Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  The man smiled as he stepped back, inclining his head in a gesture of mock deference. “William Martel at your service,” he said, and Rhiannon narrowed her eyes.

  William Martel? The man her mother would have Seren wed? The betrayer who’d poisoned one king already, and who stood ready to murder another?

  “The king’s steward?” she asked, surprised.

  His smile was too smug, and Rhiannon would have enjoyed wiping it from his face, except… she moved her arms and felt… weaker.

  Confused, she furrowed her brow.

  It was only a sense, she supposed, but in a matter of seconds she felt inordinately lethargic—as though she’d gone too long without supping and left wasted.

  “What is this?” she asked, confused, weaker by the second. Far too late, she realized… it was… the shackles…

  The metal stung her flesh wherever they touched her, and it was the strangest, most uncanny feeling, but even the aether surrounding her was somehow depleted.

  “A gift from your mother,” Martel said, then snapped his fingers before Rhiannon could recover herself well enough to respond—it was almost as though she were drunk now, impaired. The guards were long gone before she could speak another word, and darkness enfolded her in their absence. Little by little, the fire in her brazier grew dimmer.

  Rhiannon struggled to put her thoughts into the aether to seek help from her sisters—a thing she would never have done had she not had such a terrible sense of danger. It was too dangerous to mindspeak outside proximity because all thoughts put into the firmament were left vulnerable to all who might seek them—including their mother.

  It was far too late when she understood what Morwen had done... and not until her room grew uncomfortably cold and she could not bolster the fire in her brazier…

  She was bound, not only by the iron shackles, but by magik. The shackles were enchanted, she realized, and if they were enchanted, it meant… not only was she well and truly alone, powerless to do aught… her sisters were on their own as well.

  Elspeth! Seren! Rose!

  “Cael,” she called weakly, but this time, there came no reply from the shadows. Cael was truly gone. Her answer was a silence so complete that it left her shivering in its void, and for the first time in all Rhiannon’s entire life, she was afraid. Not since the time before time in her mother’s womb had she sensed such bewildering darkness… helpless… only waiting, waiting. But this time, not to be born… to die.

  11

  A chill fog drifted along the woodlands, eddying so high that cool air tickled Seren’s feet. It reminded her of that mist they’d conjured on the night Elspeth had fled the priory. It was the first time she and her sisters had ever dared perform a rite of such magnitude. To aid Elspeth’s escape, they’d conjured a mist that climbed out from their cauldron and stole out the door. Elspeth used the cloak of mist to elude the dogs and guards Ersinius sent to retrieve her. But words like those were never to be uttered lightly; they could never be evoked without consequence. And yet, it was an impressive feat. And later, after their mother arrived, Seren couldn’t help but note a certain gleam in Morwen’s eyes. No doubt she’d been furious with them, but she was proud as well. That was the first time in Seren’s entire life she’d ever experienced the warm glow of a mother’s pride, short-lived though it was. Immediately thereafter, Morwen had tossed Rhiannon into a tumbril to be carted away, like some animal, bound and leashed. Even now, Seren could feel her sister’s warning gaze. Be silent, be still. Be silent, be still. But the look in her eyes as they’d dragged Rhi away had broken Seren’s heart, and she had never imagined she could be more broken-hearted than she was that day… until now.

  Grief was a fourth companion, ever with them, pursuing them like the shadow of a hound. But so long as Jack held back his tears, Seren felt duty-bound to hold back her own. Together, they would endure—with or without Wilhelm’s help. But truth be told, it wasn’t only Seren and Jack grieving; Wilhelm wore his own grief like a mantle of sorrow. She could feel it as surely as she felt her own.

  “E’s not too friendly, eh?”

  “Surly, to be sure,” she said, her gaze boring into Wilhelm Fitz Richard’s back. His entire demeanor had changed the instant they’d retrieved Jack. Before then, he’d practically begged to serve her, and now, he appeared for all the world to be a man ruing his circumstances.

  “I ain’t ne’er seen so big a fellow,” said Jack, with an unmistakable note of appreciation in his voice—and, of course, he would note such a thing. He was at an age when his own virility must be foremost in his thoughts. Even struggling with his own grief, she couldn’t help but note the solicitous way he remained by her side, like a self-appointed guardian angel.

  “Aye,” she said. “He is.”

  And it was true. It wasn’t very likely that anyone could overlook the man, no matter how quiet or unassuming he appeared to be. And yet Seren had a sense that there was more to Wilhelm Fitz Richard than met the eye. His aura was bold and unmistakable, but confusing.

  Much like the glow of a flame, all creatures radiated shades of color that revealed more than words alone could say. Like her sister Elspeth, so long as Seren remained within proximity, she could read them. In fact, she was quite proficient at determining the nature of a person’s temperament based on emanations. After a year at court she had good practice, and it was rare that she was ever wrong, even though the truth disappointed her. She wanted desperately to think better of people, but so often they failed to live up to their potentials.

  Wilhelm’s colors were perplexing, to be sure…

  His most predominant shade was a vivid, angry orange, mixed with intense coils of red. More oft than not this combination revealed a kindly, honest disposition, even if betimes he might be quick to raise a temper—already, they’d suffered glimpses of that. But, these colors also implied immense loyalty; whatever this man set his heart to, that’s where it would remain unto his dying breath.

  Alas, these shades were interwoven with shades of brown and gray, and those were the colors that thoroughly bemused her, because his demeanor belied what they implied. You see, brown was the color of uncertainty, or it could mean he somehow lacked confidence. But there was naught in Wilhelm Fitz Richard’s demeanor that gave truth to this interpretation. What was more, he had darker shades of brown and gray that indicated selfish tendencies, negativity, or a predilection toward deception. Even more alarming, betimes these threads bordered on black, which was a far, far worse implication. Black, you see, was the color of hatred, and she knew this only too well, because Morwen drifted through Westminster’s halls enshrouded in a blue-black aura, much like a bruise on the aether.

  Fortunately, Wilhelm’s aura was nothing like Morwen’s.

  Day to day, her mother’s essence remained predominately black, with coils of blue and furls of red; this was perhaps the most dangerous aura to be encountered. The red bespoke her passion—and she was, indeed, very passionate. She was rabidly so, and there was little that could dissuade Morwen Pendragon from her schemes. The blue, on the other hand, was an indication of supreme intelligence and a given ability to influence the masses. To Seren’s horror, her mother could charm folks with a bat of her lashes, and lest you understood what it was she was doing to you, you might be fooled until it was too late to extricate yourself from her dangerous web.

  Inevitably, all her mother’s minions ended up with a similar aura, sans the blue, and Seren could sense these creatures from leagues away.

  But though Wilhelm’s was not at all like that at all, he was nevertheless no man to be trifled with, and neither was it the least bit likely anyone would consider him easy prey. For certes, they would be safe traveling with this man, but she had yet to determine… were they safe from him?

  Seren thought, perhaps, the answer to that question must be yes, though she couldn’t be certain—and yet, somehow, she was driven to vex him. Why, she hadn’t any clue.

  Or perhaps she did suspect why and
didn’t wish to acknowledge the truth, because Wilhelm had the dubious misfortune of appearing in her life at the most inopportune time. He’d kept her from going after Arwyn, and despite the fact that, in retrospect, she knew there was naught she could have done to save her sister, some small part of her begged the question: What if she had responded sooner? What if she had cast away her fear and gone after Arwyn?

  What if… what if… what if…

  The endless questions bedeviled her. Wilhelm was an easy target for her fury—an emotion she had never in her life dared to nurture. What must her own aura be now?

  It simply wasn’t possible to see it for herself, but, according to Elspeth, it used to be a shimmering shade of silvery—the mark of the serenely gifted, but with the palest hint of blue, which was also a distinction for peacekeepers. Elspeth had often likened her aura to the wintry color of her eyes, and Seren had taken much pride in Elspeth’s interpretation, because there were far worse things in this world than to be a peace-monger. Only now… she must be awash in deepest reds. What was worse, she felt shades of black coiling up from the depths of her soul, tendrils of loathing sprouting from the silvery ash of her grief.

  Arwyn’s death was transformative.

  Whereas previously Seren had only feared Morwen, now she despised her with every fiber of her being. Given the opportunity—like Wilhelm—she would snuff her mother’s heart flame as easily as she would snuff a candle, and she would do that to the woman who gave her life.

  True hatred was all consuming, she feared, because she could feel it growing, intensifying, wending its way through her veins, black as the wings of her mother’s treacherous birds.

  It was all so perplexing—nearly as much so as the man she’d now pursued throughout the night, mile after mile, hour after hour, into woodlands and out. Glaring at his back again, she wished he would turn and face her… only why?

  So, she could complain about how long they’d traveled? Goddess knew, he was like to be as weary as they were and still, he persevered. And, forsooth, it wasn’t as though he was doing this for his own pleasure. He was ushering them back to safety… so why, oh why, did she long so much to smack him upside the head?

  Perhaps because he wore that perpetual frown on his face, putting her in mind to those hideous stone gargouilles installed at the palace, with their immense twisted, grotesque mouths. In the foulest of weathers they were terrifying, with rain lashing down and bolts of lightning silhouetting their forms. One day, a few weeks before Rosalynde stole the grimoire, she and Seren were caught in a downpour out in the castle yard. Together, they’d witnessed the gargouilles at their intended purpose. Built to gutter rainwater, they’d spewed a torrent at their feet, muddying their dresses. They’d returned to the apartment, sopping wet, and filthy besides. Arwyn was worried, even though they were gone little more than an hour. That was all the time they’d dared to spare in order to scope the area and make plans… plans for Rosalynde to steal the Book of Secrets.

  The memory enveloped Seren in a cloud of misery, because Arwyn hadn’t gone with them that day for the same reason Seren had left her aboard the Whitshed… because her magik was weak, because she didn’t know how to lie, because she couldn’t conceal her presence or her purpose from Morwen. They had coddled her to save her life, and, in the end, their coddling was Arwyn’s ruin.

  White-hot fury bubbled up from the depths of her, and her silvery gaze returned to Wilhelm Fitz Richard. She focused her anger on him in the absence of her mother.

  “Do you… think… it ’urt?” Jack asked, intruding on her reverie.

  Seren blinked back tears, knowing instinctively what he was asking by the unhappy look on his face. Sweet fates, She needn’t read his mind or his aura to know he was fretting over his father. So far as Seren was concerned, she couldn’t imagine a worse way to die, but she didn’t wish to say so. She could scarcely bear to consider Arwyn’s final moments, but she did so now perforce… suffering anguish anew over how much she may have suffered. And yet, judging by the swiftness of Arwyn’s departure—the rending of her soul from this plane of existence—she thought perhaps that wasn’t true. “I don’t know,” she confessed.

  Once, when Seren was fifteen, Llanthony suffered the loss of one of their aviaries. The structure ignited sometime after Matins, and by Lauds, there was naught left, but wisps of smoke and piles of ash. It took hours and hours for that edifice to burn, and she and her sisters had carried bucket after bucket of water from their hatchery to douse those flames—all night long, until their arms and legs ached from the effort. Back in those days, the aviary had been no more than a tiny structure far from the main buildings, and even so, the flames had lit the night till morn.

  In contrast, the Whitshed vanished behind a veil of blue so intensely hot that Seren could still feel a fever burning in her cheeks.

  “I’m tired,” Jack complained, sliding a hand to his middle in a gesture of hunger, peering up at Seren, looking more like a small child than a man. They had been traveling so long now. It was no wonder the boy was hungry and tired.

  She peered back instinctively, spying only trees and a long dusty road behind them. Dover was long in their wake and dawn was breaking. They’d ridden all night long without stopping, and if no one complained until now, it wasn’t because they weren’t bone weary.

  Certainly, she understood why they’d set such a grueling pace—all for her sake, but seeing the strain on Jack’s face, she realized it was only a matter of time before he tumbled from his saddle. Meanwhile, twenty paces ahead, Wilhelm’s horse let loose a pile of dung without so much as bothering to pause for the duty, swishing its tail in annoyance, sour-tempered as its master.

  Deciding they’d had quite enough, she spurred her mount forward to trot beside the bastard son of Richard de Vere.

  It was a long, long moment before she worked up the nerve to speak. But then she said, “We’ve been traveling overlong. I understand why, but Jack is tired and by now the horses must be fatigued as well. We must rest, if only for a few hours.”

  His dark gaze swiveled to meet hers, cutting in its intensity. “We’ll stop soon,” he said, averting his gaze, looking into the sunrise, so that his face was lit by a golden hue that made the strands of silver in his beard glitter fiercely.

  No “thank yous,” no praise for his efforts, no warmth from this rare, beauteous flower of Blackwood—and there it was, he supposed: She was as distant and unapproachable as he’d surmised she would be, with that lovely golden-red hair, those flawlessly arched brows and pale, luminous skin.

  Her cheeks were bright pink, either from exertion or from exposure to the Whitshed’s flames. She looked sad to her soul, and Wilhelm longed to comfort her, but something in her expression left him cold.

  For all that she appeared so delicate, she reminded him of a ghost orchid he once encountered, with its leafless spine pointed high and straight and its milky blossoms with soft blushing spots. He’d been so afraid to pluck it in the presence of his brother, and he’d resolved to do so upon returning so he could gift it to Lady Ayleth. Regretfully, that flower was gone when they returned, and it didn’t reappear for another four years—in an entirely different location. By then, Giles was long gone to the seminary, and Ayleth’s heart was well and duly broken. She’d scarcely looked at his gift, much less thanked him for it, and he’d found himself wholly embarrassed for the effort.

  Seren Pendragon gave him that same pause.

  She was far too lovely for the likes of a beast like him, and even so, who in the hell longed to curl up with an icicle?

  More than aught else, she seemed angry over the turn of events, and he had yet to see her weep a single tear. She was an ice princess, to be sure.

  “Jack is hungry,” she persisted, as though her first complaint hadn’t moved him well enough. “So am I. And—”

  “And what?” he snapped, forcing himself to meet her gaze, loathing the way his heart struck a discordant beat over the haunted look in her eyes.r />
  She peered down at the reins in her hand, her impossibly dark lashes fanning her toasted cheeks and God help his rotten soul, some foolish part of him longed to reach out and caress her fire-roasted skin. In his mind’s eye, he allowed himself to kiss it ever-so sweetly, and to his utter dismay, his cock hardened over the imagery, straining against his well-worn leathers. He growled audibly in disgust.

  “Are you always so pettish, my lord?”

  Wilhelm ignored her use of a title, weary of correcting her. “Pettish?”

  “Aye, Pettish.”

  He frowned. “Pettish is what ladies should be. Pettish is for wayward children. Alas, if my mood does not strike you as genial, Lady Seren, you may call me bad-tempered to your heart’s content, but you should at least thank me within the same breath, because I have come a long way only to help you.” He sat quietly a moment, and when she did not respond, he added, “That I did not do so before your sister’s death is not my fault any more than it is yours.”

  Seren’s heart squeezed painfully.

  Well and duly chastised, she cast her gaze into the passing trees, swallowing the painful lump that rose to choke her.

  She daren’t weep now, because if she began, her tears might never end. She would sob puddles and puddles, and perhaps add witchwater to the witchwind, because she sensed that same bewildering intensity rising in the aether, leaving her to wonder if her serenity was but a matter of self-defense. Deep down she must have sensed everything she was capable of.

  Witchwater.

  Surveilling the woodlands, she sensed more than saw the glittering dew drops shivering on the leaves of trees, and like a lodestone, she drew them, feeling small droplets splash against her cheeks.

  But, nay, she was not weeping.

  It was witchwater… she was certain.