Nevertheless, when Arwyn proved useless, Morwen would consult her crystal, and this was where Rose must depend on the strength of her magik.
And for this, she must thank her sister Rhiannon. Even as a wee one, Rhi had understood that someday they would all need their dewine gifts, and so often she had defied Elspeth, teaching them in private.
Essentially, whilst Rose and her sisters worried about being discovered by Elspeth, Elspeth had worried about being discovered by Ersinius. And, perhaps in the end, Elspeth had been right to worry, because the instant she’d left the priory, Rhiannon openly defied Ersinius—where she was now nobody knew for certain. The aether remained dreadfully silent—silent as these woods.
All day long she’d been repeating the only vanishing spell she knew by rote, over and over again. But, no matter how desperately she wished it were otherwise, no spell could make anyone vanish. It only dimmed one’s presence to the perception of others. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not. And, regardless, her simple concealment spell was not proof against the full force of her mother’s hud du. Rosalynde’s only hope would be a proper warding spell, and she knew none in practice, only in theory. For that, she needed the book. After all, the hud itself was one thing—it was a gift of magik—and the Craft of the Wise was another. Inherently, it was a practical study of the hud, and the grimoire held every recipe and every spell her ancestors had ever performed.
Guiding her stolen mare through the forest, she searched for a suitable refuge, and, at long last, she came upon a well-concealed thicket and slipped inside, leading her mare into the covert as well.
She would need plenty of space to draw herself a proper pentacle—one aligned to her own affinities, and the reason for that might prove difficult to explain, and perhaps more difficult to comprehend. There were four main elements—five altogether—and each shared a quality with two more elements.
For example, since Rosalynde was aligned to water, water was moist like air, warm like fire, but it had naught in common with earth. Therefore, all things related to the earth element lay outside Rosalynde’s affinity.
To make matters more complicated, there was a fifth element, better known to her people as the quintessence. Borne of the spirit, this element was perfect in nature, and therefore, difficult to manipulate. But, if one did not have an affinity bordering on the quintessence, one could not cast aether spells. And regardless, only a dewine with a primary to the aether could hope to master all five. Rhiannon was such a dewine. Like their grandmamau, she bore the Mark of the Mother—those crossed, amber-lit eyes that distinguished her as a regnant priestess—a point of contention that Morwen had long bemoaned. No matter how powerful their mother might be, or how finely honed her gifts, she would never truly master all five elements, as Rhi could.
And yet, Morwen did have one thing going for her that the sisters did not. She dabbled with blood magik—strong hud du that neither she nor her sisters would ever have the gumption to consider. Cast with sacrificial magik, it was dangerous business, and a blasphemy to the Goddess.
And nevertheless, used improperly, even white magik could be risky. There could be no escaping the Law of Three, which dictated that all magik, good or bad, once unleashed into the world must return to the summoner threefold. Nothing occurred without consequence. It was the law of nature. For common folk consequence was no less a veracity, but for a dewine, whose magik might alter the will of gods, the consequences were more severe.
Black or white, there was a price to be paid for magik and one single conjuring, no matter how well intentioned, could change the fate of nations and end innocent lives.
Alas, magik was not to be avoided—not today.
Realizing there was no possible way she could draw a pentagram large enough to include the horse, nor could she compel the beast to stay within its bounds, she hobbled the mare nearby, so she could keep an eye on it, yet far enough that her hooves wouldn’t disturb the diagram.
Once the mare was settled, she found a sharp stick and began, as best she could amidst so much bracken, to draw her diagram precisely as she recalled, beginning with the earth affinity for a banishing spell.
Here again, the reasons were complicated. But while she had no true affinity to earth itself, the point at where she began to draw also had a bearing on the form of her magik.
Over these past months, she’d learned so much from the Book of Secrets, and there were essentially two types of spells to be cast: All things were either summoned or banished, accepted or denied, created or destroyed, transformed or reformed. Each of these fell under one of two elements: aether or earth—else, as the common folk would say, all things were under the dominion of heaven or earth.
A protection spell was in essence a banishing spell, meant to repel. Therefore, she should begin drawing her pentacle with the earth affinity at the southernmost point, because it was also her divergent affinity, then up to the west, to aether, across to the east, to fire, across again, to air, and up to the vertex, water, always her true north.
On the other hand, to cast a summoning spell, she would have begun drawing in the opposite direction, beginning with aether, but still keeping her divergent affinity at the southernmost point.
And, regardless of how she began to draw, she must always end with water at her vertex, with the properly drawn symbol, leaving her most vulnerable ingress at her feet.
Conversely, if she were to draw her pentagram with the earth symbol at its apex, it would give her no benefit.
Or, if she made the mistake of choosing the aether to place at the vertex—a very common mistake, considering the quintessence was, after all, the most powerful of the elements—it would still leave her defenseless.
On the other hand, for someone like Rhi, whose primary was aether, she would always complete her pentacle with aether at her vertex, and water as her divergent, though, in truth, Rhiannon had no weaknesses, and once she mastered the Craft, she would be a maven of all the elements.
Alas, only a dewine aligned to fire did not have some mastery over the aether, and this would be the case with Arwyn. So much as Arwyn hadn’t any issue with the Craft, the Craft did not love her back. She could summon a flame easily enough, but she could do little more than that. And to make matters worse, her affinity was weak and Rosalynde often feared she had somehow leeched her sister’s share of magik in the womb. After all, it could easily happen. On the death of her twin in the womb, Rhiannon had received all her twin’s gifts—Welsh magik, powerful enough for two dewine babes.
Regardless, elemental magik was complicated, essential knowledge for a dewine. Though simply because one dewine could manipulate elements, did not mean all dewines shared the ability; the Craft was specific to everyone. If Rosalynde were like Arwyn, whose affinities were lacking, she might concentrate on the hud where it enriched her… perhaps alchemy, divination, or charming.
At last, when her diagram was finished, Rosalynde attended to other matters. As soon as she could, she would ward her pentagram with a banishing spell, but in the meantime, she needed to see to the mare. At this late hour, it wouldn’t behoove her to search for a burn, so she pooled her hands together, concentrating on her primary.
Already, there were particles of water in the air, and her dewine senses could feel them. It was no more fantastical a feat than to lure these particles together, like a lodestone with metal. And yet, no matter how many times she performed the feat, it never ceased to amaze her.
After an instant, her palm began to glisten, then fill before her eyes, and she lifted her hands to the animal’s shining black lips, all the while listening to her belly grumbled. There was no time for food tonight, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d gone to bed without supping.
“I wonder what your name is,” she said to the mare. “You are so beautiful.” And she was. Shining black as the deepest night, she would hide very conveniently amidst the brush. And, if, by chance, some predator came near, she felt certain the mare would warn her. “
Won’t you?” She said, stroking the sweet girl’s cheek.
Rosalynde was thirsty, as well, but so long as the mare kept drinking, she kept pulling water from the air, filling her palm, knowing that once she cozied into her pentacle, she wouldn’t be able to leave it again. At last, the animal seemed quenched, freeing Rosalynde to tend to her own needs. And when she was ready, she retrieved her grimoire from the saddlebag and knelt before the Book in the center of her diagram. She retrieved the pin she’d hidden in the hem of her skirt, pricked the tip of her finger, squeezed a few droplets of bright red onto the vellum, and once again, it vanished. Rosalynde spoke the rites to open the book, then settled in to read, ignoring the persistent grumbling of her belly.
By now, she was famished, though not enough to go foraging and risk being discovered by her mother. There were far more important matters to consider.
Skimming the pages quickly, she settled on a fire spell, and put the book down. Closing her eyes to harness the power of the emerging moonlight, she laid both palms above the facing pages until a veil of blue illumined the words. Reading aloud, she whispered…
Goddess of light shield me tonight.
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
A band of firelight burst at the edges of her pentagram, burning low, then diminishing. Startled, Rosalynde nevertheless continued:
With cloth and cord of darkest night, I shroud my soul.
Light is the weapon I would wield to keep me whole.
* * *
By all on high and law of three,
This is my will, so mote it be.
All of this was so new to her. She hadn’t any way to know what precisely should come of the words, so she waited, listening, until she felt it—water, air and fire, coalescing all about her, binding itself to her diagram, before settling into stillness and silence. Rosalynde inhaled deeply over the feel of it. The unbridled power of nature was exhilarating, and she sensed an impossible world out there, looming. Perhaps once she and Elspeth were reunited, they could study the Book together. With a bit of patience and practice, they might even grow to be as capable as Morwen—albeit far, far less vile. And, regardless, Rhi would be proud of her.
With a satisfied smile, she cast a glance at the mare, then proceeded to conceal her pentacle with bracken—very, very carefully, so as not to disturb the magik.
Although she had so much to learn about the Craft, she had more than enough practice with concealment, particularly from Elspeth. Unfortunately, the warding spell wasn’t a fail-safe. It was still possible for someone to stumble over her while traipsing in the woods, and if they should happen to discover her by accident, it wouldn’t serve her if they suspected sorcery—only how humorous it might be for someone to see a hapless nun sleeping in a witch’s pentacle. The thought alone made her giggle, and she was still giggling as she cozied with the book beneath her cheek. She lay upon the vellum, sobering, over the realization that she had so much left to do… For one, Elspeth still hadn’t any notion Rosalynde was coming. Somehow, there must be some way to reach her sister without using the hud, but she didn’t know how. Nor did she have any fathom how far she had to travel to Aldergh. And, even if she could get there safely, she hoped Elspeth would have some notion how to keep the Book safe. After all, whatever magik her sister had cast to protect Aldergh, it had been strong enough to make Morwen take note and withdraw.
She rolled her eyes. Her mother would have everyone believing that Malcom Scott had kidnapped Elspeth, and that some accursed malady had swept through Eustace’s camp whilst they were attempting to negotiate with Aldergh’s lord—a malady that coincidentally killed only Morwen’s birds. In the end, Scotia’s king had intervened, arriving with more than three thousand warriors, forcing Eustace’s army to withdraw. But, really, Rosalynde preferred to believe that, for love’s sake, Elspeth had entreated the Goddess and, somehow, her sister had summoned a powerful warding spell—the most powerful kind of magik of all, magik borne of love from the aether. And she knew in her heart that Elspeth would never have attempted such a thing if she’d been forced to wed a man she didn’t love. Moreover, only true love could have forced Elspeth to acknowledge her dewine blood.
Of all her sisters, her eldest had the least affection for magik—perchance because she was also the one who’d been forced to watch their grandmamau burn—a penance from their mother dearest, to castigate Elspeth for wronging them by revealing them as dewines.
Elspeth still remembered the day Morwen abandoned them at the priory. With that hateful look in her eyes, she’d squeezed Elspeth’s hand with such fury, and said, “You are the eldest. Do not be tempted. Be certain your sisters are never tempted. Remember what happened to your grandmamau? This, too, will be your fate, and my fate, should you ever dare to defy me. They will tie you to a wooden stake… and they will burn you till your skin turns black and blisters off your bones.”
Poor Elspeth. Poor, poor Elspeth. What a terrible burden that must have been, and it was little wonder it haunted her still. And yet, after all was said and done, the Goddess had sent her a guardian…
Sighing over the notion, she wished with all her might that she could have a champion as well.
How sweet would that be?
Curling herself into a protective ball, she tucked her knees to her breast, lifted the veil so she could lay her naked cheek against the soft vellum, and took comfort in the feel of the soft, worn leather against her face. By its very presence, she felt the spirits of her brethren…
Tomorrow would be a bright new day.
Everything would be clearer on the morrow… and in the meantime… defend yourselves, sisters.
The worst is still to come.
Trying to ignore the itchy fabric of her gown and fighting the overwhelming desire to remove the wimple and veil, she fell asleep, wondering if her horse’s master had yet to discover his horse was missing. It never occurred to Rosalynde to be concerned that he might find her. It was her mother she most feared, and if she could remain hidden from Morwen, what could she possibly have to fear from an empty-headed man?
How stupid must one be to leave a stableboy guarding one’s horse, and, anyway, unlike Elspeth, Rosalynde had no qualms against using magik to defend herself and those she loved. She would call upon the Goddess in a heartbeat, and if she had a sword, she would wield it.
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
Chapter 8
Alas my LOVE you DO me WRONG
To cast ME… OFFF… discourteeeeously;
For I… have… loved YOU… soooo LONG
Wilhelm of Warkworth sang as he stumbled, punctuating his ludicrous verses with hiccoughs and burps, his voice echoing down empty streets.
As crowded as the tavern had been, the streets were deserted. Even the least pious must be home, warming themselves by a fire, eating pie and waiting for the Magi.
That Stephen would call anyone to London at such an hour was prickling to say the least, but at least Giles knew the King’s paranoia wasn’t particularly discerning. Even Arundel had been in the City this morn, despite the rumors of his wife’s confinement. And, after all, the Lady of Arundel must be content with her match, judging by the brood she was providing d’Aubigny—even while she was still passing messages to her step-daughter, though he supposed even lovely little spies had dreams of hearth fires.
His thoughts turned to Seren Pendragon.
He had no desire to align himself with Morwen’s progeny, no matter how lovely the girl might be. She was naught but a lovely spy, and unlike Matilda, there was no noble cause to champion on her behalf.
Listening to his brother sing, he suffered a touch of bitterness, because, unlike Wilhelm or Roger, he’d never been the man to dream of hearth fires, but at the moment, it didn’t sound so bad—a pretty wife, a warm bed…
Perhaps Wilhelm’s were naught but broken dreams, but his eldest brother had been deprived
of his first Yuletide with his unborn babe, and his wife. Isabel, God rest her soul, was still asleep in their bed, her belly four months thick with their firstborn when she died. Meanwhile, Roger was discovered in the garderobe. Evidently, having risen during the night, he’d fallen asleep nursing an irritable bowel. The flames must have swept through that old palisade with a terrible fury, and the irony didn’t escape Giles. His brother had trained all his life to die in battle—God willing, many years after their sire—and, instead, he’d died shitting on a pot.
It was unfair, he thought, and yet, as he had discovered throughout his time in the Guard, fairness wasn’t precisely the purvey of God. Otherwise, Richard de Vere would have grown fat and happy, surrounded by grandchildren, his halls ringing with peals of laughter. He sure did give it a good try. Alas, his father would never steal another sweet into a slipper. There would be no more Magi gifts for his children or his bride.
His sisters would never again titter over imagined beaus, nor would they blush over compliments, or long for springtime, when they could peek out from their windows as their father’s wards brandished shining silver swords.
For all intents and purposes, Warkworth would be restored, but nothing could bring back its spirit, and Giles wasn’t sure he had it in him to give his people the joie de vivre his father inspirited, even in a bastard son—and that, for all it bespoke, gave Giles the greatest prick of envy, because, in truth, how many bastard sons mourned their fathers so bitterly?
Wilhelm did.
For all his brother’s enduring snorts and grunts and growls, he was naught but a softy, with a gentle heart, and in that instant, he resolved to be more patient with Wilhelm.
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