Fire Song (Daughters of Avalon Book 4) Page 14

  The boy nodded, and Wilhelm fell behind the pair, to better listen to their discourse unheeded. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but that wasn’t only reserved for loved ones. He remembered very well the morning he’d returned to Warkworth… while he’d been hauling out their dead… that strange feeling came over him… a sense that someone was out there, watching.

  And then he’d felt her again in the King’s Hall: Morwen Pendragon.

  He’d also had a sense of it the day his mother died. Whilst the lord’s physician had tended her, he was sent away to keep himself occupied. But there was little he could do to keep her off his mind. He’d sat on a bench, watching the blacksmith pound at a hunk of metal on the anvil—the clang, clang, clang, in time to the quickened beat of his heart. Any moment, he’d hoped they would summon him, and he would return to his mother’s bedside to discover her awake, eyes wide… He was nine when she died—a wee, dirty little boy, whose good fortune it was to have an honorable sire. It was his brother, Roger, who’d arrived with a glum face to tell Wilhelm the news. But somehow, Wilhelm had already known. As he’d sat there, staring at the sparks flying from that anvil, he’d sensed his mother’s heart flame extinguish, and it was only curious that he’d never truly realized until this very instant what that was.

  Why was it you sensed some folks, not others? He didn’t remember having any sense of Lady Ayleth’s parting—not until he saw her ravaged body.

  More to the point, why did he feel so connected to this woman, when there was little doubt Seren was not meant for him.

  For a long while, he lost himself amidst these thoughts, turning a deaf ear to their conversation, until he heard Jack’s whistle. “S’blood! Di’ you see that bird?” he said, excitedly.

  Wilhelm and Seren both peered up to spot a black and white magpie, chattering noisily on a nearby branch.

  When Jack spurred his horse in the bird’s direction, Wilhelm spurred his own horse to sidle up beside Seren, thinking it high time to put her mind at ease. He’d asked for a truce between them and it was time he behaved like a man.

  No one saw that other bird that held Jack’s attention, with its telltale neck. It stepped sideways on a branch as though to conceal itself behind a cluster of leaves, opening its shining beak to shriek as the boy passed beneath. Then it flew away.

  17

  “She was a fairy, a sylph, I don't know what she was—anything no one ever saw…

  everything that everybody ever wanted.”

  —Charles Dickens

  “Have you need of a bath, m’lady?”

  “Nay.” Removing my gloves, I snap them together, tucking the shining-black leather underneath my arm. “I won’t be long.”

  “Very well, m’lady.”

  The innkeeper bows, a humble gesture meant to honor his betters; I brush past him, because, tis only my due.

  More’s the pity, this realm is not my realm and I am no longer welcome amidst my people. But, here and now, I tell you true. Forget everything you know.

  Eons past, when gods walked amidst men, I was here then—a maiden true, not this withered crone I have become, whose glamour depends on the contents of a vial and the callowness of men. I am but a shade of myself.

  But, in those days, my heart sang for a man, a prince with eyes so blue as the sea. And though he was said to be cruel, I gave him all—my heart, my home, body and soul.

  He courted me long, singing sweetly from his keel and named me his lady of the lake. For a time, I was a queen and my Avalon was like paradise, with a palace and courtyard so fine, it lit a spark of greed in the hearts of men. But, alas, my land was no man’s land, forbidden to all but gods and demigods. Enshrouded by an enchanted mist, my isle was, indeed, such a hallowed place that the waters of the River Dee, passing through on its way to the sea, never stopped to mingle with my own, but still, fishermen longed to cast their nets near my shores, because there lived the pearl-scaled gwyniad, native only to my seas.

  My fields? Scattered with poppies so far as the eye could see. My woods? Filled with fae folk, whose home was my home, whose blood was half my blood as well.

  I was, you see, a child of the aether, born with knowledge of all that was and all that shall ever be. My Sylph-kind are sky speakers, able to commune with creatures of the air. And, like the Sylph, themselves, Avalon was a bit of a mirage… here one instant, gone the next.

  But this is where my tale forsakes me:

  I was heaven-sent to watch o’er the tricksy fae, who were created to beguile the realms of men—because, of course, even gods must grow bored. But tricksy they are, and tricksy even with me—but now, I digress.

  Whilst I remained Sylph, I was pure and elegant, coveted by men across the realm, like my precious, inviolable Avalon—and, yet, it was violated, no less by me.

  You see, I had everything… truly, and yet, my Sylph eyes wandered o’er the kingdoms of the Welsh... to a mortal king who was said to be a giant among men.

  Tegid Foel.

  Even now, his name fills me with ambivalence, for I cannot vanquish my sweeter memories, and they must endure eternally with loathing.

  Tegid, oh Tegid… strong, wise, and as handsome as the Sylph were pure. But mostly the man was powerful, and there is a manner of seduction in power.

  The longer I watched this king; the more I loved him, and for love of him, I conspired with the fae to consign myself to mortal form—beguiled by the very beings born to beguile. Imagine that.

  Alas, there is little across the realms more powerful than love, and there is nothing even a God wouldn’t do in pursuit of it. So, I offered my new prince the keys to my city and to my heart as well. But, Tegid squandered this, poisoning my Avalon with avarice, desire and hubris, until, black and putrid, like cancer, it seeped into the soul of my lands. After a while, that which was pure began to wither, including my own flesh, and day by day he turned me into a bitter crone, until naught was left of my Sylph-self, and all that endured was jealousy and loathing. Until finally, Tegid stole our beauteous daughter, leaving me to care for our son, whose heart was fair, but whose countenance was not. Because of his face, Tegid renounced our sweet boy, and he called me a pythoness. Lusting after his own daughter, he stole my first-born—all that remained as proof of my Sylph beauty. He crushed my soul, and still, with a shred of my spirit, I swore to avenge my son. One year and one day I toiled over a potion to give my son the greatest gift a god can give to man—enlightenment.

  I imagined my Morfran a poet laureate—beguiling his own father with the heartrending beauty of his words.

  I saw his name so renowned that he would be sought far and wide. After all, this would be the power of my potion—and yay, I know, how fitting my daughter’s end should be so… illuminating.

  Arwyn, my dear, you were always meant to die that way. I saw your death the day you were torn from my womb, squealing and eager to suckle at my breast.

  What I didn’t know was that the tricksy fae had sent me a tricksy little boy… Gwion Bach ap Gwreang. He stole my Arwyn potion. And, later, when he was reborn as Taliesin, my husband, my betrayer, offered him our daughter to wed. I raged, and raged, and raged, and raged. I raged so far and wide that I brought down the wrath of the gods. Not only did they take away my beloved Avalon, they exiled me to the sea, imprisoning me by the one barrier a Sylph may not pass any more than the River Dee may pass into Avalon… water.

  Gone.

  My Island.

  Vanished.

  Drowned like they drowned me.

  The fae folk were set free to roam this earth, and to this day, on a moonless night, if you stand upon the banks of Bala in Gwynedd, you will still spy my courtyard shimmering ’neath the silvery billows—a ghost of a city, gone forevermore.

  As you can imagine… the blood in my veins turned black with my hatred, spreading to every fiber of my body. Where once I was beauty incarnate, I am frightful now, a creature born of all that is vile. All that was good in me is lost. Love, after all, i
s the purest of essences, and no trace of this remains in my soul.

  So, there you have it: my story. Pitiful, as it should be, but you must rest assured I am not defeated. I am stronger for the absence of my weakness, and I will never again be brought low by this debility called love.

  Love, love, love—even a mother’s love is forgotten, gone the instant my son breathed his last.

  Sighing as I reach my suite, I peer within.

  “You should find everything to your specifications,” says the guard at the top of the stairs.

  “Leave me,” I say.

  Inside, the candles have been lit… twenty at least. Shoved to one side sits a beautiful, ornate, but empty tub, and a bed shoved to another. In the center of the room lies a rather large cauldron, iron-built, with rust tears staining it from rim to belly. But though it has served me well enough these past years, it is not my cauldron from Blackwood.

  If you have not guessed by now, my true name is Cerridwen. Creirwy, Morfran and Taliesin are children of my blood. I took this body, thinking it would serve me, but I chose wrongly. I chose the sister, not the brother. Those two scarcely knew what mysteries they would reveal… but I thank them, even so. Emrys. Poor Emrys. Would he have lain with his sister had I not inhabited her body? I think not. And Morgan? How did she know?

  Alas, I suppose… a mother always knows.

  Stealing over to the cauldron, I peer inside. Empty at the moment, but there is residue and I reach down to taste the blend. I need more coltsfoot, I think. And, of course, blood…

  Mentally, I pore over the faces I saw in the tavern … a man and a woman traveling together, a trader and a thief. These are my choices, and perhaps I will have them all…

  Incidentally, do you how the fae were created?

  Cauldron born to serve the Sylph.

  So, you see… my daughters are gifted with fae blood, but I am born of the essence from which they draw. They are whispers of the wind from which I am formed. They are breeze-kissed whilst I am the storm. They are sparks, I am the flame. They are demigods, like the fae. But I… I am a Goddess, and once the light of this world is extinguished like the flames of a thousand dying stars, and the hearts of men are stillborn in a cradle of night… here, I will remain.

  Stupid fools.

  Kill me?

  I’d like to see you try.

  I may not see my Avalon again as it is not in my power to resurrect paradise, but I will not rest till I see the blood of my betrayers expunged from this realm. Yay, I know my daughters believe I live to defy an Empress, and no doubt, I will snuff that bitch’s Heart Flame before I am done, but nay. I will avenge all I have lost.

  “You will not have died in vain, Bran,” I promise.

  Taking my time, I fill the cauldron… water, the elixir of life. Lavender. Catnip. Milk of the poppy. The petals of a blood red rose. A wee bit of coltsfoot—all that I have remaining. Perhaps that will do. And finally, a pinch of my most prized receipt, complete with newts, moon snails and a pinch of human remains. One day, I will use this very philter to create an army of meirw byw, whose hearts will beat in their breasts, but whose loyalties belong to me. Once that day arrives, I will sweep through these lands like an avenging flame. And, in the meantime… I remove the divine athame from its scabbard, then slash the ancient blade across my open palm, holding it above the steaming cauldron.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  One drop of blood for every facet of the human spirit I wish to vanquish. Then, I return my blade to its sheath, all the while lapping the remaining blood from my flesh, wiggling my tongue into the fresh wound, taking pleasure in the sting as I watch my blood come alive, swirling in silver rivulets inside the cauldron, spreading, spreading… until the surface appears mercurial, and finally, once I have enjoyed the anticipation long enough, I whisper…

  Blessed flame, shining bright,

  Aid me now in my fight.

  Unveil to all another self,

  Liken me to Elspeth herself.

  Power of three, let them see, let them see, let them see.

  Power of three, let them see, let them see, let them see.

  Power of…

  Ah, now. Tis done. My face is her face. My eyes, her eyes. My chin, her chin, willful and defiant. Smiling, I wave at the visage of my eldest living daughter.

  “Good day to you, Lady Aldergh. How lovely you are. But is it any wonder? You were born of me.”

  18

  Seren cast Wilhelm another glance. Leaning against a tree, he stood carving a point into his stick, all the while watching Jack, and she wondered how he managed to save his fingers from the blade when he never once stopped to look down to see what he was whittling.

  By now, this was becoming a routine. She knew precisely how long she had before Jack returned. It was one thing to perform the Craft in front of Wilhelm, who understood who and what she was, but she daren’t draw pentacles or cast spells in front of an unsuspecting boy, no matter how much Jack appeared to like and respect her. She simply couldn’t bear it if he ever looked at her the way some folks did—as though she were an abomination of nature.

  Once they learned who she was, it was impossible to miss the whispers and backward glances. She and her sisters were aberrations, merely curiosities to divert the court.

  Somehow, Wilhelm was different. No matter what he claimed, there was no fear or revulsion in his gaze when he watched her, merely curiosity… and perhaps something more—something that never failed to make her heart quicken a beat. She was unfailingly aware of the man, and he seemed equally mindful of her, but she couldn’t account for it. Nor was it remotely appropriate considering his association with Rosalynde.

  Were they affianced?

  Was she his lover?

  For the first time in all her life she felt a stab of envy that her sister had encountered Wilhelm first, and yet, she was never a jealous spirit, so envy was not a feeling she cared to explore. Putting her dark thoughts out of her head, she picked out a new stick to draw with, and gave Wilhelm a nod.

  Against all odds, he had become her conspirator, sending Jack after firewood, then keeping watch while the boy foraged. Fortunately, Jack needn’t go very far, only far enough that he couldn’t spy Seren at work. And, naturally, as boys were wont to do, his task became a veritable adventure: He gathered two sticks, picked up a stone, then hurled it at some imaginary foe, before returning to his chore. A task that should have taken him only fifteen minutes oft took thirty. At the instant, she could hear him talking to himself all the while he played, and meanwhile, she drew her pentacle, then cast a hasty warding spell, and when she was done, she gave Wilhelm another nod, after which he returned to his stump to fix dinner, watching between thick lashes as Seren studied her artwork.

  So far as she could tell, her warding spells appeared to be working, though it was impossible to say for sure unless they were tested. Unfortunately, the only true test was the continued absence of her mother and minions, and if Morwen should ever appear, Seren would know her casting was wrong. Only then it would be too late. Her warding spell was not the same sort of spell Elspeth had cast from her ramparts. Judging by all those dead birds, her sister’s spell had had a defensive property to it, though its source and words were a mystery to Seren. She wouldn’t know how to do that. Rather, a warding spell of the sort she was casting was more like a glamour—a suggestion by the Goddess to passersby that there was no one abiding within her circle. It was no more than a trick of the eyes. And regardless, she considered the weaving threads a positive sign—the bright striations and smoky coils evoked by her words were in fact evidence of her manipulation of the aether.

  Matter—even the smallest, most ethereal particles—could not be rearranged without evidence.

  While Jack remained otherwise occupied, Seren took time to cover the periphery with leaves so he wouldn’t discern her diagram, and finally, she let it be. It wasn’t the best crafting, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. Later, wh
en everyone was abed, she would do what she could to fix her lines again. Casting another glance at Wilhelm to find him staring, she blushed hotly, averting her gaze.

  “If tis any comfort,” he said, “I do not think he would judge you.” Regarding her still, he held the evening’s meal firmly positioned between his thighs. “I do not.”

  The warmth in his gaze made Seren’s cheeks burn. “Mayhap,” she said, “but, believe me, I have seen the way folks regard those who are different, and it would destroy me to see him look at me this way.”

  Or, you, she added silently.

  He nodded again, retrieving his knife, slashing a few judicious slices across the carcass, severing muscle, she presumed. Afterward, the pelt came off easier.

  Dropping his knife again, he tugged the remainder of the fur off the rabbit without much effort, and, for an instant, as she watched, Seren was beguiled by the sinew of his arms—every muscle dancing.

  What are you doing, Seren? Pining after a man already taken? Censuring herself, she tossed her stick into the flames, marveling over the fact that Wilhelm took so much care with their pit, surrounding it with fieldstones, very much the same way her pentacle was meant to work for protection. He might not have much skill with fire-kindling, but he was a custodian of nature no less than she was. Her dewinefolk fancied themselves guardians of nature, and magik was only a tool, Goddess-given, to accomplish good works, each according to his way. The Craft of the Wise was simply a practical study of the hud, and dewinity wasn’t so much about what skills one possessed; it was a philosophy of being. Her people believed all things were connected, living or dead. All told, there was very little difference between her and Wilhelm, save for the tools they wielded.