Fire Song (Daughters of Avalon Book 4) Page 3

  Sweet fates! Had he murdered the captain and crew? Was that the sound she’d heard above deck? He leaned against the door now, his eyes smiling once he realized she understood the futility of her circumstances.

  But… there was something she could do.

  Until Seren returned, he had only her. Until Seren returned, her sister remained free. And, so long as one of them remained free, she would live to fight another day…

  Like her mother, Bran was evil incarnate. Morwen must be stopped. At all cost her mother must be stopped. If no one stopped her she would doom England as surely as Cerridwen had once doomed Avalon. And if this man, in truth, was Bran, shapeshifting was hud du known to only one dewine in all creation: Cerridwen, the destroyer of realms.

  Aye, ’tis she. You know what to do, sweet sister.

  Rhiannon?

  Trust your heart to the flame.

  Somehow, it was as though Rhiannon herself came and embraced her, giving her strength in love, and in that instant, beyond all things earthly, Arwyn understood what must be done…

  Bran constrained her words, but not her hands; that would be his undoing. One hot tear slid past her lashes, trickling onto her cheek as she reached into her pocket for the shard of Merlin’s crystal, revealing it to Bran.

  For an instant, her mother’s minion tilted his face as though mesmerized. The shard ignited blue, and Rhiannon needn’t speak again to say what she must do. Arwyn already knew. She was lost. Now that Bran had her in his grasp, he’d never set her free. He was far too canny to succumb to tricks. But Arwyn had no magik. And worse, she had no guile.

  No one would come to rescue her—no one but Seren, and Seren was no match for this servant of darkness.

  If they returned to their mother, their lives would be forfeit.

  Sadness squeezed her heart, and her pupils reflected the blue firelight in her hand… else the fire in her eyes imbued the crystal…

  The most tragic thing in the world for a flame burning bright was to become a harbinger of darkness.

  Right now, this instant, Arwyn was the flame. She was born for this instant. No one could save her, but she could save Seren.

  It was an instant too long before Bran understood what she held in her hand. The shard transmuted. The blue flame in her hand illumined the entire room. And before Bran could stop her, she hurled the crystal at the door where it burst into bright blue flames.

  2

  Excitement danced down Seren’s spine.

  Come nightfall she and Arwyn would be far, far from this nest of vipers, but at the instant, with the sun shining so brilliantly, she sorely regretted having left her cooped up aboard that ship—on her birthday no less.

  After nearly a fortnight of raging storms, today was the Saturday Feria, and the entire affair reminded Seren of the merchant days at Llanthony, when Father Ersinius entertained his artisans. Naturally, that was always a crush, but nothing like this. The market affected an air of celebration, with jugglers and musicians in attendance and balladeers singing at the top of their lungs.

  A wistful reed and a bullish lute vied for attention, even as the scent of Frankish perfumes competed with the aroma of smoked meats and the bright, inescapable hues of artisanal crafts.

  Excited by the prospect of returning with a treat for Arwyn, she dug a hand into the pocket she’d sewn into her dress, searching for coins, and frowned when she encountered only loose bits of a philter for a glamour spell, and a shard of Merlin’s Crystal—worthless to anyone who didn’t know what it was. “Jack!” she called out, but he was already off around a corner, in a hurry to return to his father.

  She quickened her pace.

  Her escort this morning was a sweet lad, whose sense of duty was inarguable. Ignoring tarts and mouth-watering pastries, he hurried past fine, wooden boats with beautiful silk sails, but it was inconceivable to her that a boy could turn a blind eye to so many treasures.

  There were desirables in every booth they passed, everything from intricate, wooden carvings inlaid with gold and beautiful, soft furs to sweets and strange, fire-colored fruits from faraway lands.

  And, ye gods! If her nose spoke true, there must be every sort of bread to be had—biscuits, bloomers and barm cakes, walnut, fig, sourdough and rye. It was enough to make her mouth water and her eyes bulge with desire.

  “Care t’ try a boit?” asked a jolly looking fellow holding a morsel of pie. Seren shook her head, though regretfully. Jack was moving so swiftly now it was all she could do to keep up.

  Sweet tarts. Oh, my!

  “Jack!” she called again, reaching once more into her pocket, as though by sheer will alone she could alter their circumstances—and perhaps Rhiannon could, but Seren could not. Her magik was scarcely more puissant than Arwyn’s, although at least Seren could keep a glamour, and failing that, she wasn’t terrible with concealment spells, although at Jack’s breakneck pace, a concealment spell wasn’t necessary. They must be a blur to everyone’s eyes.

  Arwyn would love one of those tarts.

  This year was the first year she and her sisters had spent their birth anniversaries apart. After all they had already endured, Seren hadn’t wished to remind Arwyn she was spending hers so far from Rose, but she was fooling herself if she believed Arwyn wasn’t already lamenting the fact. From their very first breaths, and perhaps before, those two had shared an uncommon bond, as twins always must.

  A tart would put a smile on her face, but, unless she could convince Jack to slow down and part with a copper or two, there wasn’t any reason to linger.

  She caught up to him at long last, and asked, “How long have you been sailing with your Papa, Jack?”

  “Since I was a wee boy,” he said.

  Tall for his age, with sweet blue eyes and hair as yellow as the blossom of the broom, he mustn’t be older than twelve.

  Seren smiled at his choice of words. “You are still a boy,” she said warmly, and he blushed fiercely.

  Truly, it wasn’t that she meant to disparage him, only that she wished to remind him that one day all-too-soon his opportunities to smash meat pies down his gob would be gone. He would be a man grown, with a man’s duties, and if sweet tarts held any appeal at all, he would be honor-bound to spend his coin far more sensibly.

  Without slowing, he lowered a hand to his knee cap, and said, with his odd accent, “Since I was here. Now, I am three and ten—hardly a boy.” And he tossed her a backward glance, with want-to-be wayward eyes.

  Seren was all-too accustomed to such glances, but, alas, so it seemed, even thirteen-year-olds were not immune to her gifts. His gaze fell briefly upon her bosom, and quickly darted away. But he deepened his voice, and his cheeks turned rosy. “I have seen more than most,” he said, straightening his spine, and Seren smiled, suspecting it could well be true, but she refrained from pointing out that he wasn’t even born yet when Stephen stole her father’s throne. Still and all, he seemed wise beyond his years, and he was responsible to a fault. Today, his Papa had tasked him with escorting Seren to the courier, and come what may, he hadn’t been willing to deviate from that task, not even for the promise of a sweet tart.

  Ah, well. There would be time enough for treats later. Matilda was sure to have bakers by the dozens.

  “Do you think we will be in Calais by nightfall?” she said, getting excited again.

  Jack cast her a backward glance, and said, sounding too much like a chiding Papa, “Not if we are haggling wi’ every peddler we see.”

  Alas, point well taken.

  Avoiding eye-contact a bit more dutifully, Seren kept her chin down, following her escort, and so it was that she missed the smoke curling up into the mid-morning sky… until they rounded a corner and emerged onto the Marine Parade. But even then, she thought little of the unfurling smoke, or even the congregation, until she overheard a snippet of conversation:

  “Pity that… new ship.”

  “Can’t see anybody’s gonna make it out alive.”

  It was only
then she peered up, her gaze focusing on the angry column of smoke that spewed upward into the bright, sunny sky—the ominous image so incongruous with the day that it momentarily confused her.

  And then she looked closer… spotting a congress of ravens, flying altogether in a swell, and her heart constricted painfully… Morwen.

  Jack gave a holler, pushing through the crowd, shoving men and women alike as he abandoned Seren to the crowd.

  Fueled by something else, not only the desire to keep up, Seren hurried behind him, her heart hammering painfully, as she, too, pushed her way through a thickening crowd.

  Less than twenty minutes; that’s all it took to ferret out his smoked bird, part with another copper and swallow his supper whole. Swiping the film of grease from his lips with his sleeve, Wilhelm re-emerged into the marketplace, feeling replete. There was naught like a belly-full to clear the head. But he stopped cold, catching sight of the thick column of smoke rising into the afternoon sky.

  It was coming from the docks.

  Something like dread shot through him, spurring him into movement. Cutting through the mob, he ran until he could see the smoke’s origin, and there he froze again.

  It was the Whitshed…

  All ships were potential fire traps, but this one burned with a vengeance.

  Even as he watched, a brilliant blue ball shot up from the ship’s bowels, spitting yarns and yarns of blue flame, like a dragon spewing fire.

  God’s bones! Even at this distance he could hear the crackling of wood and the ocean hissing beneath the ship’s burning belly. It was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. From stem to stern, the Whitshed was a raging inferno.

  A sick feeling curdled his gut—something like indigestion, only worse, though it had little to do with the greasy turkey leg he’d just consumed.

  It was all he could do not to chug it up as he stood watching… remembering… the stink of burning flesh. “Sweet Mother of Christ,” he said, under his breath.

  Horrified, but drawn toward the flames, he moved slowly forward, pushing silently through the crowd, even despite that he stood heads taller than most men, and could see more than he wished to see.

  The closer he came to the inferno, the hotter his face burned, until he could venture no closer.

  There was only one thing he knew for certain: If the Pendragon sisters were aboard that ship, they were caught in a hell storm. It was not survivable—not even for witches.

  Swallowing convulsively, his first thought was for his brother’s wife. Already, Rosalynde had suffered more than enough heartache, and this was bound to devastate her. He’d made her a promise—to find and return her sisters. He’d begged her not to worry, and every day of these past few months he’d dedicated every waking moment to locating her sisters. Only, once he’d managed to find them, he’d taken his sweet time about retrieving them, utterly failing his mission.

  Twenty minutes, he thought. Twenty bloody minutes.

  The ship was a pyre. Two hundred tons, and twenty five meters of roaring tinder, and even as he stood watching, the masthead cracked, then buckled, toppling straight into the burning bowels of the Whitshed, even as another roaring ball of blue flame erupted from the ship’s entrails.

  Bits of material—God knew what else—rained down from the sky. The remembered stench sent his mind reeling and his stomach heaving. He leaned over, spewing his guts on the back of a spectator’s boots, then wiped his hand across his mouth. The man wailed in complaint, fists curling by his sides as he turned, then froze as he faced Wilhelm… and then Wilhelm saw her.

  Seren Pendragon.

  She was unmistakable, with that rich mane of golden-red curls—a tumbling cascade not unlike the shade of a pale, cool flame. Shoving the sour-faced lout out of his way, he bolted in her direction.

  Seren stood frozen, her heart wrenching painfully as Jack bolted toward the fiery wreckage. Even as he ran, a host of men fell upon him, restraining him and he struggled in vain. “Papa!” he shouted. “Papa! Let me be! That’s my Papa!”

  There was another thunderous explosion. Seagulls shrieked as a roiling ball of blue flame catapulted skyward, spewing a shower of bright blue flames. Bits of blackened debris rained down on the crowd. Ash kissed her lips. Even from this distance, she could feel the heat on her face. But it was another flame she tried desperately to locate amidst the burning tinder… that of her sister’s heart flame.

  If you knew how to sense them, souls were as tangible as any part of a sanguine being—all the more so, for it was the essence of life itself, bound to the aether. But there was nothing remaining of her sister’s life force… only how could she have passed so swiftly, so completely without Seren ever knowing—all the while her attention had been on tarts and treats? Sick to her belly and sick to her heart, she stood, wide eyed and frightened. “Arwyn,” she cried softly.

  “Come with me,” demanded a stranger, his hand closing about her arm.

  Seren resisted as he tried to drag her away. “Nay,” she refused. “Nay!” Ducking under a man’s arm, she freed herself and bounded toward the wreckage, shouting for Jack.

  God’s bones.

  Wilhelm couldn’t linger to see to that whelp.

  Seren was his only concern at the moment, and if her sister was aboard that vessel, not even God could save her.

  The conflagration was luring onlookers from the market and nearby streets. If he didn’t get Seren away from this place, it would only be a matter of moments before the Guards swarmed the area and spotted her. All her months of eluding the king’s guards would come to naught.

  “Lady Seren,” Wilhelm pleaded. “Please! Come!”

  “Nay,” she screamed. “Nay! I have to find my sister—Jack!”

  Instinctively, Wilhelm tightened his grip on her arm, holding her steady as a black haze bracketed his vision and a wave of bile surged into his throat. Much as he wished to believe he was immune to it, the fire was taking a toll on him, body and soul. The burning at Warkworth was still too fresh in his memory, and the back of his knees and palms began to sweat.

  Battling nausea, he held Seren’s arm as a flash of memory assaulted him—fat and flesh sliding off bones. God have mercy, he remembered his terror as he’d stood counting Warkworth’s dead—primal and alien to a man who’d spent his entire life training to look death in the face.

  But this was something new—it wasn’t only fear for himself. He was terrified for Seren, and he couldn’t think while she was fighting him. Reacting instinctively, he battled through his nausea, lifting her up and hoisting her over his shoulder to carry her away.

  Rudely, and without warning, the stranger cast Seren over his shoulder like a worthless sack of grain. Screaming, struggling against his hold, she craned her head up, fixing her gaze on the burning ship, all the while pummeling his back and shouting for him to release her.

  Not for an instant did she consider that she too might be in peril. Her only worry was for Arwyn. And when he did not release her, she screamed louder, though she knew it was done in vain; Arwyn was gone. She felt the loss acutely, like a limb ripped from her body, and she let out a low, keening sob, wilting in despair over her captor’s back. And even as they fled the scene, she heard the thundering of iron-clad hooves and the shouts of men.

  “Make way,” they shouted. “Make way for the king’s guard!”

  3

  Discouraged, Rosalynde thrust after her husband, missing again, striking the wooden post they’d erected only this morning—a pillar to mark the foundation of the new armory. With a clatter, the sword smacked the wood—so hard she felt the crack clear to the small bones of her hand. The impact left her hands aching, but the pillar scarcely trembled.

  “Be damned,” she exclaimed.

  “Don’t lunge,” her husband said equably.

  It was only one of a thousand rules he’d been boring into her skull—assess your surroundings, grip the sword properly, hold it steady, avoid stabbing, step away from the blade. Goddess only
knew, there were too many moves and countermoves; she despaired to get any right. As it was, it had taken Rosalynde weeks and weeks of practice only to lift her new sword, and she still had a long way to go before she could wield it well enough to use it—not for lack of trying.

  “Pay attention,” her husband persisted.

  “Goddess take your tongue, Giles! I am paying attention,” she said plaintively—and she was. Alas, it was all she could do to swing the heavy steel, much less guide it properly to any given target. It wasn’t nearly as easy as it appeared to be whilst watching her husband at his swordplay.

  It didn’t help matters overmuch that she didn’t actually wish to strike Giles, not even with the flat of her blade. Now that it was her sword, not his, she feared the power it wielded, and she wished with all her heart that he would allow her to practice with someone else—someone more at her level and preferably, someone who wouldn’t bleed.

  Unfortunately, not his brother because Wilhelm had been gone now for weeks. Glancing up into clear blue sky, she longed for a messenger, thinking that surely, by now, Wilhelm must have learned something.

  “Remember,” said Giles. “I was ten before I could hold a blade upright.”

  Rosalynde scowled at him. “Do tell; is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked. “Lest you forget I am twenty today, not ten.” And that was another thing to sour her mood: Of the precisely twenty birthdays she’d celebrated in this mad world, she’d spent every last one with her twin. This was the first time in all her life she’d spent a birth anniversary apart from any of her sisters, much less Arwyn—and, by the by, what sort of celebration was this anyway? Prancing about a courtyard in leathers with a length of steel in her hand that she couldn’t possibly control?

  “Be damned,” she said again.

  Her husband grinned. “Shall we end for the day?”

  “Nay,” said Rosalynde, repositioning her sword as he’d taught her to do, then sidling about so she could once again swing the blade at him.