Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 11

  Looking back on it now, the simple fact that they’d managed to thwart their mother at the Widow’s Tower seemed more of a miracle than it was any sort of achievement. To their good fortune, fate had intervened that day, bringing all three sisters together by chance. Seren had discovered her true destiny only because of happenstance. In the end, they’d won the day simply by virtue of the fact that they’d survived—no small thing to be sure, but they’d lost so much that day, most notably The Book of Secrets.

  Alas, that tome harbored centuries’ worth of dewine histories and receipts—summoning spells, banishing spells, transmutation spells and more.

  Ages and ages of trial and error and painstaking documentation by all her dewine sisters. Sadly, all those histories were a loss beyond telling.

  No doubt, she and her sisters could craft all new spells, but those histories were another matter entirely.

  For her part, Isolde had only snippets to share, and Seren had a terrible, terrible suspicion that the key to defeating her mother lay hidden in their past.

  One way or another, even without the help of the grimoire or even Isolde, Seren must persevere. She must find her “true self” so she could imbue the sword—but what did that mean?

  Did it mean that simply knowing oneself as Regnant wasn’t enough? Did it mean she must come to know herself experientially? Or rather, should she pray to the Goddess for bestowal of her gifts? Or perhaps it was really so simple as discovering some way to remove the glamour spell that had been cast upon her as a child?

  The answers to these questions eluded her, and Isolde was no help at all. Instead of offering clues, she came to pester Seren whilst she slept, cocking her silly little bird head and stealing her sleep like a mean old hag.

  Carefully now, so as not to drip candle wax, she made her way down the darkened hall.

  At this late hour, the entire castle was abed, but since Seren hadn’t any babies to wake and feed, she found herself drawn to the workshop she shared with Rose. Elspeth was here as well, to witness the birth of Rosalynde’s firstborn child.

  Removing the chain from around her neck, she unlocked the heavy banded door, then pushed it open, entering cautiously, half anticipating pixies.

  Not a soul stirred.

  In the dead of night, the workshop was eerily silent. The ancient sword remained precisely where she’d left it on the herb-littered bench.

  Approaching it reverently, Seren took some comfort in the lack of blue shimmer on the shining steel. She had only witnessed that effect once… a chemical reaction to her mother’s magik? A warning from the aether?

  Find your true self.

  Only then will you find your answers.

  Isolde’s words accosted her again as she gnawed at the tip of her thumbnail. Trying to remember all she’d learned over these past weeks, she stood studying the ancient weapon—a sword originally imbued by the father of their coven, and gifted to the Dragon Lord of the Anglesey.

  He wasn’t a witch, but his wife was. And merely because Maelgwn had valued his lady’s counsel, the Church pronounced him an enemy. Plotting against him, they’d sent Taliesin and Uther under the guise of friendship, and one night, after drinking his wine and supping at his tables, they’d slaughtered the Dragon Lord, murdered his son, captured his daughter, and stole his pennants. Thus was born the new dynasty, through treachery and blood.

  This was the story, according to Isolde.

  And nevertheless, that was only part of the tale… a tale that began ages and ages before Uther and Maelgwn…

  It began with Cerridwen and her hatred for her husband. For all her fury against the man, she’d brought down a wrath from the gods so fierce that the consequences were felt far and wide.

  “What am I supposed to know?” she asked quietly, regarding the ancient sword. “Tell me, Goddess, lest I fail you.”

  Silence was her answer—a deep, abiding silence that betrayed nothing. The shutters remained closed against the night. No crow returned to her sill.

  Whatever truth she must reveal, it would not come easily.

  “Where the devil are you, Rhiannon?”

  Rhiannon alone had the knowledge their grandmother bestowed. Without her, this task seemed daunting and indomitable. And nevertheless, Seren knew there was no time for regrets.

  Everything happened for a reason—wasn’t that what her sister claimed? To arrive at this place and time, there was no other path to have been taken. If Elspeth hadn’t escaped from Llanthony, she wouldn’t have met Malcom. Instead, she would have been trapped in a loveless marriage with the lord of Blackwood. And she would never have defeated Morwen at Aldergh, nor would Rosalynde have been inspired to leave London with Morwen’s grimoire.

  More importantly, Rosalynde’s affiliation with Giles now gave them possession of this sword… the only weapon of consequence to be used against Morwen.

  Sadly, if Arwyn hadn’t sacrificed herself that night… Seren, too, might now be dead…

  Like a window to the past, she saw it in her mind’s eye—a glimpse of that moment on the Whitshed, when Arwyn, holding that shard of Merlin’s Crystal, hurled it at the door. Like a dream, she witnessed the final moments and heard the words Rhiannon spoke before she, too, fell silent evermore: Aye, ’tis she, she’d said.

  She.

  The witch goddess whose sins doomed Avalon.

  She whom her mother and uncle had summoned here from exile.

  Only now, if no one stopped her, she would doom England as surely as she’d doomed her beloved isle.

  How to stop her was the question… and the key… in part… was the sword.

  The beauty of it was immeasurable.

  Undetectable to any but dewine eyes, a tangle of intricately carved serpents writhed over its silver inspired hilt. On the blade itself lay etched in the most ancient of tongues, “Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see.” And still, no matter how long Seren stared at the sword, or how many times she repeated the phrase, she hadn’t any clue what it meant.

  Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

  There was another word etched betwixt the serpents: Caledfwlch. Translated from her native tongue, it meant “cut steel.” And in the language of the Holy Church… Caliburn.

  Some also knew it as Excalibur.

  Crafted from some alloy taken from the heart of Avalon, the blue shimmer was not its only blessing. It had another, so ’twas said—one that could only be actuated by a Regnant, which Seren was not…

  Not yet.

  Even so, she must find a way to fulfill the ancient prophecy, so that he who wielded the sword might not bleed. Without that quality, it was uncertain that anyone could survive an encounter with her mother.

  “Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see,” she said aloud, again. Unfortunately, those words meant nothing to her, and by now, she had turned the blade more times than a cake in a pan. Nothing ever happened.

  She was a dewine, indeed, a Promised One, according to Isolde, but she hadn’t any notion how to entreat the Mother Goddess for all the gifts she’d been promised.

  “Seren? What are you doing at this late hour?” asked Rose from the doorway.

  Seren turned to find her youngest sister peering into the workshop. “Oughtn’t you be sleeping?”

  “I woke to feed the babe,” said Rose. “I saw the light pass my door and I thought it might be you.”

  Seren drew a weary hand through her hair. “I could not sleep.”

  “More dreams?”

  “Nay. The bird.”

  Rosalynde hitched her chin. “Isolde,” she whispered softly.

  “I cannot help but feel she is trying to tell me something.”

  “What do you suppose?”

  Seren shrugged. “I don’t know. Something has changed. Nothing I can put my finger to, but I can feel it in my bones.”

  Intuition was itself a form of magik. All creatures were born with a sense of it—men, women, even dogs, cats and birds… it was imperat
ive to listen.

  “Shall I wake Ellie?”

  “Nay,” said Seren, without bothering to consider. “Let her sleep. She has her hands full with the boys. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  Rosalynde smiled fondly. “Why don’t you come back to my room?” she suggested. “We’ll snuggle like the old days.”

  Whilst at Llanthony, all five sisters had slept together in the same bed, and regardless, far from being a burden, it was the one thing Seren most missed.

  “I think I will,” she said, abandoning the sword. At the door, she handed the pricket to Rose so she could lock the room.

  13

  The hounds were getting close.

  Unfortunately, it was impossible to say from which direction they were coming, although Rhiannon feared it must be Cael.

  By now, they must have found her ruined gown. She only hoped Marcella’s masking potion would do its job, and send them searching in another direction.

  Unfortunately, they daren’t mount until the terrain was even enough to ride, and much to Rhiannon’s dismay, it was nearly daybreak before they climbed into their saddles. Only then, finally, they were able to gain some distance from the barking hounds—thankfully, because they were still much too close to Blackwood to take any chances. Any experienced dewine would recognize the scent of magik and intuitively follow it. To hell with those hounds, a nose like Morwen’s would smell the tiniest disturbance in the aether.

  Essentially, all things were born of the aether, all things returned to it, but if one had the skill to do it, the aether could be manipulated. Still, it was impossible to do so without some form of residua. Ofttimes, with smaller spells, the scent was imperceptible, but it was completely unmistakable with larger-scale manipulations. Knowing that, Rhiannon held back, even with the smallest incantations.

  Silently, she followed Jack through the brambles as he cleared a path before them. Directly behind Rhiannon, agile as any man, Marcella followed with her blade in hand, riding as though she were born to her saddle. Her hooded cloak hid her ebony tresses. And her bright green eyes assessed their surroundings with a shrewdness born of experience.

  How old was she? Rhiannon wondered.

  She behaved as though she were a hundred and Rhiannon’s elder, though she couldn’t be much older than Rhiannon.

  For his part, Jack couldn’t be more than nine and ten, though it was difficult to say for certain, because he, too, wore the same concealing cloak. Both of them seemed far too young to be able protectors.

  Dressed in black, the young man shouldered a darkness that belied his youthful countenance, and, even by night, the haunted look in his pale blue eyes was unmistakable. Rhiannon wondered what travails he’d encountered to make him seem so glum. Whatever it was, she suspected it must have something to do with her mother.

  What else could convince strangers to aid her against Morwen? Either they owed Cael a great debt, else they loathed her mother so much they were willing to risk life and limb on Rhiannon’s behalf. But no matter the circumstances, Rhiannon was grateful, though there was something about Marcella that needled her.

  The woman was sullen and suspicious, curt and mercurial—very much like a changeling. One minute she was entirely too solicitous, the next she was snappish, and it seemed to Rhiannon that no matter what she did, the woman was despotic.

  Right now, it was impossible to gauge her expression or her mood for the hood she wore. “At this pace, it won’t be long before we cross into England,” she said aloud.

  “Good,” was all Rhiannon could think to answer, and then after, the silence grew thick.

  Sweet fates.

  They weren’t even gone one night, and already she found that Cael’s face hovered like a ghost behind her lids, threatening to materialize every time she closed her eyes.

  I don’t love you, she told herself furiously.

  I don’t even like you.

  But it wasn’t true.

  She loved him with reckless abandon—even more now that he’d dared to risk his life to save her.

  Aye, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that there would be a price to be paid for this. She only hoped that Cael understood what he was doing and that he knew how to handle her mother.

  Time and again, she turned to scrutinize the path behind them, trembling with fear, all the while lying to herself and telling herself she didn’t care.

  But, she did.

  And if, indeed, Cael’s ruse was discovered…

  The thought left her sick with fear.

  “You love him, do you not?”

  Startled by the impertinent question, Rhiannon met Marcella’s gaze. “Nay,” she lied.

  The dewine’s lips tilted up at one corner. “Ah,” she said, with an infuriating sense of certainty. “I think you do.”

  Rhiannon cast the woman an annoyed glance. “Why should I?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Rhiannon, with no small measure of disgust. “Perhaps because he’s in league with my mother?”

  Silence.

  “Or, better yet, mayhap because he kept me imprisoned for five long years!”

  Marcella flicked her hand dismissively. “Alas, my cousin is a complicated man. And yet, I know he loves you.”

  Or so he’d claimed, though it didn’t suit Rhiannon to dwell on such notions—not here, not now. It would serve her far better to remember the worst of Cael—that he’d locked her away in a tower for six long months before finally affording her the luxury of a bower.

  And then he’d allowed her mother’s lackey to place her in shackles, then no matter how oft she’d lowered herself to beg, he’d never once considered removing them.

  Until last night.

  “I don’t think he knows what love is,” Rhiannon countered.

  “Hmm,” said Marcella, scornfully. “I wonder how he might prove it?”

  Nettled, Rhiannon met her question with stubborn silence, though Marcella persisted.

  “Perhaps by setting you free at peril to himself and to all he holds dear?”

  Rhiannon fought the urge to fly at the woman and scratch out her eyes. She didn’t like Cael’s “cousin,” and she liked her even less with every passing moment. She was grateful certainly, and she would endeavor to remember her gratitude, but she’d love nothing more than to enjoy a moment of silence. And even so, Marcella persisted. “Wouldn’t that be proof enough?”

  Rhiannon narrowed her gaze.

  Was that resentment she noted in the woman’s voice?

  Moreover, she had the inescapable feeling that this dewine knew more about Cael’s affiliation with Morwen than she was willing to reveal. That bothered her even more.

  Who was this woman who claimed to be her husband’s cousin? Though curiosity needled her, she refrained from asking, sensing Marcella wouldn’t provide any answers.

  Cael was no longer her concern, she told herself.

  Even now, he might be dead, and, really, she must endeavor to harden her heart. They had a long way to go, and much to accomplish. Cael d’Lucy’s decisions were his own, and she couldn’t allow herself to take responsibility for his choices, or his affiliations. No one had told him to align himself with Morwen… nor did Rhiannon ever ask to be imprisoned at Blackwood.

  Certainly, she’d never asked to love him.

  The woman riding alongside her looked too much like a cat who got the cream.

  “Why are you helping me?” Rhiannon asked. “For my husband?”

  “Nay,” the woman replied. “Mind you, I care deeply for Lord Blackwood, but I believe loving you will be the death of him yet, and for what? I cannot believe you ever knew his heart.”

  Rhiannon winced, confused, more than angry.

  It was true, perhaps: There was much about Cael d’Lucy she was not privy to know. But that was not her fault, she told herself. He’d only ever revealed the face he cared to show. And even so… she’d spent so many waking hours in his company over these past five
years; shouldn’t she know him better than some woman who hadn’t seen him in years? Even a cousin?

  “He’s not the man you believe him to be, Rhiannon.”

  “No doubt,” Rhiannon agreed. “But, then, prithee, who is he?”

  The dewine shook her head. “That is not for me to answer, my dewine sister. Though if he survives your mother, you might ask him yourself.” Then she laughed acerbically. “As to the reason, I’m helping you… why else? ’Tis the will of the Goddess, no doubt.”

  “I see,” said Rhiannon. And perhaps she did—far more than she cared to. It was there in the glint of Marcella’s eyes, in the tears she’d disdained to shed. Marcella might, in truth, be his cousin, but the woman might also be in love with him.

  The two women shared a knowing glance, and then Marcella huffed a sound of disgust, and put a heel to her mare, moving ahead to take the lead. Meanwhile Jack fell back to ride alongside Rhiannon. “You mustn’t concern yourself with Marcella,” he advised. “Betimes she’s abrasive, though she means well. She’s quite protective of Lord Blackwood.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  The young man grinned stupidly, then sighed, watching as Marcella whacked at brambles. “She’s not only lovely, but she’s clever, as well.”

  Annoyance rushed down Rhiannon’s spine. “So I must presume.”

  Jack nodded, ignoring the telltale note of sarcasm in Rhiannon’s voice, responding with unreserved pride. “She served the Empress and her house many, many years.”

  The Empress. Rhiannon’s half-sister, though they hadn’t really a drop of blood in common. Still, her interest was mildly piqued, and she said, “In what fashion?”

  She never anticipated the answer she received. “Marcella is the only woman ever to be assigned to the Papal Guard.”

  14

  She was a paladin?

  Rhiannon blinked, surprised for the second time this morn, now seeing the woman with entirely new eyes.

  Gripping her reins until her mount protested over the tension, she stared wide-eyed at Marcella’s back. Riding with her back straight, head held high, with her trusty sword brandished in her hand, she wielded it with the same confidence she displayed in the saddle.