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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Days rolled by like cartwheels, bumping over stones, the usual routines somewhat interrupted with distracting thoughts of recent experience. Court was held twice a week, Angharad assisting with the doling out of justice or mercy as necessary; Regat passed more and more of such decisions onto her, mindful of the day they would be hers alone to make. Alternate mornings were spent studying legal records and conferring with their counselors, arranging certain matters of the household Regat had delegated to her, or preparing herbs and implements needed for spellwork. But her afternoons were hers to spend as she pleased, and every seventh day was a day of rest, by law.
This particular one dawned misty and grey after a night of rain, the sort of day she would normally have curled up by her own hearth and read, or sat in the solar playing tawlbrdd with Elen and the other ladies, or worked at her embroidery — not because weather bothered her particularly; she liked the moods of grey sky, the way mist shrouded the familiar land around her in mystery — but because quiet activities seemed cozier, somehow, on grizzly days.
But she did not feel cozy at present. The restlessness that had driven her to the cove before had only increased since her visit there, made even worse by the flurry of activity that was currently surrounding the departure of her cousin. Teleria and the baby had been deemed strong enough to return home, and Angharad and Elen were to accompany her to the harbor, along with her bevy of handmaidens.
Teleria, naturally, talked all the way there, issuing imperious commands and anxious admonishments from the middle of a nest of cushions on a litter born by four men. She bounced baby Rhun at her breast, having refused to have him carried by a nursemaid. During one of her endless lamentations Elen leaned toward Angharad from her adjoining horse to whisper, "Exactly how are you related again?"
Angharad covered her mouth and coughed, to mask her laugh. "Third cousin, once removed, I think. But I'd have to check the records to know for sure."
The small ship from Mona was docked and waiting, with Prince Rhuddlum himself there to greet them. He came down the gangplank, beaming, as the litter bearers lowered their vocal burden to the ground; Teleria handed Rhun to one of her ladies and was helped to her feet. Angharad and Elen dismounted and stood back courteously as the young couple embraced. Teleria glowed pink as a sunset as the baby was transferred to her husband.
"Keep the blanket - oh, mind his head, dearest, he can't hold it up yet! - around him, so he doesn't catch a chill," she cooed. "Gracious, it's all right, you won't break him - look here, my love, he has your nose and your chin. Isn't he perfectly beautiful?"
Rhuddlum held the baby a bit gingerly, but his round face flushed scarlet with pleasure and pride, contrasting with his pale blond hair and beard in a way that made him look rather silly. But Angharad did not laugh; it was too sweet a moment, and she watched with a strange, twisting sensation in her chest. Teleria might be ridiculous in many ways, but still, there was sacredness in the scene; in the mystery and power of this: the gift of woman to man and to all, to be the vessel of new life. It was to this end, all of it: the rites and the goddess, the ripening and the waning of their bodies in rhythm with each moon, each nestled within the circle of the seasons of a year; years set within the circle of generations, in an endless spiral. Next to her, Elen sighed, her hand cupped in a crescent at her breast.
