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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"Angharad!"
Her mother's voice cut into her mind like a dagger. Angharad blinked, remembering that she was at supper. Elen, who had already kicked her twice under the table, was now glaring at her in exasperation over its top.
"I'm...sorry," Angharad stammered. "What is it? I wasn't listening."
Regat laid her wine goblet down with the painstaking gravity of one who intended to make a point by the gesture. "Have you heard a word since we began? I asked whether you have gathered the implements for tonight."
"Oh." Angharad cleared her throat. "Yes. The ormer's been cleaned, the sweetgrass is dried. There's enough for tonight."
"Indeed," put in Arianrhod, smiling at her from the other end of the table, a softer mirror of the queen. Though only two years younger than her sister, Arianrhod was comparatively unmarked by signs of age; her dark hair did not bear the silver that streaked Regat's proud head, and the lines around her grey-blue eyes were fine and shallow; the life of High Priestess, though full, was easier and far more pleasant than that of a queen. "I looked it over this morning. All is ready. Though I still think you should wait."
Regat waved this away. "We've discussed this. New moon might be preferable for scrying, but too much is at stake. We need to know what is behind the troubles, if anything; I dare not put it off another fortnight."
Angharad smoothed her skirts nervously under the table. "What is it? Is this because of the message from Abegwy yesterday?"
Regat sighed. "There is a strange illness there that looks as though it will spread. The village is cut off until we know for certain."
"More ill news," Angharad muttered. She pressed her hands to her temples. "Did you send that emissary you promised to Llamorset?"
"Of course." Regat took a breath as though she meant to say more, paused, and closed her mouth, looking away as though preoccupied. She folded her linen slowly and rose, signifying the end of the meal. "I shall retire," she announced, "to rest and prepare for the ritual. You should do the same." Angharad watched her leave the chamber in silence, trailed by her two ladies-in-waiting.
"Where have you been?" Elen hissed at her, when the door had shut. "You really didn't hear a thing, did you?"
Arianrhod raised an eyebrow in agreement. "You have seemed rather preoccupied, love. Is everything all right?"
Angharad felt her face grow hot. Her own self-consciousness annoyed and perplexed her; why should a simple question discomfit her so much? Perhaps it was that knowing look in her aunt's eyes, glinting at her over the rim of her chalice; Arianrhod took an embarrassing level of interest in the personal lives of everyone in court and out of it, and had a knack for sniffing out romantic entanglements. Understandable, given her line of expertise, and Angharad knew the sort of conclusion to which her aunt would immediately jump. And though she had nothing of the kind to hide, visions of Geraint would keep pushing themselves into her mind, something she knew Arianrhod would find intensely interesting. Confound him and that direct blue gaze of his. She could not stop thinking about it. Why could she not stop?
