She lay at the bosom of her mother, more cold, and indeed more frightened, than she had ever been in all her long life.  The crossing from Avallon to Yns Moena had been difficult.  Late winter winds from the East had seemed to want to blow their craft back wence it had come.  The heavy seas had made the children ill.  Yet that was nothing compared to the storm that had descended upon them shortly after sundown.
     Taliesin and Joseph cursed the North wind for having whipped the sea into such a frenzy.  Above the druids it groaned, animal-like, and thrummed about the rigging, threatening to tear it all loose, leaving them at the mercy of the waves.  But she knew that it was not the North wind it self that was to blame.  Ceres-wyn and the druids only guessed as much.  The real menace lay aback of the wind, a dark malevolence that somehow sensed their movements, and struck out at them blindly because it... no...  He, could only intuit that they moved.  In vain, He longed to pin them down, for they were hidden from him by the spells of Cereswyn and her druids.
     The wind's voice was His voice.  It was filled with a rage that neared madness.  Yet, in equal measure, it was empty; echoing with the pain of abandonment. 
     The sound of the wind, touching some painful well of ancient memory, made the child cry out.  It was the first time in her life that she had done so, and her attendants stared in sudden supersticious fear.
     "Ostarium ab perrez (she is only cold)," Ceres-wyn assured them.
     Creirwy felt the trembling that made lie her mother's assurance.
     Near at hand her brother, angry and frightened to have her taken from him, cried also.  She wanted to reach out, to comfort him, and gain comfort from him, but her infant body would not respond.  Her body was an ocean of darkness, and she a spark of consciousness immersed in it.  She had no more controll over her body than she had of the storm that raged around them.
     The company was thrown into the belly of the ship as an icy wave broke over the prow, soaking them.  Ceres-wyn, her mother covered her face to protect her from the onslaught; and perhaps to silence her as well. 
     Creirwy stilled herself, with a focus of will beyond most adults.  For her mother's sake she would be calm.  For all their sakes she would be calm, and go forth to the destiny she had returned to the flesh to fulfill.  The destiny they had lain the foundations for, for so many eons now.  That destiny glimmered still in her minds eye, an echo of knowingness from before she had been born again; not yet faded into the forgetfulness of the body.
     She had been born on Yns Avallon, and had lived there, outside of time, never maturing in the body even a day.  Ceres-wyn's craft held the isle thus, protected from the uninitiated, and too, from He who howled aback of the wind.  She was an infant, and yet not.  So too was Gavynn, her twin.
     So like heaven was Avallon, and so like the Goddess was Ceres-wyn, that it was easy to confuse the two. 
     Fresh waves beat upon them, filling the hull so that they slogged through the waves in spite of the wind filling their sail.  But for the skill of the druids all would have been lost, ere it had scarce begun, in that crossing of Sruth Moena.
     Ceres-wyn held her daughter close to her body, all too aware of the frailty of the child's human body.  Ceres-wyn had bore forth more children than she could easily recall, yet never had she felt this dreadful love.  Not for a child.  Her coldness was deemed an Elven failing in the counsel of the elders.  An all too common failing amongst the kindred, especially within the sisterhood.  She, though revered, worshipped even, was especially noted for this failing.  She struggled now to bear the unaccustomed burden of this love; her love for this daughter.  It was an enchantment, surely; a net cast about her by this precocious child.  It was a binding wrought by the child in her need to survive.  It was proof, if she needed more, that this one was The One; for who else could bind her thus into service.  She knew she would give her life to save this child, if she could, and if to do so might save her. 
     It was a cruel irony that she must leave her so soon; that she must assume the role of tyrant and tormentor in the child's life.  Centuries if planning, pain, and sacrifice could not be denied.
    
    Creirwy heard them first; demoness voices shrieking in the black sky.  She listened in mounting terror as they ranged neare,r then further; hunting.
     She could feel them as well.  They were like a vacuum in the continuity of the life force.  As a black hole these ones devoured, without returning.  They were parasitic beings. 
     And none seemed to be aware of them but her! 
     She was thrown back upon herself.  In a moment it would be too late, they would be found.  Vulnerable as  they were.   But Ceres-wyn was not wrong about her daughter's power.  Frail in body, yet great in spirit, in a moment she cast about them a cloak, to protect them from the approaching swarm.
     Joseph, the most ancient of them all, heard the demoness voices a moment later.
     "Valkyries," he said, his voice hushed in warning.
     The others looked skyward, their faces etched with dread.
     "Quiora Arria, (what is it, Mother)," Yegerna, the twin's nurse asked.
     "Iolara ostarrah!  Vulmaea re iolezel navw terebinz (hush child!  The Dark Lord's servants ride the storm)."
     "Quivlm lycorsyb arosta (are they looking for us)?"
    " Hyspaze.  Quibelleros vlma sybiel (nay.  How could they know).  O'raosta iolarythw vlmhspa zellyl umar vlmost rheari (it is the deaths of their fellows that has drawn them hither).
     "Vlma lysyb quis mu umahsp Llyra umarha (they search, perhaps, for what few may have escaped Llyr's traps(," Joseph added.
     " vlm elle sybiel arost (but they will see us)," Ygerna implored, "Arria, nevea umarisillor (Mother, do something)!"
     The cacklings and wailings were now closer, audible to all.
     "Arria!  Nevea umarisillor(Mother!  Do something)!"
     "O'raeosta perregrew.  Ostariel lykiar neveariost diandre arrost ariolanth volmos (there is no need.  The child has already shielded us from them)"
     Ygerna looked doubtfully at her half sister, a wet bundle of rags her mother clutched foolishly.  She opened her mouth to voice her opinion, then recoiled in horror against the ash planks of the ships hull, her eyes wide, and mouth agape. 
     All eyes turned. 
     With faces white as leprosy they flew out of the north, with the wind, their long tangled tresses trailing like streamers in their wake.  Even as whores they were painted, for thus they sought to disguise the fact that they were dead.  Carmine dye glossed over blue-black lips.  Henna gave their cheeks a lifelike glow.  Khol made the dark bruising around their eyes seem alluring.  Animated, they skimmed the swells, taking delight in their lord's power. 
     They moved as a pack, and were upon the elven craft before the druids could even draw a wand.  As one they swept up and over it, for it seemed only another ocean swell to them.
More with the eyes of her spirit than with infant eyes, Creirwy watched the creatures as they disappeared into the storm.  In their wake her soul was chilled.  A foreboding gripped her that she could not ease.  She could not erase from her memory the terrible, glittering eyes of the valkyries.
     Ygerna drew a shuddering breath, and coughed up a mirthless laugh.
     "Vlma zelnevea sybiel arost (They didn't see us)?"
     "Hyspazel (No)."
     "Yrosqui nevea orea (Did you do that)?"
     "O'raperre ostariel, yrosh vlosta (It was your sister)."
     For a moment Ygerna and Creirwy locked eyes, before Ygerna turned away; telling herself that the child hadn't really been listening, and surely wasn't capable of understanding. 

     Some time after midnight the storm broke.  The sky cleared though the sea did not settle.  Soon after they heard the dull thunder of surf breaking upon the headland of Caer Afforan, the Fort of High Powers.  They could see the towers now, rising black against the silver, skuddling clouds.  Much too quickly they were hurtled shoreward, though the druids pulled sail with all speed possible. 
    
The castle of Caer Afforan loomed above the city, vast and grand upon it's stoney pinacle; frosted silvren in the moonlight.  It's like could not be found , nor it's likeness recreated.  It was a relic of ancient times; a memorial to knowledge lost.
     Alone in his private chamber, Llyr waited; lost in private contemplation, gazing into the flames that danced upon his hearth. 
     Earlier that day he had overseen the executions of the Coraneid.  In this city alone there had been over two score of the creatures; some of them he had held in friendship, never guessing his peril.  Reports were coming in from every quarter, describing the numbers, names and horrific deaths of the Coraneid, the Dark Lord's servants.
     Llyr stroked the golden brooch at his throat thoughtfully.  It was figured to resemble a scarab beetle, such as he had seen when he studied in Egypt.  It was a gift from his brother, Llefelys.
     Human warriors had not been able to drive the creatures from their dark dens; even as they slept they were death for mortal men to approach.  The druids had saved Llyr's plan.  By the power of Rowan they had driven the monsters out into the sun.
     Llyr shuddered at the memory.  Their hideous screams had deafened many in the unsuspecting crowd, that had gathered in curiosity, as the sun set them afire; seemingly igniting their very blood.  The  Coraneid could not withstand the light of day.  That was the secret of the beetle his brother had given him.
     And so the plague was ended.  The Isle of the Mighty was cleansed of them, the most hated and feared of the Dark Lord's agents.  At least the portion of the Isle that remained beneath his sovreignty.  Caswallen,the traitor, Llyr's other brother, still ranged the countryside south of Caer Lludd, exacting tribute for Rome, and extending his rule through warfare.  Llyr wondered if Caswallen knew of the Coraneid.  Indeed he wondered if the Coraneid were behind Caswallen's fall.  Llyr would not have believed reports of his brother's treachery to be true if he had not seen for himself the Roman warband, in Cassivelani garb, and Caswallen at their head.  It dismayed him that such a man as he knew his brother to have been could have been twisted thus into a weapon.  If the Coraneid had gotten to him...well that could explain alot.
     Iweriadd and Taliesin named the Coraneid, 'Dark Elves', saying they were once believed to be a creation of the Dark Lord, another of his genetic perversions, like the Fomhoire of old, but this was not the case, as was revealed eventually.  They had arisen spontaneously, in Egypt, in the time of upheaval; when the Dark Lord was cast down, expelled from the heavens by his people.  It was suspected that the Dark Lord himself had fallen victim to one of the blood drinkers (for that is what the Coraneid were), and for this he was cast down.  But his crimes were many.  It was known that, from that time period to the present, he had bound them to him purpose.
     Llyr had not been prepared for the beauty of the Coraneid.  The pale, lucent skin, and gem like eyes would haunt him forever. In his nightmares he would hear their desperate pleas, as they begged for mercy, and see the bloody tears they wept; though they were supposed to be monsters.  Llyr could easily believe that one of these creatures controlled Caswallen even now, and was the answer to the mystery of his treachery.
     "Savage though the blade of a stranger, thrice so the blade of one's kin," the vast catalog of Llyr's memory offered from it's depths.  It was a quote of Agamemnon, as he lay dying.  Llyr was Chief now, of House Orestes.  The High King. 
     As High King he served two wives; Iweriadd, the ancient, imortal mother; and Penardim, Caswallen's daughter, who was the throne.  Only daughter and heiress, Penardim was the lever Llyr had used to remove his brother from power.  She was the weapon he used to keep Caswallen contained in the southeast, amongst the Belgian invaders. 
     Penardim's emnity for Llyr was surpassed only by her ambition, and viscious self interest.  She lost no opportunity to showcase her hatred of Llyr, and had bore him no child he could be certain was his own.  This most recent child he was certain was not.
     That Penardim was an actual threat to Llyr, his sons, and his rule, she had more than proven.  But for the love of the common people for the Matriarchy, he would have put Penardim away on some pretext.  Their love for those who were their foremothers endured,  though the Matriarchy had seemed defeated at last with the coming of the remnants of Troy.  Penardim was heiress; the people would not tollerate injustice to her.
     Keeping her mildly sedated had helped.  Brangaledd, his cousin had seen to that.  She was with Penardim constantly, as 'companion'.  She was with her even now, assisting the Queen as she labored to be delivered of her child.  Llyr trusted Brangaledd fully, and slept better for her stewardship of the Queen.  But come dawn Brangaledd would leave, taking the twins with her to her husband's farm in the hill country near Cadair Rhitta.  Fosterage of the twins took precedence, and no one else was as suited to the task.  Still, Llyr rued the loss already.
     That morning Brangaledd had partaken of a certain herb, and been delivered early, of her own, tiny son.  Iweriadd had given her the herb,  to use upon the day of Penardim's labor, stressing the importance that the births coincide.  And she had given her another vial; a vial containing a small quantity of Iweriadd's blood; that most precious of gifts.  It was the all-heal of the druids.  And it was insurance.  Brangaledd would be healed of whatever trauma birth might inflict, with but a single drop of the green-gold, imortal blood  of Iweriadd.
     Llyr wondered if one day he too would bear such blood.  He had earned it certainly.  None would deny him if he should ask.  Yet he hesitated,  undecided, his sense of the true path for once failing him.  Or perhaps it was by mercy he was blinded.
Undoubtedly the girl, Llyr's daughter, would have no choice, the blood would be forced on her whether she would have it or no.  She would be too valuable to risk loosing, and would be changed as soon as Iweriadd believed her to be old enough to withstand the ordeal.  Not that Iweriadd was infalable.  Llyr had been present once at a changing that had gone wrong.       
     Iweriadd herself had thrown the possesed child into the balefire. 
     Kindness in cruelty?  With the elders, humble acceptance was the course of wisdom.  It was thus Llyr served Iweriadd, and The Sisterhood.
     Iweriadd's daughter, his daughter, was too precious to be granted more than a few short years of human childhood.  And she was also too precious, to be raised among the elven, it seemed, for though she would have been safer in the hollow hills, Iweriadd rejected this proposal also.  Llyr believed he knew her reason.  One had only to look at her other daughters. 
     This girl, their daughter, could not be spoiled, could not be unsympathetic; for she was The One.
     The One whom seers could not see, but beyond which everything changed.  She was the nexus point, where all time lines converged.  She was the One who had come before and simply by existing had brought about the downfall of the ancient world, the demise of the Matriarcy.  She was Helen, come back to fulfill the prophesy she had given them before her death so long ago, at the hands of the Dark lord's servants. 
     Pwyll, who had been Menelaus, and was now returned as her twin, had sought out death though he had been imortal, and one of the elders, that he might journey into the void and bring her back before it was too late.  Llyr found it ironic that the boy was now of little concern to the counsel, though his sacrifice, and the success of his quest defied comprehension.  Indeed some had proposed that the twins now be separated, least the passions of history be replayed anew.
     Iweriadd had rejected the proposal out of hand, giving no reason, as was her right; and the issue had been dropped.
      Llyr had a sence of the rightness of things, a true sense of The Path.  A revulsion had  swept him when the topic had arisen.  There was an inate evil in the thought of separating the twins.  They belonged together somehow, at least for now. 
     The boy was not the paver of the way though, of that they were certain.  Joseph of Arimathea had come from the East with news, only recently.  To the house of David, seeded with the greatness of the Titans, the paver of the way had been born, even to the same day and hour as the twins.  Ironically, from the chosen people of the Dark Lord, long ago intimidated into his service. 
     The Paver of the way would found for mankind a terrible lesson.  Couched in words of love and hope a new religion would be birthed, more fearsome than any before it.  It would create the needed polarity to compel woman beyond her insecurity and self effacement, into a state of equality.  It was right somehow that the age should end thus, over shaddowed by the tyrany of the old homeland, while in the West a new paradise was forthcomming.
     Womankind would need a new model though, before it could hope to rise from the mire of it's history.  Eons ago the human gene pool had been gifted an enhancement, and homo Sapiens Sapiens had been born.  It was a gift from the Sisterhood, and the Great Teachers, who were gone.  But the people who were born were initially hybrids, infertile and feeble; proof to many of the error inherrent in such tampering.  The Sisterhood had kept faith with the new human though, and time had bourn them out; except in the matter of woman.  The enhancement was sex-linked, giving men greater minds, and more finely tuned senses, as well as a more driving ambition than man had ever known before; while woman remained a barren hybrid whenever the enhanced genes were present.  What was needed was a woman who could span this genetic gap, giving birth to daughters who were both enhanced and fertile, without needing the elven blood.  The One, she came to be called.
     Helen, in her first life was One.  She did not need the elven blood to grow into full womanhood, enhanced and fertile.  But her daughters were flawed, neurotic, though enhanced and fertile.  This, not Troy, or Paris, or the fall of Greece, was Helen's failure.  She was returned to set it right, while time still remained.
     The new womankind were to be Amazons of a different nature, balancing man's power in the final days, saving the Earth from his folly...at least on most of the time lines seen by their seers; the few who could see beyond the nexus point.
     Iweriadd, Andraste, and Rhig antona were of one mind in their counsels on this matter.  The girl child, who was Helen returned, must be helped, by all means possible, to acchieve the fulfillment of her destiny.  But Ar-riande Rhod had vowed to kill the child if ever she dared return to mortal body.  And she was not the only one,  among the kindreds,  who felt thus.
     Greater still was the threat of the Dark lord discovering her, as he had discovered Helen, so long ago, and using her again as he had before.  Even now the sons of Helen were among his most terrible servants; made nearly imortal by his sorceries.
     It was for these reasons that the children were to be hidden.

     There was a soft sigh, and a snick.  A crack appeared in the stone, behind the dying fire.  It widened, becoming a doorway, where Brangaled stood framed, painted golden by the glow.  She held in her arms two, tiny infants; her own son and Penardim's daughter, still wet and unwashed from birth.
     Llyr entered, closing the hidden door behind them.
     The ancient castle was rotten with secrete corridors, spying devices, and hidden portals.  There were pitfalls as well, to waylay the uninitiated, chance intruder.  No man could hope to know all the secret ways of Caer Afforan, but Llyr knew much of them. 
     He tapped a cube beside the lintel, causing a row of lights along the passagewayto glow softly.
     A faint hum was clearly audible, though Llyr was always aware of it when he resided in the city.  Taliesin, the Maerlyn, had shown him the vast beasts contained in their cavern, far below the city; where they slept, making the fire that so many of the ancient devices tapped into for their sustainance.  The beasts purred as they slept, and so great was their power that the entire city vibrated in time with them.  It had been seen that one day the Fort of high Powers would bereduced to ruble and dust by them, so that generation would come to be who would name Caer Afforan a myth, or assume she was once a primitive gathering place of wattle and daub.
     Down, down, into the caverns Llyr led Brangaledd.  yet they need not climb for there was a moving stair, not far from Llyr's chamber, that spiraled away into the rocky depths, within a flawless black tube.
     The Beasts did not eat but they required water, sea water; and so the caverns had been hewn.  Llyr understood the caverns to be a prison for the beasts, and Taliesin did not disabuse him of this notion; but there was also a very cunningly hidden harbor for crafts crossing the Straits from Yns Moena, the Holy island.
     The Stairwell ended at sea level.  No lower levels were known to exist.  When they reached the bottom a door materialised, seemingly out of the seamless wall.  It slid apart in two halves, a grinding screech testifying to the true age of it's inner mechanisms.
     Air, thick with moisture and brine embraced the two, as they emerged from the stairwell.  Ahead they saw the lagoon, it's waters unnaturally illuminated from beneath.  Limpid blue-green, the waters beaconed.  As they drew near they could see rockweed,surging in the ebb and flow of the current; and herring glimmered, darting in unison as cod stalked them from below.  Rock bound crustaceans fanned the current for food; and eels hung imoble before the lights, as if hypnotized. 
     With a start Llyr became aware of the presence of the Elders.  For a moment the coldness of their gaze, the alien otherness of them, bathed him in revulsion; terror even.  In the next moment it was gone, and warmth filled Llyr, an echo of the golden nimbus that enveloped Iweriadd, his mother and Queen.
     Wordlessly they gave the infants to Llyr, and it was done; or nearly so.
        Iweriadd swept down upon a confused looking Brangaledd, stunning her into a deep, hypnotic state. 
"This is your son," she said to Brangaledd, "this is your foster daughter, the Princess Creiddylad, daughter of Llyr and Penardim.  You will forget all that you thought you knew of them.  You wil protect these children with your life, should danger threaten..."
    
     Joseph carried the unconscious Brangaledd up to the suite she shared with Penardim.  Llyr,  following close behind, gazed, rapt, into the face of his daughter.  It seemed a travesty to him then that she should leave his court; leave the protection of his fortress.  It seemed an outrage that she should be separated from her mother, or from him.  But he did not turn back, and soon silent tears began to seep from her eyes...

     In the Cavern below, Iweriadd and Taliesin spoke, mind to mind as was their custom.
     "And so the Great Plan is effected at last My Love."
     "Indeed, though I am fearful of hope; too often having met only failure."
     "She will be safe in the realm of Andraste, your aunt.  She will watch over her well."
     "She would, but I have decided to remain and see over her myself.  I will move my court to Glyn Cwch, until she returns to Llyr.  Will you remain also?'
     "I will remain, but my God warns me that we will draw undue attention to the area, by our presence there."
     "Wise or not, I will have it so.  I feel in my very marrow that she needs me yet.  I can not describe the pain I suffer to have lost her so soon."
     Taliesin bowed his head in mute acceptance of his beloved's distress.