Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  She is not for you, he reprimanded himself again.

  Whether she be witch, or a dewine—or whatever the hell Rosalynde called her sort—she was still a highborn lady, true-blood daughter to a dead king. Illegitimate or nay, Seren Pendragon was meant for a better man than he. But though Giles didn’t want her, Wilhelm did, and the longer he spent in her company, the more he wondered about the softness of her skin and the sweetness of her lips…

  Even now, he felt his loins stirring, and he would like to have smacked his cock limp.

  Annoyed by the turn of his thoughts, he waved her away. “Don’t you have some spell to cast, or something of the ilk?”

  “Spell?”

  “Whatever,” he said, waving her away.

  Her eyes narrowed again, looking as stormy as they had when she’d cast that witchy wind over Dover.

  God’s blood, that’s all he needed right now was to say the wrong thing and spur her ire. She would whip him into a tempest and cast him away, and he might well deserve it.

  At any rate, he had a very good sense that whatever that was back there—that startling wind—it was only a fraction of the power this flower of Blackwood could harness. The simple fact that she seemed equally surprised by the conjuration was no comfort at all. It only left it all the more ill at ease.

  “Nay,” she said, eyes glittering fiercely. “I have no spells to cast, but I’d very much like to turn you into a toad.”

  That did the trick; she got up, abandoning Wilhelm to his dark, brooding thoughts. But he watched her walk away, wondering: Could she do that? Turn him into toad? Nay. It couldn’t be possible.

  And yet… that beast in the woodlot had shifted shapes…

  Every nerve in his body warned him to stay clear of Seren Pendragon, and nevertheless, he was never more aware of another human being in all his days—and that included Ayleth of Bamburgh.

  Ayleth was not for you, he told himself.

  Seren is not for you.

  Good God, man—get hold of yourself.

  16

  Fixing her gaze on his back, Seren willed the man to feel her outrage. So much for their truce, so much for peace. He was a sour-faced lout, and she didn’t know why she’d even considered his offer of pax.

  Dwarfed by his size, his mare didn’t appear as though she could comfortably carry him, and even so, like most women, that poor beast managed to be stronger than people imagined. For certes, Seren was discovering her own strength, and though she still didn’t comprehend what happened to the Whitshed, she knew in her heart that her sister would want her to carry on.

  She still had three living sisters, and together they must find a way to stop Morwen, else there would be more blood shed over this land than the last fourteen years of war combined.

  Later, she would allow herself to mourn—later, when she was reunited with Rosalynde, and until then, she would continue to fantasize over ways to torture Wilhelm Fitz Richard.

  For one, she would like to tie his ankles together and hang him like a bundle of herbs from the bough of a tree, then call bees to harass him.

  Or mayhap charm a polecat and let the foul beast spray him so thoroughly he’d have good reason to scowl.

  Only then, she recalled all his thoughtful gestures: the effort he’d taken to forage for her, the ribbon he’d bought in Dover, the satchel full of provisions, and the fact that he’d returned to help Jack, even against his will, and her anger dissipated.

  Reaching back to finger the silk ribbon in her hair, smoothing it between her fingers, she decided that everything about this man confused her.

  Three days had gone by since Dover, and so it seemed, he was still determined to ignore them. Mother’s mercy! He reminded her of those silly guards outside the King’s Hall—silent, long-suffering, and ever ready to serve, only pretending to look straight through them. But if you dared attempt to enter the King’s Hall, they planted their lances in your face quicker than you could blink.

  Truly, in all her days, she had never been in the company of a man so intent upon dismissing her. She considered that a long moment, releasing the ribbon as her lips twisted wryly.

  Elspeth so oft said her charm was a gift, like a glamour, irresistible and inescapable. But if that be the case, Wilhelm was hardly fazed at all. Riding beside her, Jack remained mopey. Long-faced, he chewed his left cheek and no doubt he was worried about finding his way home. For his sake, she realized that the worst thing she could do right now was to give in to her grief. “Do you have family in England?” she asked conversationally.

  “Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “And you?”

  Seren nodded. “I have four—” she swallowed suddenly and painfully. “Three… three sisters.”

  “They are waiting for you?”

  She sighed. “Only one… my sister Rosalynde.”

  “Where are the rest?”

  Seren sighed. “One sister in Wales, the other somewhere near Scotia.”

  “Oh,” he said, and then went back to chewing his cheek.

  Like a lodestone, her gaze returned to their rueful champion. He wasn’t unkind, not at all. Nor was he contemptuous; that wasn’t the problem. Rather, he was unapproachable and uncommunicative. And despite this, he still managed to be incredibly solicitous, looking after their every need—not only hers, but Jack’s, as well. Three full days they’d been on the road, and, aside from that first day, she’d not had to harry him once over stopping to see to their needs. Considering that, it seemed ungrateful to complain. If Seren was lonely, she had Jack to keep her company, and anyway, she was accustomed to silence. Much of their time at Llanthony had been spent in prayer, mostly because Ersinius was ever intent upon saving their heathen souls.

  For the most part, Morwen had never bothered with her daughters. From the very instant they’d left court as wee ones, to the instant they’d returned as women-grown, their mother appeared to have forgotten she had daughters altogether, only rousing herself to do aught for them when it suited her purposes.

  All those new dresses this past fall? Only because their appearance embarrassed Morwen—and particularly so when their “competition” was dressed to the teeth in the finest of Flemish cloths.

  Invitations to sup? Only when their mother wished to remind King Stephen that she had daughters to wed to his endless list of new men—hundreds and hundreds of oath-breakers, whose only recommendation was that they were in the right place at the right time to serve.

  As for Seren, Morwen had a particularly hideous beast in mind—one William Martel, who espoused loyalties to his sovereign, but was ever-prepared to betray him, as he’d once betrayed her father.

  So they said, lampreys killed Henry, but Seren didn’t believe it for an instant. Eels’ blood was poisonous, and a small amount could, indeed, kill a man, which was why no one should eat them raw. But in such cases, the manner of death should be swift and painful. By all accounts, Henry had been hale that day, and though his death might, indeed, have been painful, he’d lingered overlong with fever and took his last breath with his “loyal” steward by his side—suspicious to say the least. And, according to Morwen, it was Martel who’d administered the poison, and if you asked Seren, her father made a far deadlier mistake than eating lampreys that day in Saint-Denis-en-Lyons; he’d made the mistake of inviting his vicious, deceitful mistress to the hunt.

  But, of course, Seren couldn’t prove it. Neither was she present at her father’s deathbed, but she’d heard more than enough accounts of her father’s passing to know it was as suspicious as Wilhelm’s mood.

  Something was niggling that man… something she couldn’t put her finger on. And yet if he was still piqued over having to go back for Jack, he never once took it out on the boy.

  It must be something else.

  To be sure, she didn’t have any sense he was resentful of his assignment. Rather, she had the feeling he took this task quite seriously, and more, he held Rosalynde in very high regard. He hadn’t said so, precisely, but w
henever he mentioned Rose, there was a curious softening to his dark eyes. Could it be those two were… entangled?

  Could this be why Rosalynde eschewed Aldergh for Warkworth?

  Curious, indeed.

  That made more sense than anything else Seren devised. And, it would also explain why Wilhelm was so intent upon ignoring her… perhaps he meant to be true to Rose?

  At least it was something to think about, and if she ever found the nerve to pry, she would endeavor to ask.

  Only, now, having considered it, she couldn’t get the possibility out of her mind…

  She couldn’t blame Rosalynde for being drawn to Wilhelm. Even despite his sour disposition, there was something about him… She had a good sense that he was precisely who he was, and there would never be any pretense. And, to Seren, he was more attractive than his brother.

  Of course he was also less refined, but whatever he lacked in social graces, he made up for in countenance. Giles was far too erudite for Seren’s taste, and she was much more attracted to Wilhelm’s strength—more’s the pity for her if her sister had already claimed him for herself.

  Only why would you wish to claim that man?

  Why would you pine for someone who doesn’t want you?

  Only because he doesn’t treat you like everyone else?

  She had a sense that he was only hiding behind his aloofness, because she felt his regard, as though he had eyes in the back of his head.

  Unbidden, she thought about his hands… If his finesse with that blade was any indication, she believed he could be a gentle lover. But that thought burned her cheeks, because a lady wasn’t supposed to consider such things. And yet, betimes, when she lay abed and the room was quiet and dark… silvery moonlight peeking in… she imagined herself lying with a man, and her body burned nearly as hot as her cheeks.

  Oh, she did, indeed, understand what transpired betwixt men and women. They were dewines, after all, and her people did not believe a woman’s body was a temple to be worshipped. Rather they worshipped the Goddess with their gifts. She was no different from a flower—and if one understood a flower as a dewine understood a flower and could sense life and the pursuit of it, it was easy to see how it bent to the sun… how it titillated over the puff of a warm breath… how the small hairs on its stem shivered in delight to a touch.

  “E’s got a bee up his bum,” said Jack, interrupting her reverie, and Seren gasped, lifting a hand to her lips, trying not to laugh.

  Jack shrugged. “This is what my papa used to say when I was ill-tempered.”

  Indeed, boys were such plainspoken creatures. But though Seren would never have suggested such a thing herself, Wilhelm did seem to have a bee up his bum. She smiled at Jack, rewarding him with a smile—their first light-hearted banter since leaving Dover.

  “I am sorry about your sister,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about your papa.”

  His voice was sad. “I keep thinking it is not true.”

  So did Seren, but, alas, it was.

  She couldn’t feel her sister’s heart flame anymore. Arwyn was long gone to wherever spirits were borne.

  Tears pricked her eyes anew. Only by night did she shed them, and only when everyone was fast asleep.

  The boy’s lower lip fattened. “Me mum said he was too mean to die; I really believed her.”

  “Well,” Seren said, with a lingering note of sorrow. “Everybody dies, Jack. Fortunately, you still have your mother, and…” She looked at him, wondering what else she could say to assuage him. “You know, my grandmamau said death was naught more than the shedding of flesh and bones.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “What is left?”

  “Spirit,” she answered brightly, and she gave him a nod, when he tilted her a questioning look. “’Tis true.”

  “You mean, like souls?”

  “Aye,” she said. “Precisely so.”

  Seren smiled at him fondly, hoping he wouldn’t see past her facade. All she felt now was emptiness where her sister was concerned, and if there was, indeed, another plane of existence, she couldn’t feel it right now. “According to my grandmamau,” she expounded, “there are five components to the spirit. The first wouldst be the name you are given at birth. So long as your name is remembered by anyone at all, you remain in this world. This is why, if you do great deeds, your memory endures. It is also why sometimes names are etched upon tombstones.”

  “Only lords have tombstones.”

  “Mayhap, though you don’t need a tombstone to be remembered; I know the names of many men who have gone from this world.”

  He lifted his chin. “Like who?”

  “King Arthur, for one.”

  Jack frowned. “I don’t know this man.”

  Well, of course he wouldn’t know a Welshman. Seren tried again. “What about your grandsire? He captained the Mora, did he not?”

  The boy nodded, peering up hopefully.

  Seren smiled. “You know, The Conqueror is my grandsire.”

  “Tis true, then; your papa is King Henry?”

  Seren nodded, then shrugged. There was so little of her father’s presence in her upbringing, even despite that they’d spent their early years wandering his halls. Alas, Henry was but the stallion who’d sired her, and despite that England might never forget him, she had no inkling of him at all. He was but a shadow from her past. And, perhaps Elspeth knew him better, but, in Seren’s estimation, barely more than she did. Her sister, for all that she was Goddess sent, was a beautiful dreamer. She was a fantast, who imagined the Empress cared about her bastard siblings, and so much as Seren would like to believe it as well, she supposed now she would never know for sure. Whatever opportunity she’d had to meet Matilda was gone, along with the Whitshed. And it was just as well; that part of their journey had meant more to Arwyn than it ever did to Seren. If the truth be known, she was glad to be seeking her true sisters instead of Matilda.

  “I don’t believe in witches,” Jack said proudly, without any prompting. “My papa says people love to talk, and I should ignore them.”

  Seren peered down at the boy, puzzled for an instant, only to realize that he and his papa must have been discussing them. No doubt some rabble-rouser had warned Captain Airard about harboring witches. Was that what led to his death?

  Indeed, Seren suspected there was foul play, but so much as she wished to believe it must be Morwen, perhaps there was another reason for the burning. More’s the pity, one way or another, she had the sense Captain Airard would still be alive were it not for her and her sister, and Jack might not blame her, but she did blame herself, and now more than ever, she was duty-bound to do right by the boy.

  “What is the second part?”

  “Second part? Oh!” Troubled as she was by her glum thoughts, she had nearly forgotten what they were discussing. She pointed to the shadow of their horses lumbering before them. “Shadows,” she said. “They contain a piece of our essence, and so long as we live, our shadows follow wherever we go.”

  And, though it was hardly a thing to share with an innocent boy, shadow lore was a discipline of black magik.

  “But shadows are gone when we are gone, no?”

  Seren nodded, though it wasn’t entirely true. Essentially, shadows also remained after the casting of shadow magik. It was like sucking nectar from a fruit; all that remained afterward was naught but a rind. But with shadow magik, so long as the essence remained tethered to its host, the flesh survived in perpetuity. Only once severed, the body withered, and the essence was loosed into the world without a receptacle. These were something like ghosts.

  But only their mother would ever dare to challenge the laws of nature, and, if they doubted that was true, they needed only remember the blood bath she’d wallowed in at Darkwood. Virgin’s blood, so she’d claimed. And once again, that memory left her sick to her gut.

  The tinny scent in their room… the putrid stench of death. The sight of Morwen’s grisly little pet hiding in the corner, pecking a
t the remnants of her victim.

  How could they ever vanquish such evil?

  Morwen would do whatever she wished, whenever she wished, whatever it took, to serve her will. She would murder innocents, eat their….

  “And the third part?”

  Seren shuddered, shaking away the gruesome memory. “Heart,” she said, masking her distaste. “This is where the spirit lies.” And that, inevitably, was why her mother consumed it… to steal the very essence of her victim.

  Seren swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, wishing with all her soul that she could be free of the memory of Darkwood.

  Listening to her talk, Wilhelm slowed his canter. Her voice was soft as velvet, and he was glad Jack prodded her to continue, but not only so he could hear the musical lilt of her voice. He was curious as well. He wanted to know more about Seren Pendragon.

  Who were her people? Whence did they come? How was it they were able to conduct sorcery? Was witchery truly an abomination of nature, or was it something holier?

  How could anyone as lovely and pure as Seren Pendragon be anything but good and true?

  In fact, hadn’t Giles claimed his sword glowed only in the presence of evil? If that were true it never once glowed in Rosalynde’s presence when Wilhelm was near, nor should she be able to wield it. And yet, she did.

  “The last of the five are ysbryd and morâl. Morâl would be akin to character; all that makes you unique—like how brave you are.”

  He turned to see that she winked at Jack, and Wilhelm slowed to ride beside them, watching as Jack sat straighter in his saddle, his smile stretching, like a flower blooming beneath the warmth of the sun. In fact, the boy’s entire body seemed to lean toward Seren—as Wilhelm was seeking her as well.

  “Ysbryd, at long last, is the spark within us that distinguishes life from death.” And then, once again, her voice sobered. “Some call it the Heart Flame.” She was quiet a moment, then offered, “This is how I knew my sister was gone.”

  “How?”