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Witch.
Sister.
Queen.
Hag.
I have had many names.
Some have called me queen and cheered at the sight of me.
Some have called me traitor and spat on my shadow.
One man called me sister.
What will you call me?
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It began with the land.
My land.
My home.
From the shores of Llyn Erfyrnwy, rising through the valleys to the flat headland of Aran Fawddwy, it was mine. Every blade of grass, every singing tree and dancing brook. It was mine. My inheritance from my mother.
My home.
The place names of my land sang in my dreams from childhood. Llyn Erfyrnwy, Ebur's Lake. Aran Fawddwy, the place of spreading waters. When I rode the fields around my home, the ghosts of legends past rode beside me. Cerridwen, the goddess of the moon, had gathered herbs for her magic cauldron in my ancestor's fields. In return, she granted the mother of our line, Modron, a sip from her magic brew.
Until this day, magic dwells in the veins of the Modron's children.
Hywel, the White-Browed, danced with the fey folk in the forest under our fort and won the heart of the fairy Rhianwen with his beauty and fine steps.
And my mother.
Banon.
The brave tempest of a woman who rode to defend her home from invaders, who chose her husband from among them and who died, her bitten lip bloodwashed with the effort to silence pain, giving birth to twins.
