Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Rosalynde frowned.

  “Well,” Elspeth challenged. “Can you?”

  Rosalynde shook her head, looking discouraged. Both sisters fought tears. But, sad as the case might be, they hadn’t the luxury of underestimating their mother, or all would be lost. Now that Elspeth had her babes, she understood precisely what it meant to rise to this task. If she were to lose one child, she couldn’t simply lie down and allow the other to perish. This was a time for strength. “We shall keep looking,” she said. “Do not fret; we will discover a way.”

  Nodding, Rosalynde turned the page, then flipped the book to read a scribbled note in the margin. “There are so many notations here… this is an interesting one: “Did you realize the Mark of the Mother—” The crossed eyes that denoted a Regnant— “Are not always evident at birth?”

  “Nay,” said Elspeth. “What does it say?”

  “Well, there is an entry here under Mark of the Mother—perhaps in our grandmamau’s hand. It says, carnelian at birth, be apprised, by pubertas, a mark of the wise.”

  “How curious,” agreed Elspeth. “Though I do not remember a time when Rhiannon’s eyes were not afflicted.”

  Rosalynde shrugged. “Aye, well, neither do I, but this is what it says.” She put the book down again, and turned another page.

  “Keep looking,” said Elspeth. “Somewhere in those pages lies something Mother doesn’t want us to see.”

  13

  Dawn broke with a bruised sky that mirrored the bruises in Seren’s heart. But at least she didn’t have to remind Wilhelm to keep watch for Morwen’s birds. Instinctively, he seemed to understand the threat, surveilling the skies as carefully as he did their surroundings. But, of course, she needn’t wonder why he knew to do it; surely Rosalynde had advised him. After all, they’d spent much time before Rosalynde’s departure from London, worrying about their mother’s birds—those odious white-necked ravens born and bred to serve one master. Like most rooks, they could be taught the king’s tongue, and while messenger pigeons returned only to the location of their birth, these abominations were drawn to Morwen, making her entirely indispensable to Stephen. After all, since all her little spies were controlled by her, and spoke only to her, it was only natural she should become such a valuable resource to England’s sovereign, intercepting messages from all over the realm.

  Point in case: When Duke Henry defied his mother to attack Wiltshire two years ago, it was Morwen’s ravens that warned Stephen of the invasion. Stephen’s army was already waiting to oust him when he arrived.

  Seren didn’t know precisely how it worked. She suspected the magik involved was somehow connected to Merlin’s Crystal. This was why they couldn’t leave London without destroying the scrying stone. But, of course, Rose could have had no inkling what they’d done. She would have worried all the way north. But fortunately, without that scrying stone, Morwen couldn’t spy on anyone anymore, save through her minions and remaining birds, diminished as they must be. Thousands upon thousands of ravens were slain at Aldergh. Even in their solitude, they’d heard rumors. The court was atwitter over it all, whispering in the halls. “I knew they were witches,” she’d overheard one woman say.

  Then, from her gossipmongers:

  “But, of course! Have you never seen the way she defies him?”

  She being Morwen. Him, being the king.

  “With nary a word of reprimand,” hissed another.

  “If anyone ever dared such things as Morwen dares, they would find themselves drawn and quartered, entrails ripped from their bowels.”

  “But not her.”

  “Of course not. Because she’s a witch. Can you imagine entertaining such a lover in front of your Queen? How can she bear such insult?”

  She, being Maude—the king’s greedy, pinched-nose wife.

  “Alas, ’tis one thing to have a nice, discreet paramour, but, nay. There’s no telling how many men have sampled her wares. She’s been with Henry, Stephen, now Eustace, and I rather imagine Cael d’Lucy is no less a bedfellow.”

  “Eustace is a mean little—”

  “Hush now… do not speak treason. I am told ’tis only a matter of time before he convinces the archbishop to confirm that wretch and Eustace will be our rightful king before long.”

  The first woman crossed herself, whispering, “God forbid.”

  But nay, Seren thought. These past fourteen years, God and his saints had all abandoned them. Better that each man and woman look to their hearts and seek the truth, for the realm was filled with prevaricators, who’d much rather entertain a beautiful lie than know a terrible truth.

  And, in the meantime, her mother was a master of legerdemain. With such careful slights of hand, she twisted truth as easily as a court jester shuffled cups and balls.

  Her mother would have everyone believe Elspeth was being held against her will by the traitor Malcom Scott. But the truth was more likely that Elspeth had aligned herself with him, and Malcom had defected of his own accord. After all, wasn’t he Scots-born? Surely, he must have found some cause to return to the troth of his birth. And, if, in truth Elspeth remained at Aldergh, perhaps she was there because she loved the man. Like Rosalynde, Seren preferred to believe that, for love’s sake, her eldest sister had summoned the most powerful magik—magik borne of love. And it made sense, knowing Elspeth—how little love she had for the Craft. Only true love could ever have forced her to acknowledge her dewine legacy. And nevertheless, despite this, Elspeth’s magik was not enough to save them. Scotia’s king had intervened, arriving at Aldergh with more than three thousand warriors, forcing Eustace’s army into retreat.

  Only now, in hindsight, Seren wondered if Elspeth could have had a hand in that as well, because David owed them, and Elspeth was not above demanding recompense. And considering all that, she wondered why Rosalynde would abandon Aldergh for Warkworth. Could she have gone anticipating Seren’s arrival?

  But nay, that didn’t make sense.

  Why should Rosalynde wish to remain in the company of Seren’s betrothed when she could have remained with Elspeth? If, in truth, Giles de Vere still meant to wed Seren, her sister was not born to be anyone’s mistress. Rosalynde was far too proud to allow herself to be used so meanly, and Seren knew Rosalynde well enough to know she would never seduce another woman’s betrothed. Nor would she ever be content to be a courtesan.

  Nay. Rosalynde was too smart, and too spirited.

  And yet, Wilhelm had clearly said she was waiting at Warkworth for Seren, and if he was to be believed, there must be a reason for that—what was it?

  Had Rosalynde quarreled with Elspeth?

  That was entirely possible. Rosalynde and Rhiannon both often took umbrage over Elspeth’s officious manner.

  And still, the question thickened her throat, for even now, were the bonds of sisterhood unraveling, only to leave her and her sisters lonesome and vulnerable?

  Goddess only knew, their mother would love that. Aside from killing Matilda, there could be little more satisfying to Morwen Pendragon than to see her daughters estranged and alone.

  Poor, poor Arwyn.

  But at least her baby sister would suffer no longer. She was at peace now, loved and protected by the Goddess. Morwen would never again harm her.

  Grief made her swallow with difficulty. There was so much she wished to ask Wilhelm of Warkworth, but so far, they hadn’t had much accord, and it wasn’t so much that she was afraid of him. Rather, she didn’t know what to ask, nor was he very forthcoming.

  Later, she decided.

  Later, when they were settled, after Jack was asleep… then she would inquire.

  * * *

  Later came sooner than anticipated.

  About an hour after the sun rose, Jack slumped over his horse’s withers.

  Without a word, Wilhelm seized the boy’s reins. He led them into the woods, ferreting out a secluded spot within a thicket of hickory, elm and ash. Nearby, though not precisely within sight, Seren could hear the gu
rgling of a brook, and it seemed entirely probable he had been there before.

  It made sense not to sleep so close to the brook in order to avoid travelers, but it was close enough to hear the trickling—a sound that until yesterday had been comforting. Now, it reminded her of Arwyn. Night after night, she and her sister had slept together in that cot, listening to the sound of water outside the ship’s hull, and she had dared believe they were safe. Tears stung her eyes as she tethered the horse, and once the mounts were secure, Wilhelm left, again without a word, presumably to hunt for their supper—or, rather, to break the fast, as the case should be. Seren only guessed as much because he’d grabbed a quiver and a bow before leaving.

  In the meantime, she encouraged Jack to find himself a comfortable spot to lay down. She helped him relocate a few rocks, gave him a pillow of bracken to lay beneath his head… and just for good measure, she used a bit of magik to fluff the leaves. He would never know.

  “I’ll wake you when it’s time to sup,” she said gently, as she threw his blanket over him. Weary as he was, it didn’t take long; he closed his eyes at once and was snoring within an instant.

  As she knelt there, watching him sleep, the sliver of crystal in her pocket hummed. She ferreted it out, examining the shard. It glowed faintly though without imagery, but she thought she spied a golden eye peering back at her—odd. It wasn’t a vision… more like a reflection, but her eyes were not amber. Rhiannon’s eyes were amber. Like their grandmamau, her sister bore the Mark of the Mother—the crossed, amber-lit eyes that distinguished her as a Regnant Priestess. What was the shard trying to tell her?

  Frowning, she returned the shard to her pocket, wandering over to inspect her saddlebag only to discover how attentive Wilhelm had been to detail.

  Already, she’d found there was a blanket for each of them, strapped to the backs of their mounts, but inside her own bag, she discovered a few bites to eat, which made her complaining all the more unreasonable, though surely, he could have said so. How obnoxious to keep silent, save that she might have responded the same if faced with an ungrateful companion—which, of course, she knew she was. It simply hadn’t occurred to her to look.

  There were a few more surprises; most notably a change of clothes—not one, but two—and a lightweight cloak, making her wonder why he’d allowed her to wear his crude brown cloak for so long. She also discovered a comb in the bag, and a thin, blue ribbon to plait her hair—small gestures, but each considerate beyond measure, and this from a man who, until now, had seemed entirely disagreeable.

  So, it seemed; Wilhelm Fitz Richard was even more a conundrum than she’d suspected him to be.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to explore that thought. There was too much to be done, and she didn’t particularly feel like forgiving him, not yet. Before he returned, she must draw herself a pentacle large enough to protect them tonight, and she must do so without Wilhelm or Jack realizing what it was she was doing. She wouldn’t feel comfortable sleeping without warding the premises, but despite that Wilhelm seemed to understand who and what she was, she still didn’t feel comfortable performing the Craft in his presence.

  Nor did Jack have any inkling who she was. So far as the boy was concerned, she and her sisters were merely passengers aboard his father’s ship, awaiting their time to set sail. It could well be that he would rise above prejudgment, but it was more likely he would fear her for what he couldn’t possibly understand.

  Breaking off a piece of the pan, she tasted it, surprised by the subtle flavor of salt. In truth, salt was an extravagance available only to the wealthy, and even then, it was never wasted on pan, since pan didn’t need preservation.

  “Fascinating,” she said, and resolved not to waste it. She swallowed hastily, shed herself of Wilhelm’s cloak, folded it neatly, put it in his saddlebag, and then considered what she presently knew about pentacles—nothing much, until Rosalynde decided to flee with the Book. Her sister had been so sure she could travel inconspicuously, aided by no more than a glamour and warding spell. So, for weeks before she left London, they’d practiced spells together, and studied the diagrams until Seren could now draw pentacles in her sleep. She might not have the grimoire in her possession at the instant, but the incantations were etched in her brain.

  As a matter of practice, the pentacle was only intended to harness magik within a specific area. Though certainly a warding spell could be cast without it—proof of that was in the spell Elspeth cast at Aldergh—the boundary offered added protection.

  Deciding she must draw one large enough so no one could discern it at a glance, she searched for a proper stick to etch with, and while she was at it, she gathered enough tinder for a small fire. Piling the tinder near sleeping Jack, she studied the perimeter, because, truly, it was a complicated matter and she still had matters to resolve.

  Most notably, no single diagram could serve every situation. There were many, many things to consider. No two dewines were alike, and the Craft was specific to every individual. She and her sisters each had their own predominant skills: For Elspeth this was her ability to read auras, and Elspeth also had a certain charm for animals. Seren, too, had this calling to the natural world, but her métier was more healing and all things apothecary while Rosalynde had a very good feel for elemental magik. Rhiannon, of course, could do all they could do and more. But regardless of their skills, she and her sisters each had an affinity to one element, from whence all powers manifested; and this is where Seren found a quandary.

  You see, altogether, there were four main elements, plus a fifth element called the quintessence. Only a dewine with a primary to the aether could ever hope to master all five. Her sister Rhiannon was such a dewine, but one needn’t be a priestess to be aligned to aether. But the quintessence was a divine element. It contained in itself the essence of life, the very matter from which all else was born. If Seren, too, were aligned to aether it might explain why the witchwind had appeared so belatedly. She had always assumed hers was a gentler form of magik, but what if, in truth, it only appeared to be gentle because, like Arwyn, she’d had trouble conjuring it?

  Clearly, Arwyn’s element was fire. That was the only magik she’d ever possessed. Rosalynde was aligned to water. And, after much discussion, they’d surmised Elspeth must be aligned to Earth, but it was impossible to say for certes, because Seren doubted even Elspeth knew it herself. For so long, their eldest sister wouldn’t even speak of their legacy, much less practice the Craft. So, then, it made sense that for so long Seren would believe her own affinity must be air, because, after all, what were the odds of having two blood sisters aligned to aether?

  Amidst five siblings, it was far more reasonable that all would be aligned to one single element, rather than to have even one aligned to aether. The quintessence was that rare.

  But here again was Seren’s dilemma: The witchwind she’d conjured yesterday might, indeed, attest to an affinity with air, but although it never materialized, she’d also had a very strong sense of witchwater as well. These two conjurations were impossible for a dewine aligned to air.

  It was easier to explain when looking at a fully drawn pentacle, with all the elements properly placed, because there was naught accidental about their positioning. So here… she drew out a small pentacle for good measure.

  If, in fact, Seren were aligned to air, then water would be her divergent—no witchwater there.

  If, instead, she were aligned to aether, it should be fire. She tapped the ground where the fire symbol would go.

  Witchwater was, indeed, quite possible with a fire affinity, but here was the case: If she were aligned to air, as she’d so long believed, she would also be aligned to aether and earth, but not to water, making witchwater an impossible feat.

  On the other hand, if she were aligned to aether, with a bit of practice, all elements could be hers to manipulate, including fire and water, but, in truth, she’d never had much luck with fire. And this is why that was important: A pentacle must al
ways be drawn precisely to one’s own affinity—precisely. If she drew it wrong, and made the mistake of choosing the wrong element to place at the vertex, it would leave them defenseless. The pentacle would be useless.

  To make matters even more complicated, there were two types of spells to be cast: All things were either summoned or banished, accepted or denied, created or destroyed, transformed or reformed. A protection spell was in essence a banishing spell, meant to repel. Therefore, she must begin drawing with her divergent at her southernmost point, and end with her true element at the vertex, always with the properly drawn symbol. For a summoning spell, it would be exactly the opposite, and she would begin drawing at her vertex, ending with her divergent, always leaving her most vulnerable ingress at her feet.

  After all, she could play it safe and choose the affinity Rhiannon had claimed was hers, but Rhiannon was hardly infallible. She was flesh and blood, like anyone else. She could be mistaken. And, if Seren chose air, when her affinity was aether… well, then… these two might seem similar, but they were entirely different.

  She took the stick and erased her drawing, still contemplating…

  She didn’t know how to explain the feeling she’d had… it wasn’t like anything she’d ever experienced in all her life. It felt… strange—as though if she merely let herself go, if she’d allowed the first tear in a moment of fervor…

  Well, she might never know, because it didn’t happen, and still, she had a feeling that she, like Rhiannon, was aligned to aether.

  Could it be? Was it possible? Could two blood sisters be aligned to the quintessence?