eyes became earnest. "But I hope…I hope you've found fewer and fewer reasons to do it, and more to commend. Because you're right." His sun-kissed cheeks went suddenly darker. "I don't want flattery from you. Only the truth, always."

The truth? Eilonwy flushed hot, thinking of all the truths she had not yet told him, some she had only begun to suspect, but had no words to give them shape. He stood, waiting for her to say something, and the silence stretched out, full of questions.

"I've always told you the truth," she said at last, breaking his gaze and looking out again upon the water, her heart pounding in her throat, "and I always will. But if I've sometimes been upset, and harsher about it than I ought, then I'm sorry. I don't mean to cut you down. I think…" She hesitated, took a breath. "I think very highly of you, you know." It felt inadequate — a thing any one of dozens of their acquaintance might say. She berated herself inwardly for not being bolder, yet even these mild words seemed like helpless, exposed things, and in a sudden defensive feint she added, "Even when you're being impossible."

Taran bent over, leaning his elbows on the bulwark, and looked out on the horizon. His long hair, escaped from its thongs, wrestled with the wind, now revealing, now obscuring his profile. Eilonwy hammered down a series of dangerous impulses: to reach out, to lace her fingers through its dark strands, to stroke it back out of his face. Instead she crossed her arms and leaned forward, trapping her hands against her chest lest they betray her. Llyr, why didn't he say something?

When he did speak, it was halting, like someone crossing a frozen river, testing every step. "Eilonwy. When…when you first came to Caer Dallben, back with me after…after everything, it was…I remember…" he hesitated, and regrouped from a different direction. "What made you decide to stay?"

Thrown a little off-balance, she thought for a moment, anxiety quelled beneath the distraction. "I think I just…well, besides it being such a homey, lovely sort of place, I…I felt…wanted there." She smiled at the memory of that first day, of its sense of sweet discovery, its open-armed serenity. "I'd never felt really wanted anywhere before."

Taran glanced back at her in surprise. "Surely at Caer Dathyl…?"

Eilonwy shrugged. "Oh, of course, Caer Dathyl was lovely, but we were guests, there; it was different, somehow. Coming to Caer Dallben was like…like putting on clothes that were made just for me. I don't know how, since no word was sent, but..."

Taran smiled and shook his head, before turning his face back toward the sea. "Dallben knew."

"Yes, I suppose he did." She laughed lightly. "Anyhow I had nowhere else to go, and…and you were there." Was that what he really wanted?…assurance that she had stayed because of him? "After all we'd been through together, I…wanted to stay with you." There. It was out—that much, at least—and how simple and obvious it sounded; nothing that should make her so breathless for the saying, nor so achingly aware of how, when he straightened up and turned to her, his presence at her side should feel so weighty.

He seemed about to speak several times, and she waited, holding her breath, staring at his hand on the ship railing, where it rested an inch from hers. "Why?" he asked.

An unsatisfying response, after such a build, and she felt vaguely that he was deflecting a responsibility to her that should have been his. Her retort held a slightly sharpened edge. "To keep you out of trouble, naturally."

It was though they were passing a bundled, secret object back and forth, each hoping the other would unwrap it. He let out a huff of amused tension, and seemed to collect himself, becoming earnest again. "Everything was…so different after you came. So much more…" A breath. "More interesting, and full, and…happier. I wasn't unhappy before, but there was something missing, and none of us even knew it, until you were there. I can't imagine…"

His voice trailed off. His fingertips brushed the edge of her hand, a touch so fleeting and light it might have been accidental. She sucked in her breath, eyes darting to his face, and found his gaze already waiting for her. "I can't imagine you not…" he tried again, but any other words he had intended were lost, swallowed by his expression, a hungry intensity that devoured anything she might have thought of in answer. It erased her mind in an instant, releasing a burst of feeling that overthrew thought and enthroned itself instead, casting an inexorable decree over the rest of her. How was it possible, when she stood so still, for everything around and within her to feel so dizzyingly in motion? A rush of fluid sensation swept her, cold and tingling at its edges, hot at its core. Her legs went as unsteady as the sweeping waves that carried them, swaying her toward him—or had he stepped even nearer, to be so close? Close enough to hear his breath, huffed between his parted lips; close enough to know the moment his gaze released her eyes, and dropped, a flash of living green between dark lashes, to fasten on her mouth.

For a frozen, eternal moment she stood waiting. Her breath paused at her lips like a floating leaf trembling upon the edge of a cataract, anxious and anticipatory of an unknown plunge. Her pulse surged loud, as roaring as the rhythmic sea but faster, urgent, compelling. One breath, and his hand was warm over hers at the railing. Another, and his face hovered, close, close…

"I see it! I see the castle!" A whoop rose up behind them, crashing across her consciousness, so incongruous that she gasped aloud as the moment shattered like ice and dropped her into frigid shock. Immediately, they sprang apart, their hands sundered as though stung by the contact; the space between them yawned empty for an agonizing instant before it was filled by a third eager figure: Rhun, bouncing joyfully against the bulwark and waving toward the horizon. "Look!" he crowed. "There's Dinas Rhydnant!"

Eilonwy stared helplessly over his shoulder, seeing nothing but Taran's expression; for a terrifying second she thought he really would pitch the hapless prince overboard, and for an even more terrifying second she welcomed the prospect. No, no, no…gods…it was all too ridiculous; was it some game, with her the unwitting pawn? She heard an indecipherable sound come from her own mouth; a strangled, hysterical laugh, or an angry sob…which was it?

Somehow her eyes broke away and followed Rhun's enthusiastic gesture; the grey mass on the horizon had developed colors and faint features. At the apex of its highest point, a shape broke its smooth edge: the multi-towered silhouette of a castle, low and broad in design, a fortress built to withstand onslaught from human and nature alike. At any other moment she might have found it an impressive view; now, through the rubble of punctured happiness and collapsed possibilities she saw only barriers and closed doors, an abrupt end to a story that had had no chance to begin. "Oh," she gasped out; Llyr, she was going to burst into tears and humiliate herself even further; why, why, why must this be how she responded to everything lately? "We're almost there. I must…" she stammered, backing away, "must go…get ready…"

She turned and fled, across the deck and into the solitude of the cabin, slamming the door and falling back against it, wrapping her arms across her chest as though to hold herself in, keep her raging heart from bursting free. The sob she'd held back tore itself out, a single cry of frustration and wounded pride. But it was a relief to release it, and she stood there, listening to her own breath, until she felt herself relax a little into the rocking of the ship, and pulled herself away from the door to pace the room.

What had happened? Everything. And nothing. And what now? Dared she bring it up with Taran later, if she could get him alone? What if she had misunderstood his intent? No, that couldn't be…his intent had been unmistakable; even she could see that. But had he just been carried away by the thrill of the moment? Oh, why was this so complicated, what was wrong with her? Hadn't she dreamed of his saying and doing such things? Why could she not simply enjoy this...this giddy euphoria, this sensation of heady sweetness suffusing her? No, instead she must overthink and second-guess, even while the press of his palm still burned on the back of her hand. With a groan she flopped onto the berth and buried her burning face in the blankets.

And now he's leaving. It came to her again, a painful reminder from the previous evening. He's leaving, and I'm staying. In a matter of days, Taran would be sailing these same waters back home without her. And it might be years before she saw him again—years! Who knew what could happen in the meantime? It was bad enough being made to leave Caer Dallben, like a weed pulled from the garden, all her roots exposed and raw. How much worse, to entwine herself into an even more complicated binding, only to be ripped away from her very heart?

It was, perhaps, already too late to avoid it. And she was not at all certain she would want to avoid it if she could.

Some time later, she became aware of the urgency of sailors' shouts and the changed rhythm of the water pounding against the sides of the ship, things she had learned to associate with imminent landing. Well, here they were, the inevitable finally come. Nervously, she rose and washed her face, took stock of herself rather grimly. There was nothing to be done about the salty, windblown state of her hair and clothes, and she elected against checking her reflection in the little mirror, certain it would show her nothing worth seeing. She bundled up her belongings, and donned her shoes with great reluctance. Pocketing her bauble, she left the cabin for the last time.

The transformation outdoors startled her as she looked around. Mona's distant grey silhouette had not conveyed the island's size or ruggedness. Its sides now rose before them in towering cliffs, their fissured, glistening surfaces thrust up from the water to jab at the grey clouds. At their feet, the sea moved in a sinuous, roaring dance. White-webbed swells heaved like giant lungs, collapsing into breakers. Each collision spawned explosions of foaming spray, shattered water shooting skyward like a volley of liquid arrows. Gulls swirled, white specks against the dark stone, their wild cries a high and haunting countermelody to the thunder of the surf.

It was loud, and violent, and terrifying, and magnificent, pushing all else from her mind with its sense-saturating majesty. Eilonwy ran to the side, heedless of the sailors' activity as they whirled around her, scrambling in response to the shouted commands of the shipmaster. The ship pitched and dove like a wild horse as they neared the cliffs. Beyond the towers of stone she saw the glimmering of a calm harbor. Around her, men shouted, pulled at ropes, strained at oars. They glided between the towers, past jutting stones stacked in jetties, across a broad stretch of calmer water speckled with clusters of smaller craft at anchor. At the far side, a seawall snaked up from the water's edge and up the hill toward the castle. Ruby-red pennants snapped from its towers.

Their movement slowed. Eilonwy looked around nervously for her companions, saw Gurgi scampering among the fish barrels, and then a swift flash of black: Kaw swooped overhead, banked and dropped. There was Taran, working among the sailors. In three days he had become comfortable enough with a few simple tasks that he no longer was distinguishable by his clumsiness. She watched him move among the men; strong, agile, confident... The familiar flush of warmth rose to her face and she swallowed. Kaw settled upon Taran's shoulder, and Taran paused to stroke the feathered head before shooing him away with a smile. Theirs was an easy relationship, free of awkwardness; each knew exactly what he was to the other. Eilonwy frowned at herself, annoyed at the realization that she could be envious of a crow.

Taran straightened up and caught her watching. Her heart leapt to her throat, but they were too separated, the commotion on the ship too frenzied; there would be no chance to speak with him any time soon. He held her gaze for a few seconds and then turned back to work, helping the sailors throw out the mooring lines as they glided up to the longest pier.

Rhun hurried from the helm, all smiles. "Princess! Ready to land? Come, let's gather your friends –I see the Captain already waiting!" He waved enthusiastically to someone on land, and strode ahead, calling to Taran and Gurgi. In a few moments they were stepping from the ship, onto a long wooden pier. A cluster of armed guards in crimson regalia were waiting there; the Captain stepped forward, drawing his sword to salute the prince. Rhun, clearly puffed-up over his successful first mission from home, drew his own sword with an elaborate flourish to return the salute. Taran, standing near him, flinched backward to avoid his haphazard sweep; the blade caught in his cloak and tangled. There was a ripping sound, and both boys exclaimed in dismay.

Taran shook his cloak free and held it up; a long gash marred the fabric. Rhun bent forward to examine it. "Oh, I say. I'm sorry about that." His sincerity was obvious, and Eilonwy cringed inwardly for him no less than for Taran, who murmured an entirely unnecessary apology and shut his lips, his face scarlet. He was already self-conscious, she knew, about his plain homespun clothing and faded cloak—always overly touchy and concerned for appearances as he was, it pained her to see his embarrassment. The Captain remained stone-faced, closing in behind them as Rhun shook off the incident and took the lead, offering her his arm and then marching importantly toward the castle.

They climbed innumerable steps hewn into the stone cliffs, the guards following, banners snapping overhead. Rhun called cheerfully to folk gathered here and there along the way, who paused to bow or curtsy, welcoming him home with what appeared to be genuine affection. Whatever his weaknesses as a king's son, Eilonwy thought, as an individual he did seem to have the goodwill of his people, which was probably more than could be said for many a prince.

The castle gates were thrown open at their approach, and they entered a wide courtyard, where folks were gathered amidst a general air of expectancy. In the center stood a middle-aged couple, richly garmented. Rhun let go of her arm, bursting out with a hearty, "Hullo, hullo!" as he ran to them.

The king and queen embraced their son, with many affirmations of their pride in his accomplishments, then turned to welcome their guests, Rhuddlum inclining his head cordially over the hand Eilonwy gave him. He had a round, pleasant face like Rhun's, obscured on its bottom half by a short beard. His sand-colored hair, shoulder-length and streaked with silver, was bound at his temples with a band of beaten gold. Queen Teleria stood just behind the king's shoulder, almost as tall as he was. She was full in figure and robed in fluttering white. Her hair, the same wheat-straw blonde as Rhun's, was braided in complicated figures around her head, studded in pearls and held in place by a golden circlet. Her eyes were pale blue, but sharp, without the guilelessness of her son's; there was sweetness and warmth in her smile, and a stubborn firmness in her dimpled chin.

"Welcome, Princess Eilonwy of the House of Llyr," Rhuddlum said, looking her over with a reverence that could not quite mask his curiosity. "Your presence does us great honor. A great honor. Long has it been since a Daughter of Llyr has graced the shores of Mona, and never did we hope to see it again! Your coming has been greatly anticipated by all. And who are these companions?" He turned, smiling, to Taran and Gurgi.

"Thank you," Eilonwy said, adding, "your Majesty," in a quick gasp as she remembered. "These are my friends and companions from Caer Dallben, sent to...er...to keep me company on the journey. Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper, and Gurgi, the, um..." She paused, looking at Gurgi rather bemusedly. "The bold and clever," she finished, with a grin, and watched his ears perk up with pleasure. "And Kaw," she added, as the crow bobbed on Taran's shoulder.

"Quite so," the king answered; if he thought they were an odd collection of ragtag individuals he did not say so, only opening his arms to encompass them all in a single gesture. "You are all welcome. Dallben did mention there would be friends accompanying you, now that I think on it. All are welcome! It is an honor. I hope your journey was pleasant, and that the Prince attended you, and saw to your comfort with all courtesy?"

Rhun stood beaming next to his father, and Eilonwy suddenly wanted to laugh hysterically—the only possible reaction to how the prince's incessant, innocent attendance had almost driven her mad. "Yes," she choked out, forcing it down, "he was...excessively attentive. Thank you."

"Splendid!" Rhuddlum patted his son on the back. "You've been anticipated, you see. Greatly anticipated. The honor of your presence..." He hesitated, seeming to get lost for a moment in his own words, and the Queen, clearly having been impatiently waiting for such an opportunity, burst forward.

"Yes, yes, my dear, you said all that," she assured him, and seized Eilonwy by both hands. "Come now –oh, look at you! Who would have thought!" In a dizzying moment Eilonwy found herself yanked into Teleria's warm embrace and squashed against her ample bosom. The queen kissed her on the forehead and both cheeks, exclaiming all the while. "Oh, it's like a miracle! Angharad's daughter! I just knew—oh, poor lamb, no matter what happened, you never deserved—but here you are, at last, where you belong!"

Teleria released her breathlessly and turned her onslaught upon Taran, pulling him into her generous arms and kissing him likewise on both cheeks. "And you, my love! Aren't you a handsome thing! Dallben told me you might be escorting—very kind, so thoughtful! there was no need to take so much trouble, but—how wonderful to know the Princess has had such good friends!"

Taran's face was scarlet as she released him and turned to Gurgi. "And...and...well..." Teleria said, rather amazedly, squeezed the furry hands he offered her, and pulled him into a quick embrace, though she omitted the kisses. "You are also welcome, dear, of course—all of you, how delightful!"

She turned back to Eilonwy, becoming suddenly formal, clearing her throat. "Now, then. Welcome, Daughter of Angharad. As the King has spoken—your presence honors—oh, don't fidget, child, and stand straight—our Royal House." She took Eilonwy by the shoulders and looked her over, her pleasant face hardening in horror. "Good Llyr, where did you get these frightful clothes? Yes, I can see it's high time Dallben let you out of that hole-and-corner in the middle of the woods."

The sudden shift stung. Eilonwy flushed with embarrassment, recalling her disheveled state. "Hole-and-corner, indeed!" she exclaimed, forgetting courtesy in her indignation. "I love Caer Dallben. And Dallben is a great enchanter."

Teleria sniffed, though her sharp eyes twinkled. "Exactly. He's so busy casting spells and all such that he's let you grow like a weed!" She turned her face slightly to Rhuddlum. "Wouldn't you say so, my dear?"

The question seemed to hold some sort of strange significance, but Rhuddlum, who had offered his arm to Kaw, only murmured distractedly, "Yes, my dear. Very much like a weed."

Kaw hopped from Taran's elbow to the new one offered, hunched himself up, and loudly croaked, "Rhuddlum!"

The king burst into a hearty laugh. "Did you hear that! It talks! The bird talks! What else can he say?"

Rhun pulled eagerly at his father's sleeve. "Isn't it amazing! Almost anything. The cleverest crow you've ever seen."

They were a pair, Eilonwy saw at once; it was obvious where Rhun had gotten his eagerness to be delighted at every novelty. Their interaction was charming, but she felt a twinge of unease as she watched Rhuddlum continue to exclaim over the crow. This lack of guile that spoke of innocence and inexperience in a young prince was mildly off-putting in a grown man and a king.

But she had no time to consider it. Teleria had made authoritative observations on all, and was taking the situation in hand. "Look at that disgracefully torn cloak! You must both have new raiment. New gown, new jacket, sandals—everything! Luckily we have a perfectly wonderful shoemaker at the castle now. He was just—don't pout that way, my child, you'll give yourself a blister—passing through, but we've kept him busy and he's still cobbling away. Our Chief Steward shall see to it. Magg? Magg? Where is he?" She turned this way and that, her garments floating about her in white streaks.

A man standing just at her elbow murmured, "At your command." Eilonwy examined him—shorter in stature than the queen, and standing so absolutely still in her shadow during her flurry of welcome that he had effectively made himself almost invisible. He was thin, pale, and beardless, his dark hair worn long and rather lank. He was dressed in raiment as fine as his monarchs'; a silver chain spilled to his chest, and a ring of keys hung at his side. He had silently watched all the proceedings with a pair of keen grey eyes, and when he spoke it was with a slight, sibilant lisp. "All has been ordered," he said to the queen. "Your decisions have been foreseen. The shoemaker, the tailors and weavers stand ready."

"Excellent!" Teleria clapped her hands. "The Princess and I shall go first to the weaving rooms. Magg shall show the rest of you to your chambers."

She took Eilonwy's arm and steered her away, with barely time for a single backward glance at her friends. They strode briskly through the courtyard, and several women who had been hovering in the background fell in behind them at a wave of the queen's hand. Teleria led them on, never ceasing to talk all the while, hesitating only briefly to hear the murmured answers of her ladies. "Beddan, dear, do run ahead to the solar and see if that embroidery is finished-it ought to be trimmed to her first gown straightaway, no matter what we decide on for the rest of her wardrobe. It'll be a mercy if anything's done in time for tonight, but we shall hope-oh, gracious child, don't slouch like that while you walk. Hold your head up like your foremothers. Llyr's Daughters stand tall and proud always-for good speed. Was her chamber properly aired last night? And the fire laid? Good. Do you have the gifting?"

It took Eilonwy a breathless moment, and the queen's pausing to look pointedly at her, to realize that this last question was directed at her. "I...which one?" she stammered, overwhelmed and at a loss.

"To light your own fire, love," Teleria explained, with a briskness that seemed to hold no actual impatience. "If so I shan't bother having it kindled and banked ahead of time."

"Oh!" Eilonwy relaxed a little, relieved to understand something. "Yes. I can do that much."

A sense of shared, curious awe emanated from the handful of ladies behind them, and Teleria nodded approvingly. "Good. From the little Dallben told me, it wasn't clear if you had the usual abilities, or any at all. The time I had trying to get that man to answer simple questions in a message! You would think he couldn't read, he ignored so many of them." She bustled on, shaking her head. "But I'm glad to hear you've retained the skills. It would be a shame if they were allowed to die out; your family valued them so highly. I'm surprised Dallben didn't...well, never mind."

They bustled on through twisting corridors and up and down stairs, the queen issuing orders and opinions like a farmer scattering seed. She leapt from one topic to the next with a rapidity only matched by her long strides. Eilonwy, unaccustomed to conversation whose speed rivaled her own, and hopelessly lost both in the maze of the castle and in the transitions between subjects, puffed to keep up, more overwhelmed all the time. She was pulled into the weavers' chamber and introduced; everyone rose and curtseyed to her, and she wanted to squirm away at the gaze of so many curious eyes. The mistress there measured her with knotted cords and laid out lengths of various fabrics before the queen's critical opinions. Eilonwy looked about while they conferred, reminded vaguely of the goods at the Rover camp. Raw wool was piled in bins against the wall, waiting to be carded; hanks of yarn in every possible color hung from hooks on the walls and from the beams of the ceiling. Women of varying ages, from younger than she up to grey-headed elders, sat at spinning wheels and looms, none idle. The room was filled with the whirring of wheels, the clacking of shuttles, and the chatter of women's voices.

There was something not unpleasant about it; she sensed a camaraderie among them, a cheerful industriousness as they worked, the room warm and sunlit from the windows in one side. But it was alien to her, and she stood back, uncertain and uncharacteristically quiet as Teleria made judgements upon her planned attire.

"That blue silk I planned will suit her perfectly," the queen declared. "With her complexion! It's ideal. Neckline modest but open, none of that smothering nonsense they've adopted on the mainland lately; what can they be thinking, wrapping women up like swaddled infants! Yes, keep it fitted through the waist -dear me, I remember what it was to have such a figure!-make the most of that while you can, my dear; gracious, look how this horrid thing just swallows her like a turnip sack. Dallben might as well have dressed her like any farmboy. Though I suppose it was practical enough, out in that wilderness! We'll have you looking like a princess by tonight. Gladys, go and find something we can put on her just for the time being. Borrow it from one of the girls in the south wing. She ought to be presentable at least until her gown is ready. Tell the tailors I expect it done by sunset."

"Master Gavin won't like that," someone piped up amusedly, to a round of giggles among several others, and several nudges in the ribs of one particular young woman.

"Master Gavin will do as he's told," Teleria retorted, "if he expects to remain Master Tailor. He's got enough spare hands, between all those assistants he asked for; more than Madox ever needed, but you don't find a crafter like Madox twice in a lifetime, that's certain. Go on, Delyth, you can run down with the fabric, and tell that man of yours if he doesn't get it done in time I'll have you assigned as overnight handmaid for the Princess."

There was a round of hoots as the flushing young lady sprang up with a self-conscious laugh, gathered up a bolt of something wrapped in protective linen, and disappeared from the chamber. Eilonwy, only vaguely deciphering the implications of the conversation, registered the final words with an unpleasant jolt. "I don't need an overnight handmaid," she blurted out, breaking her long silence. "I don't need a handmaid at all. I'm perfectly able to take care of myself."

Teleria tutted, fluttering around her. "Oh, child, of course you are; it's what you've always done, poor lamb; who else was available to do it? What a travesty. But we'll see to it that you're properly attended here. A princess should always have a handmaid, even several—you see that I myself have my ladies." She gestured around at the women who had followed them like shadows. "They are indispensable! Confidantes and companions, all, and they help me keep this place in order and running ship-shape. That is a queen's duty, you know—one of several. Don't scowl like that, it's unbecoming—you'll find out soon enough how necessary a good handmaid is, and once you're settled in you'll have your pick as your ladies-in-waiting. Now. On we go—I'll show you to your chambers and you can get cleaned up a bit. A long sea voyage leaves one so unkempt! What you truly need is a bath and a hair-washing. Seren, Aerona, you two can help her with that; Cerys, run down and order a tub brought to her room."

Eilonwy was bundled out the door and down another corridor. A quick glance out of windows as they passed showed her successive towers, walls, and rooftops marching down a long slope; Dinas Rhydnant, she realized, was more of a clustered community of residences than a single castle, its scope closer to Caer Dathyl as she remembered it. Far off, at the foot of the slope, she caught sight of a gleam of blue: a river, snaking its way out to sea.

The Queen led her up and down and finally stopped outside another door halfway up a tower, opening it and drawing her inside. Between one order and another, her ladies had dissipated until only two were left, and when they entered the chamber and shut the door Eilonwy drew a sigh of some relief at the relative peace, and looked about her.

The room was a comfortable size, not cramped, but not as large as her chamber at Caer Dathyl had been, nor so opulent, though it was very fine in its way. Its rounded walls bore two casements almost opposite each other, with windows that stood open. The salty sea air blew in, cool and tingling on her frayed nerves. A pillared bed, covered in embroidered cushions and hung with green draperies, stood against the wall between them, flanked by tapestries; opposite it were the fireplace and a low couch, strewn with more cushions. The wooden floor was covered in woven-rush rugs. A mirror hung upon one wall, brighter than the copper one she carried; a large chest squatted at the foot of the bed. Another door led to a smaller chamber, outfitted with one narrow window and a slim but well-upholstered bed: the sleeping quarters, she realized, of the threatened overnight handmaid.

Teleria was looking at her expectantly, and Eilonwy knew she must say something. The room was quite nice, but as she laid her small bundle upon the low couch she thought only of her loft in Caer Dallben, and the sense of homesickness that washed over her rendered her unable to say a word—at least, not without the danger of accompanying it with uncontrollable sobbing, in which case it seemed better to say nothing at all. Fortunately, perhaps, at that moment there was commotion at the door, and servants appeared, hoisting a large wooden tub between them. Her bath was arriving, and while Teleria spent the next few minutes busily issuing commands, Eilonwy moved uncertainly to the open casement.

She caught her breath. The swinging frame with its diamond glass panes pushed aside to show her a sheer drop, the stone of the castle tumbling down to the glistening blue of the sea. She could hear its distant thunder over the chattering women in the room. A gull, standing upon a crenellation on a wall nearby, looked at her curiously, hopped off and soared in an updraft. She cast her thoughts toward it for a moment, felt a brief and ephemeral thrill of wild kinship. The breeze lifted her hair and her spirits, and she sank to the bench that filled the space next to the window, and sat there for several minutes, breathing in deep, settling herself before she turned back to the inside of the chamber, in response to Teleria's approach.

"Come, child, all is ready." The queen touched her shoulder and a little of her briskness subsided. "Are you happy with your room?"

Eilonwy attempted a smile, though she sensed it was weak. "Oh, yes. It's quite lovely—and it must have been a great deal of work getting things ready. I do appreciate it. It was…" she hesitated, choking a little on her own propriety. "It was very kind of you to invite me here." Blast it! There came the tears, anyway, despite all her efforts; they welled hot behind her eyes, and although she did not let them fall, she knew they were obvious.

Teleria, exclaiming in concern, plopped down on the bench beside her and gathered her up in her arms. "Dear girl," she crooned, "dear, dear girl, it was nothing at all, nothing. When I found out you were...well, even that you existed at all! You've no idea how we've wanted you here. It was all Rhuddlum could do, to stop me from boarding a ship myself and sailing down to talk some sense into all those meddling men. Your poor mother would have wanted you—there, there, it's all right, you can cry, no one will think less of you for it here!-to be as near your own place and people as you could be. I only wish we could resurrect her—all of them!"

It was a strange feeling, so strange, to be embraced with such warmth and softness; never in her living memory had any woman held her, rocked her back and forth this way, spoken to her with such honest emotion. Certainly Achren had not. Achren had slapped her when she cried, threatened her with worse if she did not stop. She had learned to hate her own tears, to hate herself when she could not hold them back, even when they were warranted. And now here was this oddity, this plump, motherly creature, assuring her that they were all right. It would, indeed, have been an unutterable relief to give full vent to her feelings. Yet Eilonwy felt so uncomfortable at such smothering affection that she only gasped a few times, dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Teleria handed her, and swallowed back the rest, embarrassed at such attention from one who was little more than a stranger as yet.

Teleria patted her back gently. "Poor dear, you're overwrought and exhausted, and no wonder. A good bath will do wonders – always the thing after you've had a long journey! You settle in and let Seren and Aerona take care of you and you'll feel better in no time. I shall go see to your friends. You have more here, as well, you know—we've a bard who showed up just after the ship left, who claims he is well-known to you."

"Fflewddur?" Eilonwy gasped, sitting up, as a burst of joy broke upon her like sunrays from an overcast sky. Fflewddur, here! How, and why?! Oh, that was something she could be uncritically glad about!

"I see he was telling the truth," the Queen said, a little dryly, "at least on one point. Don't worry, you'll see him this evening at the feast. Now, a good washing and then down to the Great Hall." She rose and gestured to the two handmaids. "Nothing too elaborate with her hair; just get it cleaned and combed and in order. Save the real effort for this evening. Spare clothes should be up soon; I'll see what's keeping Gladys." And she was gone, bustling from the room like a departing storm, leaving silence in her wake.

Chapter Text

Eilonwy stared at the two maids, uncomfortable, remembering the fuss that had been made over her at Caer Dathyl, the complete lack of privacy. "I know it's the usual thing," she said, "to have bath attendants. But I'm not used to it."

The ladies exchanged glances. They were not really very much older than she, and she sensed their uncertainty about what to do with her. "If it pleases you, milady," Seren answered, dropping a quick curtsy, "we could wait in the antechamber there, and you can call to us if you need assistance."

Eilonwy nodded. "Yes, that will do."

The ladies laid out several implements on a small table and discreetly disappeared. Eilonwy kindled the fire in the hearth with a snap of her fingers, undressed before it, and climbed into the tub, sighing as the steaming water enveloped her. Oh, this was nice…a pleasure she had not experienced in years, whose intensity she had forgotten.

She lowered herself until her tangled hair swirled about her shoulders. The salt seeped out of it, collecting on her lips. Its magic tingled on her tongue, closer and clearer than she usually experienced: an instant flood of power, pulsing at her fingertips. On an impulse she took a breath and sank all the way beneath the surface, eyes shut, senses turned inward.

In her mind she sensed movement, a soft swaying back and forth, and darkness, cold and heavy and full, and then a soft, glowing light, silver-white. She did not know what any of it meant, but somehow the sense of it seeped past her consciousness, and unlocked what even Teleria's comforting assurances could not: she wept into the water, tears released like breath into the space around her.

Rising to breathe, submerging again: she felt a stirring as though voices whispered in her ears, too low to decipher words. As the tears ebbed, a slow and unexpected peace seeped into her, slowing her heartbeat, soothing her frayed nerves, cooling that tight heat at her temples and behind her eyes. The mingled sweet and salt taste of water-magic pooled in her mouth, complex and compelling.

Again and again she rose to breathe and sank again, remaining there until her aching lungs demanded relief. Surfacing for good at last with a gasp, she examined her surroundings with some return of spirit.

The fire popped and hissed in the big hearth, its homey glow and sense of kinship both comforting and familiar; the sea wind breezing through the room carried a tang that quickened her blood and brought back visions of that wild black coast they had sailed past. If only she could go exploring there! The rugged beauty of the cliffs, filled with their innumerable crevices and nooks, their towering secrets, had drawn her eye and filled her with longing. There was a place where she might follow her feet, make discoveries, find her own sacred spaces. Such a chance just might make her sojourn here tolerable.

And Fflewddur was here! Not to stay for long, most likely, but while he was, perhaps he and Taran, Gurgi and she might find a way to leave the castle and have a good lark. For a few days, it might be just like old times; a jaunt whose memory could carry her through whatever lonely, dull months undoubtedly lay ahead.

She turned her attention to the small table next to the tub and poked curiously at the small clay pots and carved soapstone jars laid out there, each filled with a different mysterious substance, none of it resembling the soft soap they used at Caer Dallben. These were powders and crystals and ointments; they smelled like roses and lavender, like honeycomb and elderflower. Surely they were not all meant to be used by one person in one bath. Nobody could be as filthy as all that.

Eilonwy yelped indignantly, as a knock at her chamber door was immediately followed by that door opening and a figure bustling in—Gladys, the woman who had been sent out after spare clothing, now stood before her, arms full of rich fabrics.

"Really!" Eilonwy crossed her own arms over her chest in embarrassment. "What's the point of knocking if you're just going to come right in anyway?"

"Oh, beg pardon, milady." Gladys dropped a curtsy and laid her stack of clothing on the couch. "The Queen did say you might not be used to our ways, here. Where did…? Oh! There you are," she exclaimed, as the other two women, drawn by the commotion, appeared in the doorway of the antechamber.

"For goodness' sake," Eilonwy sputtered. "I suppose I may as well get used to this. Since my bath is a public spectacle, will one of you tell me what I'm to do with all these?" She motioned to the collection of cosmetics.

There followed a bewildering flurry of unfamiliar rituals, as the women exclaimed indulgently over her ignorance and sprang into action. They poured scented salts into the water, and, when she shrugged at having her permission asked, scrubbed her with a rough sponge and something that lathered until her skin shone pink. They massaged one of the perfumed concoctions into her hair, rinsed it out, and followed it up with another. In spite of her discomfort at such unfamiliar intimacies, she found herself lulled by the sensation. Well, even the most standoffish cats always came back for more when one scratched their heads, didn't they; perhaps she was experiencing a similar impulse.

There was much tsking over her callouses and the state of her nails on both fingers and toes. Tiny files appeared and reamed them into acceptable shape; tiny sticks scraped the dirt from beneath. When she rose from the water they wrapped her in a large bath sheet and bade her sit upon the couch before the fire, where ointment smelling of roses and mint was rubbed into her skin. Seren wrapped her hair in another swath of linen and wrung it out, combing its tangles free. Once they were all satisfied with its state, her hair was coiled in sections, long strands twisted and draped like golden cords.

It was an experience not unpleasant—or at least, Eilonwy could imagine it being pleasant if one were used to such things. She had no memory of being touched with hands that nurtured in these ways. Surely her mother must have done so, must have bathed her and combed her hair, balmed her scrapes with ointment, held her and kissed her. For even in her years in Spiral Castle, Eilonwy had known, vaguely, that such ministrations existed, though certainly not from Achren's example. That latent knowledge had set her free…free to embrace and be embraced, within her new circle of friends and family. Perhaps now, if she could only bear her own self-consciousness at first, this lavish attention would also become a thing that felt…normal. Welcome, even.

The women talked the entire time, both to her and about her, often not waiting for a response before chattering on, leaping from one subject to the next as quickly as Teleria did. They traded opinions upon what colors would suit Eilonwy best, what sort of jewelry should be paired with her gowns, what else might be done with her hair if only they had the time and tools. They talked of the feast that night, of the Queen's expert planning and organizing of the event. But without doubt their favorite topic was men; Seren was married and the others were not, and which of them was the more dissatisfied with her lot was difficult to decipher. The laments of Aerona and Gladys over the lack of decent men to court them seemed sincere. But Seren's complaints about her husband were often subtlety boastful, the way one might complain about the trials of training a particularly adored but obstinate stallion, and often accompanied by rounds of giggles from all of them.

They pulled successive layers of clothing onto her: a linen shift tightly laced up the front, a kirtle of silk that fell to her ankles, sleeves fastening at her wrists, and then another, heavier, with sleeves that trailed from her elbows in amounts of fabric destined to get endlessly in her way. How did one accomplish anything useful in such a get-up? Perhaps that was the point. And it laced at the back; she would never have been able to don it herself, nor would she be able to remove it without help.

Blast! This experience was no anomaly, then, but the ordinary way of things: to require assistance at something so basic as getting dressed! It had been the same at Caer Dathyl, but she'd been a child then, and would have assumed, had she thought about it at all, that no grown woman would be put in a position that left her so dependent. She thought despairingly of the Rovers, their colorful, simple garments and their wild freedom, and wondered in desperation if they ever crossed the sea to Mona. Perhaps she could escape with a passing caravan rather than endure this nonsense for years.

The ladies fastened an embroidered girdle about her waist and slid silk slippers onto her feet, Seren carrying her worn sandals away at arm's length and flinging them into a chest. Now, milady!" Aerona cooed, "have a look in the mirror."

Eilonwy turned, half unwilling and half curious, to the wall where hung the sheet of burnished silver. For a moment she blinked confusedly. In its shining surface stood a vision unlike anything she associated with herself. She and her reflection stared at one another: two strangers, unacquainted.

The girl…the young woman…in that space, looked like someone stepped from a tapestry or the illuminated pages of the Book of Three. She was tall and slim, gowned in layers of deep blue and turquoise, garments cut and draped to accentuate every line of her figure with merciless elegance. Her bared neck and collarbones gleamed pale as polished marble. Gold-threaded embroidery glittered from her neckline, her girdle, and the hems of her long sleeves. Her meticulously-coiled hair draped from her shoulders and dangled in gleaming golden ropes over the blue silk gown. The silver crescent of Llyr winked and flashed from the shadowed hollow of her throat.

Eilonwy's heart pounded oddly. Her very expression was unfamiliar —wide-eyed and flushed, a combination of bewilderment, annoyance, and strange, contradictory excitement. She had expected to despise being dressed up like a doll, and indeed she felt dismayed at the stiff and alien wrongness of her own body bound in such finery. And yet…somewhere beneath it, trying to push itself out, there was a thrill of nascent pleasure, which was even more confusing.

But it could not be denied. The girl in the mirror looked like someone who would be taken seriously…someone who would be noticed, and attended to, simply by virtue of appearances. That very fact made her cringe a little. Was she ridiculous, to feel a little glad that what she saw in the mirror was lovely? I won't be one of these simpering, vain geese, she thought viciously, going on endlessly about clothes and jewelry and catching young men's eyes. I won't. 

But speaking of…what would Taran think of her?

Oh, Belin. There it was again. Every thought seemed to turn back toward him, like debris circling a whirlpool. Why did she go all hot at the thought of his seeing her like this? He never said anything about her appearance unless prompted. Likely the silly mole wouldn't notice whether she appeared in a royal gown or a hempen sack. Why trouble herself with hoping—no, not hoping, just…wondering.

Her reflection was scowling slightly now, a fine line creasing between her brows, the flush deepening on her cheeks and even faintly staining her throat. "Are you not pleased, milady?" Gladys murmured, and Eilonwy started, and tried to think of something both honest and tactful to say. At that moment the door opened again upon a breathless entity in fluttering white, trailed by attendants and a flow of commands.

"…and then the roast for this evening; tell Cook we'll need to add more meat to the pie; who knew so many extras would be coming? Sit the delegate from Narffon well away from Lord Glynn; they've a family feud going back decades, and put that boy to the left of the…oh! Blessed Rhiannon; the child is the image of Angharad!"

Eilonwy froze, and stared into the mirror at Teleria's reflection, which stared wide-eyed back from over her shoulder. For once, the Queen seemed stunned into forgetting her train of thought, and the chattering in the room melted into a thick silence. Within that silence Eilowny heard her own heart, pounding out an anxious cadence over her held breath.

It was another, older woman who broke the spell. She stepped forward and took Eilonwy by the shoulders, gently but inexorably turning her around to face both women. "Very like, indeed," she murmured appraisingly, "and yet there are subtle things different. Same height, or close enough. Hair's lighter; Angharad's tended more to red than gold. Rounder nose. The Llyrian chin and mouth; by the tides, I'd know them anywhere! Angharad's eyes were green, were they not?"

Teleria seemed to shake herself back to coherency. "Yes, yes, of course, from her father Owen. I only saw him once, but he was striking, those brilliant eyes with that black hair. Eilwen favored him more. Both girls had such dramatic complexions."

She clucked her tongue, as though dramatic complexions belonged to the category of Things to be Distrusted on Principle, and continued. "Regat was dark-eyed, just like Mererid. Arianrhod's were clear, but grey. None of them had blue; these must be from…"

She hesitated, frowning, then veered off like a gull dodging a hawk. "Well, no matter — mercy, child, you gave me a turn! It wasn't so obvious, before —you were so unkempt, you might have been a fishmonger's girl— but now, like this…"

Her eyes welling, she reached out to Eilonwy and touched her face, her shoulders, took her by the hands. "Good Llyr, it's her essence, really. You stand like her. Doesn't she, Olwen!"

The other woman smiled approval. "She does have that same trick of holding her head up and chin out."

Teleria chuckled and sighed. "Oh, my, but your mother did have such an air. How she could command a whole room just by walking into it! I always envied her for it. She was only a bit older than you the last time I saw her, but I remember as though it was yesterday. Rhun had just been born. Seventeen years ago now! It's hard to believe—oh, dear, no, don't scrunch up the silk and wrinkle it—that it's been so long…"

"You knew her well, then?" Eilonwy burst out, finding her voice at last. She had stood in silent shock during the exchange, feeling as pummeled as one must feel when facing an archery assault. One after another, the arrows struck, with no time to recover from one blow before the next landed. Eyes, chin, nose, names…names she had never heard, names that dangled like the keys from that steward's master ring, each a jingling insinuation of a door locked upon mysteries. Questions slammed themselves into her chest and throat, strangling her with their crowding; she struggled to breathe.

Teleria blinked in surprise; for a moment Eilonwy saw Rhun's affable bewilderment painted upon his mother's face. "Well, naturally, love, we were family. Didn't Dallben tell you anything? Distant—oh, fix her lacing, Cerys, it's uneven here —but still. She visited often. These were her chambers when she stayed with us." She nodded toward the room. "It's why I put you here."

Eilonwy looked about her, at the high curtained bed and the worn window seat. So her mother had sat here —slept there. Had looked into this very mirror, perhaps. She reached out to touch the shining surface, wondering.

Oh, if only they'd all leave her alone for a few minutes so she could sort out her thoughts! But Teleria was talking again, pivoting into the evening's plans, barreling on about feuds and bards and the annoying young courtiers who thought every feast was a festival.

"You've done well," she assured the attendants as she sailed toward the door. "What a transformation! Give her a moment to catch her breath and then bring her down to the Hall—walk slowly, love, until you're used to that hemline, and watch your step; we've got some floors that need repair—when she's ready. Don't be too long, now; we've so many introductions to make!"

The door closed upon the steady stream of her voice, shutting it off, and Eilonwy could have sworn she heard a collective sigh of relief rise from throats around the room. But perhaps it was only her own.

Catch her breath, indeed! There could be no catching of breath when being repeatedly dunked beneath a waterfall. She felt dizzy with the onslaught, and there was no time to recover; the ladies were beckoning her to the doorway, telling her she looked beautiful, that she would feel at home in no time.

"It's just this way, milady." Aerona led her down a hallway, up short flights of steps and down others, around corners, the light from the courtyard streaming in at intervals through the long windows. Glimpses from these began to give her a better sense of the layout; Dinas Rhydnant seemed to be structured in an orderly fashion, exhibiting neither the labyrinthine insanity of Spiral Castle nor the sprawling, organic opulence of Caer Dathyl as she remembered them. It was not long before Aerona approached an open doorway and stood to the side, motioning for her to enter first. From within came a noise of the chatter of many voices. Eilonwy swallowed hard.

How she could command a whole room just by walking into it!

She threw her head back, scrunched each trembling hand into the silken folds of her skirt, and stepped through the door.

The Great Hall of Dinas Rhydnant opened before her, an arched ceiling soaring upward, light slanting in like a row of at-rest spears from tall windows that faced the sea. It was full of people—dozens and dozens of faces that turned toward her and ceased chattering as she entered, and over the sudden lull, she heard Queen Teleria's voice. "Ah! Here we are!"

The white-gowned figure fluttered over to her, took her hand, led her to the dais where two thrones stood, and turned her to face the gathering, holding her hand high. "Lords and ladies!" the Queen called out, "and all good people of Mona! I give you splendid tidings."

Great Belin, the woman was going to make a speech. She was glowing, practically levitating with the pleasure of delivering an important announcement. Eilonwy stared helplessly forward, and tried to imagine all the faces before her were a field of dandelions or a hive of bees. Anything rather than acknowledge herself the center of so much attention! Llyr, if she were anyone else but the one in this predicament, she'd want to laugh at the nonsense of it.

"As you all know," Teleria went on eagerly, "long had we believed that our royal kin of the House of Llyr were perished, lost in the mysterious tragedy that claimed their island, their magnificent line broken. Great has been our grief for the loss of Llyr and its people."

She turned to Eilonwy, beaming. "But now blessed be Rhiannon, who has seen fit to return to us one of their number. The last of her line, her very existence unknown until two years past, her identity yet verified by the wise, by all those who knew her mother and her house! I present to you the Princess Eilonwy—daughter of Angharad—Daughter of Llyr!"

The Hall erupted. There were shouts of Llyr, the House of Llyr, and Blessed Rhiannon, and Eilonwy saw several women in the crowd cup their hands to their breasts, in the same manner as the Rover woman had.

She did not know what she felt…only that she wished she saw the faces of any of her friends among this crowd. Perhaps if she had friendly gazes to focus upon, she would feel less conscious of the dozens and dozens of pairs of eyes on her. "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered to Teleria, who seemed in no hurry to move along to whatever was happening next.

"Just smile graciously," the Queen murmured. "When anyone approaches you, give them your hand. I'll make the—oh good Llyr, child, not like that! They'll want to bow over it, not shake hands like a man— introductions."

There followed an exhausting half-hour, wherein Eilonwy found herself smiling until her cheeks felt like cracking, and extending her hand to noblemen and ladies of every possible age and rank. They bowed and curtsied to her as Teleria announced their names. Some of them actually kissed her hand and clutched it, murmuring benedictions. There were many more exclamations on the theme of her resemblance to Angharad, and several curious questions about her mother's fate and the fall of Llyr, and where she had been all these years. Teleria deftly steered her past these before she could make any answer, remarking that the past was past and they must all look forward to the future, with a glance upon her so proprietary that Eilonwy became annoyed.

Really. They were all just people—hadn't she said so to Taran just a day or two ago? Why should she be so intimidated by all this—to the point of allowing this woman, well-meaning though she might be, to answer for her? Intolerable.

"I've been living at Caer Dallben," she declared, loudly and clearly, the next time the question was posed. Teleria gave a little start, next to her, and the elderly woman who had asked it cocked a wiry eyebrow, eyes widening in surprise. "You know who Dallben is, I expect. The most powerful enchanter in Prydain? Though of course he doesn't do much actual enchanting these days, if he ever did."

White sleeves fluttered in the corner of her eye, like nervous butterflies. "Yes," Queen Teleria began, "she's been taken care of very—"

"That's where I've lived since the battle of the Southern Cantrevs at Caer Dathyl, at least," Eilonwy interrupted, a little louder. "I was there after I escaped living with Achren at Spiral Castle. Perhaps you've heard of her as well. She did lots of enchanting, but it wasn't very nice. I've noticed that those most prone to flinging magic about everywhere tend to be the ones you'd least like to do it, have you?"

The circle of faces around her was changing—the ambient chatter fading away as expressions became interested, younger people squirming forward with bright faces while the middle-aged glanced at each other warily. She sensed curiosity, amusement, mild disapproval. The old woman before her, still holding her hand, squeezed it with a laugh before releasing it, her gaze snapping.

"There speaks a Daughter of Llyr," she said. "And what say you for your own ancestors, Princess? Was their magic that which they ought to have been less prone to flinging about?"

"I don't know anything about them," Eilonwy answered honestly. "I only know what I've seen, and that's that whenever there's something powerfully magic about, all the worst sorts seem to want to get their hands on it instantly. And the ones who might do some good with it tiptoe about as though they're walking on ice until no one can do any good with it at all. Just look at what happened with the Black Crochan."

"What's the Black Crochan?" a young voice piped up, from somewhere to her right.

Eilonwy turned, saw a cluster of girls near her own age…coiffed, coiled, laced into rainbow-hued gowns. "Arawn's cauldron," she answered, "where he made cauldron-born before the witches of Morva took it back."

Blank stares. Open mouths. "What are cauldron-born?" the same voice queried.

"Don't you hear anything of what goes on in Prydain?" Eilonwy demanded. Teleria, who had sunk into her nearby throne in dazed amazement, waved a hand.

"Not everything is fit for the ears of young ladies," she said. "We do not entertain them with talk of the profane doings of the Lord of Annuvin."

Eilonwy frowned. "But it's everyone's concern what he's doing. Do you think if he ever defeats the Sons of Don, he'll stop at that? He'll come after this island as well."

"Be that as it may," the Queen said firmly, "some things do not bear being spoken of in mixed company. It is one thing for you, a princess—don't scowl like that, it's unbecoming—to be informed about conflicts and political maneuverings upon the mainland. Such things are relevant to your rank, and, perhaps, your future. But these our girls are educated—no, Gwenllian, no more questions—as befits their station, and none of them need to know about cauldron-born. It would give them all nightmares."

Eilonwy sniffed. But then, she knew what it was to have nightmares, and wouldn't wish it on anyone. Perhaps Teleria was right, on this particular topic. "Well," she said, shrugging, "I won't discuss them. Only that they are Arawn's warriors and guards, and he was always making more of them. So Gwydion put together and led a quest to steal the cauldron—"

"Prince Gwydion," the Queen interjected.

"Yes, of course, Prince Gwydion," Eilonwy returned irritably. "What other Gwydion would it be?"

"Good Llyr," Teleria muttered, gripping the arm of her throne.

"Anyway, he invited Taran and Coll on it, and I went along, although I wasn't invited exactly."

"Who are they?" The girl Gwenllian, forgetting the Queen's edict, bounced on her toes. All around Eilonwy, eyes shone and cheeks flushed, and a strange thrill was warming her heart. Was this how a bard felt, when an audience hung upon his every word?

"Coll farms the land at Caer Dallben," she explained, "but he was a great warrior in his youth. And Taran is the Assistant Pig-Keeper there, and my…my friend. He's here, somewhere, in the castle." She hesitated, sweeping a quick gaze around the Hall, but there was still no sign of him. What could be keeping him? Where was Fflewddur?

"When he comes he'll help tell the whole story," she went on, "but for now, I can tell you—what we went through to find that horrid cauldron! I don't know what was worse—bargaining with the witches in the Marshes of Morva, or trying to wring information out of a wretch of a Fair Folk, or having some of our own side betray us, or being attacked over and over by the Huntsmen of Annuvin and having to bury one of our own companions."

"All that happened on one quest?" Another girl spoke up, her prim mouth pursed skeptically.

"If you think that's too much," Eilonwy retorted, "you've never been on a quest."

"Certainly not," the girl said, dismissing this with a wave of a very white hand. "I've never been out of Dinas Rhydnant."

Eilonwy stared at her, and then at the rest. None looked surprised, and several were nodding their heads in agreement. "Is that true for all of you?" she demanded. "You've really never left?"

"Most of us," Gwenllian answered. "We've no reason to leave the citadel. What are Huntsmen of Annuvin?"

Eilonwy, seeing Teleria twitch, shook off her shock hastily. "Dreadful creatures. Men who've made a blood pact with Arawn and one another. When you kill one of them, the rest get stronger. They came upon us just outside of Black Gate, and we spent all night running from them. We did shake them off, but they caught us up again and again, and finally we had to face them." She shifted on her feet, body tensing as she remembered the pulsing fear, her white-knuckled clutch upon Melynlas's bridle, Taran's anxious panting clouding mist into the air. "We were in the middle of the forest of Idris—Taran and Gurgi and I, and Fflewddur Fflam, and Doli, and Adaon. And there we stood, back to back, sword in hand! The Huntsmen of Annuvin burst from the forest! They were upon us in a moment!"

The long bell sleeves of her gown whirled as she acted out the drama in her memory, barely conscious of the excited gasps of her young listeners or the disapproving clucking of her elders, until she was startled out of her storytelling trance by a hand on her arm. Teleria stood there, having sprung up from her throne. "Good Llyr. I'm beginning to think you haven't had a—my dear child, don't be so gleeful when you talk about hacking at people with swords—safe moment in your life. What a relief that Dallben has finally decided to be sensible and send you to us. If nothing else, you'll be out of harm's way. Ah!" She let go of Eilonwy's arm, attention diverted. "There you are!"

Eilonwy followed her gaze. There stood Taran and Gurgi, facing them.

The girls around her murmured approvingly, and she heard several giggles. For an instant her heart fluttered, remembering her transformation. What did he think of it; what would he say? But though he was staring at her, it was not with the surprise and admiration she might have hoped for. He looked stricken, his face pale, and when Teleria approached to speak with him he seemed barely to attend to her, even while she motioned Magg forward to hand him a stack of neatly-folded clothing.

He stared distractedly while the Queen talked, and the moment Teleria turned, Eilonwy broke away from her audience and ran to him. He was still rising from a bow when she seized his arm, hissing, "Come! I've got to get out of here before I scream." She pulled him behind as she marched through the Great Hall, seeking any private spot. Good Llyr, the place was simply seething with people! How did one ever get a moment alone?

Finally, she found an alcove in a deep window in a less-populated corner, and pulled him into it. "You know Fflewddur's here?" she said breathlessly, and Taran nodded.

"I've seen him," he murmured, "but…"

"Now it's getting to be more like old times!" she exclaimed, cutting him off. "What a blessing to have him here! I've never met such silly women. I don't think there's one of them that's ever drawn a sword."

A hint of mild exasperation crept into his expression—objectionable, but still better than the abject dismay, when what she wanted was a compliment, an acknowledgement of the change over her, a word of sympathy, anything. "Eilonwy," he said, "why would any of them ever need to—"

"All they want to talk about is sewing and embroidery and weaving," she interrupted hotly, "and how to run a castle. The ones who have husbands are always complaining about them and the ones who haven't are always complaining about the lack of them."

He fell silent, looking at her with that expression that meant he was simply waiting for her to finish whatever it was she needed to say. It irritated her; if he couldn't make himself be interested, he could at least try to understand, for her sake.

"They've never been out of Dinas Rhydnant in their lives!" she went on indignantly. "Imagine it—to live in this place your whole life! I told them a thing or two about our adventures. Not the best ones—I'm saving those for later, when you can be there to tell your part in them."

Still he said nothing, a stubborn refusal to support her indignation. Something in his silence made her desperate and impulsive; her wistful thoughts from earlier came spilling out. "Look, I've been thinking, and what we'll do—tonight there's to be a feast. Afterwards, when no one's watching, we'll get hold of Fflewddur and go exploring for a few days." The vision of those towering black cliffs, their wheeling gulls, the tall grass waving upon their shoulders, rose in her mind. "They'll never miss us until we're long gone; there's so many people coming and going around here. And we'll come back before anyone gets too worried."

Warming to the idea, impossible as it was, she continued. "There's bound to be a few adventures on Mona, but we certainly won't find them in this stupid castle. You must look out a sword for me—I wish I'd brought one from Caer Dallben. Not that I think we'll need swords, but it's better to have them just in case. Gurgi has his wallet of food, of course, so we don't need—"

"Eilonwy," Taran interrupted, "this cannot be."

Her chain of thought cut, she shook herself. "How's that? Oh, very well, you needn't bother about swords, then. We'll just go as we are."

As we are. As I am? In a blue silk gown and slippers! What was wrong with her, to speak such nonsense? Of course it wouldn't work, but why didn't he say something, instead of just staring at her with that white-faced silence?

"What is the matter with you?" She demanded desperately. "I must say you have the strangest expressions on your face. You look as if a mountain were about to fall on your head. I'm only saying…"

"Eilonwy," he burst out, in a voice hollow but stern, "you are not to leave Dinas Rhydnant."

She should, perhaps, have expected this. She knew well enough, after that elaborate introduction, that throng of people who all would recognize her wherever she went, that what she was proposing was madness. And yet for him to say it so…with that expression…out of all the things he could have said just then…

"What did you say?" she cried. "Not leave the castle? Taran of Caer Dallben, I believe the salt air must have pickled your wits!"

"Listen to me," he pleaded, ignoring her outburst. "Dinas Rhydnant is unfamiliar to us. We know nothing of Mona. There may be dangers that we…"

"Dangers!" she sputtered, whirling around and throwing up her hands to grip the stone frame that arched the window. The wild outside shone through, blue upon blue, unreachable. "You can be sure of that—and the biggest one is that I'll be bored to tears! Don't think for an instant I'm going to wear out my days in this castle. You, of all people, tell me I'm not to go adventuring!"

She whirled back to him again, merciless in the face of his terrified eyes and his grim-set mouth. Was this the same boy who had looked at her with such devotion, such longing, mere hours ago? What, in the name of everything, did he want from her? Why did he not just tell her? "What, really, is the matter with you?" she demanded angrily, forcing out the words over the heat gathering in her throat. "I'm ready to believe you dropped your courage over the side of Rhun's ship along with the anchor stone!"

"This is not a question of courage," Taran protested. "It is the better part of wisdom to…"

Oh, gods, his endless pontificating! "Now you're talking about wisdom!" she retorted. "That's the last thing you've ever thought about!"

"This is different. Can you not understand?" His desperate gaze swept her again, incomprehensible. He reached out suddenly, gripped her shoulders with both hands and pulled her a little toward him; she choked on her own breath, heart racing. But his face, so close to hers, had hardened into iron.

"You are not to set foot outside this place," he ordered. "And if I think you have any idea of doing so, I shall ask King Rhuddlum to set a guard over you."

She wrenched herself away from his grasp in rage, grief at this betrayal spilling over, welling in her throat, her eyes. Had he been anyone else, she might have struck him. Had he been anyone else, she would not have wanted to so badly.

"How dare you?" she spat. "Understand? Yes, I understand. You're glad I've been sent to this wretched island and these clucking hens! You couldn't wait for the chance to be rid of me."

His mouth opened in protest, and she knew none of it was true, but it was too late; the arrows struck, wounding as only words can, every one of them rending her own heart as much as his. "You actually want me to stay here and be lost in this dreadful castle. It's worse than putting someone's head in a sack of feathers!"

The sobs came, finally, uncontrollable. "Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not speaking to you!" And she shoved past him, veered through the throng in the Great Hall, and out through the first door she saw.

Chapter Text

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!

Chapter Text

It was an odd experience, being put to bed: having her clothes removed and folded carefully away by others, being wrapped in a new shift apparently only for sleeping in, an extravagance at which she marveled. Her hair was combed out and neatly plaited, her comfort fussed over. Eilonwy was relieved to find she was still permitted to clean her own teeth without assistance, and drew a stubborn boundary at having her bed curtains closed. They had always been closed, in Spiral Castle, and she had come to feel suffocated at the very thought.

The candles were snuffed and the hearth fire banked; Aerona was given the role of handmaid for the night. Eilonwy protested at this, yet once her chamber door was shut, and the silence of the room closed in, she found herself feeling a certain relief that there was another beating heart and warm body somewhere, close enough to call if needed. The chamber felt cavernous, a yawning darkness, with herself lost in the middle. Its emptiness was like a tangible thing, a nothingness that could be touched and held, that wrapped around her heart in an aching grip. She lay there, too lonely and exhausted even to weep.

After a time, she became aware of a silver light filtering in through the window and turned to see a sliver of moon peeking around the casement edge. Milky incandescence seeped into her, a sweet and gentle sustenance; her tense limbs relaxed, and she waved a hand sleepily at the pale light. Dallben had told her a little of her people's legends of the moon, of its goddess whom they had revered. He had done so with a certain hesitancy and brevity, as though unsure of the safety of too much knowledge. But how could it be a danger, this nurturing light, that curled back the velvet darkness like a page of a book—as a friend to be embraced, not as an enemy to be beaten back? Perhaps, here in this place near her homeland, where some still saluted the last Daughter of Llyr with the symbol of Rhiannon, she might learn more of this, at least.

"Hullo, Lady," she whispered, a little shyly. "If I could fall asleep while you're in the window, I should feel I had a friend nearby. Move slowly, won't you?"

Burrowing into her pillows at an angle that allowed her to see the open casement, she realized she could hear the crashing of the breakers against the cliffs far below. High tide sang the endless music of the sea. The moving water murmured, a constant rushing that filled her ears and blocked all other small night sounds with its steady, formless noise. She had an odd thought that the water was reaching up, up through the foundations of the castle, to try to reach her, find her, claim her as its own. Voices called faintly within the thunder of surf, so that she pricked her ears to try to understand them. But...no, there was nothing intelligible in that dull roar, no voices, only the fancies of her overtired mind, no doubt. She'd been listening to too many sailors' songs.

Her eyelids were heavy. But she could not quite close them; the beauty of the moon drifting slowly into view, minute by minute, painting the floorboards in liquid silver, kept her gaze drawn. Her turbulent thoughts had been born away upon the soothing rumble of surf, her mind lulled into a near trance. Perhaps this was why she felt no surprise, or fright, when the moonlight seemed to move. It coalesced, thickened, forming itself into a translucent shape of a woman.

Eilonwy recognized her; had dreamed her before, once: tall, and fair, and ageless, gowned in silver-white and crowned in light, and somehow she filled the whole room, her presence instantly close by the bed though she had not seemed to walk over from the window. She hovered there, her garments and long, pale hair drifting as though moved by a current of air, though no wind stirred the bed curtains.

Her face would have been too beautiful to look upon, had she been fully corporeal. Eilonwy gazed at her in serene wonder as the woman bent over her. As in her dream so many years ago, the word Mother filled the girl's mind and whispered from her lips. And the woman smiled, a mother's smile, in which joy and sadness and love and pride were all mingled together, and for a moment, a breathless instant, the transparency of her glittering face seemed to flush into solid, mortal flesh; her pale, depthless eyes flashed green, and her silver hair gleamed with glints of golden-red fire.

Mother, Eilonwy whispered again, stronger, and the figure bent and kissed her, and she thought a single tear fell from that lovely face. At least, something glittered in the corner of her vision as the white hand moved to brush her hair back, in a touch as warm and gentle and feather-light as a spring breeze. The woman hummed, low, a tune both unknown and somehow familiar, a melody that seemed composed of the rocking drift of the ocean waves, more potent than any magic plucked upon harp strings. It carried all awareness away in its wake, into a vast, peaceful, dreamless darkness.

Eilonwy did not know that she closed her eyes. But when she opened them again, she was alone, and the dawn sky was pearly outside the window.

"Oh," she sighed, in disappointment; she had the sense of having slept well and deeply, but felt it was a shame to have fallen asleep while still in the company of that divine presence. She lay there and gazed upon the patch of sky, thinking of the white orb floating within the frame of the casement. I did ask her to stay where I could see, she recalled, so that I could fall asleep looking at her. I didn't expect her to come right into the room. She laughed softly to herself...what nonsense, surely that had been a dream! But a lovely dream, nonetheless, in a place she had expected nothing lovely, and for that, she could be grateful.

She stretched and sat up, feeling strangely light. Nothing had changed about her circumstances, nor was she happy, exactly, but the world did not seem such a bitter, disappointing place as it had last night, nor the years she must spend here seem to stretch quite so interminably ahead. Marvelous, what a decent night's sleep could do. Sliding from the bed, she padded in her bare feet across to the window, pushing the casements wide. Upon the far horizon where sea met sky, the sun blazed behind a rosy haze of banked clouds, its rim just touching the water and pouring out a rippling path of light that reached all the way to the breakers.

Eilonw stared, in wonder and delight. Since the morning after her first escape from Spiral Castle, she had loved to see the sun rise, loved the silence and the stillness that heralded its arrival, the pastel-painted sky, the soft awakening of the world as bird and beast and all things that moved through the day greeted it with song. But never had she ever seen any sunrise as beautiful as this.

Light burst from behind purple-hued clouds in crimson and golden banners, as though all the hosts of the heavens had assembled to herald the arrival of their flaming monarch. In its ascent, the sun scattered tongues of flame upon the vastness of the sea, which flung this glittering largesse back and forth upon its dancing surface, carving it into shimmering fragments until each shattered upon the rocks below.

The beauty of it brought a lump to her throat, a prickling ache to her eyes, and she sank to the seat in the window alcove, her legs gone heavy. Fire and water. Sun and sea. These were the elements, Dallben had told her, and Medwyn before him, whose eternal tension was the core, the source of the powers of the Daughters of Llyr. She was accustomed to thinking of them as opposites, as forces that dueled within her, like the dragons of legend beneath the lake at Dinas Emrys. It had never occurred to her, until now, that they could complement one another with such heartbreaking majesty...a glorious mystery that filled her with an aching, overwhelming desire to grasp at this magic, to both lose and find herself within it. Was this the splendor that her foremothers had known?...that she, their heir, had been denied?

She sat, gazing at the scene, a long time, until the colors faded into the pale blue and gold of ordinary daylight, and the sun moved into the herds of grazing morning clouds. She was still sitting, when Aerona emerged from the antechamber, groomed and dressed, and bade her good morning.

"It is," Eilonwy replied, with mild surprise, shaken from her reverie. She turned to the handmaid. "It's a lovely morning. I've never seen the sun rise over the sea before."

Aerona smiled, and Eilonwy looked at her more closely than she yet had. She was a pleasant-featured girl, perhaps in her late teens, round-faced and rosy-cheeked, with sparkling hazel eyes and nut-brown hair pulled back demurely into ribbon-wrapped plaits. "Aye, that's a sight, isn't it?" she said. "A thing all should see at least once, and we get to see every day, when the weather's fine. It's different, every morning, depending on what mood the sea is in. All the finest chambers in the castle are on the east side, for that very reason." She moved to the bed, began throwing the bedcovers off to air it. "They'll be having breakfast in the Hall directly. Will you be wanting to join them there, or have something brought to you?"

An astonishing concept. "I can do that?"

Aerona laughed. "Of course. The Queen often takes her breakfast in her own chambers, if we don't have guests."

Of course; she'd forgotten. Achren had always broken fast in her chambers, with Eilonwy's meager morning rations having been left unceremoniously outside her door for her to collect whenever she happened to rise. She had not often wanted them, so never had it become a habit. At Caer Dallben, breakfast was a communal affair taken after morning chores, warm with camaraderie, and her throat ached at the thought of it.

"I think I'll go down," she said. "I'm more likely to see my friends that way, and I don't suppose they'll stay much longer."

Aerona's smile was sympathetic. "As you wish. There were more clothes left for you, yesterday evening while you were down at the feast; come and pick something out."

"More?" Eilonwy slid from the window alcove and crossed to the chest. "How much clothing does one need?"

The handmaid laughed, lifting the lid and rummaging through piles of fabric. "Well, you don't think you're expected to dress so fine as you were yesterday, all the time! Good Llyr, what an ordeal it would be. Here we are." She pulled out a series of far more sensible attire than had yet been available—weaves of fine linen, trimmed beautifully, but simple and modest in cut, sleeves straight, lacing accessible.

Eilonwy surveyed them in great relief. "Oh, any of those. I don't care; you pick."

Aerona briskly chose a lilac-colored kirtle, and attended her morning rituals, acquiescing without a fuss when Eilonwy refused help on certain tasks, and hovering only to tell her where to find things she wanted. If one had to have a lady-in-waiting, she was agreeable enough, though it was still a tedious business.

"Now, then," Aerona chirped, after pronouncing the Princess presentable. "If you'll wait a moment for me to get my things in order, I'll walk you down to the Hall before I join my sister in the Solar."

Eilonwy shrugged. "It's all right. I remember the way to the Hall, now, I think, and I've got to learn my way around eventually. Go on to wherever you're going."

The girl looked bemusedly at her and laughed again. "You are a strange one! But all right—I can see you'd rather! A good day to you, milady. You send for me, if you need anything."

She disappeared into her chamber, and Eilonwy smiled a little ruefully to herself. How strange these customs—yet she was the strange one! She picked up her bauble from her side-table, and on a second look, palmed the ormer slice as well, and slipped them into the pouch under her skirts.

Leaving her chamber, she halted, startled, just outside the door. Across the dim corridor, a tall, boyish figure was sprawled on the floor against the cold stone wall. His head was dropped with his chin to his chest, his face obscured by the fall of his tousled hair, but she would know him anywhere and anytime by the mere shape of him: the slope of his broad shoulders and the angles of his hands as familiar as her own name.

"Taran of Caer Dallben," she exclaimed, in astonishment, and he jerked as though he'd been struck, lifting his head up to stare at her from a face as white as parchment, dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked momentarily confused, and then scrambled to his feet, his hand going to his sword-hilt automatically. As though she were a guard come to attack him!

"Taran of Caer Dallben," she repeated, in exasperation, "I nearly tripped over you! Whatever in the world are you doing?

He was on high alert, despite being obviously exhausted, stupidly stumbling to find an excuse. "I was...just...I thought...er...I was more comfortable here...than...in my...my chambers."

She squinted at him, unimpressed and irritated. "That is the silliest thing I've heard this morning. I may hear something sillier, because it's early yet, but I doubt it. I'm beginning to think the ways of Assistant Pig-Keepers are quite beyond me."

The door opened behind her again, and she heard Aerona give a little start of surprise. Taran looked wildly over her shoulder, clutching at his sword again. "Oh, for goodness' sake," Eilonwy burst out. "You and that sword! I wish you'd behave normally for once! I'm going down to breakfast. After you wash your face and untangle your hair, I suggest you have some too. It would do you good. You look as jumpy as a frog with fleas."

She turned on her heel and marched down the corridor, pausing not to see if he had followed her, hearing his brief stammered greeting to her handmaid and then his stumbling steps approaching as she turned a corner. Down one short set of stairs and up another...was he still behind her? He couldn't possibly know his way around the castle yet; how had he known where her room was? Had he sat outside her door for the entire night? Perhaps she should feel flattered, should feel grateful for such concern, but...no, there was nothing flattering about having her every movement so scrutinized, as though she were a child, or some rare object Taran was afraid of losing.

But it puzzled her. He had always been mindful of her safety, but this was beyond all reason. Why would he not tell her what frightened him so much that he could not eat, that he threatened her with guards and kept night watch at her door? Nothing about it made sense. And even Kaw, flying in yesterday and telling her...

"Princess."

She halted in surprise, the voice halting her inner conversation with a jolt as a figure stepped out of a side door...thin, pale, bearing a ring of jingling keys. That Chief Steward...Magg. He stood before her, blocking her passage further down the hall.

"Oh," Eilonwy said uncertainly. "Is there..."

"Something has happened," he interrupted gravely, "something very serious. You are to accompany me immediately."

He was up to something. She knew it at once; deception breathed around him, a miasma she could practically see and touch, but which part of his words were a lie, and in what capacity, was not clear at all. Eilonwy wavered for a moment, her instinct telling her to shove past him, to blast him out of the way with a flash of fire and run the rest of the way to the Great Hall, to shout back for Taran.

But perhaps something had happened. Was still happening. Certainly Taran suspected something, and here, perhaps, was the answer to all his baffling behavior. If she went with this man, she might finally discover the root of the matter, while if she called or ran for help, they'd only lock her up tighter, probably, everyone else's worries forged into her prison, assuming they even believed her.

"Princess," Magg repeated, holding out his arm. She looked at him narrowly; he was watery-eyed and sickly-looking, pale and almost gaunt with thinness, and no taller than she was—she ought to be able to handle him, if he tried anything untoward. Blast! If only she'd thought to carry her dagger! But she did have her magic, after all.

"What's happened?" she said, taking his elbow, and letting him lead her swiftly down a side hallway.

"There is no time to explain it in full," he said. How convenient. "We must be swift now, but you will be apprised of all shortly. Your safety, and that of your friends, is at stake."

Oh, clever. Perhaps this was a lie and perhaps it was not. She could not tell, and anger and fear both swirled in her gut, but she followed him dutifully, down stairs and hallways, and bit her tongue from further questions, lest he should realize her suspicion of him and reveal nothing. They passed through unfamiliar parts of the castle, until he brought her out into a side courtyard, where two horses stood, saddled and bridled.

"We are to leave the castle grounds?" she demanded, a prickle of foreboding raising the hair on her neck. "What has anything beyond them to do with me?"

He looked back at her sharply, and seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then... "There are those within the castle who wish you harm," he said smoothly. "It is a part of that danger of which I speak. Not the King and Queen! Think not ill of them; they have known nothing of it."

"But you did," she said flatly, unable to keep her skepticism from showing.

"A Steward sees much," he answered. "It is my place to know all that goes on, but before I could move upon the traitors, certain things had to fall into place. Come, now. It is for your safety that you must leave the castle. We travel merely down to the next village, where a safe house waits to shelter you while the conspirators are dealt with."

"And my friends?"

"Yes," he said, "I shall fetch the pig-keeper and your other companion once you are brought to safety. He knows all, and is in my confidence, but was forbidden to speak to you of it, lest our hand be played too soon."

She frowned, beset by confusion at this turning about of her own suspicions. If this was true, it explained much, and so was plausible. If it was not, then what had worried Taran so much?

There was nothing else for it. She mounted the horse, watching as Magg did likewise upon his own steed. "Come," he instructed. "Do not gallop and draw attention, or it may alert your enemies. Only follow me."

They trotted through the sideyard and out into the main courtyard, weaving through scattered clusters of guards and castle staff going about their work. They approached the open gates; they were through them, the massive stone wall falling away behind her, the hills and valleys of Mona spread out below them. Despite her unease, Eilonwy felt a twinge of elation at the sight of open country—free, wild, without walls or towers, and she made no protest when Magg urged his steed into a canter, her own mount following its lead without being asked.

They rode swiftly into the hills, following a faint track of wagon wheels that twisted between the swells of earth, dipping into places thick with trees, their gnarled trunks blanketed by moss. Presently Magg turned from the path and rode into a wooded glade. "There is a spring here," he explained, turning back a little to her. "Let us water the horses. In my haste to take you from the danger, I did not ensure they were fresh, and my mount seems fatigued."

"All right," she said dubiously. They had not been riding long enough to fatigue any horse—barely a league. Their proximity to the castle made duplicitousness unlikely, however, and she dismounted when they reached the place he indicated, to let her horse step beneath the low-handing branches to drink. She watched Magg warily, but he did not come near her; he was lifting his horse's hind leg and examining its hoof in concern, crouched over with his back to her.

"Trouble with her shoe?" she queried.

"I think there may be," he answered. "Would you be good enough to hold her head, milady, and keep her quiet?"

She trusted him in no way, but this seemed safe enough. Eilonwy grasped the bridle of the strange mare, soothing words upon her lips.

They never passed into the air. The metal of the bridle sparked at her touch, shooting prickling, paralyzing sensation up her arm and into her chest. She gasped for breath, tried to let go. She could not. Her hand was frozen upon the thing, her muscles spasmed, clenched so hard that no order from her mind could relax them, could open her fingers. In less time than it took for her to recognize the effect of strong magic, less time than it would have taken her to scream out in realization, Magg had sprung at her.

He wrapped both arms around her from behind, one hand on her free wrist, the other at her throat. In a sickening moment she knew she had misjudged his strength, indeed had never known a man's strength at all; Taran, she realized in that instant, had held himself back when they had sparred, had allowed her to overpower him to an extent she had never realized. Now, in the grip of the thin but sinewy arms of a man not nearly his equal, she knew the utter impossibility of throwing him off. She screamed, then, a bloodcurdling shriek that frightened the horse; it threw its head and reared, carrying her with it by her paralyzed hand, lifting her off the ground, and her captor with her; she screamed again as the weight of both of them came near to jerking her arm from its socket.

Magg hissed something , and suddenly her hand was free, and they plummeted to the ground, landing hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. He landed atop her with a grunt and a curse, pinning her down with her face in the dirt, wrestling her arms behind her before she could so much as attempt a swing. The pain in her shoulder nearly blacked out her mind; it screamed within her, but she had no breath to release it, could only gasp for desperate air as she felt her hands being bound together.

Idiot. Fool! To lie here doing nothing. Are you a Daughter of Llyr or not? A voice seemed to roar in her clouded mind, and over her panic she shaped her lips into words that would spark the dead grass around them into blaze, but the intuitive movements of her hands, the gestures that guided the flow and intensity of the spell, were impossible. Perhaps a trained, true enchantress could have done it with her words alone, with thoughts alone, but she...she was abandoned, half-taught, held back and denied, and only a faint smoldering arose from the bracken.

Enough for Magg to notice. "Oh, no, dear," he hissed in her ear. "She told me you might be able to do something like that. But we'll have none of it." She felt him fumbling, and then his shaking hands dipped forward, forced a length of cloth between her teeth, pulled her head back as he tied it.

She. She told me. Who was "she"? What was happening? In her panic she could not think, could barely breathe enough, with her mouth blocked this way. Finding her stilled, Magg rolled off of her, and instantly Eilonwy writhed, flipping over and digging her elbow into the ground to push herself up; before he could react she kicked wildly at his face, making satisfying contact, and scrambled to get her feet beneath her as he roared in pain. She managed to stand and run a few steps, but her balance was unwieldy; she was disoriented, and knew not where to go. Magg was on her in a moment, seizing her by the arms and throwing her down, dodging to avoid her flailing legs until he had pinned her again, his full weight crushing against her back. She heard him panting, his breath ragged, as he tied her ankles together, and when he crawled off she saw that he was haggard, his lank hair clinging to his sweaty face, his mouth bleeding, his pale grey eyes wild and full of rage.

"You bloody wretch," he whispered hoarsely. "You damned witch's brat. I'll have the fight out of you by the end. I'll break you like a wild filly the moment you're mine."

Fear swept her, and anger, rising in red agony; the heat of it singed her fingertips and her bound wrists, but it had no outlet without words. She screamed against the gag, an enraged, impotent shriek, and he grabbed her by the shoulders and flipped her onto her back, pushing her down until her lungs felt like bursting, closing his bony hand around her throat again.

"None of that," he ordered. "Keep silent, or I may just forget my orders. She wants you untouched for now. Don't make me ruin her plans."

His pale face was repulsive; she wanted to retch at the sight of it so close to her own, at the crushing weight of him over her, and she writhed to get away. But he seemed to enjoy this, by his expression, so she fell limp, glaring at him. If only one could spit through one's eyes, how she would enjoy aiming straight for such a disgusting target.

Magg waited until he knew she would not struggle again, and rose, dusting himself off, holding the edge of his cloak to his split lip. He stepped away, collected the horse and brought it near, then crouched next to her. Eilonwy shut her eyes and grit her teeth as his arms slid beneath her torso; he hoisted her up and toppled her unceremoniously over the saddle, ignoring her unintelligible growls of indignation and discomfort.

"Your own choice," he said, when she was sprawled across the horse's back like the turnip sack Teleria had compared her to the day before. "If you'd have come quietly you'd be walking on your own feet. But as you wish."

Retrieving the second horse, he led both down the stream-bed that flowed from the spring, stony and pebbled and entirely unlikely, Eilonwy knew, to hold any sign of their passing. She watched the ground go by beneath hooves, trying to breathe slowly, to wrestle down the fear that wanted to crawl from her gut to her throat and strangle her. She would think her way out of this, she must. It was letting her feelings get in the way that had gotten her into it; only cleverness would get her out.

Gods, everything hurt, everything...and she...she was done, trussed up as soundly as a chicken for the pot, helpless without speech, a wretched fool to have gone anywhere with this man. Surely her absence had already been noticed. Taran, vigilant as he was, would have realized it within minutes. He would sound the alarm, rouse the entire castle. If she had only listened to him!...if he had just told her...

No, there was no use in casting blame, now, only thinking of how she might escape. How had she been tricked? The horse's bridle had been enchanted, that was plain...a paralyzing spell, just like the one that had cemented her and all her friends to the Black Crochan in Morva. It had been just enough to catch her off her guard, long enough for Magg to make his move. But it meant he had planned this with help, for he was no enchanter; she sensed no magic about him. It had come from somewhere else, someone helping him...or the other way 'round.

She wants you untouched. She. A woman who knew her, knew about her magical abilities. That could be any woman on this island, given what they knew of her people, of the powers of the Daughters of Llyr. But the only woman she could think of who would assist anyone in an assault like this, one powerful enough, manipulative enough to plant a spy in a high position of a royal house, and provide an enchanted article of such potency to an accomplice...was...

Dead.

Her scalp and neck went cold as ice. Dead, she thought, nausea rising. She's dead. Dead. Dead. Dead beneath Spiral Castle, or Oeth-Anoeth, or off in the wilderness, somewhere, starved on a hillside. She'd been dead for years, she must have been; even Dallben had thought it likely, even Gwydion...

But Gwydion had never said Achren was dead. Only that he did not know what had become of her.

For a moment, Eilonwy almost succumbed to a wild impulse to throw herself from the horse. She could have done it; the right twist, a mighty effort, and she could have writhed herself off, tied limbs or no; anything was better than the horrors her imagination presented. At the last moment, rationality managed to stab a single ray of light through her mind. What good would it do her? She could not run, would likely injure herself falling, and then what? Magg would toss her right back and she'd be worse off than before. Stop. Stop panicking, you nitwit. Think. Even if it's Achren, a broken neck won't help.

What could Achren want with her? Now, after all these years? For that matter, what had she ever wanted with her? And what had this sneering abomination of a man meant by the moment you're mine? She shuddered, gagging on the cloth in her mouth. No, no...whatever unspeakable ordeal the creature intended for her, she could not allow herself to wonder about it, lest she grow too terrified to keep her wits.

They continued on perhaps another half an hour into the hills, always staying in the low areas and ravines, before Magg halted, and pulled the horses into the cover of thick trees, where he tethered them. He came to stand near Eilonwy's head where she dangled over the broad back, and looked at her appraisingly. She glared back at him, the only power left to her.

"We shall rest here a while," he announced softly, "until they've all gone far past us. Oh, yes, they're on alert – I heard the horns sound while you were throwing your tantrum, back there. They'll have their chase, but they won't find you, will they?" He raised a hand, gripped her chin and tilted it back. "You don't look easy, Princess. Would you like to be more comfortable?"

She jerked her head away in revulsion at his touch, and his lip curled in a sneer. "Better get used to it. But not yet. My crown first. The rest in good time." He stroked a stray lock of her hair, winding it through his white fingers. "You're just the sweet at the end of the feast."

His voice had an oily quality, as though he buttered his tongue before speaking. It was unbearable to listen to him, and even more unbearable not to be able to answer such taunts; she shut her eyes and turned her head away; better to ignore him entirely than allow him to see how his words affected her.

She heard him walk away and rummage in a saddlebag, then a grunt as he sat on the ground. Then silence, but for the twitter of birds and the wind in the trees. How odd it seemed, that the leaves should go on rustling and the birds singing, when she was in such peril. They always went on, didn't they, even when you lay dying. Someone, somewhere, was dying this very moment, and still the birds sang.

Gods, her mind was closing in on itself. If I could just use magic! She strained to move her mouth and tongue into words; she thought them as hard as she could, silently, fixing her attention upon every bit of dead wood within her line of vision. Her anger was a white-hot flame that broiled the inside of her throat, but it would not take shape without the proper sounds. Gone were the days when an impulsive outburst of temper would singe anything around her...she had refined the skill into something focused and intense, and in so doing, lost the ability to let it fly uncontrolled. Belin and Llyr! What good was magic, if it abandoned you at your most vulnerable?

Her ribs ached, crushed against the saddle with every breath. She ought to have let Magg haul her down from the blasted horse, but the thought of his hands on her again was intolerable. Cautiously, she arched her back and rocked from side to side, shifting her weight until she felt herself sliding backwards, then with a desperate heave of her torso tried to keep her balance as she tumbled off.

Her feet hit the ground and her legs crumpled beneath her; she fell into a heap but the turf was thick and springy, and at least she could breathe again. Magg had started up when she fell, but seeing her sit up, paused. He watched, in passive amusement, as she pushed her bound feet into the earth and scooted angrily away from him, kicking herself backward until she ran up against an embankment and could go no further. Even that much effort was exhausting.

Magg raised a waterskin to his lips and drank long...much longer, she thought, than he probably needed, but he knew, no doubt, that she had not eaten or drunk at all that morning, and meant to torment her. She had no desire to eat, but the gag felt like a wad of hay in her mouth, and she would have sucked water through it, could she but get to the stream. But to do so she would have to crawl on her face before him, and she was not so thirsty as that. Yet.

Minutes crawled by like slugs, interminable and unpleasant. Eilonwy leaned against the embankment, telling herself that rest was important, since she could do nothing else. Black flies buzzed about, landing on her continually, impossible to brush away. Her shoulder still throbbed with pain; her jaw ached from its forced position; she felt dizzy and sick. The light filtering through the green roof overhead sometimes took on strange shapes... faces peering through the leaves, or hands, reaching down between them to grasp at her, as she slipped in and out of waking dreams.

The sun was high when Magg woke her, hauling her to sit up from where she'd slumped. "I shall free your feet," he said. "For we will need to walk. Try to run off again, and you'll rue the day you were born." He brandished a dagger, and set its cold point against her chin. "There's plenty can be done with this, without spoiling you too much."

She glared at him, immobile and defiant, while he sawed through the thongs at her ankles until they parted. His sweaty hands, trembling, lingered on her calves, and she kicked them off in disgust. He laughed, a mad, sneering chuckle, and yanked her to her feet. "Fine sensibilities, eh? Back on the horse, milady."

Her feet were numb, her legs heavy and her head light; she could not run in any case. Without use of her hands she had to let him hoist her into the saddle, and saw that her reins were tethered to his mount, dashing any hope of separating from him on horseback. Blast it! Would she have no chance of escape?

Magg doubled back, leading the horses in the direction of the main track and slightly to the east, moving through the diminishing hills until the river she had seen from the castle windows ran before them, a gleaming expanse between the dark shade of its tree-lined banks. He dismounted, and pulled her down from her own steed, ordering, "Walk. This way."

He left the horses grazing, and pulled her along through ferns waist-high, down toward the riverbank; when they neared it she saw that there was a small boat moored in its shallows.

If he got her into a boat, any chance at escaping him would be dashed. She could not swim away or row with bound hands. In desperation she balked, digging in her heels and yanking her arm from his grip. It caught him off guard; he tripped and fell as she ran headlong, back into the underbrush they had come through.

She could not outrun him in this state. Her only hope lay in losing him. She dropped to a crouch, hidden in the tall ferns, and tried to make herself small. Her heartbeat pounded in her own ears like a war drum and her breath, hampered by the gag, wheezed loud as she tried to calm it.

No good. Either he had seen where she'd run, or she could not stay still enough, quivering the ferns around her; in moments Magg was crashing through them, seizing her by the hair and dragging her back. She fought him, in a last wild burst of strength born of panic, wrenching away, kicking at anything that presented itself. He cursed and spat, dropped her and grabbed again, clutching at her wherever he could find a grip. She heard cloth rip, torn as the earth was torn beneath them, and a thump; from the corner of her eye she saw a flash of gold. Her bauble! Her clumsy, makeshift pocket had ripped its stitches, and the golden sphere was flung aside in the struggle, disappearing into the dead leaves and bracken.

Eilonwy froze at the sight, voicing frantically against the gag, and then tried to throw herself toward her fallen treasure. But the distraction gave Magg a second's advantage; too late she saw his arm swing; a blow to the head knocked her to the ground. Darkness filled her eyes and mind like smoke. Somewhere, in the between-heartbeats space in which she still could think, she thought of the moonlight in her window, and the silver Lady who had come to her in the night: the Mother so powerful, yet whose power had never yet saved her…from anything.

Chapter Text

"Oh, isn't that lovely!"

The voice is startling, coming as it does from close by, when she had thought herself alone. It comes from a woman standing on the path down from the cliffs, watching her; a tall woman, quite pretty. Her moon-silver hair is dressed in long plaits that sparkle in the sunlight, and her traveling cloak is richly embellished. The woman looks at the Pelydryn in her hands and smiles.

"What a precious thing you have, darling. Wherever did you get that shining bauble?"

The smile is sweet and gentle, the words kind and engaging, but something in the air grates, somehow, like when you rub a cat the wrong way, down to the tingling sparks that pop at the edges of her mind. She clutches the golden sphere to her chest in small fists, somehow not liking the intensity of this foreign gaze upon it.

"It's mine. Mam gave it to me."

Blue eyes gleam—blue eyes like Tad's, but yet not like. Tad's eyes are twinkling and merry and warm, and these are clear and sharp and cool, like ice.

"Of course she did, a lovely gift. Where is your mother? Does she know you are out here alone?"

Alarm. A backward step. Mam and Tad never allow her to go far alone, but Tad is out for the day, as he always is at full moon, and Mam is resting in the cottage, up beyond the dunes and out of sight. And Tad said let her rest, love. She needs it.

"Mam's resting inside. She's tired."

"In the middle of the morning? Is she ill?"

"No. There's a new babe coming. In winter I shall have a sister, but it makes her tired."

The sparks on the air suddenly change to a sharp crackle. It feels like fire but tastes like metal, sharp and tart, mildly unpleasant but also intriguing; there is a kinship in it.

Curiosity burns, overriding suspicion. "Who are you?"

No answer. A long stare. A slow smile.

"Do you like magic, pretty one?"

A welcome, disarming topic. "Oh! Mam teaches me. She's an enchantress, and so shall I be. Watch!"

She sits upon a boulder. The tide pool at its base is cool on her bare feet. She can taste water-magic, sweet and salty together in her mouth. It flows into her hands and she twists them in the air. The water at her feet ripples and bunches itself into shining ridges. They become tendrils and ropes that wind themselves into the air, twisting and turning in a dance.

It's difficult to do for long. She has to think about it hard, and only it, nothing else; not like Mam, who can make water and fire do whatever she pleases just by speaking to them and carelessly gesturing. In a moment it's all splashing back down to the pool. The stranger claps her hands.

"Oh, that is marvelous! So much gift for such a little one; you shall be a great sorceress indeed! Now, tell me –have you ever seen anyone do this?"

She takes up a driftwood twig with a sinuous white hand, and snaps her fingers. The air moves in a familiar fashion, and there is suddenly a tongue of flame flickering bright at the end of the twig. The sense of kinship flares, blossoming into a smile.

"Oh! You are one of us. Are you..."

Mam has always said there are more of them; that perhaps one day the others will find them again. Sometimes she sits on the cliffs for hours, all sad, watching and watching and watching the sea, in case the others come sailing into the world from wherever they are, and when she does that Tad says it's all right, cariad, only Mam misses her family. Go and give her a kiss and she'll remember us again.

"Are you come back from across the sea?"

"Come back?"

"Mam says there are other enchantresses across the sea. They are my aunts. Are you my aunt?"

The ice-blue eyes glitter, and the flushed lips break into a wide and illuminating smile.

"Oh, yes. That is who I am." The beckoning, outstretched hand is white against the moaning darkness of the sea. "What is your name, dear one?"

She hesitates. Tad says to be careful of giving one's name, and never, ever…

"You're not a faery, are you?"

The woman laughs, a lovely, bell-like peal. "Oh, no. But you are right to ask, small one. Shall I prove that I am your aunt? I know your mother's name—the Princess Angharad, though were our island still standing, she would be Queen. And your father is Geraint, a master illusionist and teller of stories. Is it not so?"

She claps her hands in delight. No one knows these, the secret names they only call each other at home. "It is!"

"You see? Who would know this but your own family? Now then, lovely, your name."

"Eilonwy. Daughter of Angharad, Daughter of Regat, Daughter of Mererid, Dau-"

"You needn't name them all."

She breathes a sigh of relief.

"Are you the aunt I'm named for?"

"Indeed, no. Your aunt Eilwen is over the sea yet. But if you will help me, perhaps we can bring her back. Think how happy your mother will be to see us all! Come with me and we shall make a great magic."

"Where are we going?"

"To a wonderful place. A secret place."

"I'm not to leave the beach, or go beyond the rocks."

"Of course! But that only means you shouldn't go alone. Your parents have taken you beyond those places, haven't they?"

"Sometimes we go to the village. And before we were here we went with the camp, everywhere. Will you take me back to the camp?"

"Why? Did you like it there?"

"There were other children there to play with. Tad told us all stories every night, and we sang and danced."

"Indeed, then we shall go back to them!"

They are walking past the rocks, and then around them, and into the next shallow beach. Tad doesn't ever let her take this path alone. But her aunt is with her. It must be all right.

"Why did you go across the sea? Mam says you were gone before I was born."

"Think what a lovely surprise it will be for her to see me again."

Her aunt walks fast, faster than even Tad with his long legs. She skips to keep up. They round a corner, into a small cove. A moored boat sits upon the water surface. A bulky, plain-faced man lounges inside it.

She stops. Something is wrong. Mam is calling her. She can hear her voice, carried on the wind.

Her aunt pulls gently at her hand.

"Come, child. We must get in the boat. Only for a little way."

"I can't. I must go back."

"Oh, but the surprise-"

The voice is calling, calling, rising, urgent.

"I don't want it. I must go back. Mam's calling me. Let go!"

It isn't just calling. It's a scream. She's afraid, and Mam is never, ever afraid.

And then she can't hear those screams over her own, because her aunt won't let her go, and she bites and kicks and flails. The woman picks her up and mutters sounds that aren't words but they make things happen; they make the light from the sky seem dim and far away as if at the end of a tunnel, and the screams sound farther and farther away and then there's no light, just cold and darkness.

Eilonwy opened her eyes.

For a moment she could not make sense of anything. Everything hurt. Her shoulder throbbed with pain and her head ached. She lay sprawled on a hard surface, and realized quickly that it was unpleasantly wet and cold, and moved up and down in a fair way to make her dizzy. Sounds untangled themselves and became the splash of water against wood, the rhythmic creak of oars in motion.

A boat. She was in a boat. But hadn't that been a dream? She had dreamed of being dragged into a boat, and waking up on the water. It was not a good dream, and it was not a good waking.

Her mind slipped in and out of lucidity, as a star slips in and out from behind the clouds that pass.

She wakes up, a little, enough to feel herself cradled in arms, but they are strange arms, a strange smell, like roses and metal and magic. The boat bobs up and down on a choppy sea.

"Faster," the woman's voice says. It's not sweet anymore; it's urgent and harsh and dangerous. "We must get back to land before her mother realizes she's on the water."

"Goin' as fast as I can. If you'd silenced the brat sooner she'd have less to follow."

"I do not pay you for your counsel. Just your labor and your boat."

"Fair enow'. How'd ye get her so quiet-like, anyway? Wish I could shut my kids down so easy. When they were that age they could make a racket you could hear clear to Mona."

No answer. The rower sniffs.

"Ye ain't gonna hurt her, is ye? I'm a decent man. I don't hold wi' harmin' no wee lass."

"She is not your concern. But no. She is priceless to me, and if any seeks to harm her…" The voice grows dark, and cold as ice. "It will be his last act."

"But ye took her from her Mam. I heard the screamin'. That's a bad business, that is."

"It had to be done. Her mother does not trust me. She would have fought, and none of us would ever have left that cove again. Now she will follow, and in fear for her child she will be forced to see reason. In the end I will have them both."

An uncomfortable silence. The rower coughs. "Pretty little thing."

"Yes." It's a hiss. "She will be a beauty, like all her line. Both gift and curse. But I shall ensure that she knows how to use it to her benefit."

Her eyes fly open, and she kicks wildly, taking the woman by surprise. The strange arms loosen for an instant.

"You're not my aunt. You're a liar. Let me go!"

She flings herself to the side of the boat, tries to scramble over it. If she is in the water, Mam will find her; the sea will keep her, will sweep her straight back to her mother's arms in a stream of turquoise light. The man swears, dodging her flailing feet, but the woman is faster, pale hands darting forward to restrain her again, pinning her down, covering her mouth.

She screams against it, writhes like an unearthed worm, but the woman is stronger, so much stronger, and holds her fast, until she is too tired to fight, too exhausted to scream. They are too far now for Mam or Tad to hear her. No one is coming. No one. She slumps to the bottom of the boat, sobbing.

The oarsmen wipes his brow, watching them uneasily. "Can't ye quiet her like ye did before?"

"No. It was necessary for the urgency of the moment. Too much will leave her with no memory of herself, and then she will be of little use to anyone."

The man mutters beneath his breath, barely audible beneath the soft crush of waves against the boat.

A thump and a curse jolted her to awareness. Eilonwy opened her eyes again, and realized that Magg was in the prow, rowing, struggling against a moody, reluctant current.

She lay quietly, her sluggish mind slowly clearing, casting about for any solution for escape. Could she move quickly enough to throw herself over the side of the boat? Perhaps. But she would certainly drown, if they were any distance from shore. It was possible, of course, that drowning was preferable to whatever fate awaited her. But she was reluctant to assume so. While she lived there was always a chance of escape or rescue.

Should she try to sit up? No...they must land sooner or later, and if Magg thought she remained unconscious, he would be less wary. It might be her only chance of getting away from him, assuming she could stand to run. He had not noticed her open eyes. She shut them again. There was nothing to see but the bottom of the boat anyway.

Llyr, her head hurt. She might not be able to sit up anyhow, as dizzy as she was. Her mouth, still full of cloth, was dry enough to burn. Her stomach churned. If she were sick with a gag on it would be horrid; she must not be sick. Think about something else, anything.

Taran and Fflewddur and Gurgi surely would be searching for her. How would they know where she'd gone? A boat left no tracks, and the water no scent for hounds to follow. But Kaw would be watching from the air, would see all that happened with his sharp eyes. Perhaps he watched, even now. She imagined him, soaring above, flying back and dropping onto Taran's shoulder to chatter to him. Taran would be frantic by now, Taran who had angered her with his anxiety, and had been right all the time. Why had he not just told her of the danger he suspected, instead of trying to control her every move? He had known something, clearly, something more than his vague platitudes about an unfamiliar island.

Taran. His face drifted in her mind's eye, a shining comfort, an aching loss. She had been in peril many times in the last few years, but never without him by her side, his companionship and courage a refuge even in the face of death. In every terrifying memory, he had stood, as well as he could, between her and the threat. He would die to protect her.

It was a silent jolt of insight. She had never put it into words, never consciously acknowledged it to herself until now, but she knew it, as surely as she knew the earth would green in spring.

Perhaps it wasn't such a revelation. Fflewddur would do the same, after all, and Coll, and Gwydion, and any man of valor for a woman or child. It was the way of a warrior.

Odd, really, to think of Taran as a warrior, though it would have pleased him that she did so. It was not what came first to mind when she thought of him. It was his laugh as Gurgi tackled him at the door of the cottage. The way he leaned on the pigcote and talked to Hen Wen as though she were a person. The gentleness with which he gathered up a newborn chick, and the light in his eyes when he handed it to her like a shared secret. The grin he flashed her, across rows of turnip leaves, while they weeded the garden. The safe, strong quietness of him, in the evenings, while they sat on the old wall and watched the stars come out over the trees.

And she'd never told him. Never said anything of what he made her feel, perhaps because she hadn't really told herself. And maybe it wasn't the sort of thing you knew in words at first, really, but just felt, down deep where the roots of things grow, in darkness and secret, only coming to light at the right time, when it was ready.

But it didn't matter now. He wasn't here, and whatever waited for her at the other end of this journey, she would have to face alone. Tears slid from her shut eyelids, joined the seawater puddled in the bottom of the boat. Who, she wondered distantly, had cried the tears that made up the sea?

The boat crunches upon gravel. The woman lifts her out, sets her on her feet on solid ground. She stands there. She should run. But her feet won't move. The part of her that says run is all shrunk small, somewhere down inside, huddled up like a snail in his shell. She can't run, all hidden in a shell.

She hears the woman talking, and the boatman demanding more gold. The woman says something and the air moves, and there's a sharp sense of sparks flying, and a loud noise of something heavy falling to the ground. She looks back, and there's no man, just a pair of boots sticking out from behind the boat, and the woman walking toward her.

"Come. We must walk a little way."

She cannot speak, cannot move. The boots are still, still, as still as the boat lying upon the sand. The woman bends down, blocking her view of them.

"Eilonwy. Do as I say and you need fear nothing. Do you know why I came for you?"

She stares into the shivery blue of those eyes.

"I am your aunt, come to teach you. One day you shall be an enchantress. More than that: you shall be a great queen. Your parents knew they could not teach you all you need to know. It was they who sent for me."

Lie. They would never send her away with anyone like this. Would they? It's a lie; it must be a lie, a lie; it twists in her chest, hot and anguished. "I want Mam and Tad."

"Of course. And they will come. If you are quick and clever, and learn your lessons well, they will come and live with us. Think how proud of you they will be, then."

Tears spill out, hot. She is frightened, and exhausted, and hungry. "I don't want to live with you. I want Mam."

"If you cry, she won't come. She wants you to be brave. Brave girls don't cry."

But she cannot stop. The woman frowns, and picks her up, and carries her through the trees.

She drifted upon dreams, half-formed images of memory, filled with voices. They must have begun as mere whispers, as murmurings lower than the sounds of the water splashing against the boat sides, a slowly rising chorus that her ears finally separated from the waves, so that she opened her eyes again and knew she no longer dreamt. The voices went on.

They said nothing she recognized. Snatches of phrases, of verses, of song, in words she could not understand—whether another tongue entirely, or too garbled and muddled, as though the speakers were underwater, trying to raise words to her from beneath the waves.

The hair on her neck and arms prickled. What voices could there be, out here among the water and wind? Did Magg hear them as well? If he did, he made no indication. But all the sounds were changing. Water was crashing hard upon something solid, a frothy noise that grew ever nearer, and nearer, and then took on a hollow echo. The boat bumped into something, and Eilonwy froze, her heart hammering a sickening, swift drumbeat against her ribs.

There was a charge on the air, a sharp, tingling smell of magic and metal. She knew it all too well: the signature of the presence that had haunted her dreams for years. Like a bird allowed to roam from its cage, all unaware that its leg was tethered, she had flourished in an illusion of freedom, and now would be drawn back, a captive once more.

Not again. Please, not again.

"Milady," Magg spoke, his voice at its oiliest. "I have done as you commanded."

Eilonwy counted her heartbeats in the silence, holding her breath. The disembodied voices roared in her ears.

"Yes." Achren's voice rose above them. "So you have."

They have walked, and then ridden in a litter on horseback, for days. But the woman no longer pretends to be kind or gentle.

"If you run away again, you shall be tied up."

"I want Mam. Mam. Maaaaam."

"Stop!" The white hand cracks, like the slap of a hooked fish's tail, across her face, and for an instant she does stop, shocked into silence, before the pain sinks past the shock, and she screams harder.

"If you call for your mother again, she will never come. I will make it so that she will never find you. Do you understand? Stop it, by the gods, stop crying!"

She's shaken until her teeth rattle, and the white hand rises again; in fear of it she gulps and gasps and fights the sobs, choking them back, swallowing them like rocks so that her throat aches with them and her stomach curdles and she is sick, all over the woman's fine traveling cloak.

Mam holds her and comforts her when she's sick, brings her water and bathes her face and kisses her tears away, but this woman only jerks back, cursing in disgust, and the white hand flies anyway, lands square and sharp across her cheek, even though she's stopped crying. It's mean, spiteful; it's not fair— the unfairness of it burns up her tears, turns them into scalding, angry sparks, flying as she screams, blazing into the bracken around them and instantly setting it alight.

The woman reacts, shouting out words, waving her arms, and magic moves over all, quelling the fire as swiftly as it came. She runs for the last time; the woman chases her, picks her up in her strong grip again and mutters that stream of strange words into her ear. The world goes dark, dark, dark, until the fight and fire are squeezed small inside her, and she cannot remember why she had cried, or anything else, at all.

"I told you she was not to be harmed." The voice was cold and severe, and she knew, with nauseating familiarity, the tone of simpering awe in Magg's voice as he answered. It was how most men spoke to Achren.

"She has come to no true harm, milady. She fought me, as you foretold, and in the struggle to bring her to the boat, she slipped at the riverbank and hit her head on the keel. It knocked her senseless, but she will recover, I am certain. I examined her thoroughly to be sure."

Silence, heavy and dangerous. "I swear it, my Queen," Magg repeated. "I kept my word on every point. She is unspoilt—at least by me."

"What do you mean by that?" A soft hiss.

"Only what I observed, milady, such that raised my suspicions. She came to Mona in the company of a handsome youth—Dallben's pig-keeper, I was told. He watches her like one obsessed and dogs her every step—so diligently that I nearly despaired of getting her away. Once, I observed them speaking together, most fervently. And he did not sleep in his own chamber last night. He was seen moving toward her room, though my informant could not leave his post to verify the destination."

Eilonwy writhed internally, hot with humiliation, as the charge on the air shifted, the tension easing. Achren seldom laughed, but there was a low hum of dark amusement as the boat swayed, as its balance tilted under the weight of her presence. She loomed over Eilonwy, placing a hand on her forehead, where the throbbing ache faded before a comforting flow of warmth. "Well, well," the queen murmured quietly. "Walking in the family footsteps, are we? A namesake worthy of the honor, it seems."

"When we made our arrangement," Magg said petulantly, "I did not think to be taking the leavings of a swineherd."

The steel edge returned to the silken voice. "You are, of course, free to refuse the terms. He would suit my purposes just as well."

"Oh…no, milady," came the instant response. "I make no complaint. I only thought, for the purposes of the ritual, that she must be-"

"Speaking of what you do not know," Achren interrupted coldly, "only proves you a fool. The magic of Llyr is not subject to the offensive conventionalities of men. One fortunate enough to see his goal within his grasp should be thankful enough for that, and stay silent."

Magg muttered something obsequious and affirmative. Eilonwy wanted to shrink away, to escape from that touch and its illusory comfort. Her whole body felt stiff as ice, paralyzed with revulsion.

The velvet voice murmured low, near her ear. "I know you do not sleep."

The stiffness melted, though the revulsion did not. There was no use pretending, never any use; Achren lied too much herself to be fooled by any ruse. Eilonwy opened her eyes, looked upon the face that had stalked her dreams.

Against the overcast, twilight sky, dark with foreboding storm clouds, that white face shone like a livid moon. It looked, for the first time, older, but Achren's eyes still glittered like pale ice shards, and her mouth still smiled that lovely, charming, knife-edged smile.

"Eilonwy. Princess, Daughter of Llyr," she said. "Welcome home."

The chorus of voices sang, a discordant, ancient agreement.

Chapter Text

The soft hand brushed her forehead again, deceptively gentle. “Can you move?” Achren murmured. 

Eilonwy considered not answering. But what good would it do? She could not stay in the bottom of a boat. Whether or not she could move, and how much, was not so easily answered; she shrugged, tearing her eyes away from that white face, and stared stonily at the begrimed boards beneath her.  

Achren regarded her silently for a long moment, then motioned to the gag at her mouth. “There is no need for this barbarism,” she declared, to Magg. “Remove it.”  

He hesitated. “Milady, she did attempt to spellcast as we struggled.”  

“Did she?” An arch, pleased purr.  “Nonetheless, obey me. She will need her voice. And so shall we all.”  

My voice, Eilonwy thought, or yours? But she lay still as stone, and deigned not to look at Magg as he loomed over her. Something flashed at the corner of her vision, and a cold, blunt edge of metal slid against her throat. It pressed, trembling, a little too hard for its purpose. She hated the twitch in her own skin, the instinctive, almost imperceptible recoil in muscle and tendon that betrayed her fear to her assailant. His obscene delight at being its cause pressed against her consciousness, and she pulled away from him in revulsion. Filthy wretch. You’ll find out what she is when she’s done with you. 

The blade moved, and the tension at her jaw popped free, just as she acknowledged her own vindictive pleasure at the thought of Magg’s eyes being picked out by ravens, and squirmed between alternating mental discomforts. Dallben would say such inclinations were dangerous. Achren, despite giving him his orders, would say it was only what he deserved. She trusted Dallben’s judgements over Achren’s, of course...and yet... 

“Free her hands,” Achren commanded, pulling the gag away. 

Magg moved. A tug at Eilonwy’s wrists sent shock up her arms, spasming her shoulder, prompting a hoarse cry of pain. Achren bent over her again sharply. “Take care! She is hurt.”  

“She fought me,” Magg repeated hastily, sawing at her bonds. “I did what I had to. If she is injured, it is due to her resistance, and no fault of mine.”  

The ropes parted, and Eilonwy’s arms fell free and forward; she curled herself up in agony, groaning as her long-strained muscles contracted. “Clumsy fool,” Achren growled, her hands busy, searching for injury. “Where is the pain?” she whispered. “Do not fight me, child; you know that I can help you.”  

It was true enough; Achren could heal when she chose, a power she sometimes dangled over the bodies of tortured prisoners, who begged and promised until they realized she bestowed her mercies only that she might break them again a new way. Eilonwy, nauseous with pain and the ugly witness of memory, shut teeth and eyes against both. “I don’t want your help,” she gasped out, in a harsh rasp. 

Achren’s hands stilled for a tense moment before they moved again, chafing her arms, working upward; Eilonwy could not bite back a yelp of pain when they reached her shoulder. Pause. Satisfaction. That relieving warmth flooded her-- a drug, administered against her will, that yet served its purpose. She choked on her own rage at being subjected to it, at the traitorous relaxation of her own body under its influence—but the surge of anger drew its own power with it, a return of wholeness, of strength, of the ability to resist.  

In a sudden burst of movement, she gathered her stiff limbs beneath her and launched herself up and sideways, pitching herself over the side of the rowboat before either of her captors could react. Water enveloped her in a cold embrace; she scrambled, kicked, found footing and stood up, sloshing backward into waist-high sea.  

Magic, blazing with her anger, rushed into her veins and limbs and mouth, took form and shape in words and gestures; Eilonwy flung it with all her strength toward the boat. Magg was nothing but a dark figure, diving backward behind a brilliant sunburst. But Achren had risen. She stood straight in the bow of the boat, arms low, hands held in a warding gesture. The wooden craft ignited beneath her and around her, explosive flames roaring toward the sky. The blast of power tossed her dark robes, tumbled her hair back in a wild tempest of streaming silver.  But she stood immobile, illuminated like a goddess, untouched by the heat, her face glowing with exultation. 

Eilonwy reeled, stumbling backwards with a sob. Blast it all! Magic didn’t work , had never worked, when Achren was concerned. How? How, after all these years, after all she had learned, could she still do nothing against her? Dallben could have taught her, could have helped her, but he had not; no, he had sent her away, instead—dropped her, defenseless, right back into the hands of a woman he had never been able to confirm was no longer a threat.  

She screamed out curses in rage, flung spell after spell, felt the crumbling of the burning boat in her core. Blazing chunks fell into the waves and floated, until the surrounding water was fractured with glowing orange, sending up smoke in wavering clouds.  Achren stepped calmly from the hull as it broke apart, and waded through the wreckage in a wide arc, watching her all the while like a silent, stalking cat. She moved until she stood upon dry land, and then she stood still, waiting, full of that expectant, triumphant light.  

Eilonwy dropped to her knees in the water, choking on the last of her screams, on the dregs of useless magic. The current pulled at her clothes and hair, drifting sand across her submerged feet and legs. She dug her hands into the seafloor. A vibrating buzz met her fingertips, singing through her arms, a counterpoint to the bodiless voices that still whispered and hummed around her, audible again now that her fury had burned itself out. They still spoke no words she knew, but they pulled her to and fro like the ebb and flow of each wave that swept past: cajoling, demanding, soothing, tempting by turns. Around her, in the water, turquoise light was coalescing into constellations, winking and shimmering at the edges of her gown, at the crest of every ripple that broke against her. 

“You see.” 

Achren’s voice. Eilonwy looked up, exhausted, at the woman standing a stone’s throw away, the filmy edges of the water breaking at her feet.   

“See,” Achren repeated, waving toward the glittering water, “the sea knows you. Tan Llyr has met every one of your mothers at these shores, from the very beginning, and so it greets you, a gift of Llyr.” She raised her hand, beckoning. “Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad. Come. The land of your mothers has long awaited you. Come and look upon it.”  

Eilonwy gulped, and shivered—an answer to the faint tremor she sensed, as though the land itself had moved at Achren’s words, shifted forward for a better look at her. She stared toward the proud figure, at what took shape beyond it. In what little light remained, a dark beach lay braced by jagged rocks, sloping up to a craggy silhouette against the clouds. Cliffs? Yes, but...not cliffs only. The blunt tops of towers, bereft of collapsed roofs, rose from a central mass. Fractured stone arches framed the sky like torn black webbing. Dark lines traced crumbled walls downward, merging with the bedrock foundation of tumbling stone. Behind Achren, ancient stairs led from the sand upwards, a winding invitation into mystery. 

The voices urged her, all but pushed her forward. The sand came loose and sifted through her fingers, was sucked away in the current, leaving her hands empty. It’s gone, she thought. It’s gone...gone, no matter what it was once. Why bring me here?  Only to show me all I have lost?  

Tiny sparks of green danced beneath her face, congregating, as though curious, around every place her tears fell, marking their impact with tiny, expanding rings of light. For a heartbeat she could see the shape of each droplet, surrounded and shimmering, before it was unmade and released into the cold sea. So easy , she thought wearily. If only...  

“Come,” Achren called again, and the voices moaned in her ears. What did they want, then, these empty ghosts of Llyr? Whose side were they on?  

She could not stay here, lost and cold in the water with only these tiny lights for company. She must go somewhere, and there was nowhere to go but forward, where Achren stood as gatekeeper between her and whatever lay claim to her beyond. No divine moon glimmered benevolently above, no friend or protector stood at her side; she was only herself, alone in this web woven by a master hand. Would she be enough? 

Her hands wrapped into her drifting skirts, tangling within the fabric, and she realized that her makeshift pocket, despite its mishap, was still partially attached. Something small and hard brushed her fingers; she groped between the folds and found the shard of ormer. 

I was alone, for all the years before I escaped her the first time.  The smooth surface of the shell pressed against her thumb—a fragment, but smooth and unmarred.  I was enough, then. I shall have to be, again.   

She stood slowly, and pushed through the surf, turquoise fire streaming from her figure and shattering upon the water in blue embers, until she stepped upon the beach. Achren reached out, as though she would embrace her; Eilonwy swerved away from her in outrage and halted, staring, registering an astonishing thing: they were the same height.  

In her memory, Achren had always towered over her—a detail accurate enough in her earliest recollections; but it held true even later, in the times just prior to her escape, when the difference between them could not have been nearly so vast as it seemed in her mind’s eye. Now here they stood, face to face, in a silent, tense assessment, and she felt a strange thrill at the sight of those icy eyes on level with her own. 

Achren was beautiful still...breathtakingly so; Eilonwy had always denied it, with the willful blindness of childhood resentment, but she conceded it now. Though there were signs of age in the lines around her eyes, the fine bones of the queen’s cold face were as chiseled, her brow as smooth, and the sensuous curve of her lips as full, as ever they had been when men had groveled at her feet within the Great Hall of Spiral Castle. But there was something new in her gaze...something drained and weary, and no less dangerous for it, like the weariness of an injured wolf that will fight to the death before baring its belly.  

The silence stretched out. Eilonwy waited, heart pounding, meeting that cold gaze as though her life depended on not blinking.  

“Look at you,” Achren breathed out, finally. “Grown powerful on your own, beyond my expectations.” There was an odd pride in her voice, as though she credited herself with such advancement. “By the gods, you are a beauty: your mother made over. If she stood again before me I could hardly tell you apart.” 

Before anyone else who called her a beauty under such conditions, Eilonwy would have laughed, and mocked them for their insincerity. But Achren did not pay compliments for their own sake, and the word, on her lips, was not flattery. “How, then,” she muttered sullenly. “Did she stand before you wretched and drenched, after being abducted, knocked senseless, and dragged into a boat?” 

“Not at all. But you favor her all the same.” Achren’s mouth twitched up wryly. “In particular, with that expression that says you’d be pleased to see me hanging upon my own gibbet.” 

Eilonwy’s scowl deepened and she broke her gaze, staring angrily out at the dark water. “I’m glad to know she passed some good sense on to me, then.”   

She heard a quick, measured inhale. “I see some things, at least, have not changed,” Achren said levelly. “I do not reproach your anger; you have been cruelly treated today, and I regret that there was no way to bring you here willingly. Nevertheless, your perversity will only waste time.” She stepped closer, her voice lowering, a compelling, coaxing thrum. “There is no need to spend your strength fighting me. I have not summoned you here as prisoner, but as a queen to her rightful domain. I have only ever sought for you to claim your destiny. In the end, you will know the reward to be worth all your trials.” 

She motioned toward the stone steps. “Are you not curious, at least, to see your homeland?” 

“It doesn’t appear to be much of a land,” Eilonwy observed, standing her ground, “if all that’s left is a half-ruined castle.” 

“All that is left, for the moment,” Achren countered. “Would I have brought you here, to enthrone you over only bare stone and empty sea? You cannot fathom the grandeur of what this place once was. And what it can be once more, with your power to restore it. All this, I can show you.” 

“Why?” Somehow the words were twisting in her thoughts, melding with the chorus of voices that sang at the edges of her mind, confusing and bewildering; behind them she seemed to see green fields and hills, lush with wildflower banks and clover, sparkling rills and waterfalls; blue banners emblazoned with a triple moon, snapping high upon the bobbing masts of ships, upon the tops of shining towers. She shook her head, dispelling the visions.  “It's always been you who wants a throne. I don’t want to be anything more than who I am.” 

“You,” Achren said, stepping close to her again, eye to eye, “have no idea who you are.”  

The voices rang in her head, insistent; she could barely think around them. “That’s not true.”  

That blade-smile flashed in the dusk. “Eilonwy of Llyr.” How could her own name sound so much like a taunt? “Daughter of Angharad. Daughter of Regat. Daughter of Mererid. Daughter of Morgana...” 

“Stop.” 

“Daughter of Ceinwen. Daughter of Glesni. Daughter of Eleri...” 

“Stop it!” She crushed her hands over her ears, but now the voices had taken up the recitation, chanting one name after another, names flowing like the blood in her veins passed down from this relentless line of queens, carved into her ears as though she were the monument upon which their memory depended.  

Daughter of Rhiann, Daughter of Eurolwyn, Daughter of Creirwy, Daughter of Branwen, Daughter of Llyr, of Llyr, of Llyr... . 

“I know all that!” It was a desperate cry, shouted above a din only she could hear.  “It doesn’t matter. They’ve gone, Llyr is gone . None of it means anything, anymore.”  

The voices moaned, and Achren’s eyes gleamed in a triumphant flash of cold grey. “That is by no means true. Your ancestors lived here, loved here, fought and bled for this land, built it up by their skill and their power. The magic spun by your mothers still sleeps in every stone, waiting for one of their own to awaken it.” 

The ormer shard, clutched against her thumb, burned like ice, like fire, vibrating to the rhythm of her pulse, to the increased cadence of her breath.  

“King Llyr lies at its heart,” Achren went on, “buried beneath the sea. Your mother risked her life and rescued the island’s people when she could not stop its destruction. Would you make her sacrifice for naught, when you could raise it again? Bring your people back from exile?”  

Bring them back? Her feet seemed heavy, suddenly, melded to the earth beneath with something stronger than her weight, even as her body seemed lighter and lighter, suffused with a spreading buoyancy, euphoric and frightening in its intensity. She shook her head again, desperate to clear it, no longer certain of anything. Of what did Achren speak? Llyr had been destroyed, its people perished in the sea. Gwydion had told her so; everyone knew it. No one knew how...no one, not even Dallben, not even... 

“How do you know any of this?”   

“I was here.” 

Eilonwy stared. The voices moaned a mournful undertone. “You.” 

“Indeed. The Queen herself, your grandmother, invited me here, to help shore up the island against an outside threat.” 

It was a slap in the face. “She did not,” Eilonwy gasped. “They would never have called you. You lie; you have lied to me all my life.” 

“You need not rely on my words. Know the truth for yourself.” Achren circled her, moved in from behind, whispered over her shoulder. “This is your place, and it calls you. The voices of Llyr have been speaking all this time, since the moment you came near; I know, for I hear them in part; the land speaks to me as the sea speaks to you. Listen.”  

“I can’t understand them.”  

“Your heart knows the meaning. Only listen. Stop fighting, and open yourself to what they tell you.”  

Eilonwy trembled, her resistance crumbling. Achren, she could defy, but this was something else entirely. In the buzz under her feet, in her ears, on the air, there was an essence that wrapped around her, recognized her. It was pouring in, streaming, filling the dark spaces in her that had never known their own shape and lighting them up like a morning sky. The voices sang, their chorus mingled with the endless rhythm of the sea. Her heart pounded, matching them, in an anxious but ecstatic cadence.  

She took a step, and the chorus rose, expectant. Another, and another, and the voices cried out in welcome. She reached out, touched the face of the stone, its surface etched with centuries of salt, inlaid with millennia of crystal. That same flow, that undefinable power, breathed here too, a dark, smooth exhale to match and balance the fire in her gasping inhale. 

“You see,” Achren said again, from somewhere behind her, but she barely heard it. She did see, many things, in a swift series of impressions. Light on water, a ship gliding along its liquid path, silver sails sweeping after a flock of birds. A young couple: a dark-haired man, beautiful as a moonlit night, a golden-haired woman, radiant as summer. They stood waist-deep in water, embracing amid swirling turquoise sea-fire. Warriors marched and weapons clashed: men and women fought side-by-side. A ring of towering stones rose over shadows and mist, their feet lost in secrets. White-clad, flower-crowned girls sang around an altar, fragrant with smoking incense. Women enthroned among flower garlands and bowers of blooming willow trees clasped newborn infants to their breasts, reverent attendants pressing curled hands to their hearts. Horses galloped down a beach, shouting girls perched lightly on their backs, their faces fearless, their hair flying behind like banners. A tall girl, her head a streaming silken crown of red-gold, ascended a dais before an assembled crowd. Someone behind her slipped a fine chain over her head, settling a silver crescent at her breast; a gem set within it shone like a star. Three women, standing on a high tower: two dark-robed and careworn, the other an image of herself, all clasping hands around a central figure, whose hands carved enchanted symbols into the air, trailing sparks. Achren. It was Achren. 

Eilonwy cried out and stumbled, threw out both hands to catch herself. The ormer shard tumbled from her grasp. Black rock met her palms with a burst of cold liquid magic; it flooded her in a breathtaking instant. It was moonlight; it was starlight; it was sweetness and saltwater, as wild as the wind moaning in marsh-grass, as deep and rich as the thunder of the surf upon the cliffs. It was both ancient and new, and perfectly familiar, as fitted as a garment made exactly to her measurements, a sense that had always been there, whose existence she had never known. 

Had she?   

Memory stretched, reaching back, and back, found the barrier where it could go no further, the wall beyond which she had never been able to see, never tried too hard to climb, sensing the horror that lurked behind it. But this magic recognized it as foreign, found the cracks in its foundation and slid into them like water. The silver thread running through her knew its own shape on the other side, sent forth tendrils of itself to join together with what she had been before. Like roots it spread through the weak places in the wall, crumbling them; like a flood it swept them away, and left her gasping with the rush of returned self.  

It was too much at once, memories that could crush her beneath their weight. She turned from them, and they chased her like ghosts, as shrill as the cries of her mother the day she had been stolen, ringing again in her ears. Blinded by visions, she ran, and came to herself, panting, exhausted, at the top of the stone stairs. She stood upon a high point, looking across a channel to the bones of the ruined castle, surrounded by a battered sea wall. Light glimmered from a single narrow window, high in one central structure. The surf roared at its feet. 

The voices sang a warning, and she looked behind her; Achren had followed her up the stair.  

“Stop!” It came out in a white breath that hung between them in the air. Eilonwy backed away, trembling. “Don’t come any closer to me.”  

The woman halted, wary and expectant. “You feel it,” she said, holding up a placating hand. “Power that awaits your will to command it. Magic that only you can harness. It is the legacy of your people.” 

“But why do you care?” Raindrops dotted the stone around them, as though the tears she held back, determined to fall anyway, had manifested themselves outside of her. “It can never be yours.” 

Achren lowered her hand. “It is true,” she said. “I can share in it, in part, where our elements entwine. But the magic of Llyr is not mine to wield.” 

“Yet in pursuit of it you stole me from my family,” Eilonwy cried, voice breaking in spite of her resolve. “I know it! I know it now! You took me away, and then you blocked my memories of them. You raised me as a captive, until I broke free, and now you have stolen me again . Just to bring me here and tell me I can raise an island from the dead?” The voices groaned as though pleading for release, and she shook them off angrily. “An island whose fate cannot possibly interest you—you, who have ever only wanted the throne of Prydain back! Why? What can my future ever have to do with you?”  

Achren’s face twitched. She moved away from the stairs, and gazed across the channel at the skeletal castle. But for her long hair, caught by the wind and scattered like gauzy strands of spider silk, she stood so still that she might have been another ruined pillar, half eaten away by time.  

“I have long known that I would never again wear the crown,” she said. Her voice rang hollow, the falling rain catching and pulling it down into the stones at their feet. “This, I have seen, in every divination, every scry, every fall of bones. Long ago, it galled me. Now I weary of the game. It is enough, for me, to ensure that Prydain shall never again be Arawn’s, and to have thwarted him wherever I could.” 

It was strange and surreal, this explanation, as though they were equals, from one who had always silenced her, ignored her, chastised her for asking questions. Eilonwy struggled to find her footing on such unfamiliar ground. “If you’d really wanted to thwart him,” she said hotly, “you could’ve assisted those already fighting him. Instead you spent all your time spying on the Sons of Don, and nearly tortured Gwydion to death.” 

Achren seemed to flinch ever so slightly at the name. She took a slow breath, and her lip curled in contempt. “They may call themselves by their mother’s name, but the Sons of Don are men. They think as men think, and fight as men fight. They waste themselves, hurling the blood of their youth against the black gates of Annuvin, spending all their strength against one who is no longer a mere man.” A faint note of grim satisfaction stole into her voice. “I would be fool indeed, to cast in my lot with theirs.” 

She turned her sharp gaze on Eilonwy, eyes glinting like flint. “The golden ships that brought the spawn of Don to these shores are as foreign to Prydain as your own people, when first they arrived. If I bear no love for them, remember that they did not wrest the throne from Arawn to return it to me , the ruler of this land by birth and by blood, but to claim it for their own. Such is the way of men, and has always been. 

“But this all signifies nothing,” she went on. “They distrust me, and rightfully, and would have refused any aid I offered. They will let their battles with Arawn lay waste to the entire country before they admit they have failed to stop him. But your aid, they will not refuse.” 

Eilonwy stared blankly. “ My aid.” 

“Of course. You have proven yourself loyal—several times over, from what I hear.” Achren shrugged scornfully. “Raise the island, or do not. Seek out your people and rule them, or leave them be, wherever they are. It is all one to me--though I thought you would want to so honor your ancestry.” Her voice grew hard. “But you are an enchantress, whether you would be a queen or no. Only grasp what power is available to you here, and yours may be the hand that tips the balance, ridding this land of Arawn for good.” 

The words seemed to crackle in her ears. “When,” Eilonwy said slowly, “have you ever desired anything to be done for good?”  

Achren smiled, a bitter shape through the rain. “You reveal your own ignorance,” she said, “to willfully misunderstand me so. It is childish folly to put such names to things. A feast is good , to those invited. To those left out, chewing their own emptiness, it is a waste and a wicked extravagance.” She looked away, the smile dissolving. “But if there is such a thing as goodness , Arawn stands in opposition to it. Our reasons for resisting him are worlds apart. I claim no lofty motive, nor do I deny my self-interest. What does it matter, in the end, so long as he is defeated? My power diminishes, but I would live—and die—free from his shadow. Prydain shall be at peace. Perhaps the Sons of Don, dull from having no one to blame for every ill, for having one less excuse for endless war, may even turn their attention to the land’s nurturing, at last.”  

Silence fell, broken only by the rush of falling rain. A streak of light, branched like a river and its tributaries, flashed from sky to sea. Eilonwy felt the jolt of it, deep where her heart beat, a breadth of power virtually unlimited. Could it be true? Could this magic be used to defeat... 

“If the power of Llyr is so great,” she said, “then why did the Daughters of Llyr not join in the fight against Arawn long ago?” 

“They might have done so,” Achren answered, after a moment’s hesitation, “had their aid been asked. But your foremothers were shrewd; they knew, as I know, that allying themselves with the Sons of Don might result in unforseen ...complications. It was why Regat turned to me, and not Math, when Arawn set his sights on her domain.”  

“And you brought no complications of your own,” Eilonwy retorted. 

Achren laughed, a sharp sound that cut through the rain like the swipe of a dagger. “By Gwynn! there speaks Angharad’s daughter. I did not say so. But it is water beneath our feet, now.” 

“It would seem your aid availed them nothing, then.” 

“There was a confluence of unfortunate circumstances. It is a long and complicated tale, one better told beneath a dry roof, beside a fire. You are weary, and have not eaten or drunk today, I believe. You need make no weighty decisions tonight. Come, at least take shelter and refreshment. Enough of Caer Colur stands, still, to welcome you home.”  

She gestured to the glowing warmth from the single window. Eilonwy stared toward it, curiosity burning bright, the voices in her mind a steady hum of anticipation. She could stand here, hungry and cold, in the rain, wrestling with the weight of returned memories, trying to shield herself from whatever manipulation Achren was weaving. Or she could play along, and at least be fed and warmed for her risk. Was it wrong, to want to see her mother’s home, her people’s stronghold? Was it dangerous, to follow this stream of magic trying to pull her to its heart?  

“Magg,” Achren said aloud, startling her; Eilonwy glanced sideways as a figure materialized from the stairway, realizing that she had forgotten about Magg entirely. Despite his treatment of her all day, despite the threat he had represented, he was, somehow, as forgettable as any tool dropped carelessly by a craftsman once its task was done. In the blazing fire of Achren’s presence he had dwindled to a mere shadow, skulking, unnoticed, like a dog trailing a camp, hoping for cast off bones.  

“My queen.” He bowed low, his spidery limbs akimbo. “What is your command?” 

“I have none.” Achren turned from him, a mocking smile upon her lips. “We stand upon Llyr, the domain of the Princess Eilonwy, and she will give the commands. What say you?” she continued, to Eilonwy. “Shall this man serve your dinner, and ready your chambers?” 

Magg took a step back, mouth open in dismay. Oh, it was clever, diabolically clever to grant her such a backhanded boon! But Achren, whatever else she was, had always been clever.  

“Yes,” Eilonwy said, watching with satisfaction as Magg’s face contorted in pale rage. “Though from several things he said on the way, I gather he is expecting some lavish reward that you have promised him. So when he has finished with my chambers, he can ready yours , and stay there.” 

She turned from both of them in disgust, ignoring both Magg’s strangled sound of outraged protest and Achren’s low, cynical chuckle, and surveyed the path before her. A narrow walkway extended along the edge of the channel, flanked by a low stone wall. It was wet and treacherous-looking, disappearing into darkness within a few steps.  

“What a convenient thing it would be,” she said pointedly. “if I had my bauble, so I could see where to go.” 

She felt Achren freeze behind her. “What do you mean? Where is it?” 

“Somewhere on the riverbank, back on Mona,” Eilonwy said, waving a dismissive hand toward Magg. “It fell from my pocket while your spy was dragging me to the boat. And of course, I couldn’t say anything. I’m afraid he was a bit too busy clubbing my head to take any notice that it was gone.” 

There was a cry behind her, a sniveling, animal noise of fear. The air crackled with fire and metal, the old, old familiar smell and taste of Achren’s anger.  

“You!”  

“Mercy, my queen! I did not know, I did not realize—“ 

His voice cut off in a shriek. Eilonwy turned, though she herself quailed, her body shrinking instinctively away from the anger she had learned to fear, long, long before, whether she were its target or not.  

Magg was crouched against the stone wall, his hands flung up over his head in self-protection, as though someone intimidatingly large were looming over him. Achren herself was nothing of the kind, but she gave the impression of it, somehow, as she stood before him, her face flushed crimson with rage.  

Her lips moved, and with them the space around them. The earth shifted and cracked, and the wall Magg leaned upon, the stone beneath him, crumbled without warning, leaving him crouched upon a single pinnacle, held to the path with only a sliver of solid stone. The sea churned far below. He screamed in terror, a sound Eilonwy would never have believed could emerge from a grown man’s throat, were she not witness to it. 

“Escape from that, you witless idiot,” Achren hissed, “if you would prove yourself fit for the simplest task.” 

Without another word or backward glance she whirled, leaving him clinging to his tiny pedestal, gibbering, his face to the ground. Eilonwy stepped back as Achren advanced, staring at his huddled shape.  

“You don’t care, do you?” she said, as the woman swept past her. “He has served his purpose, and now you don’t care whether he lives or not.” 

Achren paused and turned to her. “Do you?” 

She thought of his leering face above her, his sweaty, shaking hands on her legs, his hot breath in her ear, and spoke honestly. “No.” 

Achren stood close, as potent a pillar of fire before her. Her icy gaze met Eilonwy’s with something akin to sympathy—the closest to such she had ever seen in them. “When once you have embraced your power,”  Achren whispered, in a tone that made her shiver, “you need never fear any man, ever again. None will touch you unless you invite it; none will dare even look at you without your consent. And no matter whom you choose to favor with your attention, you will belong only to yourself.” She bent even closer, her proud face as hard as stone. “Of such power, common women only dream. It is the gift of a goddess to her daughters, and it lies in your grasp. Your people knew its value, while you have only begun to realize it. Think well, Princess. You stand upon the brink of a choice—one never given to most.” 

Eilonwy stood, mouth dry, heart pounding in her throat, as Achren turned and continued down the path, leaving her to follow, not even glancing back to see that she did. 

The voices crowded around her, urging her forward. Was there any reason to resist them—beyond her distrust and fear of Achren? Achren, who had, perhaps, just spoken truth to her for the first time in her life. Not that it made her distrust her any less. But was it impossible ... so unthinkable ...that their paths could run side-by-side? Just for this moment... 

Eilonwy glanced back at Magg, a dark shape huddled on his fragile pedestal. She felt no pity. Instead, a hot, potent surge of anger made her turn from him, and propelled her down the path. “Achren.” 

The woman turned, a dark shadow within a stone arch. Beyond her, the towers of Caer Colur rose up black against the pale luminosity of the clouds. Eilonwy walked ahead, past her, and set her foot upon the foundations of the castle of Llyr. The voices in her mind sang in triumph. 

“Tell me,” she said, “what you mean by embracing my power.”  

Chapter Text

Eilonwy ate a sparse supper, served by a questionable-looking guard, in what had once been the Great Hall of Caer Colur. It was a grand space, its roof still partially intact, though charred wooden beams lay at haphazard angles, and chunks of masonry were missing from the tops of walls, particularly around the main entrance. What stonework remained within its arches and alcoves still flowed in graceful lines, incorporating sculpted trees and flowers and even human figures—mostly women, their carved garments draped and gathered in methods reminiscent of the gown Teleria had given her for the feast. Their heads were all turned to face the dais at one end of the room, their blank gazes fixed upon the place where thrones must have once stood. There were no furnishings, beyond a rough wooden table placed near the large hearth, and two stools that looked like things salvaged from a shipwreck.

Achren spoke little, and seemed rather brooding and preoccupied, but when Eilonwy had finished eating, the queen led her to an ancient chest standing in a shadowed alcove behind the dais. "Every Daughter of Llyr was initiated, at the age you are now, into the full use of her magic," she explained. "And several of their most potent implements respond to the light of the Golden Pelydryn –what you always called your bauble." The lock on the chest had been broken, and she opened it wide, displaying an array of items: a silver scrying bowl, bottles and jars containing materials long crumbled to dust, crystals in various shapes and sizes, mortar and pestle, fire tools, a small dagger with an ormer-inlaid handle, several seashells, brittle parchments, and other objects, strangely-shaped, whose purpose Eilonwy could not imagine.

She looked it all over, curious, but ambivalent. "My mother could have explained the use of all of these, I'm sure," she said. "What a pity I was stolen away from the one person who could have trained me properly."

There was a moment of chilly silence. "Your mother," Achren said, a razor-edge in her voice, "would never have brought you here. She was very young, when I was summoned to aid her house-very young and impulsive, and so infatuated with your father that she made several foolish decisions. Some of them may have contributed to the disaster that occurred. And though her courage and sacrifice saved the people, the loss of her family and the destruction of the island broke her spirit. She went into hiding, and would have hidden you away as well, and never allowed you to become what you should be."

"And you knew better, what I should be?" Eilonwy retorted, incensed. "She was my mother, not you. It was her choice to make."

"It is your choice," Achren answered, fixing her with a hard stare. "Despise me all you please, but what I did was for your benefit. When I took you, I could have fought and slain your mother, if I had intended such ill. But I did not. I intended for her to follow you. Forced out of hiding, and made to see reason, she would have come to her senses, and agreed to the arrangement. You would have had the benefits of guidance from both of us, along with what protection I could grant you."

She shook her head, breaking eye contact, but not before Eilonwy saw the bitter lines that creased her mouth. "I had no design of trying to replace her. Had fate fashioned me for a mother, what chance I had was taken from me long before you were born. Angharad had the power and the wit to track us. What stopped her, I do not know. I told you your parents were dead because it was, and is still, the only reasonable explanation for her failure to find you."

"And my father? Did you have no room for him in this scheme?"

Achren dismissed her father with a single gesture. "He had no magic, only a handsome face and a knack for performing for an audience. How he bewitched your mother so completely only shows, again, how young she was, how driven by emotion and desire. He was not present the day I found you, and I had no reason to seek him out."

Boiling anger made Eilonwy turn away. Lashing out at Achren would be fruitless, as much as she desired to do it; instead, she stood before the hearth, finding solace in the heat of the flames, in the way her will reached out, entwined with them, pushed them higher. It had a different flavor, this fire, a hint of something wild she could not identify. It burned blue and green at the edges, and pulled at her spirit as though each flame was a grasping hand, drawing her to the incandescent core at its base.

She felt Achren's gaze upon her, watching her carefully, almost warily. "For you to truly access your full power," Achren murmured, "you need the Pelydryn. I shall send a search party after it in the morning. But it is only one of many tools. For now..." she had waved out toward the wall, where rain drifted in through an empty casement, and the growl of thunder occasionally rose above the sound of the sea. "Simply let yourself be immersed in this place. Listen to what it tells you. Do what you will. Your own insight will guide you."

How was she to accept such counsel? This woman, who had taught her nothing but fear and mistrust from her earliest memory, now spoke words of unimaginable freedom. They wove like harp notes into the song plucked in her mind by the ghostly fingers of Llyr's vanished bards. She had been prepared to reject, on principle, anything Achren told her, to fight tooth and nail for her autonomy, not to have it dangled before her, like...

Like a baited hook.

She shivered. No, she would be a fool to trust Achren, even in the smallest capacity; she must close her ears to these voices. It must all be lies, it had to be, no matter what grains of truth might be sprinkled within them. Dallben had told her once that there was no lie so powerful as a twisted truth.

Yet what was she to do, trapped here, with no recourse? Open defiance would only make Achren more dangerous. It was, perhaps, safest to feign compliance until she found a way of escape, or until her friends came to her aid. Surely they were already on her trail.

She said nothing, as Achren led her through a series of corridors and up a winding stair, into a tower room, furnished with a chamber pot and a narrow couch, its only bedding a thin and rather moth-eaten blanket folded at one end.

"It is no fitting chamber for a Princess, now," Achren said, sounding truly regretful. "Whatever comforts remained here after the cataclysm were taken by those who came to investigate, or looted by thieves. But this was your mother's apartment, if my memory is correct, and it can be made a luxury once again, if you only will it so. Such deprivation is temporary." She handed Eilonwy a rushlight, and shadows danced like living things upon the stone walls. "Sleep, now. This is your domain, and you need fear nothing."

Left alone, Eilonwy set the light upon the floor, and crossed to the far wall, where an alcove framed a stone bench before a window. She looked out and down; there was a courtyard below, but the tower was too high and sheer-sided to climb down without rope. A narrow doorway at one side of the chamber led only to a small antechamber; a place for a handmaid to sleep, no doubt. There was no other way out but how she'd come in, and the hallway that had led here was a maze she could not easily navigate in the dark. She was too exhausted to think her way out, anyhow.

Her garments were still damp and clammy; she shivered in the darkness, growing colder by the moment. Sleep would be impossible in such a state. The chamber had a hearth, and a decent amount of wood piled within; she kindled it with a word and huddled before it as golden tongues licked up the branches. The familiar music of crackling fire filled her ears with comfort. Again, the flames painted their own edges green and blue, and a strange, wild tang threaded itself within the scent of burning wood. She let her mind drift into the fire, curious and intuitive. What was it? It was new and yet not; it tasted and smelled like…like…salt.

It was salt. Seawater.

Her pulse quickened a little, suffused with a sudden thrill of understanding and recognition. This wasn't mere firewood; it was driftwood. These branches and twigs had floated upon the sea until their fiber had soaked in its essence, had drawn in its minerals as a sponge soaks up spilled milk, and now they burned with their own flavor, a melding of fire and sea that made her think of the sunrise that morning. And then, further back, a memory: a driftwood fire in a different hearth, a smaller one, and before it she sat in the warm circle of strong arms, and watched a young woman make the flames dance with graceful motions of her white hands.

"You see how it curls, love?" Her voice is sweet, and low, like a lullaby. "It means Rhiannon is pleased."

"She's happy for us?"

"Indeed, as she is happy anywhere there is life and love and family."

"Because she is the Mother." She stares at the flames, thoughtful. "What happens, if she isn't pleased?"

"Then the fire would sputter and smolder, and the wood would not burn up all the way."

"There was chunks left, this morning."

"That's only because Tad didn't bank the fire properly last night." The woman grins at something over her head, and a man's voice laughs, vibrating against her ear, warm and golden.

"Tad was distracted last night," it rumbles, "because his girls wanted so many stories. But that was ordinary wood, anyhow. We'll gather Mam more driftwood, all she wants, tomorrow, won't we, Lonnie?"

His chin nuzzles the top of her head. She giggles, and presses her cheek to the thud of her father's heartbeat. Her mother sings softly, a song about ships at rest in a harbor.

Eilonwy shook herself with a gasp, back to the darkness and solitude of the present. The fire danced before her eyes, curling and crackling. Its heat had become oppressive on her face; she turned away…and gasped again.

The chamber's plastered, whitewashed walls were covered in tapestries. Iron sconces bore flickering candles, casting winking light upon rich furniture: dark wooden chests, a cushion-strewn couch, a high, curtained bed. An ornately-patterned wool carpet softened the polished wooden floorboards. The firelight made colors undefinable, but everywhere she saw the glint of polished metal, the muted gleam of pearl and ivory. The fabrics bore the glimmering thread of brocade and the thick-edged shadows of velvet.

She stumbled to her feet, heart pounding, looking around in wonder and disbelief; she took a step onto the carpet, felt it soft and plush underfoot. A flash of movement caught her eye and she whipped her gaze to the window. Its panels, glittering with diamond-sharp panes of glass, stood open, and beyond them, framed by the arched opening, a nearby tower stood whole and proud, an azure pennant snapping at its highest point.

She took a step toward it. Suddenly the hearth-fire snapped loudly, showering sparks into the room. Eilonwy whirled with a cry, rushed to stamp them out before they could set the carpet ablaze.

Her foot fell upon bare wood, soft with age and exposure. She blinked, looking around in bewilderment at nothing but damp stone walls and the threadbare couch. The fire smoked sullenly, and she dropped to her knees before it, filled with an anxious urgency, and begged it, fervently as a prayer, to blaze again. The flames steadied, their weak flicker stabilizing. Slowly, with much mental coaxing, they blazed up with new strength, warming her suddenly cold hands and face.

She knelt before it until the last twig had burned to ash, motionless but for her lips, mouthing barely-recalled words whose meaning she did not even know. She did not look out at the chamber again, afraid of what she would see, afraid because she wanted to see it. When she rose, her clothes were dry. She lay upon the couch with the blanket crushed beneath her head, and stared at the living embers until she could no longer hold her eyes open.

Eilonwy awoke in the early dawn, to the low rumble of the surf.

It was a strange thing, how such a powerful sound could so quickly fade into the background of one's awareness, as unnoticed as breathing. If there were any other noises in this place during the night, she had not heard them over the smoothness of its white rhythm. She had dreamed nothing, unless that strange glamor of the previous night had, in fact, been a dream. It would be comforting to think so.

She lay with her eyes open, staring at the dark beams crossing the roof overhead, trying to make sense of all that had taken place since…was it just yesterday morning? She felt as though it were a year ago, when she'd stepped out of her chamber at Dinas Rhydnant. Further back, and the last few years seemed more dream than memory. Had she really lived for years within the calm safety of a cottage by the ...No, not by the sea. On a farm, of course.

But...she had lived in a cottage by the sea, too, sometime between the Rover camp and Achren. A gap had formed in that wall of rubble in her mind, and now images crowded through it, each clamoring to be first. A broad cove, sheltered by cliffs. A cluster of thatched huts. Nestled within one, a cozy interior, with hearth, a table and stools. Her mother tucking her into a trundle bed, then sitting near and stroking her hair, singing, until she slept. Awakening briefly to see her parents sitting together, curled up by the fire, talking in low voices. Rising in the early morning to the sound of gulls, dancing down to the water's edge to call out to her father, who stood in deep water, pulling in a net full of wriggling fish. He called her and she raced in, giggling as the sparkling foam rippled under her feet, as the wavelets parted to let her pass, then lifted her up when she ran past her depth, and carried her to the safety of his arms. On the shore, her mother laughed, her hair shining like fire in the sunlight.

She tasted salt. Her own tears, drifting down; she had not known that she was weeping. Eilonwy sat up stiffly and swung her bare feet to the floor.

She rose and crossed to the window. The sky was clear, pearly and pale, painted every color of the inside of a conch shell; the water reflected it like a mirror, fractured by waves. The storm of last night had played itself out, but the sea was still moody and full of thunder...a sound that called her, as compelling as all the forces of the previous night.

Do what you will, Achren had said; very well, she would take her at her word on this, at least. Eilonwy hurried through the chamber door and down the dark corridors, down the spiral stairs lit by periodic arrow slits, pulled along by the voices in her head, instinctively following their siren song. Outside, she scrambled over jumbled stone wreckage until she was beyond it. A series of rocky ledges sloped down toward the sea, not too steep for scrambling upon. Down and down, until she found a narrow strip of beach, worn smooth by the ebb and flow of water.

There she paused. Last time she had gone sea-bathing, there had been a scene. She vaguely recalled being scolded for her foolishness. But no one was here, now, to care. She stripped to her shift, leaving her gown spread upon a flat rock, and plunged into the water.

This was not the playful, calm sea she had entered, that evening on the way to Mona. This was an entity of power, shot through with danger; it writhed, every swell shining green with the churnings of algae dredged up by the storm; it drew back like an archer's bow and launched a wall of churning froth at her. It came roaring, charging; the crash of impact shoved her backward even as the undertow dragged at her legs, a force that sought to pull her further in. She braced herself against it in answering challenge, setting her feet and leaning into its angles with a thrill of rebellion as the sand shifted beneath her. The water ebbed and changed course; another breaker rolled toward her. She leapt to meet it and shouted as it struck, exultant with the breadth and depth and power it held.

Another lunge forward, deeper into the water, fighting the current as it sought to control her. She struggled past the point where its green swells curled in endless crescents, mirroring the emblem she wore. One towered over her; she realized too late that it would break before she could rise past its crest, and on impulse, dove beneath it, felt the sweep and spiral of movement as it passed over her and crumbled.

She surfaced again, laughing, meeting the next wave and the next, each one jostling her in a rough embrace before rushing past her to the shore. Once she mis-timed a swift series of crests and was knocked off her feet. The crush of water tumbled her, helpless as a rag doll, for a few seconds, until she struck the sand and came up gasping in the shallows. Her nose burned with salt, but the fleeting jolt of fright turned into a surge of elation. She ran back, whooping in defiance as she launched herself into the breakers once more.

It was long before she let the waves carry her back toward the beach, and she stayed sitting in the shallow water, sweeping its crystal surface with both hands, letting it slide between her fingers. The sensation pulled at the memories recently restored, and she brought them forward cautiously, letting her mind wrap around the corners of the things she used to know. She whispered; her hands moved. The water responded, rolling beneath her palms, reversing against the current, in a flow both sensuous and strong. She caught her breath in wonder; it was a new sensation, and yet not—a novelty like the first flower of spring, even more thrilling for being remembered, recognized, and anticipated.

She flexed her fingers, and felt the flow of power spread into the space around her, as though magic itself were a liquid, dispersed and dissolved into the sea, adding to its volume but becoming no less potent. It flashed and swirled in mesmerizing patterns in her mind. As before, on that night spent floating beneath the moon, she was filled with a sense of the enormous weight of water, so vast and wide and deep that it formed its own body, a breathing, moving darkness full of teeming life.

There was magic here, power beyond comprehension; even with her limitations, she could sense it, the way one may sense the power in a horse, dimly, by laying a hand on its flanks. But could it really be used to fight Arawn? She knew how to harness fire to annihilate an enemy, a fury that had terrified her with its ability to rage out of control. The destructive potential she sensed in these depths was no doubt just as potent, if not more so...and could just as easily escape her grasp, if she handled it carelessly and without knowledge.

And Achren. Eilonwy stared out at the water, nose wrinkling, perplexed. What could Achren have to do with any of it? Achren could do nothing with the magic of Llyr, but it was folly to think that she truly had nothing to gain by this scheme she proposed, no matter what she claimed. Revenge alone had never been enough for her. But suppose...suppose it were possible not only to resist her, but to defeat her at last? If she, Eilonwy of Llyr, were ever to throw off Achren's grip, could it not be with the aid of this magic that was her birthright? None could say she should avoid it, could hem and haw about powers mere mortals were not meant to wield. She had been born specifically to wield it.

The water slipped around her like an embrace. She rose, dripping, and sloshed all the way to the sand, staring thoughtfully at her own feet splitting the waves. At the rocks, she gathered up her gown and then paused, thinking distastefully of pulling it on over her wet underthings, of her streaming hair soaking it anew.

Another memory teased at her, whispering in her ear, a string of strange words her mother had often used, after swimming or bathing. She murmured them softly, and a tingling sensation prickled over her from scalp to toes. She patted herself, touched her hair: dry. Stiff with salt, but dry. Wonderment and elation made her laugh aloud. She pulled her gown over her head, blew a kiss at the roaring sea, and turned to scramble up the rocks again.

Cresting a ledge, she stood up to view the castle ruin from a new angle. Fragmented towers cut pieces out of the pale sky. The bodiless voices whispered suggestions, recalling the glamor thrown upon her mother's chamber in the night; before she could react, in an instant, the broken stone gave way to visions of walls rising whole before her, towers gleaming in the sun. The gates stood open to welcome a stream of visitors; people moved along the path, shouting greeting to one another. Music played on the air, mingling with the merry voices. The rocks at the castle foundations were pillowed in green, waving with wildflowers.

Gulls called overhead. Eilonwy turned to glance back at the sea and saw no sign of it. Instead, she stood upon a ledge overlooking a grove of willow trees, emerald grass spread like a dappled carpet beneath them. White-clad girls danced upon it, their heads wreathed in flowers, a song on their lips. A driftwood fire burned on a stone altar in their midst.

Eilonwy stood, trembling, dizzy with the sound of the song, the scent of the rising smoke. It wasn't real. It wasn't, couldn't be real; it was an illusion; who knew if it were even an accurate picture of the past? It might be a deception, as false as the faery gold the Fair Folk used to hoodwink greedy mortals. She should shut her eyes to it, should turn away, should not entertain even the desire to look upon what might have been, a temptation that could only make everything more complicated.

But her feet moved of themselves, from the rock ledge and into the grass, down, into the trees, under stone arches carved into impossibly delicate tracery. She wove among the girls, somehow avoiding disrupting them; not one of them glanced at her or lost her place in the woven ring of the dance. She walked through their midst like a ghost, and came near the altar fire, mesmerized by the dancing green and blue flames.

There was a lone figure on its other side: a tall figure, somewhere halfway between a fresh-faced girl and a young woman. Her long black hair was intricately braided with strings of pearls, her garments embroidered with jeweled thread. At her white throat dangled a crescent moon on a fine silver chain, an exact copy of the one Eilonwy had always worn. She stood with her eyes closed as if in deep concentration, and her hands moved in graceful gestures, movements that somehow mimicked the shapes of the fire, and traced symbols into the smoke curling up from bundles of grass placed upon the altar.

Eilonwy stood facing her, waiting for she knew not what. The song went on around her, taken up by those ghostly voices of Llyr; the movements in the corners of her vision may have been the girls dancing or it may not. She no longer watched anything but the entrancing flames and the face of the person they illuminated, lovely now with the loveliness of a woman in her prime, the lines of her face grown a little wider, the angles sculpted finer. Suddenly she opened her black-fringed eyes and stared straight at Eilonwy, meeting her gaze as directly as an arrow shot to its target.

Both of them were startled. The woman's eyes were green... green as the swollen waves after the storm, as sharp as a blade of the emerald grass, and wide with shock. "Angharad," she said, a gasp of disbelief and confusion. "How-?" Then, immediately, a swift expression of understanding, and the urgent stammer of one who knows that time is short. "No. No. You are... Give me your name."

It came without a moment's hesitation, without a single warning thought of faery trickery or entrapment; instantly she breathed out, "Eilonwy of Llyr."

For a moment the woman's face froze. The green gaze brightened with unshed tears, full of grief and joy mingled at a measure to break one's heart, bringing answering tears to Eilonwy's eyes, an ache of inexplicable empathy to her throat. "Tell me, quickly," the woman said. "Does your mother live?"

To utter a single word would shatter everything. She stared, stricken, at that pleading face, and did not, could not answer.

"Eilonwy of Llyr," the woman said again, desperately, "does Angharad still live?"

Eilonwy stumbled back with a sob, as the altar fire sparked and flared. It grew blindingly bright and then went dark as though snuffed out. The green grove was gone, the singing silenced by the roar of the sea at her feet. A woman stood before her still, ageless and beautiful, glacial-eyed and silver-haired and devastatingly familiar, a woman who demanded eagerly, "What did you see?"

With a wordless cry, Eilonwy whirled from her and scrambled up the rocks, hoisting herself to the highest point to look out upon the castle again. The ruin spread before her: the stark, bare bones of a thing long dead, and she cried out again, in shock, as though it had fallen while her back was turned. She fell to her knees, to the shallow depressions in the rock where enough bits of earth still clung to give the coarse seagrasses a foothold, and clawed into the dirt with both hands.

That wild current met her fingertips, the magic that flowed through the bedrock of the island. It was hers; it was hers, a thing more kin to her than anyone she had ever known, a mind that knew her down to her blood and bones and every secret space within. It rose in welcome and invitation. She opened herself to the flood of power, a maelstrom of mingled light and darkness, of saltwater and sun-fire, until she felt it pulse in every limb, tasted it on every breath. It bore her to her feet in a wave of euphoria, and she wondered that it did not lift her clear off the ground.

The voices soared in pleading desperation, a thousand voices begging her for succor.

Raise us up. Free us.

She could not bring her mother back. But perhaps...

I will, she swore silently, to the stones, to the waves, to every ancestor whose ashes lay within them. If I can, I will.

She was filled with raw, exultant strength, like and yet unlike the power she was accustomed to sensing within, the one that sometimes flared until she had to cast it at the nearest hearth to keep it from burning her alive. This was no fire; it was heavy and dark and deliberate, but it flooded her the same way, building until she could not contain it. She flung her arms out instinctively toward the sea, felt the shock of the water absorbing the overflow, the answering tremor in the swells as she pulled them in. The waves crashed past the line of surf and came thundering to her, slamming into the black rock on whose peak she stood, catapulting spray higher than remaining walls of Caer Colur, blasting her with the displaced air of its movement as she lifted her face to it in ecstasy.

Movement caught her eye and she whirled; Achren stood near, having followed her up the rocks. She looked, by day, somehow wan, the way a lit candle looks weak in bright sunlight. Yet she was beautiful still, her ivory face stained with an almost feverish flush, and the flash of her eyes was as dangerous as ever. She stood unflinching as the shattered water fell down upon them like hail.

Eilonwy faced her, breathing hard, every nerve tingling with the bracing spark of new-kindled magic. She had feared Achren and escaped, only to be taught to fear herself instead. It was Achren who had brought her here to be made whole again. Everyone else had held her back, while Achren had, for once, led her forward.

Dangerous? The warning that sounded in her mind merely served to breathe upon that fire. Yes, Achren is dangerous.

And so am I.

"Now," Achren said, with breathless triumph, "you will learn who you are."

"I already know."

Eilonwy turned back toward Caer Colur. Somehow, she saw both ruin and vision simultaneously, a dreamscape of past, present, and future. She touched the crescent at her throat. "I am Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad, daughter of Regat. I am an Enchantress of Llyr, and I am come home."

Chapter Text

The stones of Caer Colur sang beneath her fingertips, a full chorus where the vibration of the ormer shard had been but an echo. This place knew her, responded to her touch with a thrill of greeting. She molded her palm against the support of one of the great gates and breathed deep, listening. The song seemed to rise up from the land itself, as sap rises from the root of a tree; pushing itself up from the earth, through the invisible channels in stone, and into her questioning hand, a flow of joyful kinship.

Mine. And only a taste, the smallest hint of all that lay buried here, waiting for her to resurrect. She turned to Achren, who stood near, watching her intently, and asked, “Can it truly rise again?”

“I believe it can,” Achren said. “Your foremothers inlaid every stone with magic, and that power will answer to you fully, once you know the proper incantations.”

“And where am I to learn those?”

“When my servants recover the Pelydryn, much more will be revealed to you, I think. It is too bad we do not have the book,” Achren added, almost as an afterthought.

“What book?” 

“The book of spells the Daughters of Llyr used in their rituals...a treasure-trove of their knowledge and power. But it was lost in the cataclysm, and there is no use in wishing for what is beyond our reach. You shall be given what you need, when you need it.”

Her mother sits by the fire, the bauble lit upon the table, and slowly turns the pages of a leather-bound book. Beautiful images illuminate each margin, around tight rows of squiggles, meaningless to her. “Who are they?” she asks, pointing at the women inked in one corner, in jewel-bright pigments, leafed in gold. 

“Your ancestors,” Mam says softly, in that sad voice she uses, whenever she speaks of such things. “The ones who made this book.” 

“Read it to me.”

Mam laughs her gentle laugh. “Not just now. Things happen, when I read these words aloud.” 

“Bad things?”

“No. But things that should only happen for good reasons.” 

She sniffs, her interest waning. “There’s no stories?” 

Mam kisses the top of her head. “None. Only spells, and not one of them as nice as Tad’s stories.” 

“Why do you read it, then?” 

Mam is quiet for a moment, staring into the crackling fire, until the bauble’s light goes dim, and whispers, “So that I do not forget them.”

She came to the present slowly, this time, gently, like being awakened from a long sleep by a whisper. Achren still stood there. A hint of subtle expectancy melted from her gaze before Eilonwy had time to do more than recognize it. Waiting for me to make a mistake, she thought, discomforted. Let her wait. And let her think that book lost! It was as good as, anyway...and that was a shame, though probably a mercy, too, given what Achren might have done with all the secrets of Llyr at her disposal. Perhaps, once the threat of outside meddling was gone, she would search for it herself. 

The thick walls enveloped them, opening into the courtyard. The ground before her seemed to shift, melting in her vision from one state to another. One moment she saw smooth and level slate, tiled in intricate patterns; the next, she blinked at a pile of earth and sharp-edged rubble, registering the truth just in time not to dash her shins against it, and scolding herself sternly. It was one thing to embrace the memory of Caer Colur’s ancient magnificence, to take inspiration from what had been and might be again. It was another not to see the reality of its current state through such glamor. She must not lose sight of what was in front of her, no matter what visions compelled her. Staring hard at each stationary thing, she swallowed the salt-and-sweet taste of magic to the back of her mouth. It lay pulsing from somewhere deep and shivered out to her edges, like a hawk straining at its tethers, eager to soar.

The voices whispered, drawing her on, through the yawning doorway of the Great Hall. Its starkness struck her like a physical blow. Somehow, it had not looked so bleak the previous night; in the darkness, firelight had been kind, warming its broken edges and painting them with gold, leaving what it could not touch to the mystery of deep shadows. Intact statuary, columns, and arches had stood as melancholy but noble remnants of its former glory. 

But now, harsh, merciless daylight stormed through the shattered casements and the gape of missing roof to expose the desecration within. Anything that still stood whole seemed only a mocking reminder of what had been lost. Eilonwy walked among the rubble slowly. A stream of sunshine burst from the clouds, engulfing her; she flinched away as though she herself were a ruined captive, stripped naked and ashamed by a gloating conqueror. 

“Who did this?” Her whisper was rough with fury. Achren’s expression seemed to read her thoughts, an empathy that still jarred her with its unfamiliarity. The silver head shook.

“They did it to themselves.” 

“Never.” She curled her hands, heat like embers clutched in her grip.

“It was not their aim,” Achren amended, “but there were many causes, beginning with Arawn’s attack. He found a weakness and exploited it.”

“I still don’t understand why they asked you for help. Did they not know what you were?” 

Achren drew her head up, a little stiffly. “Regat knew my history well enough—better than you do, in all your sheltered ignorance. May you never have cause to understand what has made me what I am.”

The words were low and rimmed with ice, prompting a sudden shiver. Eilonwy glanced at Achren and quickly away. She was accustomed to the cold rage in those eyes, but not the broken, bitter thing behind it. Whatever empathy they now shared, it had its limits.

“Do not think that she trusted me,” Achren went on, after a moment of silence. “Your grandmother was a worthy ally, but how she chose to think of me mattered little, for my part. She knew the danger of the game she proposed and was bold and desperate enough to play it. If you have half her wit and will, it will be enough to rule. Indeed, to expand your reach beyond this island.”

As if in response to the suggestion, a surge of magic rushed up, eager and willing. For an instant the Hall shimmered into view as something else: opulent with color, lit with dripping candles and hot torchlight, breathing with figures that moved, elegant and stately, over its mosaic floor. The gleaming statues stood like marble sentries, all their attention converging on the dais.  Women clustered there, upon and around the thrones: tall and regal, with fierce light in their eyes, flashing lunar pendants on their breasts, gold and silver upon their heads. 

Your ancestors. The image wavered, and became those ink figures, frozen upon parchment. 

Eilonwy blinked, and the vision faded. “I have no wish for that much power,” she said, but the words tasted dry and bland, somehow, and her hands burned with the restraint of forcing the magic in them back into her bones. 

“Well,” Achren said, with a tight smile, “that choice will be yours to make, of course.”

They stood silent for a moment, measuring one another. The voices muttered over the distant percussion of the sea. 

“So you helped them,” Eilonwy said finally, and gestured around at the rubble, “yet here I see nothing but ruin. Was it failure, then, or betrayal?”

Another frosty glare. “You assume much. It was I who was betrayed, forced to defend myself against an attack from your aunt. And in so doing, I broke Regat’s terms by casting magic outside of her express approval. But had I any other choice?” 

“My aunt?” 

“Your mother’s sister, Eilwen. A reckless little chit, even more impulsive than Angharad. The moment she decided I posed a greater threat than the one we were allied against...” Achren shrugged and gestured to the room. “Well, you see the outcome. One attack provoked another, from every quarter, until the castle could not withstand the assault. Meanwhile, the spells Regat had laid out meant the sea itself was loosed against me, once the terms were broken. The island, weakened from Arawn’s enchantments, was subjected to tides and quakes the like of which it had never endured. And so it fell.” 

The voices turned to the echoes of cries and screams, shrill over the low groaning of stone crashing in upon itself. Eilonwy pressed her hands against her temples until the sounds faded. “And the people...”

“All would have perished, but for your mother. Somehow she opened a gate to another place, another world, and all of Llyr passed through.”

“Everyone?”

“All those not killed in the chaos. There were casualties, Regat among them, felled in this Hall. But all the rest—yes.” 

She sounded oddly regretful. Eilonwy surveyed her skeptically. “Except Mother herself. Why did she not go with them?”

Achren glanced around the hall, her expression veiled but for the glitter of her eyes. “Because of your father. He was not of Llyr, and could not stay in that other place, and she would not leave him.” 

Uneasy, Eilonwy thought backwards in confusion. Something was wrong, did not fit in with what she knew. Of course, she knew precious little, but the threads of it were a different color and weave than this tale of Achren’s. “I thought my parents ran away together, after Regat refused their marriage.”

The glittering eyes returned to her, cautious. “Who told you that?”

“I...” She opened her mouth to say a name, but none came. Somehow, she seemed to hear a voice telling her the tale, but it no longer had a face associated with it, only a blank space. “I don’t remember who told me, but I do remember the story. Mother had to marry an enchanter, and Father wasn’t one, just an ordinary man. But she fell in love with him, and they eloped, and the queen forbade his name be spoken.” 

Achren let out a huff of amused mockery. “What a charming interpretation. I imagine your father came up with it himself, to amuse the ragtag spawn in that caravan you all traveled with. No doubt the tale has made its way all around the country by now.”

“If it’s such a myth,” Eilonwy retorted coldly, “then tell me the truth. If you even know how.”

She had used such a tone with Achren a handful of times in childhood, when provoked beyond endurance, and she had been made to regret it, every time. But the anticipatory dread that had been her vigilant companion then was now silent, crushed out of existence by the exultant flush of new power. And Achren, staring back at her, flushed as though about to retaliate, did nothing. Nothing. 

“All I have told you here has been truth,” Achren said, her blood-pricked cheeks paling again in a mask of calm. “I may deceive, when necessary, but I do not do so for malice or idle amusement. It would serve neither of us for you not to understand your history.

“The truth is that Regat had sent out requests for enchanters to come offer suit to your mother. Two arrived here shortly after I did. There was a ceremony in which each was to present himself and showcase his abilities, so that the princess might choose one as her consort. Your father showed up there, entirely unexpected, and put on what was, I must concede, a rather brilliant performance. Angharad would doubtless have chosen him, but it was all an illusion. He was no enchanter, and Regat had to refuse him, by law.” 

“It sounds like a stupid law.”

Achren made a sound that, in anyone less elegant, might have been called a snort. “Oh, yes. Centuries of strategic marriages between magical bloodlines resulted in a dynasty of women so powerful they feared almost nothing, but you know better, of course.”

Eilonwy flung her hands out to the ruin around them. “Well, it certainly didn’t help them, did it? Where is their kingdom, now?”

“It is wherever your mother sent it,” said Achren severely, stepping closer, “a thing she would never have had the power to do, without that heritage. She saved her people, and it cost her gravely. Would you mock her sacrifice?”

Again a tense, thick stillness fell. Even the muttering voices silenced themselves. Achren turned away, moving to the dais and climbing its steps as she spoke. “When your mother refused to choose between the other enchanters, such commotion broke out in the Hall that the guard had to move in. The common folk were dispersed, and the family retired. A few hours later, Arawn struck a final blow, through one of the visiting enchanters, a weak fool who had no idea how he was being used. I felt it happen, and rushed to the Hall to find the puppet sitting on the throne. When the others entered, Regat disposed of him before he even knew what had happened.” A wry smile ghosted over her mouth for an instant at the memory. “But seeing me there, they assumed treachery, of course. I tried to explain, but they would not listen. Eilwen lost patience and cast the first curse. In the chaos that ensued, your mother ran from the Hall with your father, and after that my only aim was defending myself from the others. The next any of us knew, the gate appeared.” 

She stood at one end of the dais, spreading her arms.  “Here. A ring of light that swallowed everything. I have never seen its like. Those still standing, here in the Hall, went streaming through it. I would have tried to go, myself, called by whatever lay on the other side, but I was injured and could scarcely move. And then Angharad stepped out of it, pulling that young man through, and closed it again behind her.” 

Eilonwy trembled as visions flashed across her field of view in rapid accompaniment to Achren’s words, every one of them a confirmation of the story told. The Hall crumbling, beams blasted with fire, stones shaken from its walls. Words of power, shouted out against the sounds of the destruction. A great white light engulfing everything, and two figures emerging from it. But the images were disjointed, one moving to the next in a choppy transition, and the gaps between them were blank and fogged, a collection of lost time in which anything could have happened. “How did they get off the island?” she demanded, and Achren shook her head.

“I know not how they or I escaped with our lives. They paid no heed to my calls, only ran from the Hall as it crumbled around us. I followed, as best I could. And then I fell into darkness so deep that I could see and hear nothing at all. I have no memory of time passing in that state. When I knew myself again, I lay abandoned on the shores of the mainland. It was long before I had any thought other than finding shelter.”

Magic was throbbing through Eilonwy the way her pulse throbbed after a hard run, beating in time with the rhythm of the voices in her head. Llyr sang a warning, a protest, a song in which one false note plucked a discordance, one which made her feel almost physically ill. One thing she knew: this elaborate account might be woven with threads of truth, but the final image was an illusion, a deception. Only Achren could speak nothing but truth and still somehow be lying.  

It’s no good, asking her. I must see it myself. 

Eilonwy moved to the empty dais, watched her own bare feet as they padded up the steps; one, two...by the third she saw them wrapped in leather sandals, delicately engraved with silver and embroidered in pearl beads. Her tattered linen skirt melted into turquoise silk; she felt its sensuous swish around her ankles, its decadent weight pulling from her hips. She looked up, heart pounding, breath swelling in a tremulous inhale; it seemed to her that a lovely woman stood before her, dark-haired and grey-eyed and smiling, white-robed and bare-armed, with a silver disc dangling at her breast. In the woman’s slender hands lay a circlet, its metalwork an intricate weaving of delicately twisted silver bands, and she reached out to place it on Eilonwy’s head. The voices of Llyr sighed, not from inside her mind, but from all around, for once speaking words she could understand. Angharad. Hail the princess. Angharad.

No, she said, frozen with dismay. I am Eilonwy.

She thought she spoke aloud, but the words made no sound. And yet the world trembled upon them, and fell away like the shards of a shattered mirror, and there was no dark-haired woman, just Achren, standing there, watching her. 

With a cry, Eilonwy whirled away from her. Would she never be free of her, never have a thing untainted by the presence of this woman? Even here in this place—this place where the salt in her blood pulled her toward the sea, where her people’s magic clung to her like a spiraling vine the moment she had set foot on its shores—here, where everything should be hers, and hers alone? 

A voice spoke, within the chorus. It is yours. Claim it. 

I already did, she thought, in wild frustration.

With words and will. One thing remains.

What else must I do?

Blood draws blood. Add your own to that of those who came before.

The woman stood before her once more, the dark-haired woman with the clear eyes, but instead of a crown she held out a slim silver dagger. “Gently, now, love,” she said, with a sympathetic smile. “Only a drop. No need to be overly dramatic.” 

She watched her hands reach for the knife, and they seemed to be someone else’s hands—alike to hers in size and shape, but gleaming with silver rings in place of scars, shining delicate nails instead of ground-in dirt. The right took the blade; she felt its cold weight. Its silver edge nestled against the palm of the left hand, her left hand; it slid until she felt it sting. A bright red berry ripened against the white field of her skin, drew a crimson trail across her palm, and fell to the stone at her feet.

The moment the drop touched the ground, there was a roar as from a multitude of voices, or the thunderous crash of surf; perhaps both, in a grand concert. A current of power rose from the bones of Caer Colur. Free and unbound at last, it swept up within her, a flood of unleashed longing; it embraced her and enfolded her until she could touch each individual strand of magic, filled with an ecstasy so vivid it bordered the edges of pain. Fire and water wrapped her in their incandescent spiral, until every sense was filled with liquid light, until she felt she would burst with it, and scatter sparks across the water like a goddess birthing a constellation. Somewhere in the calm center of whirling, overwhelming sensation, she felt a brush across her brow, and remembered the silver-white woman who had kissed her there, one night while she had watched the moon rise. 

It might have been seconds, or an eternal moment. At last, the maelstrom ebbed, leaving her breathless and slightly weak. But when she opened her eyes and looked about her, she felt rapt.

There stood the Great Hall, resplendent for a gala occasion. Flames leapt in the hearth and braziers. Banners swung from the rafters. A large table was set for a feast. A general air of expectancy hovered over all, watchful, waiting. But the room was empty of all living, save a single woman, silver-haired and dark-robed, who stood nearby. In her hand lay the silver dagger, and on her face shone an expression of utter exultation. 

Chapter Text

Eilonwy stood still, so filled with otherworldly elation that it seemed to move would be to overflow, to spill her own essence out and waste it on unworthy air. Every sense seemed full of things that stretched beyond it—light wavering just past sight, sounds whose vibrations she felt in her core. She stood alone and apart, yet a prickling sense of pressure scattered itself over every exposed surface of her skin, shivering like rainfall. Magic streamed into her mouth and nose with every breath—sweetness and salt, and a molten heat, twisted through with a sharp, metallic thread. The voices of Llyr sang a chorus that tried to sway her bodily into its seductive dance.

She trembled, breathed, tried to gather up the scattered pieces of her own awareness. The woman who stood before her now was not the one who had given her the knife. But there it was, in her hands; at sight of it Eilonwy remembered her own hand and held it up to examine. A thin scarlet trickle crossed it, encircling her wrist like a thread. “What...” she spoke slowly, the words somehow thick, as though sounds were solid things. “What did I just do?”

The woman was watching her cautiously, a fire burning behind her pale face. “You have bound yourself to the land,” she said. “Mingled your blood with its magic. How did you know to do it?”

“I don’t know.” She shut her eyes and saw it again: two thrones; a woman standing before her, smiling. “It wasn’t me, but...it was. But you weren’t there.” She shook her head. “Who are you? Where did everyone else go?”

The clear eyes blinked once. “You do not know me?”

“Should I?”

The woman’s face took on an expressionless mask. “It does not matter. You have begun afresh, and so shall we. I am Achren—come here on your family’s behalf, to see that you take your rightful place on the throne. What do you mean by ‘everyone else’?”

Eilonwy looked around with a twinge of impatience. “All the others. They were just here. The queen, sitting there. A crowd at my back; I heard them.” She waved her arm toward the court. “And a woman in white, standing where you are. She gave me that knife.”

“I see,” Achren said, and glanced down at the implement gravely. “You had a vision...a memory that is not your own. Possibly of your mother’s ascension.”

“What does it mean?”

“That you did well. So mingled the blood of Angharad, and Regat, and every ascendant Crown Princess in this place, back to the beginning of your line.  Now you belong fully to Llyr, and its power awaits your command. You lack only the tools and the words.” Achren strode forward, took Eilonwy’s arm, and led her down the dais steps. “Come. Let us see what you have unlocked.”

They halted at the wooden chest that stood open near the hearth, and Achren laid the silver knife carefully within a compartment. Eilonwy looked over the other items curiously.  She thought she had seen these things before, but it was a hazy memory, like something half-dreamed, less clear than the vision on the dais. Each object drew her eye and invited her touch. She reached out and traced the creamy edge of a shell, palmed its smooth curve and lifted it.

Its pearlescent inside was charred black...no magical thing, only a vessel. What had burned within it, and to what purpose? Whatever herbs had been stored in the parchment packets and clay jars were crumbled to dust; they held no answers, only faint and fleeting scents that drifted up, ghosts from long-undisturbed barrows, fading away before she could identify them.

The voices whispered, suggesting first one tool and then another as her eyes fell upon them. She reached for a silver scrying bowl, and felt its potency hum, like a sheen of sheer fabric between her fingertips and its smooth surface. Impressions flashed through her memory: a spill of salt, a smell of dried lavender, a chant raised in a woman’s low and musical voice—something she could, perhaps, repeat, given long enough time to listen.

Achren, at her shoulder, whispered low, “It is yours to try. Would you see what Llyr desires to show you?”

Eilonwy swallowed. Her blood pulsed hard, throbbing against the cold silver. She turned the bowl until it showed her a shimmering image of her own face, wide-eyed and flushed. “I don’t...I don’t know how. What words to use.”

“Of course you do—I know, for I taught them to you myself, long ago when you were a child. All scrying uses the same spells; only the methods and moods change. Come.” The velvet voice murmured a series of strange words—strange, yet familiar, unraveled from her memory like threads pulled from a faded tapestry. Eilonwy caught at their shape and wound them around her tongue, pressed them against her teeth.

Her reflection in the bowl shivered like the surface of a stream. “Ask,” Achren whispered, “where we may find the Pelydryn.”

“The Pelydryn?” Eilonwy repeated blankly, and the bottom of the bowl went black, as though it were filled with ink. But instantly there appeared in that circle of darkness a tiny twinkle of light, a wavering thing that brightened and brightened until she cried out in surprise, realizing that what she saw was not a wayward spark held in the bowl but something farther away. The bowl had no bottom; it was a window, and she looked into a space where a golden light was encased in a crystalline sphere, cupped in a pair of hands that curled around it as though it were a priceless treasure.

“My bauble!” she exclaimed, in sudden recognition, and something seemed to squirm in her mind, like a fly caught in a web—an uncomfortable, anxious sensation that she had no time to examine. The glow was flaring like a beacon, illuminating the face of the person who held it…a young man, who seemed as astonished by it as she was.

“Do you see it?” Achren’s voice was eager in her ear.

Eilonwy stared into the scene in fascination. “Someone is holding it. There are others there...” Two more faces appeared, looking similarly dazzled, and then another, a whiskered, animal thing. She could hear nothing, but their mouths moved as they spoke excitedly to one another.

 “How many? Where are they?”

Eilonwy tilted the bowl, shifting the image. “I don’t know. It’s quite dark, wherever it is. I see...oh! It’s a cave, I think. The light’s bouncing off the walls.”

There was silence at this, and a flicker of keen frustration, before Achren spoke once more. “Ask who knows where you are.”

The image before her was too compelling to risk its loss. The one holding her bauble was speaking earnestly to another, and at last he forcibly took the hand of his companion and clapped the glowing sphere into it before turning away, his expression so twisted with grief that Eilonwy felt her own chest clench with sympathy.

“Come,” Achren said impatiently, “we must be prepared. Find out who is searching for you.”

Eilonwy frowned in annoyance, but her curiosity was aroused, and she repeated the request aloud. For a long moment the scene did not change; the people in the cave were climbing onto one another’s shoulders, forming a living ladder against a sheer wall. “It isn’t working,” she said, disappointed, but then all at once the light went out, and a different scene swam into view. “Wait, no—I see someone! Another man—a different one. He’s pulling a boat up onto a beach.”

“Describe him.”

“Just…a man. Older than the others. Dark-haired. He’s dressed quite shabbily, and he carries a black sword.”

The air around her seemed to plummet in temperature, a chill she felt not in body but in spirit. So sudden and sharp was it that she broke her gaze, severing the spell, and she dropped the bowl and turned to Achren anxiously. “What is it? Do you know who he is? Why should anyone be searching for me?”

Achren’s face was white as salt, her eyes wide and unfocused, as though she looked past Eilonwy to some distant event. Her lips parted to make an answer, but at that moment there was a noise of approaching footsteps.

Eilonwy turned. At the end of the Hall, a man had just entered through the  great doors. He was rather gaunt and pale, draped in dark tatters of a garment that had once been fine. He moved haltingly, with the furtive caution of a serpent testing its environment for danger, yet with a sense of predatory purpose. Eilonwy watched with instinctive and growing distaste as he neared them.

Achren turned to meet him. After one glimpse of her face he shrank back, and threw himself face-down at her feet as she spoke a single, curt word: “Well?”

“My queen,” the man stammered, “the men have returned. They have secured a new rowboat. Therefore, with your majesty’s permission…”

“No,” Achren cut him off abruptly. “It will do no good to go back and search. It has already been found.”

“Found?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “But…but how …”

“I spared you your doom last night for one reason.” Achren’s voice, no longer velvet, quavered with suppressed rage. “You swore you could recover it.”

“And I shall! I swear it!!” He flattened again and spoke into a crack in the flagstones, his long white fingers splayed wide at either side of his head. “Tell me what you have seen—I need only return to the island! I shall find those who possess it and regain it from them!”

There was a long pause, though it was no empty silence. The room seemed to crackle, filled with the same sparking tension as the air before a thunderstorm; it writhed and seethed, and Eilonwy took a step backward, gasping for breath. For a moment the Hall looked changed—all wrong, a desolate ruin filled with charred timbers and shattered stone, and she cried out in confusion.

Achren spun to stare at her, her gaze grasping and desperate, an expression replaced instantly by vivid determination. All at once the storm collapsed; the room righted itself; the tension evaporated. The woman reached for her hand and pulled her close, curling a protective arm about her shoulders. “There, now,” she murmured, “do not fear. Only listen to me, and all will be well.”

Eilonwy stood stiff and uncertain, as the white hand stroked her hair soothingly. There was something alien in this embrace, a silent voice warning against an instinctive desire to relax into the comfort offered. There seemed no particular reason not to accept it, and indeed, nowhere else to find it. And yet…

Achren, still holding her, turned to address the man at their feet. “It is too late. We are discovered, and the foe will come to us. We will be ready for him. Set guards at the entry points, and then return here to await my orders.”

Her voice was cool and dispassionate, now, her demeanor commanding, as though the agitation of moments ago had never existed. As the man rose and bowed, babbling obsequious obedience, she took Eilonwy’s arm again and steered her back toward the hearth.

It was unpleasant, being steered. Eilonwy dug in her heels. “Tell me what is happening,” she demanded, as Achren bumped into her.

The woman nudged her along and spoke with a note of impatience. “You have enemies, child. There are those who would deny you your throne and separate you from your legacy.”

“Enemies?” Eilonwy repeated, startled into movement; Achren pulled her to a door in a shadowed alcove and up a set of stairs. “Why would I have enemies? I have done nothing; I know of no one who...” She broke off, in a sudden confusing realization: I know of no one at all.  

That could not be right. She had come from somewhere, and she knew there were people in other places...all sorts of people. She must know some of them. How could she not remember them?

“You’ve done nothing,” Achren acknowledged, “but it makes no difference. Men fear what they cannot control, and a woman of power they fear most of all.” Her voice was hard as stone, veined with bitterness. “She is a thing to be made subservient, an object for their pleasure. But such will not be your fate. This I swore to the ghosts of your ancestors, to this very land, and I shall keep that vow.”

The stairs ended; they moved down a long corridor, in and out of shafts of light from the arrow-slits. “I had hoped to shield you longer,” Achren went on, “and give you more time to build your skills before confronting anyone. But together, we will overcome. He who trails you now is one I know of old, and he is not without his own weaknesses.”

Eilonwy stumbled over her own feet and tried to sort out her thoughts, with no better success than she could sort out the twists and turns of the dim castle hall. Achren’s disturbing declarations tumbled about and tangled up with her own confusion. Coax as she would, no names or faces swam into her consciousness. How could I forget everyone and not even realize it?

“Have no fear,” Achren muttered to her. “He will not find us ill-equipped to meet him. But you must be on guard. He will come full of lies—claiming to know you and pretending to have come to help you. You must be prepared to resist. Remember that you are a Princess of Llyr, here to take authority over your domain once more, as is only right and just.” She opened a door, and Eilonwy beheld a richly appointed apartment.

She hesitated in the doorway, as once again a strange and hazy thought whispered to her. Why did she seem to remember this very room stark and bare, cold and abandoned? Yet there it was before her, draped in velvet and brocade, ornamented in pewter and pearl. She stepped in slowly, testing the floorboards, smooth underfoot, then the soft prickle of a woolen rug. They felt as they should, but... all sideways and inside-out. Or perhaps it was she who was inside-out.

“Stay here,” Achren ordered, “and have no fear. You will be safe in your chambers, while I make plans. I will have your supper brought up. Rest, and wait for my instructions.”

Eilonwy flinched at the sound of the door closing behind Achren’s retreat. She turned and stared at it, examining her own unease at being shut in; it felt strangely and ominously familiar. 

She checked; the door was not bolted. She was no prisoner, and she heaved a sigh of relief, and shook herself, a bit annoyed at her own anxiety. If there really were enemies on their way, it would not do to give in to irrational whims. She must be calm and practical.

Crossing to the narrow couch that stood by the hearth, she sat and tried to concentrate. Think. You must remember someone. Anyone. But the only faces she could dredge up with any sense of recognition were the ones from her visions, and she did not know what names to attach, even to these. Gods, if the everlasting voices would just be silent and let her hear her own thoughts! They had become so constant she could almost ignore them, the way one stopped hearing the steady drone of the sea after a time, but just now their chanting was discordant and chaotic, forcing them into the front of her mind.

Eilonwy stood and paced the floor, painfully aware of everything around her; individual details seemed to loom in the center of her vision, blocking out all in its periphery, as though each strand of carpeting or stitch of tapestry exhaustively wrestled for her attention. After a few moments of it her head was aching, and she dragged the couch before the hearth and lay down. Wood had been laid again; she flicked her wrist toward it almost lazily, mildly comforted by the instant combustion that ensued. Fire was a friend. A powerful friend, once she had learned its boundaries. The voices lost themselves within its hiss and crackle as the larger logs kindled, and she stared as the orange tongues turned gold, fuchsia, turquoise.

Her mind drifted among them, held within their luminous dance and then floating upward like a spark. She felt light, and peaceful, and presently it seemed that she was wandering into a green hollow, nestled within trellises of stone tracery, where silvery-white flowers bloomed at her feet. Faint music piped from somewhere nearby, and the voices of girls, laughing and singing. And again—there! A tall woman, robed in white, her dark hair crowned with a wreath of flowers, standing in the center of the hollow, gazing at her.

A dream, a dream, it must be a dream...but she could feel the breeze upon her face, smell the crush of grass underfoot and the fragrance of the hawthorn trees that bloomed around her, hear the bees, taste the air. Could she do all that, if it were only a dream?

The woman caught up her skirts, and came at a run. Eilonwy stood frozen. It is a dream. Any moment this would melt away; if she moved it would only vanish faster, and thus she stood until the woman reached her and caught her up in such a bone-crushing embrace that they were both nearly bowled over, stumbling backwards in a tangle of limbs and flying hair.

How? How was it real? Impossible...yet here she was, clutching the warm body of another woman, one who gave off a dizzying perfume of lavender and hawthorn, whose breathless voice in her ear was gasping out a stream of joyous wonder.

“You! You blessed, blessed child, you did it, you did it again, you...” The woman pulled back, enough to grip her by the arms and hold her out to look at her. Eilonwy examined her in turn, greedily absorbing this face, the first she could remember seeing that looked even a little like her own, in shape if not in complexion. Dark brows arched over sharp green eyes. Freckles sprinkled across a pert nose. A full, sensuous mouth and a strong, uplifted chin...this was not the woman on the dais, the one who had handed her the knife, though there was a marked resemblance. This was the woman at the altar, the one who had demanded her name...

“Eilonwy of Llyr,” the woman repeated, and in her mouth it sounded like music, a song of joy. “You are Angharad’s daughter. You are.”

“Yes,” Eilonwy gasped out, though it was not a question.

The lovely face went grave. “You did not answer me, before. Does your mother yet live?”

Her mother. Angharad of Llyr was her mother. She knew this, somehow, but as to the rest could only shake her head. “I don’t know. I cannot remember.” A sudden wave of fear swept her, and Eilonwy clutched at the arms that still held her. “I cannot remember anything, except my own name. I don’t even...please, should I know you? I feel as though I should, but...”

Cool hands cupped her cheeks. “Something is wrong,” the woman murmured, looking at her searchingly. “There is something at work upon you, and I cannot tell...” The green eyes narrowed, piercing, but then she shook her head, with a frustrated sigh. “We are too far apart. You are not really here, you know, though I hoped you would find this way back, and I did what I could to assist you. But I do not know how long we can both sustain it.”

As though reminded of something, she released Eilonwy long enough to pluck a petal of the hawthorn blossoms that wreathed her head, and tucked it into her mouth, breathing in deep. Her hand cupped at her breast in a quick reverence, touching the round silver disk that hung there. “And thus,” she said, “we must be quick and brief. No, you do not know me, for you are not what you were meant to be. I am Eilwen, your mother’s sister, torn from her the day our worlds were sundered, and nothing have I known of her since.”

The name seemed familiar, somehow, as though she had heard it long, long ago, and Eilonwy repeated it faintly. The woman smiled.

“I told her to name you after me,” she said, with a trace of wry humor, “for she owed me a favor. Several, in fact. It is like your mother to find a way to both do and not do what she was asked.” Her eyes welled and she pulled Eilonwy into a fierce embrace again, kissing her between her brows, against her hairline, the top of her head.

“You know that you are of Llyr,” she said determinedly, “so someone has taught you that much. Can you recite your lineage? Eilonwy, Daughter of Angharad, Daughter of Regat...”

“Daughter of Mererid,” Eilonwy mumbled automatically, “Daughter of Morgana, Daughter of Ceinwen, Daughter of Glesni, Daughter of Eleri...”

“That’s enough,” Eilwen said, cutting her off with a gentle laugh. “You sound about as enthusiastic as we did. I put a stop to all of that as soon as I could. What do we write anything down for, if not to spare ourselves trouble? Leave it to the bards, I say; they like it. But there, it means your mother was alive at least long enough to teach you, and that is something hopeful.” She pushed a loose strand of hair back from Eilonwy’s face. “Blessed Rhiannon. This is my sister’s hair, all over again. A little lighter, perhaps. Your father was as blonde as barley stalks, as lovely a creature that ever wore leggings. Have you any memory of him?”

Eilonwy shook her head, and scowled at her own tied tongue. “I wish I could tell you more. I feel like...like a book with all blank pages. I do not know how I am here, nor why, nor even where I came from before. There is so much I want to ask, and…I don’t know where to begin.”

Eilwen’s black brows drew together in concern. “Begin with what you do know, then, darling. Where are you, right now? Not here; where are you, really?”

Such an odd question, with the grass underfoot and the drone of bees in her ears, but Eilonwy thought back, hard. “I’m...I’m in Caer Colur. In my mother’s chamber. At least that is what Achren told me it was.”

“Achren!”

The earth underfoot seemed to jerk, as Eilwen’s grip suddenly clenched, every nail digging in until Eilonwy protested in pain. The beautiful face twisted into an expression of utter horror. “Achren! She is with you? How did she find you? What has she done?”

Eilonwy, gasping, tried to answer, but the dream was crumbling, shattering, as she had known it must, as though the name Achren had been the secret word to break an enchantment. The green hollow faded, colors bleeding into chaos; she heard her name cried again and again, felt her aunt grip her arms as though she would hold her in that other world by sheer strength, but it was no good, not though she reached out, vainly grasping at anything, at nothing.

The sound of her own shriek brought her back to her senses, jerking her upright, staring wildly at a dying fire, her arms still stretched out.

In her hands she clutched clusters of hawthorn petals.

With a sob she buried her face in them and threw herself back upon the couch. Why was she given such glimpses, moments so vivid and full of wonder that it wounded all the more to have them ripped away? What did such magic gain her? Nothing but the knowledge of what was lost, a thing to torment her with its inaccessible beauty. Why had she been such a fool, wasting time reciting names when she should have been asking where they were, what had happened, how to find her way there again?

A dream, and yet real; it had happened. She held the proof in her hands, in these petals that lay silky against her cheek. She wept until she had no more tears, and drifted again, the hawthorn scent heavy on her breath.

No. Not hawthorn, it was...apple blossom…apple blossom, all around, a frothy, sweet cloud with her at its center. The sky above was brilliant blue, the day warm and lush and full of bursting new life.

Rough bark pricked her palms and bare feet. Her limbs sang with the elation of youth and strength as she swung into the branches, higher, higher, conquering each section by turn. This tree she knew, each notch and gnarl, yet there was always something new, something undiscovered, every year.

She neared the top, the slim branches bending a little beneath her, and breathed in the scent of the bloom in rapture. A fat bee tumbled from the waxy flower in front of her nose, covered in pollen, and wound its way to the next. Birds twittered in the branches, unseen except for quick fluttering movements in her peripheral vision. The tree rocked beneath her gently.

“Eilonwy!”

A voice rang up from somewhere below, anxious and demanding. Its tone made her instantly annoyed, and yet her heart beat strangely hard at the call, and she felt a contradictory urge to move toward it.

“You’re going to fall!” the voice called. It was the mid-toned voice of a boy who had not quite grown used to controlling its depth, and almost she could picture the speaker...tall, and slim, dark-haired and earnest. A smile that perpetually quirked higher on one side than the other.

“I am not,” she called back automatically, reaching for another branch, and then she watched it snap, slowly, without surprise or concern, a thing expected and even anticipated. And then it was as though she were outside herself, watching the girl in the tree as she tumbled, crashing through banks of white blossom so that they erupted in small blizzards, flaky petals drifting down like fragrant snow.

She shut her eyes at the moment of impact, for even as an outside observer it was a painful thing to witness, but when she opened them it was from the vantage point of her own body, whose myriad sensations were too insistent and intense to make such separation possible.

The speaker below had caught her, somehow, and she was cradled against his chest, her ear full of the percussion of his heartbeat, her nose full of the smell of woodsmoke and hay and crushed apple petals. He rocked her slowly, back and forth, murmuring words she could not quite make out, and she realized she was weeping.

You scared me, he whispered. I thought you were lost.

I might as well be, she whispered back. I’m going away and no one knows for how long. I might as well be lost.

His hand reached for hers, square and rough but somehow gentle; they were farming hands, working hands that knew the earth, the crafting, the nurturing of small lives. She watched as his long fingers entwined between hers.

My hands, she thought, are not of the earth. I am water and fire, and I know no craft but magic. We are too different. Perhaps that is why I must go. Her heart wrung itself again, and she sobbed into his shirt.

Eilonwy, he said, rocking her like a boat on the sea. Eilonwy. I won’t let you be lost.

I will come for you.

Eilonwy.

“Eilonwy!”

The rocking turned to a firm jostle, the whispered dream-word to hoarse speech in her ear. She opened her eyes, and started up with a low cry of shock.

In the darkness of midnight, a young man knelt by her couch, his anxious face barely illuminated by the dying embers of the fire.

Chapter Text

For a moment Eilonwy was too disoriented to speak. Everything in the room seemed to rush together, into a closed-in darkness where the only thing she saw was the face before her. "Come," the stranger said, as if continuing an ongoing conversation. "Gwydion waits for us. Gurgi is here, too, and Fflewddur, and Prince Rhun. All of us. You are safe—hurry!"

Perhaps she should have been afraid. Certainly she was surprised. It was unsettling enough, to awaken to uninvited company when you'd fallen asleep alone. But as he spoke, she realized he was young—too young to be frightening, and Eilonwy felt only a twinge of vexation at being yanked so unceremoniously from her dream. It was not a pleasant transition, to go from being held and comforted to having nonsense babbled at her by some strange boy. "That's very interesting," she muttered dryly, and stifled a yawn, "but who are they? And for that matter, who are you?"

His breath caught on a sharp intake, and in even that darkness she saw his eyes widen. Well, what did he expect? Anyone who came barging into someone else's room and waking them up ought to know they would have to explain themselves. Otherwise, he was either boorish or an idiot...possibly both. Clearly, she would have to set a good example.

"I am Eilonwy," she said proudly, sitting up straighter, and touching her silver crescent in reverence, "Daughter of Angharad, Daughter of Regat. But who are you? I haven't the least idea in the world what you're talking about."

He caught at her arm, jostling her again. His voice cracked with panic. "Wake up! You're dreaming."

Dreaming. The apple tree swam before her eyes, fragrant and inviting. "Why yes," she murmured in surprise, "as a matter of fact, I was. But how did you guess? I don't believe dreaming actually shows when you're doing it. Or does it?"

Strands of sleep still clung about her, pulling her mind back to that warm internal space. Where had she been? An apple tree. In an orchard. A farm. Yes, that was it! Strange...she was sure she had not actually seen any hint of there being a farm in the dream, but she knew it was one, all the same. "Sometime I shall have to find out. The only way, I suppose, is to look at myself when I'm sleeping. And how I might go about that, I can't imagine."

It was a farm, but how did she know that? "Difficult...difficult..." she whispered to herself. "Like trying to turn yourself inside out. Or would it be outside in?"

"Eilonwy!" Strong hands closed upon her arms and pulled her back up. The boy was forcing her upright, when all she wanted was to lie back down. Why didn't he leave her in peace? She jerked out of his grip with a protesting cry. "You must listen!" he pleaded.

"That's what I've been doing," Eilonwy retorted. "So far you've made no sense whatsoever, and I was much more comfortable asleep. I'd rather dream than be shouted at. Such a pleasant dream, too." Again, her mind drifted to trees...a garden...a low stone wall. "There was a pig in it..." she murmured, "and...someone who..."

Wait, no... what nonsense. There hadn't been a pig in her dream; where had that come from? "Oh, it's gone now," she said, cross with disappointment. "Faster than a butterfly. You've spoiled it."

The stranger's anxious presence oppressed her, an intruder amongst the apple blossoms and blue sky, the sweet spring grass and the cool dappled shade beneath the tree. Where had that other voice gone, the one that had been so reassuring and gentle and lovely?

I will come for you.

"Listen to me," the boy begged. "There is no time for-"

"No one should be allowed to come stomping into other people's dreams without asking first," she interrupted irritably. "There's something impolite about it. Like walking into a spider's web while the spider's still using it."

He released her and ran to the casement. Good. Perhaps he had taken the hint and would clear out so she could sleep. The room was chilly, now, filled with tendrils of mist that reached in for her like searching fingers. Eilonwy bent and tossed another log on the fire, where it ignited instantly by her will. The dancing flames kindled her mind to sharper awareness.

The boy was still at the window, and now he turned and motioned to her urgently. "Make haste, I beg you! Climb down with me; the rope is strong enough for both of us."

Eilonwy stared at him, bemused. "A rope?" she repeated, in disbelief. "Me, go sliding down with you? Are you witless? Why would I go anywhere with someone I've just laid eyes on?"

In the brightening light of the fire she could see him more clearly: tall and lean, garbed in plain but serviceable garments; his dark hair was long and tied back, his face clean-angled and clear-eyed. Though travel-disheveled, he was a handsome lad, of a sort she might have taken a certain interest in under different circumstances. But not if he were as raving mad as he seemed to be, and it was, somehow, disappointing. "I've only known you these few minutes," she said, "but it seems to me you make the silliest suggestions. You might try sliding down the rope yourself and let me go back to sleep."

She sank back to her couch, weariness pulling at her again. "I hope I can remember where I left off. That's the worst of having your dream broken into. You can never find it again."

Before she could get settled, he was back, kneeling beside her as she lay down. "Eilonwy," he said, in a pleading whisper, "what holds you? You must fight against it. Can you not remember me? Taran, assistant pig-keeper…"

Eilonwy stared at the cushions beneath her, inexplicably strewn with crushed hawthorn petals. Where had those come from? "How interesting," she murmured, distracted. "Sometime you must tell me more about yourself. But not now."

"Think!" he said, gripping her wrist. "Remember Caer Dallben? Coll, and Hen Wen? Remember Fflewddur and Doli, and Gurgi and Gwydion? Your horse, Lluagor?"

The names plunked like pebbles tossed into a pool, ringing the surface of her mind, each concentric circle spreading outward in search of recognition. Something deep, deep beneath them stirred, and she had a brief sense that it was she, herself... trapped at the bottom of something dark and cold, desperately trying to reach up to the air and light. "Caer Dallben," she repeated, the words coming out sluggish. "How curious. I think that might have been part of my dream, too. Does it have an orchard?"

"Yes!" His grip tightened on her arm.

"Yes," she murmured, at almost the same time. "There was an orchard. The trees were in blossom. And I was climbing up, as high as I could go…" Up. Up. Up to the surface. Where had the branches gone? Was she climbing, or drowning?

"Yes," the boy prompted eagerly, "so it was. I, too, remember the day. You said you'd climb to the very top of the apple tree. I tried to warn you, but you did it anyway, just as you always do."

Eilonwy! Come down, you're too high!

"I wanted to learn the trees," she said, absently stroking a hawthorn petal, and pressing it to her lips. "You must learn them anew every year. They're always different. And…in the dream…I had gone to the last branch."

"It was no dream." He was leaning toward her, speaking so urgently that his breath stirred her hair. She saw only the white frill of apple bloom, felt the gentle sway of the tree in the wind, but it all seemed far away, up there at the surface of whatever she was mired in. "It was the life you know," the boy insisted, "your own life, not a shadow that vanishes in the sun. Indeed, you went to the highest branch, and it snapped, just as I feared it would."

Those branches are thin. You're going to fall!

The snap underfoot, the jolting, sickening certainty...

"How should anyone know someone else's dream?" she mumbled shakily. "Yes, it broke, and I was falling. But there was someone below who caught me."

The lost breath, the pounding heart, the scent of crushed grass and apple blossom and...and...this, this smell that she knew, of woodsmoke and leather and someone with a name that danced maddeningly out of her reach...

"It...could have been...an Assistant Pig-Keeper," she whispered. "I wonder...what became of him..."

I won't let you be lost. I will come for you.

"He is here."

She held her breath. That voice. It was the same. Low, and gentle, and pleading for something she had barely known existed, let alone was in her power to grant.

"He has long sought you," it said, in a tone that wavered upon the edge of trembling, "and in ways he himself did not know. Now that he has found you...can you not find your path back to him?"

The surface shimmered, just above her, pulsing with the pounding of her heartbeat. There was light and air, there, and she might find her way to that voice, if only she could reach, if only she did not feel as though her limbs were being pinned back, down here in the dark and the cold...why couldn't she move? The harder she tried, the heavier she felt, a weight like the drag of a hidden current at her knees, irons at her feet.

One never could move properly, in dreams. Of course, that was why. That was it. There was no use in fighting it, only in waiting to wake up. "It is only a dream," she whispered, "nothing more."

There was an answering sound of anguish, and suddenly she was gasping back to full alertness and alarm; the boy—that boy! He had seized her arm and was dragging her toward the casement. "Achren has done this to you," he cried. "She will harm you no longer!"

Achren.

The voices of Llyr broke upon her ears in a roar. Achren! Achren had warned her. He will come full of lies...claiming to know you and pretending to have come to help you. It had happened, just as Achren had said it would, and she, Eilonwy, had nearly fallen for the ruse. No wonder he wanted to drag her away! Rage sparked in her belly and flared into her limbs; in an instant she tore away and spun to face her assailant.

"You dare touch a Princess of the House of Llyr?" she spat, and he stared at her open-mouthed, his face blank with dazed pain that only made her angrier. This plain peasant boy, this intruder into her very room had the audacity to look as though she had wounded him, when he had no business even looking at her at all!

And then his dismay turned to a sort of anguished determination; as quick as thought, he was darting toward her, low, in a posture clearly intended to lift her bodily against her will. It was too quick even to think of magic; she reacted on instinct, rearing back and swinging a panicked blow to his face with all her strength. He reeled backward, staggering, his hand to his cheek, his expression a tragic story of heartbreak too deep for tears. She felt no pity, only a scalding satisfaction; the hearth-fire roared red with her anger.

"I will get you out of here," he gasped, and lunged toward her again. The scarlet incandescence that kindled in her limbs gathered hot in her hands and sparked in her fingers, and she opened her mouth to say the words that would send him tumbling from the casement, trailing flame like a shooting star, and...and...could not say them.

Why could she not? Something was wrong; her own magic betrayed her; she knew too little, was too untried. With a cry of rage at her own weakness, Eilonwy twisted away as he tried to seize her again. She stumbled to the door, throwing it open and diving into the corridor, pursued by the boy's shouts. They mingled with the voices of Llyr, roaring their approval or approbation – which it was, she neither knew nor cared.

She ran wildly down corridor and stairwell, screaming for Achren. Achren would know what to do, how to protect her; Eilonwy should have gone for her at once, the moment the stranger had appeared in her room. How had she been such a fool?

Men's voices roused an alarm as she reached the lower floors; metal clashed amidst shouts and cries...not only from behind her but from ahead. They were beset from all sides. Achren had spoken truly –she had enemies, people she had never seen nor met, never harmed nor wronged, yet here they were, assaulting her home. How was she to defend it if she could not yet control her power? She must find Achren!

Down, across the courtyard; she tumbled though the doors of the Great Hall and across its empty floor, making for the alcove where stood the chest of magical items. If there were anything here that might help her, surely it would be there.

She burst into the shadows, to find Achren herself already there, anticipating her. The queen had stripped off her long-sleeved outer robe, baring white arms as though for battle. In the early light bleeding in through the casements, her glittering unbound hair shone almost red. She held her hands out to Eilonwy, who rushed to them, forgetting her former reticence.

"Is it not as I said?" Achren took her by the shoulders. "They are more in number than even I anticipated. But fear not. Only follow my command, and all shall go as I have planned it. They shall have neither you nor your throne."

"One of them found my chamber," Eilonwy gasped out, "and I could not cast anything against him. I tried, but I couldn't...as though my mouth were stopped."

The grey eyes gave her a long, searching look. "You will not fail with me beside you," Achren said. "I have seen this ragged band, and none are of consequence save the man who leads them—the one you scried, with the black sword. 'Ware him, and leave him to me." She straightened and looked beyond Eilonwy, her face pale and determined, as voices approached them, shouting through the Hall. "Now, we will stand together. Do not be afraid...but if you are, do not let them see it."

She reached out to the tattered curtain that shaded the alcove and flung it aside. Beyond it, a handful of figures swept toward them at a run. White fire flashed from the upraised blade of a black sword, and Eilonwy shrank back despite her resolve. Achren stepped before her protectively, her bare arms upraised.

"Put down your weapons," she ordered, in a voice that tolled bright as a copper bell. At the sound of it, all but the leader of their assailants stumbled. Even he slowed, though his sword remained raised at the ready. Achren did not flinch as he came nearer. "The girl's life is bound to mine," she declared. "Would you take my life? Then she must share my death."

All came to a halt. Eilonwy stepped sideways, lifting her head to behold her enemies.

There was the boy from her chamber, just behind the dark-haired leader. Near to him stood another about the same age, round-faced and flaxen-haired. A whiskered, grey dog-like creature with an faintly human face came scrambling on all fours, raising to his rear legs to stand beside them. Nearby sprawled Achren's pale lackey from the afternoon. A lanky, long-nosed fellow sat astride his ribs, apparently intent on mopping the flagstones with his face.

The leader looked from Eilonwy to Achren intently – a keen, sharp gaze in a weather-lined, stern countenance. Then in a single swift movement he sheathed his blazing sword. "Obey her," he said shortly to the boy beside him. "I fear Achren speaks the truth. Even in death she may be deadly."

There was a pause, thick and tense, and finally the boy followed the order, sliding his sword away. Eilonwy watched him ambivalently; as in her chamber, so he stared at her now: steadily and boldly, his face filled with a grief out of all proportion to her rejection. Down in that cold darkness that anchored her, she felt something stir again, an anxiety quelled instantly by a sensation like a tightening rope.

Achren lowered her arms, laying her slender hands on Eilonwy's shoulders. "You show wisdom, Lord Gwydion," she said. The velvet voice was back...soft, rich, over a core of ice. "You have not forgotten me...nor have I forgotten you."

Gwydion. The name seemed familiar, but another invisible rope looped around her, and the brief sense of recognition ebbed away.

If Achren had hoped to goad the man into a reaction, she was disappointed. Though her tone was heavy with mocking significance, Gwydion's expression did not change. He bore all the alert tension of a wolf about to spring, and Eilonwy felt instinctually that the danger he posed was little altered by whether his sword were in hand or not.

"I see, too, the Assistant Pig-Keeper and the foolish bard who should have been food for the carrion crows long before this," Achren went on, nodding at the boy and then toward the men on the ground. "How fitting—'twas in my domain you found each other, and now here we are, together once again. It is poetic, is it not, harper? A true circle, in the best bardic fashion. What a pity you shall never have a chance to tell the tale." She waved her elegant hand carelessly, indicating the remaining companions. "The others, perhaps, know me not as well as you do, but soon they shall."

Gwydion, motionless until then, made an impatient gesture toward Eilonwy. "Unloose the Princess from your spell," he ordered. "Return her to us, and you shall depart unhindered."

The man gave orders as though it was his right! Eilonwy frowned at this audacity, and Achren's hands tightened on her shoulders. "Lord Gwydion is so generous," she mocked. "You offer me safety, when your own peril is greatest. You were rash even to set foot in Caer Colur. And now the more hopeless your plight, the bolder your words."

Eilonwy, standing so near her, sensed the quick rise and fall of a careful, measured breath, then…. "Pity," Achren said, after a single missed beat, "that one such as you scorned to be my consort, and rule with me when the chance was given."

Releasing the girl's shoulders, she moved towards Gwydion with slow steps, graceful as a stalking cat. "Unloose the girl? No, Lord Gwydion. She will serve me as I planned. My spells are not all that bind her."

The ropes tightened again, until Eilonwy wanted to gasp for breath, but how—how, when there was nothing holding her? Here she stood, unbound…what spells? What did it mean? Demand for an explanation caught in her throat, unable to rise past the tightening in her chest.

"You know her ancestry, and the blood of enchantresses that flows in her veins," Achren went on. She turned to look back at Eilonwy, her face alight with triumph, and something almost like pride. "Caer Colur has long awaited its princess. It calls to her, and so it ever shall, while one stone stands upon the other. This is her birthright; I do no more than help her claim it."

The voices of Llyr were clamoring again, chanting in a deafening, droning hum, so that Eilonwy thought she could feel the sound if she only knew where to lay her hands. And yet for all their insistence, she felt strangely hollow, as though Achren were speaking of someone else… as though these words, despite their truth, had nothing at all to do with her.

"You force her to claim it!"

It was the boy…the pig-keeper. If Gwydion was all sternness and stoicism, this youth was his opposite—he was wobbling from one foot to the other, his hands clenched in agitation, his expression equal parts rage, terror, and grief. "Eilonwy did not come willingly to Caer Color," he burst out. "She does not stay willingly!" He lunged forward, and was brought up short by Gwydion seizing his shoulder. Eilonwy stared at him in confusion. The fury she had felt toward him was gone; she could not identify what had taken its place, but whatever it was, it took many, many tightened ropes to quell it.

Achren gestured toward the alcove and its tall wooden chest. "Is she indeed unwilling?" she said. "I have shown her what this contains. All the implements of magic treasured up for her. Power such as she has never known lies within her grasp. Do you ask her to cast it away? Let her give you her own answer."

The slender hand lay on her shoulder once more, and Eilonwy took a breath, but she did not speak. Words seemed like empty things she was expected to recite, while her own thoughts were unable even to reach her mind, let alone her mouth. She unconsciously fumbled at her throat, feeling vaguely that perhaps she could pull speech out with her hands.

"Hear me, Princess," Achren said, her grip tightening. "They would deprive you of your heritage, of the enchantments that are yours by blood-right."

Something moved within her, quelled the conflict, became quiet and smothering, a layer of oil upon the surface of troubled water. The choking sensation dissipated. "I am a Princess of Llyr," Eilonwy said aloud. "I want what is mine. Who are these who would take it from me? I see here the one who frightened me in my chamber. A keeper of pigs, so he claimed. The rest I do not know."

A wail rose up from the grey creature. "Yes, yes, you know us! Oh yes, do not speak hurtful words to sad companions! You cannot forget. This is Gurgi—humble, faithful Gurgi! He waits to serve wise princess as he always did!"

The strange rhythm of this speech, as though he was never meant to speak a human tongue but had picked it up piecemeal from sheer stubbornness, struck her ear as something familiar again. But it was too fleeting to pin down, and Achren was leaning toward her, sinuous and suggesting. "And their fate? What shall be the fate of those who seek to despoil the inheritance of a Princess?"

Her mouth felt dry and clumsy and not like her own. "They...they shall be...punished."

"She speaks with your voice!" the pig-keeper shouted angrily. "With your words! In her heart she does not wish us ill."

"Think you so?" Achren's arm slid into the crook of her elbow, the companionable gesture of a trusted friend. She pointed to the man on the ground, prostrate beneath the long, straddling legs of his captor. "Princess, one of your loyal servants is still captive of these intruders. Cause him to be released."

Achren had called him a bard, but the long-nosed man was clearly as strong as any warrior among them; he took a firmer grip of his captive's neck and shook him wildly. "Your trained spider is my prisoner!" he bellowed. "He and I have business together, long unsettled. Do you want him back unsquashed? Then let the Princess come with us!"

Eilonwy watched as the captive cursed and writhed. She ought to feel something...pity for him, or outrage, or a sense of righteous vengeance. But such a passion seemed inaccessible...as distant as the names she could not reach, floating upon the surface of that deep, dark space beneath which she was anchored. If anything, she felt an inexplicable sense of vindictive pleasure, and little inclination to see him freed.

But Achren obviously had her own plans."I have no need to bargain," she said. Her nails dug into Eilonwy's wrist and her free hand gestured sharply toward the group gathered. "Which shall it be?" she murmured, close to her ear. "The ill-favored creature who dared call himself your servant?"

Eilonwy tried to speak, and failed. Her limbs felt tied down –and yet she moved; how? She had no memory of falling asleep, yet this must be a dream; it must. For as she had watched a girl fall from an apple tree from somewhere outside herself, now she watched the same girl raise her hand, and point toward the grey creature with his gentle, puzzled face. Achren whispered fervently in the girl's ear, things Eilonwy heard as if from a distance, but did not understand. It did not seem to matter. A current of magic—a searing, destructive, alien force she had never known—tore through her from core to fingertip, painfully seizing every muscle and tendon in its path, and she would have screamed, had she been capable of making a sound.

The creature clutched his head and went stiff. Achren's nails dug into her wrist. No, not hers, but the girl's before her, mechanically carrying out an outside will. Achren whispered again, and the poor tortured creature wailed, spun, and fell on the ground, rolling back and forth in agony, striking out at his companions as they came running to help him.

Stop, Eilonwy shrieked, or thought she did, but her mouth filled only with a silent exhale. Stop. Stop!

"Stop!" The bard shouted, leaping up. "No more! Harm Gurgi no longer. You shall have Magg—take him!" He aimed a disgusted kick at the gaunt figure at his feet, who scrambled up as fast as he could, and came scuttling toward them.

The flow of magic ceased, leaving Eilonwy reeling, though the girl she watched showed no sign of discomfiture. The creature crawled toward her, his poor whiskered face exhausted. "Wise Princess," he whimpered, "it is no wish of hers to fill poor tender head with harmful hurtings. Gurgi knows this. He forgives her."

Down, down, at the bottom of that darkness, while they all shouted about her, she wept.

Wrong, it was all wrong. Was this how it felt to be a fly stuck in a spiderweb, every desperate bid for freedom only winding it tighter in merciless strands of seductive silk? How was she to know how to escape it?

Begin with what you do know. Where are you, really?

A strange question. She could not remember who had asked it, but she considered, all the same.

I am in Caer Colur.

The Hall stood before her, filled with blazing torches, colored light.

No. No, that was not what she saw at all. There was no fire, no light but the red light of a breaking dawn, streaming in over broken walls, pouring itself upon rubble and ruin.

It is a dream. It is a dream, it must be. Wake up, wake up...by Llyr, speak, move, anything!

"Achren knows how to reward those who serve her." That voice again, smooth and silky, commanding attention, drifted over her shoulder, drawing her back to the commotion about her. "As she knows how to punish those who defy her. Magg's kingdom shall stand among the mightiest in the land. And Caer Colur shall rise more glorious than ever. Its Great Hall shall be the seat of power over all Prydain. The Lord of Annuvin himself shall kneel in homage to me."

Tighter and tighter, the web drew. Caer Colur is mine. The seat of my power, and if anyone kneels in homage here, it should be to me.

But she didn't want anyone kneeling to her. Did she?

"Arawn of Annuvin shall cower and beg for mercy," Achren continued. "But his throne shall be toppled. It was I who showed him the secret ways to power. He betrayed me, and now he shall suffer my vengeance. It was I who ruled Prydain before him, and none dared question my dominion. Thus shall it be once more. Thus shall it be, evermore."

She does none of this for my sake. She lied. She has been lying, all this time.

Gwydion made a gesture as much of impatience as of rebuke. "The lore tells of your ancient rule," he answered, "and how you sought to keep hearts and minds in thrall to you." Achren did not move, as he walked slowly forward toward them. "You tormented those who would not worship you," he went on, "while for those who bowed to you, life was little better than a slow death. I know, too, of the blood sacrifices you demanded, and your joy at the cries of your victims."

They were face-to-face, her expression cold and defiant, his severe, over an underlying foundation of sadness. "No, Achren." His voice lowered, as though the two of them were alone. "It will not come again. Think you this girl shall lead you to it?"

Achren glared back at him, white-faced, her teeth clenched. "She will obey me," she said, "as surely as if I held her beating heart in my hand."

Gwydion turned from her to look at Eilonwy. Up close, his grey eyes were flecked with green, and filled not with anger but compassion. Eilonwy stared back at him, her heart pounding, willing him to see what she could not say. Her face felt as frozen as a mask. Help me. Please. Can you see who I am? Where I really am?

She could not tell if he understood. He turned back to the woman at her side, speaking gravely. "Your words are vain, Achren. They cannot deceive me; I witnessed the ascension of her mother, here in this very Hall, and I know that the magic of Llyr answers only to Llyr's daughters." For a moment the sadness was foremost in his face, as he glanced toward the dais. "Do you seek to rule through the Princess? The enchantments she commands still sleep, and you have not the means to waken them."

Achren drew back sharply. "You speak beyond your knowledge."

"Oh, no, he doesn't!"

All turned, equally startled, toward the round-faced boy. Heretofore, he had said no word at all, and Eilonwy had forgotten his very existence. But now he was rising to his toes in excitement, his face shining with triumph. "The book!," he burst out. "The golden light! We've got them, and we shall never give them up!"

Chapter Text

"Prince Rhun! Be silent!" the pig-keeper shouted, lunging toward the wretched boy, too late. The prince clapped a hand to his mouth in horror, his eyes round. Even Gwydion paled, glancing quickly back at Achren, his features tight with dismay.

Eilonwy stood uncertain, her heart pounding with confusion. Hadn't she just seen the Hall in ruins? Yet here it stood whole again before her, opulent and glittering. Achren's presence next to her, a pale shadow a moment ago, was now potent as a bolt of lightning. How had everything changed in an instant? Which world was the real one?

The queen's proud head lifted high. "Do you think I wish to hide the truth from you, Lord Gwydion?" she said. "I knew the book of spells had vanished from Caer Colur, and…yes, I have long sought it." She motioned to Eilonwy. "The Golden Pelydryn was cast away or lost by the Princess herself, and though I knew it had been found, I did not know by whom."

The Golden Pelydryn. Eilonwy mouthed the words silently, as the significance of the name dawned upon her. Her bauble! That was why these faces looked familiar! The pig-keeper, the prince, the bard...they were those she had seen in the scrying bowl, crowded around its light. How had they come by it...and more curious still, how had they managed to command its glow? She was sure it had only ever answered to her.

"Accept my thanks," Achren went on, "for you spare me the labor of a tedious search. To fulfill my design, only these objects were lacking—you may spare yourselves much pain by putting them in my hands." The velvet sheath had peeled away from her voice; it was sharp as a bared blade. "Now!" she barked, when no one moved to obey. "Give them to me!"

Gwydion did not flinch. "It is as the prince of Mona says," he answered gravely. "We have found the book of spells, and the light that reveals them. But it is also as he says; you shall never have them."

Achren stood very still, but rage trembled behind her careful poise, like an aureole of fire around her. "Shall I not?" she said. "It is as simple as reaching out."

"They are not in our possession," Gwydion said, shaking his head, "but well-hidden and beyond your grasp."

Achren took another step toward him. "That, too, is easily righted. There are means that will cause tongues to be loosened, and the deepest secret shouted aloud." Her glance fell upon Prince Rhun. "The Prince of Mona speaks even without my urging. He shall speak again."

The boy blinked, his eyes going even bigger, but he clapped his hands to his side and lifted his chin. "If you're thinking about torturing me," he said stoutly, "you're welcome to try it. It would be interesting to see how much you could find out, since I myself haven't the first idea where the Pelydryn is." He shut his eyes and stood with his chest stiffly out. "So, there you are. Go ahead."

"Give the harper to me, milady," begged the man at Achren's elbow. "He shall sing better to my music than ever he sang with his harp."

"Hold your tongue, steward." Achren dismissed him with a gesture. "They shall speak willingly enough before I have done with them."

She took a step toward the bard, and Gwydion's voice rose in a tense warning. "Harm none of my companions." His hand went to his sword again, knuckles white as he grasped the hilt. "Do so, and I vow to strike you down, whatever the cost."

Achren threw her head back, her eyes flashing fire. "And thus do I vow! Seek to defeat me and the girl shall die!"

There it was—a declaration so naked, the starkness of it took Eilonwy's breath away.

There was a fraught silence. Achren broke it at last. "And so we stand, Gwydion. Life against life, and death against death. Which shall you choose?"

She means it. She will kill me before she sets me free. Trapped within herself, Eilonwy fumed silently, less frightened than she was disgusted with her own naivety. Why had she ignored her own instincts, the warnings that had whispered in the back of her mind the moment she had laid eyes on this woman? True, she could not remember specific reasons for suspicion...but her lack of memory was, of itself, suspicious enough. She ought to have been more wary. Now here she was...bound in magic, unable to speak for herself, watching her own doom played out like a spectator at a joust. What mattered the motivation of these strangers, if the woman who claimed to be her ally proved so false? If all wanted her for their own ends, then she could not trust anyone.

The voices of Llyr sang in her head, a chorus of sweet temptation. Magic had trapped her; it was all magic... enchantment infinitely more potent by virtue of being fashioned of her own blood and bone, of an ancestry soaked in sorcery. How had Achren snared her with the magic of Llyr, if Achren herself could not wield it? How did she use it, now, to control her, if its enchantments still slept? There must be a reason. Even Gwydion did not know everything.

It did her no good to struggle. She could not fight against her own essence. She must find her way within it, regain what control she could, and put Achren off guard. It could not be coincidence how the web tightened the more she fought.

Don't fight, then. Not yet. Bide your time.

But how to let go, without losing herself? Fearfully, she let herself sink into that dark space, pushed her awareness into the magic that wound about her, testing its individual strands, finding the ones that felt quieter, safer. The warm fluidity of water felt better than the hot rush of fire, and she embraced it. The voices in her head became soft here, a sleepy background chant. Her heartbeat slowed, her breath steadied, and she sighed, and felt her tense posture release, both within and without.

Her body was her own again, at least for now. She stepped close to Achren, swallowing her discomfort, feigning cooperation. "If they have taken my bauble," she said, "they must return it. It is not fitting for it to remain in the hands of strangers."

The pig-keeper cried out at this, a heartbreaking sound that was nearly a sob, and Eilonwy looked at him curiously, struck again by how easily wounded he was. For one who seemed to have some prior knowledge of Achren, it was foolish of him to display such vulnerability so openly. The woman pivoted toward him instantly, as smooth as a hawk spotting prey on open ground.

"This does not please you, Assistant Pig-Keeper," she said softly. "It pains you to be called stranger by her. It cuts more cruelly than a knife, does it not? Sharper even than the torments of the wretched creature at your feet."

He returned her attention with a grimace that betrayed both his reluctance to do so and his inability to resist. Achren stepped nearer, stalking until she stood almost between them, though she seemed careful not to bar his view completely, glancing back at Eilonwy with a sly, knowing smile. "She will remain thus because I so command it," she murmured, "but I could give her back her memory of you. Is a golden trinket too high a price? Or a book of spells that are meaningless to you?"

Eilonwy saw him wince and tear his gaze away from Achren, only to fix it upon her instead. What stirred when he met her eyes, within that darkness where she was tethered? Give her back her memory of you. What sort of memory was it, that made his face so full of desperate longing when he looked at her? Her lips parted, over breath suddenly belabored.

"What cares an Assistant Pig-Keeper whether I or another hold sway over Prydain?" Achren was whispering now, so that Eilonwy could barely hear, but the boy winced as though every word was screamed in his ear. "Lord Gwydion himself cannot gain for you what you hold dearest; indeed, he can bring about only her death. But I can give you her life. Yes...a gift only I can bestow."

My life is not yours to give, Eilonwy thought angrily, but the anguish in the boy's face twisted at her heart, and her hands trembled with both outrage and sympathy. She lies. She lies about everything.

"And more…much more," the whisper went on, relentless. "With me, the Princess Eilonwy shall be queen. But who shall be her king? Would you have me set her free to wed a witless Prince? Magg has told me she is to be given to the son of Rhuddlum."

Given to whom? She could not think; the boy's struggle consumed her. His eyes screwed shut, as though he could no longer bear to look at her. Sweat beaded at his hairline. His pain was palpable, a wave of grief and thwarted, agonized yearning that could assault anyone with enough empathy to sense it. From the corner of her eye, Eilonwy saw Gwydion make a jerky movement toward them.

"What then, shall be the lot of an Assistant Pig-Keeper?" Achren reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, as tenderly as any mother who ever doted over a son. "To win a Princess, only to lose her to another? Are these not your thoughts, Taran of Caer Dallben?"

Taran of Caer Dallben. It was but a name. Mere words. Why did they make her heart race so?

"Think of this, too...that Achren gives favor for favor."

He covered his face with his hands, spreading his fingers wide to stop his ears. A strangled sob burst from his throat. Eilonwy almost joined him in it. Help him. Someone. I cannot.

"Speak, now. The Golden Pelydryn...its hiding place..."

"You shall have what you ask!"

Eilonwy gasped. The words had rung out not from the boy, but from Gwydion himself. And though there was no other sound in the Hall, it was like the blow of a trumpet, cutting the din of battle, so that everyone turned to stare at him in amazement.

Gwydion stood with his head flung back, his eyes blazing. Eilonwy thought, for an instant, that all of him blazed, a fire as bright as the one in the hearth. She blinked, shaking off the glamor; no, there was no fire in the hearth, and he was but a man— but a formidable one, standing there, his fists clenched with wrath, his teeth bared in challenge.

"Leave the boy alone," he snarled. "Leave him, you…" He cut himself off, clearly struggling to force back much more that he wanted to say, and again, Eilonwy thought fire flared around him, but it was the work of only a moment. His hands unclenched; his shoulders loosened; when he spoke again, his voice was low and level, like the gravel beneath a deep river. "You shall have what you ask, Achren. The Pelydryn and the spellbook are buried at the broken wall near the gate, where I myself set them."

Achren froze, and for several heartbeats, so did all else. The world seemed to tremble, waiting on the edge of a knife blade. "Do you lie to me, Gwydion?" she breathed, a wavering demand. "I swear to you, if it is not true, the Princess will not live beyond this instant."

Eilonwy gasped in sudden pain; Achren had gestured toward her, and that invisible web around her tightened—a sharp entrapment, as though she were encased in broken glass. Fear closed about her throat in a vise; she stared mutely at Gwydion, whose gaze had jumped to her in alarm. "They are within your reach," he growled to Achren. "Shall you hold back from taking them?"

Another breathless moment. Then the woman gave a curt order, and her steward scuttled from the hall. Achren came to stand beside Eilonwy, seizing her once more by the shoulders in a cold, hard grip. "Beware, Prince of Don," she whispered. "Touch not your sword. Make no move toward us."

Eilonwy stood motionless. Terror wrapped her in sharp talons, but beneath it she seethed with anger and indignation...and deeper still, a strange anticipation took hold. Her blood quickened, magic sparking every vein and vessel. The voices of Llyr sang to her. Soon, they said. Soon.

In moments the man was hastening back, carrying a leather-bound book and...oh, there it was! Her bauble, but it was dull and tarnished, more lead than golden, and she wanted to cry at sight of it, with relief, and with strange and incomprehensible sadness.

Achren snatched both objects the moment they were within reach. She gasped, heaving like one who had just run a race, and smiling like one who had won it—eyes wild, teeth bared: a triumphant expression, more akin to a grimace of pain. For a moment she clutched the items greedily to her chest, and a spasm of frustration crossed her face. She turned and stared at Eilonwy, who stared back, determined to hide her awareness. But within herself, she was defiant, despite the still-present warning of pain. She would do this without me if she could. I am but a tool. Except a tool has no will of its own, and I do.

I will break free of her. Soon.

"Soon!" The steward pulled at his silver chain, trembling with excitement, and uttered a high-pitched laugh. "My kingdom! It shall soon be mine!" Eilonwy flinched back as his possessive gaze leapt over book and bauble and leered openly at her, and an instinctive sense of loathing made her stomach lurch.

But Achren whirled toward him in a swift rage. "Silence!" she spat. "A kingdom, groveling fool? Be grateful if you are allowed to keep your life." In amazement, in terror, the man fell back. Favor for favor, Eilonwy thought impassively. All lies.

She turned her attention to the objects in her grasp. The golden sphere fit her hand, its shape and weight instantly familiar, a thing to know and be known by, as close as her own name. A warm sense of comfort flooded her. Light blossomed, deep within the sphere...and, somewhere deeper, within herself.

Achren pulled impatiently at the hand that held the book, flipping open its cover. The brittle pages fluttered to stillness, blank surfaces staring back. "The Pelydryn," Achren hissed, and pushed her hands closer together, bringing the bauble nearer. Eilonwy held her breath as color bloomed where the light fell, bleeding through their emptiness like spilled dye. Letters, words, images spread before her eyes in a sumptuous sprawl of illumination.

The scripts were strange, of a shape she had never been taught, but she needed no translation. The written words spoke directly to her mind, rich with meaning, as instantly recognizable as the scent of sea air drifting through her window, a kinship like the clasped hand of a sister.

Achren turned the pages feverishly, and spell after spell flashed before her. For the purifying of waters… For the changing of the tide... For the swiftness of a ship... For charting a new course... For a favorable sea... For the defense of a fortress... For protection in battle... For a rich and ample harvest... For a blessing at a wedding... For an expectant mother... To ease a long birth... For a child that will not nurse... For peace among a family… To honor the new moon... For healing a wound… For strength after illness… A blessing of Rhiannon... The Rites of Solstice... For the coronation of the Queen… For the passing to the next world…

The handwriting changed, page to page, section to section, and the style of the figures shifted over the course of the book. But together they told a story, a trove of all that her people had believed, loved, fought for, treasured. The bright drawings almost seemed to move of themselves, figures turning to look at her, sea-creatures in motion among swirling waves, flowers and vines growing, weaving one into another, curling up the margins. The voices of Llyr sang tunes to match, turning from joy, to grief, to hope, to triumph.

Oh, if she could read them all, slowly, one at a time! This…this was her magic…it was love; it was life; it was beauty and balance, healing and goodness. Eilonwy wanted to shout at Achren to stop— to let her pause and examine each page in detail, to touch the images and trace the letters, to smell the parchment and taste the shape of these words. But she could not speak past the choking tightness in her throat, a thing made not of magic but of gathered sobs she could not release.

"There!" Achren exclaimed, halting at last in her search, on a page titled For the Ascension of a Daughter of Llyr. A figure of a girl in white robes adorned it, surrounded by lines of curling script. She held aloft a crescent moon in one hand, a spray of flowers in the other. Hawthorn blossoms and branches swirled out around the borders, so detailed Eilonwy fancied she could smell them. That sweet, heady perfume…what did it remind her of?

I told her to name you after me.

Eilwen. Her own aunt, met in a dream. Eilonwy looked up with a gasp, half-expecting to see her again, or some new vision, unlocked by these revelations. The light of her bauble, glowing brighter and brighter, illuminated all around her, creating a circle of true sight in which all glamour evaporated, and she blinked, again and again, in sudden and devastating comprehension. The Hall…it was a ruin, a remnant of destruction; it stood as desolate and barren as the night Achren had brought her…brought her here…

Darkness. Rain. Fire. A burning boat.

Eilonwy stared wildly around the rim of the light, at the faces gathered there, watching her, every one of them sick with fear. Oh, Llyr, she knew them, knew them, of course she did, all of them! Noble Gwydion. Friendly, well-meaning Rhun. Dear, dear, lovely Fflewddur. Sweet, loyal Gurgi. And Taran, her Taran, her…

Taran.

His name caught in her throat, somewhere under that mass of tears, and Achren looked up from the book, looked at her, livid with understanding. The web wrapped around her again, down in that deep space, cords of magic tightening, tightening, until she could could barely think past the pain of them. The voices raged in her ears.

"Read it," Achren ordered, a phrase like the slash of a whip. "Read the spell."

Eilonwy set her teeth. The weight was dragging at her legs again, that anchor that sought to drown her, but though the cords cut into her like razors, she had reached the surface, seen the truth, and she would not sink again, not willingly.

"Quickly!" Achren's voice was distant over the roaring in her ears. Llyr itself was pulling at her, the island crushing her with its weight. Threads of magic entwined her arms, her legs, spread into her veins, into the air she breathed, searing hot, devouring. How? If it was hers, why did it seek to dominate her? How could this be the same power as the light and life inscribed in the spellbook? Nothing in its pages was designed to inflict pain; nothing she had seen even hinted at the notion of torment, of the desire to control or destroy another.

No. Something was wrong. A single mis-spun, knotted thread in the weaving, marring the final image.

Eilwen had known. Even in that dream-space, she had sensed it. There is something at work upon you.

How do I free myself of it?

She reached out again, furiously, into the cords of magic that bound her, hunting for what did not belong. It took a moment, in that maelstrom, but...there…it was there, that taste of acrid metal, that element that was akin to her native fire, but not the same. It was the taste and smell and feel of Achren's magic, that foreign essence that had been forced upon her since the day she had been taken, that power she'd thought she had escaped. It was here…and here…gods, it was everywhere; every thread around her, every stream of elemental magic was blended with its corrupting presence, tainted with its colors, and she knew, as surely as she knew the sun would rise...

I will never be free of her.

Her despairing scream was silenced, flung across the space of her mind and trapped within it, drowned by the roar of a chorus that demanded of her more than she could give.

There was no way to untangle it, no part of her power or legacy that Achren had not touched and twisted, no skill that Achren could not turn to her own will. And she, Eilonwy, would be subject forever to that will, cursed to carry out its commands, to not only watch but assist in the annihilation of all she loved. For she knew quite well it would be a destruction. Under Achren's rule, Arawn would fall, yes... and so would everything else.

Free us, Llyr's voices moaned. Take up your power, and free us of this.

I cannot, she sobbed. I cannot. She has ruined all of it.

You can.

It was a single voice, low and rich, beneath the chorus, beyond the crushing swirl of magic. A voice she had never heard, but somehow knew; its sound was like a lullaby, one that wrapped her in comfort, and within it she sensed the silver-white glow of moonlight, burning through the darkness of her grief. She reached for it, remembering the peace, the glittering shaft of light through her window, the hand that stroked her hair, the kiss on her forehead.

You can free yourself, it said, and all of Llyr.

How? How? I cannot use this magic.

No. She has woven herself into it, sullied the land with her blood and her sorcery. She has bound herself to it, but thus, she has she sown her own defeat. Renounce the enchantment. Destroy it, and you will be free, and the land itself will rest.

The cords choked her, burning, until she heaved like a fish left to die on a riverbank. But that will destroy everything. Llyr will never be raised; my people will never return. I will never be an enchantress...never be like my mother, and her mother, and all my ancestors. I will lose it all, again. Everything. Forever.

She felt a sensation like hands on her face, cupping it, lifting it, stroking the streaming tears from her cheeks.

Daughter. Look before you. You are enough, and you have all you will ever need.

She opened her eyes with a gasp. Achren clawed at her arm, but it was her friends she saw, the faces she loved, mutely waiting for her to choose. A future of Achren's fashioning, or...

Was it really a choice?

Her bauble burned bright like the sun, and the book weighed heavy in her hand, pages full of moonlight and sea-magic. Fire and water. Elements in balance, each ready and waiting to consume the other...but she, also, was bound to Llyr. Would she be consumed, as well?

Eilonwy raised her eyes, and fixed them on one pleading, terrified face before her. He had looked so, when she had first seen him staring at her from the bottom of a cell, that one precious face she had accompanied away from Achren's prison. He had looked so again, staring at her beneath an apple tree in a spill of broken twigs and breathless realization.

I will come for you.

Please, she thought, hoping, praying that he could see what she could not say. Please don't let me be lost again.

The voices roared, and the Pelydryn flared as she brought it low, and touched it to the Ascension of a Daughter of Llyr. The girl on the page melted away, drowned in a glittering river of crimson fire.

Chapter Text

“Mam. Why couldn’t we stay with the camp?”

“Do you miss it?” 

“Yes. I want to go back. I miss Aisling and Orla, and the dancing and the games.”

“I know, love.” Mam cuddles her close. “But the camp was moving into the mountains, and Mam needs to be near the sea, just now. Just until your sister comes, and has the chance to grow a little.”

From outside, the sound of the breakers drifts in, a crumbling, tumbling music, and the string of shells hung at the doorway tinkles like Fair Folk bells. “Will she play in the sea with me?”

Mam laughs. “Not at first. She will be born in the water, as you were. And when she grows enough, you can teach her to play.”

“Seamus said I lied about being born in the sea. He said only fish and eldritch things birth their young in the water.”

“Seamus is a silly little Rover boy who knows nothing. You are a Daughter of Llyr, and we are always born in the sea, for it is the womb of the goddess, the Mother from whence we come.”

“You said I came from you and Tad.”

Again, a silver laugh. “Yes. Both things can be true at once.” Mam kisses her head and wraps her in warmth. “Always go back to the sea, my love, if you are frightened or sad, and she will help you remember who you are.”

“Silly, Mam,” she yawns. How could anyone forget who they were? “I am Eilonwy. That’s all.”

“And that is enough.” Mam rocks her, humming, until her eyes close, and she drifts on a gentle tide, its steady roll pushing her out, out, into the moonlight. Moonlight, cool and silver-white and smooth as milk, gentle as a mother’s arms, cradling her in its soft embrace...

“Let her go.” A man’s voice, low, murmuring somewhere upon the edge of her mind. “Let her stay with us, Lady. Please.”

“She is grievously hurt,” the gentle voice answers, from the center of the light, from everywhere and nowhere, “for she has allowed her own nature to consume itself. She belongs with me, where she will be whole and healed. She is a daughter of the moon and sea.”

“But also a daughter of the sun. And we love her, here in the sunlit lands, where we also know how to heal.”

The softness tightens around her. “She is caught between two worlds, Son of Don, as all her line has been, from the beginning. Did you love her, you would rejoice at setting her free of such a curse.”

“Do you call the union of our Houses a curse, Lady? Was such great love not a blessing and a joy?”

The gentle voice turns mournful. “There was no joy that did not end in grief, no bliss that did not bring pain in the end, no life that death never claimed. Light and darkness are not easy lovers.” 

“But still they loved, and their children were of both sun and sea. And here is the only remnant of that line. Would you take her... as you took the rest from us?”

A long silence. Understanding. “Angharad’s loss was not of my making, Son of Don.” 

“No. But I...we...lost her, all the same.” 

“And I, also.”

The waves rock gently, singing of sadness.

“It is her choice to make. Speak not to her, Son of Don, that she may make it freely. All my Daughters choose their own way.” The gentle voice croons over her. “Choose, sweet one, where you are to be reborn. Mine you will ever be, but you must live in one place or another. The healing peace of my twilight shores...or this sunlit land, where joy and pain are ever intermingled.”

There is salt water on her cheeks, tears mingling with the sea buoying her. The choice itself is not fair, nothing she asked for; it is, itself, both joy and pain. But then, so is birth, and she has been born here once...

Surely she can endure it once again.

It wasn’t quite like waking up—the sort one does in the morning, where one moment you are not conscious and the next you are, without quite being able to tell exactly when you move from dreaming to reality.

It was more like remembering, or realizing things, slowly, one at a time, and the first thing she realized was that nothing hurt. And that this was a surprise and a great relief, as she seemed to recall very recently being in unimaginable pain…pain so visceral and total that even the memory of it was formless, as though her mind had been too broken by it to pay any heed to the shape it took, and now it shied away from the attempt in horror, covering itself in blessed darkness.

Then she knew that she was not alone. The bloodless voices that had sung their unending chorus for the last days were silent. Instead, over the music of the nearby surf rode living voices, the nature of them denoting breath and heat and movement as the strange echoes of Llyr never had. They murmured low, somewhere nearby, and though she could not quite make out what they said, she felt somehow safe at the sound, and drifted in and out of sleep with their gentle rhythm threading her ears.

Gradually she realized that she knew these voices, and then she remembered many things, all at once, that made her reach toward them, an effort like swimming to the surface after a dive into deep water, with limbs that did not want to obey her will. The shimmering light of self-possession was out of reach for a very long time, but at last she opened her eyes, and saw sand and stone and sunlight on the water, and she sat up slowly, every muscle protesting against even such minimal use.

A cluster of beloved faces watched her, their figures crouched at a little distance as though almost afraid of who she might be...except one who knelt nearby, and in his face was the fear of who she might not be. “Eilonwy,” he said, in a voice that wavered on the hoarse edge of trembling, “do you know us?”

She stared at him, and knew in an instant that if she said what she wanted to say she would burst into a million sobbing pieces. What did one do, when the things that needed conveying were too terrifyingly precious and new to be wrapped in mere words? It would be like handing a naked infant across a chasm. No wonder they wailed.

She tamped it down, all of it, the raw and the vulnerable and the wonderful, and left only the indignation: an old, old shield.

“Taran of Caer Dallben,” she said hoarsely, and not without a waver of her own, “only an Assistant Pig-Keeper could ask a question like that.”

His eyes lit like kindled embers; his entire body slumped in a wave of relief so palpable that her answering empathy nearly rattled out of her and she had to look away from him, gaze scrambling to find something else to focus on, some mundane subject not so fraught with feeling. “What I don’t know,” she said slowly, “is what I’m doing soaking wet and covered with sand on this beach.”

The relief rippled through all of them, a circle of released tension, and Gwydion smiled his wolf-smile, dropping from his crouch to an exhausted sprawl upon the sand. “The Princess Eilonwy,” he said, “has come back to us.”

Gurgi whooped and leapt toward her, his woolly arms enfolding her in a sticky, salty embrace; Fflewddur next, hugging her until he was forcefully lifted by his cloak and dragged backwards by a giant cat, of all things. It was unmoved by her short shriek of surprise, glaring at her from a pair of inscrutable golden eyes while Fflewddur babbled incoherent reassurances over equally incoherent explanations from every other quarter. Everyone was talking at once; Eilonwy clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop, stop! You’re making my head swim. It’s worse than trying to count fingers and toes at the same time.” She waited until they all settled, and turned her gaze expectantly to Gwydion. “Tell me what’s happened to you all. Please.”

The prince of Don edged closer to her, took her hand and looked keenly into her face. “I shall do so...but it is a complex weaving, Princess, with many a thread woven in and out of each other’s tales, and yours as well. Do you interrupt me at any point where you may add to the image, that we may all better understand what has happened. And also, if you need rest, but say the word, for you have suffered much and long.”

He waited, and she thought of that white light, and the voices speaking, and nodded mutely, acknowledging a shared memory of which neither of them would ever speak.

“I knew from Dallben that you would be coming to Mona,” he began, “and that he suspected some event of import, though he was as cryptic as he ever is on such matters. He told me only that it would behoove us all to watch over you. I knew also, from certain investigations of my own, that Achren was alive and active, and that she sought you—for what purpose, I could only guess, and so I kept my presence here a secret, and appeared in the guise of a shoemaker, that I might better learn what was in the wind. When you all arrived in Mona, I made my presence known to Taran and Gurgi, and asked their aid in keeping you safe.

“When Magg abducted you,” the prince went on, “it was Taran who alerted the King and Queen of Mona.”

“Magg!” Eilonwy exclaimed. She had not thought of him at all, and now she looked about in disgust, half-expecting his pale face to be leering over a rock.

“There’s been no sign of that conniving spider!” Fflewddur assured her staunchly. “If the fates are just, he’s been drowned and crushed, and good riddance. Though I shouldn’t mind finding his worthless carcass washed up on the beach, just to be certain.”

“Nor would I,” she answered, frowning. “I wish he were here now, as a matter of fact, because I’d have a few things to take up with him. That morning, when I was on my way to breakfast, he came looming out of one of the corridors and told me something very serious had happened and I was to come with him immediately.”

“If only we could have warned you,” Taran murmured, and she turned to him in surprise.

“Warned me? Of Magg? I knew straight off from the look of him that he was up to something.”

Taran’s eyebrows rose, his eyes round. “And yet you went with him?”

“How else was I going to find out?” she demanded. “You were so busy sitting in front of my chamber and threatening to have a guard put ‘round me. There was no use trying to get any sense out of you.”

Taran’s face clouded, and Gwydion shook his head with a weary smile. “Do not judge him harshly,” he admonished. “He thought only to protect you, and I had sworn him to secrecy. He was acting under my orders.”

“Yes, I realize that,” Eilonwy retorted, and then paused, surprised at her own annoyance...or rather, at its object. Not Taran, whose expression smote her with guilt at how she had berated him...no, it was Gwydion! Gwydion who had insisted on secrecy, who could have warned her and had not. “I don’t understand,” she said, frowning at the prince, “why you thought that was necessary. Why did you not come to me yourself? And simply tell me that you suspected something? I could probably have found out whatever you wanted to know, without having to be caught and tormented over it.”

Gwydion winced. His grey gaze turned grave. “Princess,” he said, very low. “It is not so very long since our last meeting. And that last time I saw you, you disobeyed orders and conducted yourself in a way that could have disrupted plans of great import, with effects that would have reached far beyond your own safety, even to the affairs of the kingdom. It was fortune alone that turned your headstrong actions to good instead of ill, in that instance. If time and growth have altered you since then, such that I might have entrusted you with my full plans here, then I am glad of it, and sorry not to have known it ahead of your arrival. Do you tell me you have been so changed?”

Eilonwy stared at him, aware that all the others had grown very still, and were looking everywhere but at the two of them. Hot indignation at his rebuke flamed in her throat, in her cheeks. But he had judged her rightly, and she did not know whether to feel resentful or respectful, or how to explain that if orders didn’t make any sense, that one’s obedience should be conditional upon exceptional circumstances, and...well. Perhaps this was not the time to argue it all out.

“No,” she said shortly, and Gwydion’s eyes sparked, and he sighed.

“You are a Daughter of Llyr,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

“Yes,” she said. “Whatever that means, now.”

He held her gaze, and she could not read his face, but she remembered that voice, that faltering admission...I lost her all the same...and her stiff bearing softened.

“Well,” Eilonwy said, “at any rate, it wasn’t long before I was wishing I hadn’t gone with him. Or that you all were with me.” She heard a rustle, as those around them settled themselves back to the tale. “Of course by then, it was too late. We’d no sooner got clear of the castle than Magg tied me up and gagged me. That was the worst of it. I couldn’t speak a word, couldn’t perform any spells. I couldn’t help myself at all.”

Something in her voice made Gwydion squeeze her hand again, and from the corner of her eye she saw Taran lean forward tensely. The memories of Magg’s grip on her ribs, his hands hot on her ankles and calves, rose up like undead things from their graves, and she cut herself off with a shudder, rushing past them as one rushes past a barrow in the dark. “It spoiled his own scheme,” she said. “He had waited in the hills until the search party was far ahead of us. Then he dragged me into the boat. His shins will be black and blue for a long time, I can assure you. But I dropped my bauble, and since I was gagged, I couldn’t make him understand I wanted it back.”

“And that’s where we found it!” Rhun cried out. “Just after we’d escaped from Llyan!”

The giant cat raised her head, alert, her ears pricked toward the prince, and emitted a growling mew. “Llyan?” Eilonwy repeated.

“Indeed.” Gwydion indicated the animal with a wave; it was now lying blissfully in a sunlit pool of sand, purring, with Fflewddur tucked into the hollow of its ribs. “These your friends, under the command of Prince Rhun, made up one of the search parties, and found themselves unexpectedly in company of the creature you see here. Our gallant bard will no doubt gladly tell you more of the story later, but for now, know that her name is Llyan, and despite her alarming appearance, she is friend, not foe—at least so long as she is within earshot of his music.”

Fflewddur looked like the human equivalent of a dam about to burst; he was dying, Eilonwy realized, to embellish the tale, but Gwydion was still speaking, pressing on. “After which they found the place at the riverbank where Magg had taken you, and there they discovered your dropped bauble.”

Eilonwy flinched at the memory again, and Gwydion paused, his grip on her hand tightening, his gaze full of sudden pain as he looked at her. “I know,” he said, “that only great distress could have induced you to lose it. I am sorry, princess, for my failure to keep you safe.”

She found she could say nothing to absolve him of blame...not that he had asked for it. They stared at one another silently for a moment, and Eilonwy waited until he went on. “In the end, it was a fortuitous find, for more than one reason. For they all stumbled into an underground cavern inhabited by the giant Glew...”

“Giant!” Fflewddur burst out uncontrollably. “An insult to all giants to call him so! He’s a small-souled, weaselly, pathetic, cowardly...” His words were muffled suddenly, as the end of Llyan’s tail flicked him in the face, and the great cat nudged his head and laved it with a single stroke of a rasping pink tongue, leaving him gasping and sputtering.

“Peace, friend.” Gwydion held up an authoritative hand, though he wore an amused grin. “See, your new companion knows that such epithets are unworthy of a Fflam. Or at least, are best saved for your next song.” He chuckled, as the cat rumbled out another yowl. “Glew intended ill for them, but they escaped his clutches by causing your bauble to light, blinding him.”

Eilonwy sucked her breath in sharply. “I saw them,” she exclaimed, and turned to Taran. “I saw you use it. How did you make it light?”

He looked startled. “What do you mean? You saw us, how?”

“In a scrying bowl,” she said impatiently, “with magic. But how did you do it?”

“I...” Taran stammered. “I...I thought of you, that’s all. Nothing else I did worked...until I thought just about you.” His errant gaze jumped about as though it was embarrassed to stay too long in one place, until it locked with hers, glowing within a face suddenly flushed dark. She felt her own cheeks burn at the sight, and quickly looked down, staring at her own hands, balled into her skirts. Her heart beat in her throat, and she wondered if everyone could see it.

“Achren was furious when she saw I didn’t have it,” she muttered. “She blamed Magg, and I’m surprised she didn’t have his head off right then. But to me, she was...”

She hesitated, recalling all of it, in a strange flood of emotion. All Achren’s promises...to raise the island, to resurrect her people, to defeat Arawn for good...to put power and strength beyond imagining in her hands...they were things Eilonwy had not known she wanted. Things she had never even thought of, until their possibilities were placed before her. But how even to begin explaining it? “To me she was very...sweet and thoughtful,” she continued, feeling frustrated at the lameness of the misdirection, “so I knew right away something disagreeable was to come. Achren’s promises are always lies.”

Gwydion cleared his throat, and glanced at something beyond them, before continuing. “I knew you had been taken to Caer Colur,” he said gently. “When our friends escaped from Glew, they found their way to the mouth of the river. There, I found them, and together we planned to come for you. But by the time we arrived--”

“Yes,” Eilonwy interrupted. “I know.” She raised her head and looked at each of them in turn. “She had me under a spell,” she said. “I don’t...I don’t remember much of it. Only that...it was partially my doing, somehow. It was my own magic as much as hers, and I couldn’t see clearly until my bauble was in my hands once more. Then—then it was very strange.”

Their faces were turned toward her, eager, fascinated, full of compassion, of care. She felt her heart swell at each of them, just as it had in that throne room, faced with golden truth. “In the light of it, I could see all of you. Not with my eyes, really, but in my heart. I knew I had to destroy the spells to keep them from Achren. I wanted to do it, but...it was as though there were two of me. I knew it was my only chance to become an enchantress, and be who I was meant to be; who I’ve always...” she stopped, and swallowed a quick gasp before it could turn into a sob. Her eyes fell last upon Taran, his burning eyes and flushed face, and she spoke softly to him. “I knew if I gave up my powers, that that would be the end of it. I suppose I felt a little the way you did in the Marshes of Morva, when you had to give up Adaon’s magic brooch.”

He looked at her with devastating sympathy, and again she wanted to burst with all the things unsaid, or at least reach out and take his hand, so that he would know how utterly she understood what it had taken from him to sacrifice something so precious. “The rest of it wasn’t pleasant,” she said, voice cracking. “I’d --I’d rather not talk about that.” But the memory of fire and flood consuming one another within her sucked her mind into darkness before she could stop it, and she shut her eyes and trembled, breathing slow, until the sound of the surf laid itself over her senses like a balm.

The sea. That song of that great power, forever lost to her, cut a sadness-shaped hole in her heart. “Now I shall never be an enchantress,” she murmured. “There’s nothing left for me now except being a girl.”

Gwydion squeezed her hand one last time. “That is more than enough cause for pride. For all you chose to sacrifice, you have kept Achren from ruling Prydain. We owe more than our lives to you.”

Yes, there was that. “Did...Achren...”

“She lives,” Gwydion said gently, and Eilonwy jerked her hand away from him involuntarily, an abrupt, dismayed movement. He held both hands out, like a man calming a wounded horse. “She has no power left to harm you, Princess. Indeed, no power left at all.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she would have used it by now. But on this point, I hope you can help me. Long have I wondered why she chose you as her tool, and fought so hard to keep you in her power, to the point of death. I have my suspicions. But can you tell me anything of what you learned while you were with her?”

Eilonwy thought, pushing back into the unpleasant haze of magic and memory. “She...she said that...that my family had asked for her aid. Long ago, before I was born. Something about...about my grandmother, and allying to fight against Arawn together. She called it a dangerous game.”

Gwydion said nothing, but his face grew more and more grave, and the others all seemed to hold their breath. “I didn’t believe her at first,” Eilonwy went on, “But...it seems to have been true, at least a little. I can’t always be sure of what she showed me, but...somehow, she had woven her magic into Llyr’s. I felt it, all mixed in. That was how she was able to enspell me, and there was no way to untangle it. It was why I had to destroy it all.”

“And in so doing,” Gwydion said, his voice low with quiet, triumphant understanding, “you destroyed all that was left of her powers.”

She stared at him. “She has been weakening for years,” he said, his voice strangely full, “and I wondered that she still had what power she did. Even after the fall of Spiral Castle and the loss of Dyrnwyn, she wove her webs. And so I knew she had a source, somewhere ...some land, some connection, from which she drew strength. Never would I have thought of Llyr, for your family was too powerful for her to threaten. But if she were invited in...” He shook his head. “It beggars belief. The House of Llyr was our ally, always and ever. How could it be, that Regat... Surely not Angharad...”

His confusion was painful to see, a thing that should not exist, that nature abhorred, but it was short-lived. He drew in a deep breath, and raised his head to look her in the eye. “We shall never know,” he said. “And it does not matter, now. You have severed that connection. As Caer Colur fell, as Llyr fell, so fell Achren.”

Sudden cold swept her. “Caer Colur?”

Gwydion’s face stiffened, and next to her, Taran moved jerkily and was still. “What happened?” Eilonwy whispered.

“It is gone,” Gwydion answered quietly. “Laid to rest beneath the waves.”

Eilonwy covered her face with both hands.

“You fell unconscious when the book was burning,” Taran murmured. “And then the walls just began...crumbling. Magg opened the sea gates, and the sea poured in. Almost...almost as though it had just been waiting. I managed to lift you before we were all swept out.”

She was shaking her head, but she knew it was so; Taran never lied to her, and she seemed to recall, vaguely, a sense of someone holding her amidst a churning sea, a sense of calm and peace even within the crash of breakers.

“We’d have drowned,” he said. “But...well, it was odd. The sea itself seemed to sweep us back toward Mona. It was further than anyone could have swum. And then Llyan fished us out of the shallows.”

Gone. Gone. Laid to rest beneath the waves.

“Llyr is at peace,” Gwydion said. “You have set your ancestors and your land free from Achren.”

Free us. 

“Don’t,” she said, when Gwydion began to speak again. Don’t. Just don’t.

You haven’t lost anything. Not really.

A twist of iron disappeared into a crone’s gnarled fingers.

It was never a part of you.

Fire spread across a page of swirling script.

Would you rather have given up a summer day?  

Or any other day? Full of rainbow-hued passions and jingling ankle-bells, and the smell of blooming apple trees, and breathless, heart-pounding discovery?

She took a long, wavering breath. What, indeed, had she lost, that had ever done her any good? An old, crumbling castle that no one could ever live in again. A spellbook she had only seen a few times, full of magic that no one could train her to use. A legacy that had made of her a target and a tool.

Eilonwy set her teeth. It was the right choice. It was. I did what I had to do. “I’m glad the book burned,” she said, desperately trying to make it true, “but I’m sorry I lost my bauble again. I suppose it’s floated out to sea by now. There’s nothing to be done about that, but I shall miss it.”

Taran, startling her, suddenly scrambled up, pointing skyward over the sea. “Look!” Beyond his outstretched finger, a black shape darted against the blue-grey.

“Kaw!” Fflewddur shouted. “The last of our strays!” Llyan rose and shook herself, her whiskers twitching, but she made no move as the crow swooped over their heads, his every bank and flourish of flight communicating immense, cocky satisfaction.

He was carrying her bauble in his claws.

Eilonwy sprang up with a cry as he dropped it. She caught the flashing sphere in midair, clutched it to her breast, and crumpled back to her knees. As though the golden sphere had been the key that unlocked a floodgate, she finally burst into tears.

Chapter Text

They stayed in the shelter of the dunes through the heat of the day. Eilonwy, clutching her bauble, slept again, and woke in the late afternoon, suddenly and with a gasp, from a dream that immediately slipped away. Taran, sitting beside her, laid a hand on her arm.  

“It’s all right,” he murmured, and she stared at his hand and felt many things that she could not put into words.  

“Have you sat here all this time?” she said, knowing quite well that he had, for he was still in the exact same spot he’d been while she had been weeping herself to sleep.  

“There isn’t much else to do,” he answered lightly. “Everyone is just waiting to see how you feel. Rhun wants to head back at once, but Gwydion thinks we ought to stay the night. Either way, it’ll mean another night out before we get back to Dinas Rhydnant, but we’re also planning to stop by Glew’s cavern to see how he fares.” 

“Didn’t he try to harm you? Why would you care?” 

“It’s a long story,” Taran sighed. “But I do pity him, and he needs help, more than our judgement. I think Dallben could do something for him, and I want to try, at least. They’ve also decided...” He hesitated. “That is, she’s agreed...Achren has...to come back to Caer Dallben.”  

“She’s what!” Eilonwy flew upright to stare at him. “Why would...what could...who invited her?”  

“Gwydion did.”  

She was speechless for many seconds. Taran would not meet her eyes. “What is he thinking?” she spluttered at last. “After all this...how can he just...she would have killed me! She would have destroyed all of us! And now she gets to…to be rewarded for it? Gets to hide away at…And I’m being sent away! ”  

He looked at her unhappily. “It’s....it’s not quite like that. You haven’t seen her as she is, now.”  

“I don’t want to see her,” she exclaimed hotly. “I’d be glad enough never to have to think of her again. What does he mean by it?” 

“I suppose you’ll have to ask him.” 

She threw her hands in the air with a groan of frustration. “That’s it, then. I shall never be rid of her. She’ll haunt me everywhere I go, as long as we both live. How am I ever to go back and live in peace, if she’s there?“ 

Taran made no answer. His silence grew so long that she glanced over at him in doubt, and saw that he was scratching fretfully at the sand with a bit of rock, his expression dark. 

“Don’t let them put her in my loft,” she grumbled.  

His glance flicked up at her painfully. “I won’t. She isn’t coming to replace you.”  

“When I return, I want it all to be as I left it,” she insisted.  

His eyes dropped again, evasive, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. “Eilonwy...” he said haltingly. 

“Ah!” The sound startled them both, and Taran shut his mouth in an instant as Fflewddur came loping over, Llyan close upon his heels. He crouched near her. “Awake again, at last? How do you feel, love?”  

Eilonwy almost snapped that she felt furious, but caught herself at the sight of his beloved face, the lines around his hazel eyes crinkled up with concern. “I feel...better,” she sighed. “Much better, actually. I can get up.”  

The two of them anchored her as she rose, and there was a moment where each seemed confused about whose arm she would continue to grip to steady herself. She was slightly jostled from one side to the other and Fflewddur let go first, with a nod and a little lopsided smile at both of them that made her feel fluttering warm with embarrassment, but she made no effort to stop him when he stepped away. 

The world seemed a bit shaky, once she was on her feet, and she felt an odd sense of missing time, such that it was more than the pleasure of Taran’s arm that made her lean on it as they moved down the beach. Ahead of them, Gwydion, Gurgi, and Rhun sat in discussion.  

“...We’ve let Magg look after things we should have seen to ourselves,” Rhun was saying. “There’s more to being Prince than I thought. I learned that from an Assistant Pig-Keeper,” he added, rising as they approached, and holding out his hand to Taran, who clasped it companionably. “And from all of you, really. There’s still most of Mona to be seen, and if I’m ever to be King, I’m sure I should see it all, and the sooner the better.” He caught Eilonwy’s eye and smiled, and she thought he looked taller, somehow, and older, and could not help returning the smile. But her eye meandered past him, to where a dark figure huddled in a hollow of the rocks, turned away from them all, and her heart sank. 

The rest of them had risen, and Gwydion spread his arms in welcome, faltering when she did not run into them. “Princess. It is good to see you on your feet. But what is this cloud I see in your face?” 

“Is it true?” Eilonwy nodded toward the huddled figure. “You’ve asked her to Caer Dallben?“ 

His expression settled into understanding. “It is true,” he said, “and I know it must seem an outrage to you. Please, dear one—come and hear me out.” 

She was tempted to refuse, but Taran was already handing her over and taking a step back. She scowled at him, even more annoyed at his bewildered look in response, but it was too late—Gwydion was taking her arm and drawing her a few steps away while the others dispersed. Then, they were alone, and he was motioning her to sit, and she was weary enough to do it, though she wanted to pace and shout.  

He sat across from her and surveyed her seriously. “Princess, I concede it. You have every right to feel betrayed and angry.” 

She sat silent, frowning, waiting, and Gwydion sighed. “I know, after all she has done to you, that…” 

“It isn’t just to me !” Eilonwy burst out. “I’m not a child upset over sharing a toy. She has done such evil to so many! And she’s never gotten what she deserved over it.” 

“You little know,” Gwydion said heavily, “both how wrong and right you are.” His proud head bowed, and he stared at the ground as though she was not there. “Achren has both borne and committed horrors beyond your imagining, but...” 

“Then how …” 

“You are young,” Gwydion said, halting her interruption with a single glance, “and you have endured things no child should have to endure, but I tell you: for all your sorrows, fate has been kinder to you than it was to her. Paths were laid before her that she had no choice but to walk, long before she made herself into the bent and twisted creature you have known.” 

May you never have cause to understand what has made me what I am.  

Eilonwy shivered, scowling at the ground. “Well, I don’t care what paths she was forced down. Eventually she had the power to change whatever she wanted, and she still chose to keep right on destroying things.” 

Gwydion nodded. “I do not deny it. But you also have not yet seen how often those in evil circumstances become that which they despise. How fear and rage, given a quarter, can turn a heart black, and how easily power and revenge become bedfellows.” 

She thought of Ellidyr, and the sense of drunken, ecstatic satisfaction she had felt, listening to his screams while he burned, and her mouth went dry.  

“As to whether she has ever received her just desserts,” Gwydion went on, “of that, also, you know little. But consider whether a life at Caer Dallben will be the prize to her that it would be to you. She has lost her power, not her pride. Living within the boundaries of Dallben’s benevolence and protection is the last thing she desires. But it may be, I think, what she needs.” 

“If you are so concerned about her,” Eilonwy retorted bitterly, “why not bring her to Caer Dathyl, where you can keep her as safe as you like? It’s easy enough, to consign her to somewhere else , where you’ll have no need to live with her.” 

Gwydion cast her a shrewd look. “I would do so, but I regret to say she would find no welcome at Caer Dathyl. Only Dallben has so little to fear that she will be accepted without condemnation.” He looked thoughtfully at his hands, and spoke softly, as if to himself. “Would that my fortress had a house half so healing.” 

“Healing,” Eilonwy repeated angrily. “Why should she receive healing, when she dealt out nothing but pain and death?”  

“Because pain and death were not what she was meant for,” Gwydion answered, “and I have never lost hope that one day, she may remember it. Perhaps it is foolish. But I would sooner be a fool who holds onto hope, than a sage who embraces despair.”  

His green-flecked eyes darted up to meet her, bright and sharp as a steel blade. “This anger and grudge-bearing is not what you were meant for, either, Princess…but observe how willingly you let it have a foothold.” 

“ Is it a grudge,” she demanded, bristling, “or just a desire for justice?” 

“Be careful,” Gwydion rejoined, “for the line between justice and vengeance is thin. Justice has been served, by your own hand. Compared to the loss of her power, Achren thinks death is a mercy I have denied her.” 

Eilonwy slumped back against a rock, staring at him in indignant confusion. Why did he care? She wanted to ask, nay, demand what bizarre sense of obligation made him so invested in Achren’s well-being. But without knowing how she knew it, she knew nonetheless: this was a thing untouchable—as forbidden a subject as the wistfulness in his eyes when he spoke of her mother.  

There was a long silence, and she wondered if he wanted her to say it was fine, that she agreed, that she hoped Achren would become whatever it was he thought she still could and that they would all live at Caer Dallben in blissful companionship. 

He would wait a long time, for that. 

“We might as well leave,” she said abruptly. “I’m tired, but I can walk if we move slowly. If I’m obliged to be in her company, I should like for it to be as short a time as possible.” 

Gwydion looked at her levelly, and seemed about to say several things, changing his mind about all of them. “Very well,” he said at last. “It shall be as you wish.”  

Nothing is as I wish, she thought, as he walked away, and called out to the others.  

The companions gathered themselves together, and by the time the western sun was sending tendrils of gold and crimson spreading across a turquoise sky, they set their faces inland. Eilonwy watched as Gwydion went to Achren and offered her his arm, watched as she rebuffed him coldly and followed Rhun up a trail toward the bluffs, her head bowed, her footing unsteady. Gwydion followed, after a moment of allowing her distance.  

Eilonwy stood still. Fflewddur, Gurgi, and Taran were waiting for her at the foot of the dunes, Llyan standing just behind the bard’s left shoulder, her tail twitching and her golden eyes alert.  

Her breath caught, looking at them all, remembering what lay ahead. Every step toward Dinas Rhydnant would take her closer to a parting she could not bear to think of. Perhaps she should have insisted they stay the night here, after all, to stretch out whatever time they had just one more day, a few more hours.  

She couldn’t go, couldn’t breathe. “I…” she stammered, gesturing at them, “I’m just going to…to take a moment. Go along, and I’ll catch up.” 

Without waiting to see what they all did, she turned and walked down the beach, back to the edge of the surf, until the cold foam of the wavelets prickled at her bare feet. She looked out to the endless, unbroken horizon, and watched the movement of the breakers rushing toward her, remembering the ecstasy that had coursed through her limbs as she had embraced the magic in that seething mass of water. Was that power still within her, or had she destroyed it along with the book? She was afraid even to try to summon it...afraid to seek within, lest she find nothing.   

The murmur of the surf filled her ears, both cacophony and lullaby. You are enough, and you have all you need.   

Footsteps crunched the sand behind her. She knew it was Taran without looking; she had wanted him to come. The footsteps stopped, and she sensed his presence at her shoulder, close enough to touch, if she only twitched her hand a little backward. He stood there —full to the brim with things unspoken, ready to overflow.  

“I’m all right,” she breathed, though it was not quite true. “I thought I’d have a last look at Caer Colur. Just to remember where it is. Or...well, where it isn’t.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said, a gentle acknowledgement of the depth of loss. Eilonwy forced down a sob. 

“Yes,” she said shakily, when she could speak. “So am I, in a way. Not entirely, you know, but...it was my only home, for a while. Outside of Caer Dallben.” 

“It should have been always,” Taran said. “It was where you belonged.” 

She winced at the bitterness in his voice. “I… don’t know,” she said slowly, “Perhaps things happen how they are meant to. If I’d not been taken...who would have gotten you out of Achren’s dungeon?” 

She felt something release in him, like a fallen chink from a wall, letting sunlight through. “You’ve always been...” he began, cut it off; then, “...I wish...” 

Silence. She waited, heart pounding in her throat.  

“Once you’re safe in Dinas Rhydnant,” Taran said at last, stumbling over his words, “I’ll...I’ll have to leave. To go back home.” 

The lump in her throat swelled, blocking anything she might have said, futile words that could not push past all the gates erected. 

“I had hoped,” he continued, “that after all you’d been through, that...that you’d come back with us. But...Gwydion is sure Dallben meant for you to stay. It’s not as though he knew all this would happen.” 

“No,” she whispered; the uncaring wind caught the word and carried it off like a dead leaf. 

Taran shifted his feet in the sand. “I can just hear him now: being rescued has nothing to do with being educated. ” 

This was delivered in such an accurate impression of Dallben’s acerbic rasp that a hysterical sound bubbled up past her tight throat and burst out, a sob tricked into a laugh. Oh, Llyr. How would she manage, without him? 

I can’t stay here, she thought, I can’t.    

Suppose she refused. Insisted on returning home at once. Short of physically restraining her, they had no way of stopping her from doing so. What would Dallben say, if she returned now? Had she learned enough yet to satisfy him?  

There, you will have a chance to learn much more about who you are.   

But I already know who I am! 

Ah. Do you?  

I am Eilonwy. Daughter of Angharad. Daughter of Llyr. She had always told herself that the names didn’t matter much. But now that both were lost, what did that leave her? Groping blindly, for a mirror that showed no reflection. 

“Do you remember,” she said, turning a little toward Taran, “what else Dallben said, when I was leaving? That there comes a time when we must be more than what we are.”  

He was close, so close she could count the lashes fringing over his eyes, and she looked away quickly, her breath hitching, and fixed her gaze on the blue line where sea met sky. “I suppose he means that somehow I’m meant to be more than an enchantress. I don’t know what learning to be a...a young lady has to do with it.” The words made her nose wrinkle up in distaste at their implied trappings. “Whatever that is that I’m not already. But I suppose I shall have to find out.” 

His silence hung upon the air, fragile, like a thread of spider silk. “So I’ll try hard to find it out quickly,” she added, “twice as hard, at least, as all those silly geese in Dinas Rhydnant, so I can be home twice as soon. For Caer Dallben is my only real home, now.” 

From the corner of her eye Eilonwy saw him move abruptly, as though he were about to speak, and she tensed in anticipation, but something gleamed in the water, distracting. An object tumbled toward her feet, and she splashed to it and picked it up, unwinding a long string of seaweed, and giving a little cry of surprise. “What’s this? The sea has given us a present.” 

It was a battle-horn, smooth and bleached white, rimmed and bound in silver, its mouthpiece etched in intricate spirals. She shook the sand out as Taran bent over to look more closely.  

“From Caer Colur?” he asked. 

“It must be,” she murmured, turning it in her hands thoughtfully, “though I didn’t see it there. I can’t imagine what use it was. I suppose it’s all that’s left.” 

“It’s a treasure, then,” Taran said reverently, and she swallowed hard, her heart thudding.   

“Yes,” she whispered, “the last treasure of Llyr.” She took a breath and turned to face him fully. “Here. It’s yours.” 

His eyes met hers, wide and shocked. “I...what?” 

She raised it up, insistent. “You must take it.” 

“You can’t give me this,” he protested, “It’s all you have of—“ 

“Then it’s mine to give!” she blurted out, pushing it into his chest. For a moment they stood, staring at one another, and she felt that well within him, churning like the sea under a storm, roiling with all the things he did not know how to say. 

“It’s mine to give,” she repeated, in a half-whisper that would not betray the break in her voice. “as my pledge that I will not forget you. Promise...” her voice shook, and she stopped, swallowing frantically, forcing down that hateful thing trying to choke her, “promise you won’t forget me.” 

His eyes softened, and his hands rose up to the horn, but he did not take it. Instead his fingers curled around hers, enveloping her hands in the warm pressure of his grip. “I promise that,” he said, “gladly, but you need not give me anything. I.…I couldn’t forget.” His voice caught, as though it had stumbled over something in its way, and his eyes were so brilliant she had to look away.  

“I want to,” she mumbled stubbornly. “I want it to…to be yours. So you’ll think of me whenever you see it.” 

Taran’s hands tightened around hers, and the pulse in her middle turned to a wild flutter. “All right, then,” he said, “if you’re certain. But what shall I pledge in return? I have nothing but my word.” 

It was the sort of thing he was wont to say with self-deprecation, yet this time there was none, only a grave wistfulness, and she almost laughed, that he still had no idea what his word was worth. “The word of an assistant pig-keeper? That will do very well.”  

His expression changed to wondering, faint gladness, and she was conscious again of how close he was; close enough that the breeze rolled glittering strands of her hair against the green field of his jacket; close enough to watch his eyes darken when his gaze sank to her smile. Suddenly overwhelmed, she pushed the horn into his chest with a nervous laugh, pulling her hands from his grasp. “Here, take it! Giving gifts is...so much better than saying farewell.” 

She had meant it lightly, but he clutched the horn until his knuckles went white, and the color drained from his face. “Eilonwy,” he breathed, and she went numb at the reluctance in his voice, her heart sinking in a wave of foreboding. “We must say farewell.” 

Eilonwy took an involuntary step back, and shook her head, but Taran gulped another breath, and blurted out, in an agonized stream, “You know that…King Rhuddlum and Queen Teleria mean to betroth you to Prince Rhun.” 

The words hit her like a bucket of icy water, so shocking and unfathomable that she only stared at him, incapable of speech. These incredible, nonsensical words: they rattled about her head like gourd-stones, careening absurdly; she had to corral each one in its turn, make it sit still so she could make sense of them in sequence. King…Queen…betroth…prince…  “They what ?!” she exclaimed, in astonishment too blank, for the moment, even to be angry.  

Taran looked at her miserably. “The king told me, himself. Rhun has known from the start.”  

She stared longer, and then, out of nowhere, erupted in an incomprehensible laugh. The flagrancy of it, the blatant, brazen presumption… Belin and Llyr! Had everyone known it but she? She flushed hot, blood blooming with indignation and humiliated outrage. Oh, it was ridiculous...ludicrous…infuriating! 

“I assure you,” she burst out, “they’ll do no such thing. Really!” She turned on her heel, throwing her arms out in rage, stalking away, and pacing the sand between Taran and the lapping waves. “There are limits to having people making your mind up for you! Of all the stupid, idiotic, unspeakable —” but here, on the edge of hysterics, she stopped herself, glancing down at the water. 

The waves rolling to her feet were crashing there with sudden vigor, smashing against her lower legs and rolling further up the sand, incongruous with the rest of the waterline. She stared at them, feeling the deep pull of the water back toward its fathomless heart, attuned to the prickle in her forearms and fingertips, the salty savor of sea-magic in her mouth.  

It was still there, somewhere within her. Slowly, she counted to ten, breathing slow; eased her clenched fists back into open hands, relaxed at her sides. The water ceased its churning, ebbing back, and she was not sure if the sigh she heard came from herself or the sea. 

Learn who you are.    

She counted again, breathed deep, released the anger. “Rhun has....improved,” she said slowly. “I think all this was the best thing to ever happen to him, and in time he might even be a decent sort of king. But as for being betrothed...” 

She turned back to face Taran. There he stood, watching her, his face as open a book as it had been in the throne room of Caer Colur, calling her back from wherever she had been.  
 
She shrugged rather helplessly, face blazing, willing him to understand. “Taran, how could you even think that I’d—,” 

He didn’t let her finish. He made one sound – a sort of joyful, disbelieving whoop - and vaulted over the space between them, flinging his arms around her, catching her up and whirling her around in one swift sudden movement that knocked her off balance. With a shriek of surprise, she clutched at him, breathless, caught in a paradox of pleasure and indignation at being so manhandled. “Taran of Caer Dallben,” she gasped, as he set her down again on shaky feet, “I’m...I’m not...” 

She trailed off, staring at the strong golden line of his chin in front of her eyes, flushed at such proximity. For the first time she ignored the nervous impulse to pull away from him. Her heart hammered against her ribs as though it wanted to break free to reach his, that pounding rhythm she could almost hear, pressed against his chest. His burning gaze dropped to her mouth again, with unmistakable intent; it was how Oisin had looked at Niamh; how her father had looked at her mother, how she had wanted Taran to look at her, for what now seemed like a long, long time.  

“I’m not speaking to you,” she sighed, a tentative threshold where her breath tripped and tumbled into his. Their noses bumped together and she smiled a little, searched for the right angle, tilted up until his mouth curved and melted against hers, and found that words were quite unnecessary.  

Breathe. Her inhale was a spark that sent blissful heat singing through every nerve. There was salt on his lips, but beneath it he tasted like... oh , like stars, like sunlight, like rain on the garden, like every good thing that had ever happened or would happen to her. Tension trickled away on her exhale; his hand drifted into the small of her back and splayed up against her spine; she let herself sink fluidly against him, a fit as perfect as if she were reunited, at last, with something she had never known was missing.  

What was this? She didn’t know...she didn’t know, but there was an answer somewhere here, within the safe circle of his arms, in the breath that mingled between them, like souls enjoined. Not the whole answer, maybe, not now, but a first glimpse, a curtain blown aside to a view of worlds beyond.  

“You were wrong,” she whispered, when he took a breath, and felt him tense. 

“I usually am. What is it, this time?” 

“When you said you had nothing to give me.” 

His relieved chuckle spilled out like honey, sweet on her lips. “Well. If this is what you like, I have plenty.” 

“Been saving it up, have you?” She blushed, suddenly self-conscious, and glanced toward the bluffs. “They’ll be coming to look for us, soon.” 

“No, they won’t. Fflewddur told me to take as long as we needed, and he’d make sure we weren’t disturbed.”  

“Fflewddur!” Eilonwy repeated, awash with embarrassment, and Taran laughed, but his face turned serious.  

“He cares about us. About you. Eilonwy, I...” His eyes closed, and his head dropped, until his brow rested upon hers. “I have never been so afraid as when I thought you were lost. When you stood before me and did not know who I was. I couldn’t reach you; I...” 

“Don’t,” she said, and took his face in her hands, pressing as though she could push the memory from his mind. “That was not me; it was not me; it was something else that I couldn’t reach through. Taran, it was seeing you that made me brave enough to destroy the book.” 

His eyes opened, liquid-bright.  “I knew,” she whispered, “that you wouldn’t let me be lost along with it.” 

He sighed and pulled her in until her face settled at his shoulder, until she was pressed against the solid strength of his chest and the warm beat of his heart, and if there were a sweeter, more perfect assurance of belonging than this, she did not care to know it.  

In the long shadows of the bluffs, the water at their feet winked and twinkled with turquoise stars, coalescing and congregating, until they stood in a pool of emerald light, glowing like the full moon, caught within the tide. 

Chapter Text

“Milady. I found more you wanted.” 

 Eilonwy, curled up on the casement seat amidst piles of parchments, looked up hopefully. Cerys stood before her, clearly pleased with herself, her hands full of several scrolls and a silk-wrapped object, suspiciously book-shaped. “Some of them just old ledgers and accounts,” the girl said, and waved the book, “but this one looks like something more interesting.”  

Eilonwy took it. “Did you have any trouble?”  

 “No.” Cerys grinned. “I know things about Macsen’s private affairs he’d rather were kept quiet. He let me into the crofts without a word.”   Eilonwy snorted as she unwrapped the silk. The amount of private affairs that went on at court was something she was only beginning to glimpse, a web of intrigue and plays for status, manipulations that made her head ache with the unnecessary nonsense of it all.   

The silk slid away and revealed a leather-bound book, unadorned except with a triple-moon embossing, but her breath caught at the sight. She opened the cover, greeted instantly by a strange curling script.  “Oh, splendid,” she said. “Yes, this is the sort of thing I was hoping for.” 

Cerys leaned over and studied the lines. “And you can read it? I can only make out a word or two, and not well, at that.” 

 Eilonwy smoothed out the pages. “That’s what I wanted to find out. Everything in the spellbook was written in this lettering, but I don’t know whether it was a different language. Magic muddles everything until you aren’t sure what’s real and what isn’t. But…yes. I can read it!” She laughed aloud in delight and discovery as the text settled itself, and her comprehension wrapped around the unfamiliar shapes. “I don’t know if Mother taught it to me, or if it just...just falls into my mind because that’s what it’s meant to do.” She fell silent, turning pages and perusing the text. It was no spellbook, but a hodgepodge collection of herblore and medicinal remedies, mixed in with a fair bit of anecdotes, lists of names, and legends of the island that now slept on the sea bed. 

 “You must be the last person alive who can actually read it,” Cerys said. “You ought to have it transcribed into common writing. That way your people’s stories won’t be lost, even when you’re gone, and it’ll serve as a guide for any other writing that might turn up.”  

 Eilonwy laid the book down slowly, staring at the girl. “That’s…a brilliant idea.”  

 “It’s simple enough to put into use. Just read it out loud to the court scrivener and he’ll copy it down.” 

Eilonwy skimmed a page, flushed, and turned to the next quickly. Not a chance would she read that aloud to anyone, though she made a mental note to look it over later when alone. “I think I’ll write it out myself.” 

“Dreadful lot of writing,” Cerys sniffed, “but maybe you’d rather do that than embroidery.”  

“It might be the one thing the queen would consider an acceptable alternative. Could you get me ink and parchment?”   

“Of course. You’ll want quills and a penknife as well. I can get you a whole goose’s worth.” Cerys turned away to gather up her dinner leavings. “I’d best get this down to the kitchens. Shall I send up someone else for company?”  

“No, thank you.” Eilonwy waved her off. “I don’t mind the quiet.”  

Silence fell as Cerys departed, and after a while Eilonwy laid the book down with a brooding sigh, staring out at a dusky sky and dark sea. 

The journey back to Dinas Rhydnant had been slow, with many halts. It turned out that severing one’s magical connections had long-reaching physical effects, and even with frequent rest Eilonwy had grown wearier and weaker. Before the company ever reached Glew’s cavern, one of the search parties had found them, and insisted on carrying her back to the castle on horseback. She found she did not have the strength to argue, a point which had alarmed Gwydion and Taran so much that they sent her off at once. Teleria had instantly confined her to a sickbed, and by the time she emerged from her delirious exhaustion a few days later, everyone had returned. 

Taran had kept vigil at her couch for two days, but never, to her annoyance, by himself. The company of their own friends, she did not mind... so much, but the additional presence of ladies-in-waiting or the queen herself was conspicuously endless. It was patently obvious that she was never to be permitted to be alone with him, never to share anything beyond a few guarded words and significant glances. Even these felt inadequate, thanks to Taran’s cautious sense of honor; were it not for the battle horn fastened at his side, and the way he often laid a hand on it and then looked at her, she would have begun to think she’d only dreamed up their promises on the beach, and the few private moments they’d managed to steal for themselves on the journey back.  

And then the dreaded day had come, and she was well enough to go to the courtyard, and permitted to bid all her friends farewell: a formal clasping of hands and a series of chaste kisses on cheeks, even this cut short by Teleria’s fluttering. Rather than accept the queen’s subsequent invitation to keep Rhun company at dinner, Eilonwy had begged to return to her bed, and spent many dark hours alone.  

Fflewddur had stayed on a bit longer, waiting for passage north to his own lands. It had been his suggestion that there might be Llyrian history among the records in Dinas Rhydnant, after the third or fourth day of patiently tolerating her irritable convalescence. 

“There was a fair bit of intermarrying between the islands,” he said, “along with the usual diplomatic associations, trading and so forth. It’s highly likely some of those folks brought things with them you might find interesting, and exploring that would give you something to do, other than be cross and homesick.” He winked. “You’ll feel better faster if your mind is occupied, love.”  

“Feeling better just means the queen will make me join the ladies at spinning and weaving,” Eilonwy had growled. But she had mulled it over, later, after he had gone.  She was lonely and dull, and even Rhun had gone away, off on his tour of Mona. At last she had made the request of Cerys, who had proven to be the cleverest and steadiest of her assigned handmaidens, and the girl had delivered with swift efficiency. 

And now? There was enough, here, to keep her occupied for a good while, in something that interested her far more than sticking needles into cushions. The enchantments of Llyr might be forever out of her reach, but its history need not be. The things written in this book might have come from her mother’s own hand, or her grandmother’s, or that other woman she sometimes thought she had dreamed, in that netherworld of enchantment. Eilwen...if she were even real. She might still be out there, somewhere, in whatever place the people of Llyr had been sent to, might even now be wondering if Eilonwy were real, in the same exact way.  

It was comfort, of a sort. Though in the moment, watching dusk poured out to extinguish the sunset, steeling herself for another night in the damp castle, what comforted and tormented her most of all was imagining being home. 

Taran would be back at Caer Dallben by now. She could see him in her mind’s eye, going about his chores, bantering with Coll and Gurgi, sitting at table fiddling impatiently while Dallben lectured. Was he going on just as he ever had, only without her there? No, he couldn’t. What did he even do with himself, without her to keep him company? Was he even thinking of her at all? 

The familiar ache was beginning behind her eyes when a fluttering sound interrupted her thoughts, and a flourish of black movement interrupted her line of sight. Eilonwy gasped with delight as Kaw landed upon her casement sill with a loud, satisfied croak.  

“Back,” he announced importantly.  

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and snatched him up. It is not possible, more’s the pity, to hug a crow, but Kaw permitted her to nuzzle him against her cheek, and if he minded that she wiped tears into his ebony feathers, he did not say so. He was windblown and jaunty as ever, and there was a tiny vial strapped to his right leg.  

“Already!” Eilonwy murmured, when she could speak again. “You’re a clever bird, to have gone and come so quickly. At least,” she hesitated. “You did get all the way back to Caer Dallben? They’re not shipwrecked or some such, are they?”  

Kaw pinched her nose affectionately. “Caer Dallben,” he assured her. “Home! Taran. Gurgi.” He hesitated, and then squawked, “Achren,” in quite a different tone.  

“Don’t remind me,” Eilonwy sighed. “I suppose they’ve sent you back with something from Dallben for Glew; is that what this is?” She touched the vial. “Should someone here take it to him?” 

The crow hopped away from her, fluttering his wings in denial. “Kaw! Glew.”  

“You’re taking it yourself,” she said. “Very well, then. Did you stop by just to greet me? Did...does no one have...any other sort of message?” Her face went hot. Why did it seem ridiculous, to ask it of him? As though a crow would understand or have any opinion of what sort of message he was expected to convey. Why, indeed, should she even expect that... 

Kaw leaned over, and emptied his craw unto the stone casement, ejecting something small and pale. He picked it up again, hopped to her, glared expectantly until she held out her hand, and dropped it in.   

Eilonwy, puzzled, brought her palm close to her face. Her heart gave a little lopsided beat, and she let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh as she saw what she held: a pressed, dried bud from the apple tree, as painfully beautiful, as exquisitely fragile, as the day Taran had plucked it from her hair.    

“Tree,” Kaw croaked, “apple,” and she thought how funny and mad and wonderful it was, that the harsh voice of a crow could sound so lovely.  

“Taran,” he said. “Pledge.”  

And flew away.