Angharad of Llyr is heir to a matriarchy: a line of enchantress-queens that has ruled her island for centuries. Her destiny from birth: to rule as sole authority and ensure that her powerful bloodline endures for another generation. Devoted to her p...
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Geraint returned to his preparations warily, hanging the net of clean shells over the flames, placing a chipped clay pot of stream water on the embers beneath. "I wonder," he mused out loud, "what brings the Princess of Llyr to such a lonely shore, so far from...wherever it is she came from."
Angharad shot him an amused glance. "I come here when I wish to be alone — though lately, not as often as I have wished. It isn't far, really – less than an hour's ride, a bit more if you walk. Have you seen nothing more of the island?"
He told her of his visit to the nearby village and she nodded. "Abernant. I live in the other direction - though Caer Colur is generally reached via the main road from the harbour. Perhaps you'd care to visit it next."
"If I would be welcome."
She stared at him levelly and did not respond to this, noticing instead that he was no longer employed in preparing food. "You may sit. I mean," she sighed, and shook her head as though weary. "Please be at your ease."
He felt her gaze on him as he crouched on his heels and poked at the fire; it was disquieting; he had never known any young woman to watch a man so openly. Even those who did stare pretended not to, for modesty's sake. He might have enjoyed it more if he'd felt she was staring in admiration, but her look and manner still denoted little more than curiosity and amusement.
The embers sparked and crackled and he thought of that sudden blaze. "Hm. Might I be...impertinent enough to ask," he began, "what that bit of—," He wiggled his fingers toward the fire.
Angharad looked wry. "That bit of very poor self-control? I'm sorry about that. It had to come out somewhere." She spread her hands out and looked at them thoughtfully. "Surely all those stories don't leave out what we are."
"No," Geraint said, "but I confess, I did not anticipate such an...incendiary demonstration."
She laughed at this, a real, surprised peal of laughter. "Who are you, Geraint son of Durhaim? You speak like a nobleman, perform like a bard, and scrub mussels like a scullery maid. Who is your family?" The laugh was still on her lips, but her voice was becoming earnest, eager, gathering that ferocious intensity he was beginning to recognize. "What is it like in Gellau? How long have you wandered? Who have you met in your travels? Where-"
Geraint held up a hand with a grin and she stopped, with obvious effort. "There are stories enough there for many days, Princess."
"Start with the first, then," she commanded, her eyes challenging him as she sat back, obviously expecting obedience.
He chuckled. "Very well. My father Durhaim was scrivener to King Cadoc of Gellau - a man of letters. He would have liked to take the bardic trials himself, but he suffered long illness that prevented him from the rigors of that life. So you see I grew up among the royal family, and I absorbed their manners, I suppose. When my father died..."
