Pwyll of Dyfed heard the sentence passed upon his wife with a breaking heart. He turned away from Rhiannon, unable to face her. He loved her in spite of it all, but he no longer knew what to believe. Anwyl was gone and Rhiannon refused to do anything about it. He simply could not believe that she did not still possess some powers of enchantment. She had to! No one would really throw away such gifts just for love of another! He could understand a woman claiming to give up her most precious possession for him, but not really doing it. She must surely have retained her powers, so why did she refuse to use them to find her son? Unless, of course, she was indeed lying to him. Unless she was truly involved in this wickedness. Was it possible?

In the face of an armed enemy, Pwyll of Dyfed had known no fear, but now, suddenly he was very afraid. His hand visibly shaking, he reached out for a goblet of wine. Yesterday he had possessed all a man could want or desire. A beautiful wife, a healthy son, a happy kingdom. Now he had nothing. Ashes! It had all turned to ashes, and he did not understand why. Was his council right? Was he being punished for having wed a princess of the Fair Folk? Rhiannon had had powerful suitors among her own kind. Had one of them taken his revenge on Pwyll of Dyfed? It should not have happened had he married a woman of his own kind. He gulped his wine and groaned aloud.

When they attempted to lay hands upon Rhiannon, she took their hands off and walked proudly from the hall, never once looking back at her husband. She heard them lock the door to her chamber behind her as she entered her room, but she cared not. She could not believe the events of the past hour, and yet her son's cradle stood an empty testimony to the destruction of her marriage and her life. What a fool she had been to believe that love alone could conquer all obstacles to happiness! Had her family not tried to warn her? But she would not listen. She had deliberately and selfishly pursued her own desires.

Rhiannon had realized from the start that the Cymri did not accept her. At least Pwyll's court, with whom she must live, did not accept her. She had believed, however, that in time she would allay their fears of her origins, but alas there had always remained that suspicion of anything or anyone different from the Cymri. Bronwyn of the White Breast had seen to that, although on the whole the men had been kinder than the women.

The men had been fascinated by her fair beauty, so different from Cymri women. With them all, men and women alike, she had been modest, serene, nonthreatening. Never thrusting herself forward lest she irritate them. Never voicing unfavorable comparisons between her people and the Cymri. She had been kind to all, and yet they still would not accept her. How many times had she pretended not to see them staring at her? Whispering behind their hands and pointing slyly at her? She had borne it, all for the love of Pwyll. For love of a man who, in the face of mystery, had abandoned her.

He had never seen any of it, for she would not allow him to see their unkindness. Instead she had worked harder in an effort to bridge the gap between herself and the Cymri. She was skilled at weaving, but the exquisite cloth that spilled from her loom, finer in texture and more unique in its design than any they had seen before, only roused deeper jealousy amid the Cymri women. They seemed to delight in the differences between her work and theirs, criticizing sharply at every turn.

Among her own people Rhiannon was considered gifted musically, but because the Cymri loved their music, not once did she pick up her harp to play, lest she arouse their animosity further. Occasionally, for she could not refrain from it, she sang; but her sweet voice had an "other" worldly quality to it. It seemed eerily strange to her critics, and so she sang only to Pwyll in the privacy of their chambers when they were alone.

And without Pwyll she usually was alone. Because of Bronwyn, no woman of the court would dare to be her friend. Still, Taran and Evan ap Rhys had included her as much as they dared; but even they were careful in her company lest ugly rumors be started by Bronwyn and her adherents. Nothing had mattered to her because she was so certain of her husband's love. Now she wondered if she even had his love, having obviously lost his trust.

What had happened to Pwyll? He had always seemed so strong. His reputation as a warrior was more than well known. It was the stuff of which legends were made. Yet today, before the judgment of his council, he had crumbled before her very surprised eyes. Knowing full well there was no magic left in her, he had nonetheless pleaded helplessly with her to work enchantments she no longer possessed. Surely he did not think her like the Cymri who said a thing while not meaning it at all. He had judged her as he would have judged his own people. Knowing-surely he had known!-that it must be he who must save her, and in that moment in time Rhiannon's unbelieving heart had been quite broken.

She wept now as she sat by the window of her chamber and stared out into a new night. No matter what they did to her, she intended surviving. She had to survive in order to find her child. Anwyl was not dead. Her maternal instinct assured her of that certainty. She wept again, for she promised herself that she would not weep further after this night was over, until the day her son was returned to her. The Cymri would not rejoice over her tears.

In the hour before the dawn, she heard the sound of the key turning in her lock, and the door opened to reveal two tall and muffled dark figures. Rhiannon opened her mouth to scream, believing them to be assassins, but then Taran's voice whispered urgently to her.

"Princess, do not cry out! Evan ap Rhys and I come as friends."

"What is it you want of me?" she asked them.

"Princess, we believe you when you say that your son has been stolen but you know not by whom. We want to find the child, but we do not know how or where to start. Once your punishment begins it will be dangerous to attempt to speak with you. So when we must communicate with you, we will stand near you, apparently speaking to each other. Be most careful when you answer us, and do not give Cynbel of Teifi or his daughter any cause to punish you further."

"I know Cynbel would set his daughter in my place," Rhiannon told them.

Taran nodded. "He would, but she is not all that she appears to be, though some be fooled by her docile ways. But tell us how we may help you, my gracious lady?"

"You must speak with the women who were set to watch over my son and me before they depart the castle," Rhiannon said. "Surely one of them saw something but was too afraid to speak it for fear of retribution by Bronwyn. Do not speak with them together, but rather interview them alone. There is one, a new maid just come to court, who would have been kind to me had she not been afraid of the chief lady-in-waiting. Only after you have spoken with these ladies can I direct you further."

Taran nodded with understanding. "We will begin immediately, my lady, for these women will flee Pwyll's anger into banishment this very day, lest their deeds bring further disfavor upon their families."

"Princess," Evan ap Rhys said quietly. "We would spare you this punishment if we could, but we are helpless to do so despite the inequity of it. Do not fear, however, for we will allow no harm to come to you. This much I vow to you!"

Surprised by the deep passion in his voice, Rhiannon looked into Evan ap Rhys's eyes and saw something she had never suspected. She saw that he loved her, and the knowledge saddened her, for Evan, like herself, would love an unrequited love. Flushing, she touched his hand gently, thanking him and asking, "How is my husband?"

"He mourns," Taran said bluntly, "but for whom he mourns-you, himself, or the child-I do not know, my princess."

They left her then, and despite the bitterness facing her, Rhiannon felt stronger than she had in the past hours. To know that she was unquestioningly believed by these two stalwart men, and that she was not totally alone among the Cymri of Dyfed, was comforting in a time when there was little comfort to be had.

She washed her face and hands and bound up her long golden hair into a single braid. She chose from amongst her many garments a simple gown the color of lavender, which was girded about her waist with a rope belt of violet silk. The only jewelry she wore was her wedding band, and her dainty feet were bare.

As the first light of dawn touched the distant horizon they came for her. About her slender neck they placed a heavy leather horse collar which rested with brutal weight upon her slim shoulders and caused her to stagger as she was led outside to a stone mounting block before the castle's main gate. Those about her were all members of the council. Pwyll was nowhere in evidence.

"You will sit here, woman of the Fair Folk," said Cynbel of Teifi. He spoke her race as if it were a curse. "To each person who comes past you will say, standing, 'As I murdered my child, I am condemned to remain here for a term of seven years. Should you wish to enter the court of Pwyll of Dyfed it is my duty to bear you upon my back into the prince's hall. This is my punishment.' Do you understand, woman of the Fair Folk?"

"I did not murder my son," Rhiannon said quietly.

"The child is gone. You will not produce him. It is the same thing. The council has judged you guilty of infanticide. If you do not speak the words assigned you, you will be punished further. You may expect no help or intervention from the prince. He has left you entirely in our charge," Cynbel said coldly. "Now let me hear you speak your part as I have told you, that I may be satisfied you know them."