Fire Song (Daughters of Avalon Book 4) Page 2

  For the past two days he’d been watching the Whitshed’s comings and goings. The only female he’d spotted was perhaps an elder sister of one of the deckhands. Arm in arm with a boy, she’d disembarked two hours past, although he didn’t believe that could be Seren. He knew what she looked like and he couldn’t imagine the sisters separating for any reason. Where one went, the other was sure to follow.

  Unless…

  He couldn’t help but remember the morning they’d encountered Rosalynde in the thicket. She’d given herself what she called a glamour. The effect was hideous; it had been all Wilhelm could do not to look at her. Dressed as a nun, she’d fashioned herself in the most unappealing manner possible, with eyes crossed and a pocked face. How his brother had found the wherewithal to keep her on his mount was a mystery to Wilhelm.

  To the contrary, it had been all Wilhelm could do not to gape at Seren when he’d met her in the King’s Hall. She was easily the most stunning woman he’d ever beheld. Truly, even as lovely as Rosalynde might have turned out to be without the glamour, it was inconceivable to Wilhelm that any man—not even St. Giles—would rebuff Seren for want of another. Seren Pendragon was a paragon of beauty, rightfully earning her reputation as the Beauty of Blackwood. Even now, all these months later, and particularly whilst he’d been searching for her, it was much to his chagrin that he sometimes dreamt of the lady, even despite knowing she was not meant for him. And not only was she a coveted beauty, but she was an heir of the Pendragon line, a bastard child to Henry himself. All things considered, illegitimate or not, she was a valuable pawn in Stephen’s game of Queen’s Chess. Baseborn as he was, Wilhelm wasn’t fit to kiss her slippers.

  And by the by, if he couldn’t win the hand of the daughter of a lowly baron, winning Seren would be hopeless.

  Reminded of Ayleth of Bamburgh, Wilhelm’s mood soured. With a grumble, he tossed down the tuft of straw, kicking it annoyedly, finally losing the battle of wills with his belly—he was famished, damn it all to hell.

  Twenty minutes—that’s all he needed. Those bloody ships wouldn’t be going anywhere in the meantime. Merely twenty minutes, he reasoned, and then it was time to take more drastic measures.

  Morwen Pendragon was due to be released from the Tower on the morrow, and she would immediately set out to accomplish what her minions could not. She would ferret out her daughters more easily than Wilhelm ever could, and judging by what that Shadow Beast had been capable of, its contemptible mistress was a force to be avoided at all cost.

  No bloody wonder her daughters ensconced themselves like moles, never daring to peer out of their holes.

  One way or another he was going to find a way aboard that ship… but first things first; it was time to silence the beast in his belly. His temper would be far less offensive if he shoveled something down his gob, and with that decided, he cast a last glance at the Whitshed, then made straight for the smoking brick building at the edge of the market, his nostrils flaring over the scent of freshly cooked fowl.

  After all these months, Ellie and Rose must be worried sick. Seren was right; they couldn’t depart England without sending news. But as the time neared to depart, Arwyn grew more and more anxious by the second.

  Pacing relentlessly, she chewed at her nails.

  Much as she loathed to confess it, she understood why Seren didn’t wish for her to accompany them to the courier: Arwyn hadn’t much composure, nor even a smattering of her sisters’ dewine skills, but alas, she needn’t have any dewine skills to sense impending doom.

  Even now, safe in the bowels of this vessel, with so many of Matilda’s allies surrounding her, she knew...

  Something dreadful was looming, something she couldn’t see or hear, but something she could feel… deep, down in her bones, like an ague.

  Back and forth.

  Back and forth, she paced.

  The wooden floor was dry and full of splinters. Her slippers were ragged, catching every sliver as she passed. Muttering an oath, she took off her shoes and cast them away.

  Ten long days they’d awaited opportune sailing weather—ten fear-filled days, wherein every second of every day they’d worried Morwen would find them. After all, Dover was no bastion, for Matilda and Stephen’s guards were here in droves. It defied logic to be here at all, in the heart of Stephen’s domain, but Seren, in her wisdom, had argued against doing what everyone expected them to do. Instead of fleeing north, they’d talked a fisherman into ferrying them east, traveling by night on the Thames all the way to Gravesend. Then, afoot they’d gone to Canterbury, where they sought shelter with the Church.

  Fortunately, even after all these years, their Empress sister still had friends in high places. Escorted by Matilda’s allies, they’d come south to Dover only to bide their time aboard this vessel. Now, very soon, after all the stories Elspeth told about Matilda, they would finally embrace their half-sister. And, so much as Rhiannon loved to begrudge Ellie’s affection for their father’s only true remaining heir, Matilda must not be so terrible as Rhi liked to believe—not if she so willingly offered her protection. By sundown, if everything went well, they would disembark in Calais. From there, they would venture to Rouen—safe at last out of Morwen’s grasp.

  On her birthday, no less, they would finally depart England, and with a bit of luck and wind, Captain Airard assured them they could make the journey in less than three hours’ time—only so long as Seren returned before the tide turned, and so long as their mother remained ignorant of the journey.

  Faith, she commanded herself.

  Have faith.

  After all, it was faith that brought them to Dover.

  Where are you, Seren?

  By now, Arwyn’s nails were spent to the quick, and regardless, she couldn’t stop fretting.

  What a heinous way to spend her birthday.

  What if, after all, their mother should glean their intentions? All it would take to endanger the crossing would be for Morwen to have a small inkling they were traveling. Even from her tower prison, she could send a fog like the one she’d sent to doom the White Ship.

  Look at the bright side, Arwyn…

  There was no sign of Mordecai, nor any of her mother’s minions. And despite that fact, with so much at stake, Arwyn could no more find peace in her heart than she could have remained in her mother’s keeping. Perhaps, after all, she should have insisted on going with Seren…

  “It’ll be faster if you remain aboard ship,” her sister maintained. “No one will be searching for a woman alone with a young boy. And besides, Arwyn, you’ll attract undue attention.”

  “I would cast a glamour,” she’d argued.

  “Will you?” her sister had said, and Arwyn had blushed, because, nay, she could not. Her glamour spells were sorely deficient, and in the end, she was apt to move five freckles to one side of her face. Therefore, she’d relented—and here she remained, with sore fingers and a sulky mood.

  Truth be told, the simple fact that they had avoided capture so long was more a testimony to Matilda’s influence—none so much to their own ingenuity. Seren had no guile and Arwyn had no magik, but, thankfully, no matter that Arwyn and Seren had no true relationship with their Empress sister, they were bound by blood—and more, they were bound by a common purpose. More than anything, they would love to see Stephen deposed. Perhaps he wasn’t as wicked as their mother, nor so greedy as his sour-faced wife, nor even as mean as his son, but he had nevertheless forsworn a sacred oath to their father, and his ignoble actions placed England at war—fourteen long years now. God help them all if Morwen should succeed in replacing father with son.

  So much death.

  So much destruction.

  So much deceit.

  All about her, the ship creaked like a bag of old bones. Arwyn could hear them trampling over deck with last-minute preparations. It was a continual reminder that she was alone amidst strangers—whether or not they be allies. After all, it would only take one traitor to reveal them, and it woul
d be a terrible travesty if they were discovered so close to escape, when there was hope at last.

  Seren is fine, she told herself.

  It must be true, else she would know it. If aught should ever happen to any of her sisters, she would know it deep, deep down. They were connected, one to another, and each to the other. As dewines, they shared a very special bond, and she and Rose deeper yet because they were twins.

  Somewhere up on deck, there came a dreadful thud, followed by a long interval of silence, and the heavy silence unnerved Arwyn even more than the preceding racket.

  Irritated with herself—particularly, because this worrisome behavior was precisely why none of her sisters ever trusted her to comport herself accordingly—she reached into a hidden skirt pocket, and plucked out the shard of crystal she’d stolen from her mother’s chamber.

  She and her sister both had a piece of Merlin’s Crystal. It was the last thing they did before leaving Westminster—shatter the scrying stone so Morwen couldn’t seek them.

  However, for much of the time since leaving London, Arwyn’s shard had remained dark. At the instant it was flickering softly, and the light pulse managed to calm her nerves as words alone could not.

  Fire was Arwyn’s one true affinity, but though she liked to jest that Rosalynde had leached her powers in the womb, her lack of skill could simply be because their bloodline was no longer so pure. Her grandmother was not the first to wed a commoner. Long, long before Morgan Pendragon married a prince of Gwynedd, their great, great, great grandmother, Yissachar—the only daughter of Creirwy and Taliesin—married a Briton. She and her sisters were of a very noble and ancient bloodline, but little by little, their dewine legacy was dying… Like the shard in her hand, her dewinefolk were broken and scattered.

  It was heart-wrenching to see what remained of such a venerable heirloom.

  Mesmerized by the flickering in her hand, she sat upon the bed, wondering idly if she would ever wed, and if her children would be more inclined to the Craft. Unlike Elspeth, Arwyn had no fear of the hud at all, and though she knew enough to respect it immensely, she desperately longed to wield it like their sister Rhiannon.

  And perhaps she still might… they had the Book of Secrets after all. Once she was reunited with Ellie and Rose, she could apply herself to the Craft, study hard, and perhaps someday she would wield magik at least as well as Rose.

  “Happy birthday, sweet Rose,” she said fondly. Until this terrible travesty, she and her twin had never spent a day apart, much less a birth anniversary.

  How she missed Rose. Rose understood her better than anyone, and though they couldn’t be more different, her twin was everything Arwyn was not, and Arwyn was everything Rose was not. Together they were whole.

  Above deck there came another boom, and the shard in her hand glowed a little brighter. Strange but… she was no longer afraid. Comforted by the crystalized flame in her palm, she wondered what the flickering meant. So often it seemed the shard was like the piece of a puzzle, showing bits and bobs. Betimes it was possible to put hers together with Seren’s and more easily recognize a face, or a place. But it was impossible to say what this meant.

  Turning the crystal, she studied it intently, in much the same manner she would, as a girl, sit for hours and stare into a hearth fire. No matter that she could never see what Rhiannon saw in those flames, she could still feel things. They’d had a maid called Isolde who’d claimed the world was born of fire and that someday it would be consumed by fire. Nothing about this prophecy frightened Arwyn. To the contrary, it intrigued her. Her soul was akin to fire and, even now, she could feel the intensity of her affinity simmering through her veins.

  I am fire, fire becomes me.

  Mollified by the glow in her hand, she marveled over what she held… the tiny shard, along with the Book of Secrets… they were all that remained of their dewine legacy. And yet for all that her name meant enlightenment, Arwyn herself was a testament to a dying breed. Sadly, the sons and daughters of Uther and Yissachar would be the last to bear Taliesin’s blood, for it was one thing to be a Pendragon, and another to be a dewine born of the blood of Taliesin. These two things were not one of the other; they were each unto their own. Uther Pendragon was not a dewine, and neither was Taliesin a Pendragon. As a matter of due course, their dewine blood would continue to thin until not one drop remained, and no men or women were left who could conjure a mist, less remember the Promised Land.

  Feeling a chill in the cabin, she tore her gaze away from the crystal and returned the shard to her pocket, focusing on the tinder in the brazier. There, ribbons gathered and converged into a point of light. Her dewine eyes could see what other folks might not—the twisting and turning of the aether as sparks ignited in the brazier. Encouraged by the ease of her magik, and only to try it—because she was thirsty—she laid out a palm, attempting to gather water from the aether as Rosalynde could do… Already, there were particles in the air, and her dewine senses could feel them, but unlike Rosalynde, she couldn’t bring them together. It was no more a fantastical feat than to watch a lodestone draw metal, but it seemed that leaves could do a better job than she could, gathering dew by morn, whilst she accomplished naught.

  Her palm remained dry as a bone and her tongue parched. She daren’t go above deck without Seren, and she knew the men were all too busy to serve her.

  Frowning, disgusted, because she understood very well how it all worked and simply couldn’t perform the magik, she flicked another glance at the brazier.

  By now, she had studied the Craft as dutifully as her sisters, and she kept her faith in the Old Ways, but for all that, she could only mindspeak with her twin, and draw a simple fire; that was all. She was a poor excuse for a witch.

  Startled by the turn of the doorknob, Arwyn glanced up. The door creaked opened, revealing a black-hooded figure—a man she didn’t recognize. Startled, she bounded up from the bed, her heart hammering over the look on his face.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “Is it my sister? Where is Seren?”

  The man’s grin slowly unfurled. His dark eyes narrowed, and his canine teeth pressed ruthlessly over his lips. It was only then, as he glared at her, that she realized his black eyes held an unnatural gleam, and fear sidled down her spine. All the calm she’d managed to attain vanished in the blink of his eyes. Not once during the past ten days had she encountered this man aboard ship, neither below deck nor above.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Your sister will return soon,” he said, smirking as he closed the door. He reached up to pull the bolt across to bar it.

  Arwyn took a step backward, the tiny hairs on her nape prickling. “Who are you?” she asked again.

  In answer, his grin spread wider, the pressure of his canines turning his lips bloodless.

  “Who I am is of far less import than who sent me, my dear. Your mother is heartily aggrieved not to be able to celebrate your birth anniversary as she longs to.”

  Betrayed!

  Arwyn opened her mouth to scream, but the instant she did so, her tongue grew fat in her mouth, choking her words as well as her breath. Her fingers flew to her throat as the man jiggled the door to make sure it was locked. Arwyn took another defensive step backward.

  “Dear girl… you gave us a time,” he scolded. “No matter how thoroughly we searched, we could simply not find you. We thought for certes you would fly north. But nay… here you are.”

  Clawing at her throat, Arwyn tried again to scream, but no sound squeezed through her tightened throat.

  Clearly, this was her mother’s servant—one of the many fanatics who bowed to Morwen’s every whim.

  Watching her face, smiling cruelly as she attempted to speak again, he said, “I am not so adept as your mother, but she taught me well.” And with that revelation, he shoved back the hood of his cloak. “You see… we have met before,” he said, introducing himself. “My name is Bran.”

  Arwyn’s eyes widened with fright. She sho
ok her head. Nay! It couldn’t be. Bran was the name of her mother’s familiar. Bran—the beady-eyed raven Morwen kept by her side.

  Shivering with fear, recognizing the unholy light in the man’s eyes, she nevertheless knew it to be true and she made a dash for the door. Bran caught her too easily, flying at her with his cloak unfurled and pushing her back onto the bed like a limp doll. “Where are your manners?” he scolded. “Nay, sweetling. We shall sit and wait for your pretty sister. And once she returns, we will all return to your mother.”

  Choking on her fear as much as her tongue, Arwyn scrambled backward on the bed, away from this unholy beast. Her gaze skittered across the room, from the door, over the walls, searching for something—anything, she could use to defend herself. But even as she searched, she knew… she knew… this man had come to her armed with her mother’s magik… Arwyn had no magik at all.

  She had but one tool at her disposal…

  Only one.

  Fire.

  His smile stretched over those canines, widening so that his nose curved under like a beak. “I see you understand, my dear girl.” And he cast a hand out. “Truly, there’s naught to be done.” His voice was ever-so calm. “Once your sister returns, my mission is complete. How pleased your mother will be.”

  Oh, nay! Nay! Nay!

  It cannot end this way.

  “More’s the pity for you, she’ll never underestimate you again.”

  Hot tears burned Arwyn’s eyes. She wished so desperately to call for help, but even if she could have, she knew instinctively no one would hear. The surrounding silence was devoid of life.