Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  “Spoilt?” I ask.

  The Scotswoman laughs softly. “Aye,” she says. “Well, ye ken how they be. I canna hold one without rousing the other, so, then, I’ve had Ellyn help me when she can.”

  “Sweet, sweet Ellyn,” I say, and I wonder what in the name of the cauldron this woman is prattling about—babies? Could it be, babies? Why didn’t I know?

  “I thought for certes I would have them all to myself for at least another fortnight yet,” she says. “But I should ha’e known.” She waggled a finger, smiling still. “I should ha’e known.”

  Yes, of course, it must be babies, and tis no surprise my eldest bore her husband twins. They are a curse to my blood. I myself suffered more than one, and judging by the manner in which I have been treated, I should have murdered them all before they took their first breaths. I laugh softly, reaching out to grab the lady’s arm for support as I dismount.

  At once, a groomsman moves forward to take my horse to the stables. “Saddle a fresh one for me, please,” I command. And then I turn to Cora to say, “I should see them at once.”

  I know this is what my daughter would wish, and I would give this wench no reason to see through my glamour. Fortunately, mine is more powerful than most. But this woman is entirely too familiar, threading her arm through mine, and I am outraged by how far my eldest has fallen—consorting with her servants. The woman prattles on and on and on, leading me inside, telling me about kitchens and rushes and servants and suppers. I conceal a yawn, following along. And when she turns to tilt me a questioning glance, I say, “I am so sorry, Cora. I am but weary.”

  “Ah, well, dinna fash yourself, Mistress. Only tell me how I may serve you.”

  “Well, there is something I must retrieve, and then I must return to Warkworth. If you will do me any favors it is only to keep this news from my husband.”

  I brace myself for questions. As familiar as this woman appears, I fear she will ask me what is so crucial that I would return and leave with such haste. But she does not, and I am relieved. “Very well,” she says. “But I must say, my lord Malcom will hear of this, no doubt. You should take another retinue when you go, or I vow he’ll return in a rage.”

  “Nay,” I say, firmly. “We need all the men we can keep. Aldergh’s garrison is too lean as it is.”

  “M’lady,” she protests. “I—”

  “I will travel more swiftly alone.”

  “But—”

  “But naught,” I say. “I am here in one piece, can’t you see. You mustn’t worry for me, Cora. I have my ways, as you know.” I wink then, when she looks at me, and her smile returns.

  “Ah, yay, m’lady. Very well. Only please, will you sup before you go?”

  “Perhaps,” I tell her. “But I have vittles in my pack, and I prefer not to travel by night.”

  “Very well,” she says with a sigh, and the pout in her voice reminds me of my long-dead mother—Morgan, whose incessant needling ever drove me to distraction.

  At least, she harried me until she learned who I am—not her daughter.

  Morgan, do you see me now?

  Are you turning in your grave?

  But nay, I think, with a slow grin. There is naught of you left but ashes, all scattered to the winds.

  “Cora,” I say. “I hope you do not mind, but I prefer to see to the babes on my own. Also if you, please, apprise the cook to provide me a treat for the saddle.”

  “Oh,” she says, sounding dismayed. “Yay, of course. I’ll see to it at once, m’lady.” And she leaves me standing at the foot of Aldergh’s stairwell, relieved that she is gone.

  I do not know this castle, nor its occupants, but I should take care in that lady’s presence. It is not the way of magik to know everything, for I must know a question before the aether provides an answer. But I do not need Cora to guide me; given time alone, I will sniff out my reliquary. It calls to me, even now.

  Babies, I think, as I climb.

  Twins.

  My, oh my.

  * * *

  The vellum’s surface shifted beneath Rosalynde’s fingertips, as though resisting with musculature. It was like a willful creature, bent upon making its point, every so oft turning pages of its own accord. It did so once again, settling once more on a page scribbled heavily with notes.

  “I cannot read if you keep turning those pages,” complained Elspeth.

  “I am not turning pages,” argued Rosalynde. “I do believe it means for us to read this page.”

  “It?” Elspeth asked, lifting a brow.

  “I don’t know. ’Tis the Goddess, I suppose. How can I know? I only know I am not the one turning the pages, and it always returns to this one.”

  Showing Elspeth the page in question, she splayed the book as wide as it would go, and urged Elspeth to peer over her shoulder. The entry was titled: The Duality of Witchwater With Arcane Properties.

  So, it appeared, you could, indeed, simulate elemental witchwater. It could be created with the help of certain mushrooms, and there were a number of rare forms conducive to the transformation. And therefore, they could, indeed, finish the motte and fill it with witchwater, only not the form of witchwater that was summoned from the aether. Rather, transformed witchwater had somewhat different properties. Instead of calling upon arcane forces, the transformed water was like a strange brew to be used for transmutation. For example, if a priest fell into a mixture, he might become a bandit. Or, if a stone fell into it, it could become a fish. However, if created in just such a manner, the results could be milder. For example, those who waded into the motte might simply become confused and forget themselves, so they forgot they were even fighting a battle. But, this brew was impossible to make as it was, because it called for items Rosalynde had never heard of before—like the scales of a fish called a gwyniad, which was said to be native to the waters of Avalon.

  Well, Avalon was long gone, so how was she supposed to acquire this gwyniad? Or, barring the use of gwyniad, she could use something called a “puffer fish.” But then, they would need finely crushed moon dust—and where by the love of night was she going to find moon dust? Also, to her complete horror, it called for a measure of human remains.

  “What is this?” asked Elspeth, inquiring over a short verse that was scribbled sideways on the page—not in Morwen’s writing, and probably not their grandmother’s either. Bewitched and spellbound, this particular tome had been in existence for at least a thousand years.

  “Only true love’s tears will save the newborn prophet,” Rosalynde read. “What do you suppose it means?”

  Elspeth furrowed her brow. “How are we to know? Not even grandmamau allowed me to read the book without supervision. She claimed the words written therein were too dangerous. Misinterpreted they could lead to unintended consequences.”

  “Unintended consequences?”

  Elspeth nodded. “She would not say precisely what or how or why, but I suspect our mother was transfigured by something within that book.”

  She tugged the book out of Rosalynde’s hands and into her own lap, turning to another page. And, once again, like it had more than half a dozen times before, the grimoire quivered, and the page returned to The Duality of Witchwater With Arcane Properties.

  “I cannot help but think this book somehow wishes for us to glean something new from this page, because it cannot be the transmutation of witchwater. Avalon does not exist, and who in this world has ever seen a moon rock to crush into dust?”

  “Indeed,” said Elspeth. “And what is a puffer fish?”

  The words on the page seemed to ripple then glow, and Elspeth was compelled to reread the words: “Only true love’s tears will save the newborn prophet.” She shook her head, confused. “I cannot fathom what it means, but… somehow… I feel… moved by these words.”

  “Moved?”

  Elspeth frowned. “Yay,” she said. “Almost as though there is something I should do… or something I should know.”

  22

 
Well-rested and bathed after a night at Neasham, Seren nevertheless left the abbey in a pique. Wilhelm hadn’t lied to her, not precisely, but she was vexed that he had disdained to reveal the entire truth: He was not affianced to her sister. And furthermore, Rosalynde was already wed to Giles de Vere—none other than her own betrothed!

  Of course, it was no secret at all that Seren didn’t actually wish to wed Giles. He was not the man she pined for. And even so, Wilhelm had led her to believe that his brother meant to honor their betrothal, and that he, as a matter of due course, was honor-bound to return her to Giles—all this time he’d perpetrated a lie.

  Never had she felt so muddled—relieved one moment, infuriated the other. And despite everything, she should be pleased beyond measure, because, now, she wouldn’t have to wed Giles. And truly, aside from Wilhelm’s lie, at the instant, there was little she should find to complain about, considering the circumstances: She was still breathing. Her belly was full. Jack was safe. She was clean and no longer dressed in foul smelling clothes. And, according to the nuns at Neasham, her sister was happily wed to the lord of Warkworth.

  There was more they had to say, of course, and though none of it was particularly unpleasant, it made Seren long to pull out every strand of Wilhelm’s beautiful hair—and aye, it was beautiful. Long and thick, it shone like ebony silk. If she were a cruel sort of witch of the sort folks gossipmongers like to fie on, she might give his horse a fright, then watch him tumble to the ground, muddying his clothes and hair. But she was not, and neither would she treat an animal so cruelly. But so far as Wilhelm was concerned—a pox on him!

  And, by the by, the next time he considered eating a poisonous mushroom, she should let him. It would serve the deceiver right to spend every waking moment moaning and groaning on a pot.

  Fie on him!

  She muttered crossly beneath her breath, her appetite soured, despite that the sisters at Neasham had loaded their satchels with victuals aplenty for the journey. She settled a hand beneath her breast, grimacing over a burn in her breast.

  “Art unwell, Seren?”

  He’d said it with such concern that her anger wilted, if only slightly. She lifted a brow, and slid him a furious glance, then quickly averted her gaze, discomfited by her anger. “I am well,” she said. “Never better,” she lied.

  How could she be? One sister was dead, the other imprisoned in Wales. Elspeth was wed to a stranger, and now she’d learned—not from Wilhelm, mind you, but from strangers—that Rosalynde was married as well, and to none other than a huntsman for the Church.

  “You don’t seem well,” he said.

  “Oh, but I am,” she snapped. But, truly, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “Why did you not advise me my sister was lady of Warkworth? I had to hear it from strangers.”

  Never mind the fact that for all intents and purposes, Wilhelm was a stranger, too. It was only that, after traveling so long in his company, Seren feared he must know enough about her now to never want her for himself. Whatever beauty she possessed could never vie with all her many faults. Ever since leaving Dover, he’d seen her at her worst—hair disheveled, sleep-dust forming in the corners of her eyes. And, to make matters worse, to her utter mortification, he’d listened to her relieve herself on occasion, and then whilst they were still at Neasham, he’d accidentally walked into her bath, only to fly away the instant he saw her.

  He did not stand there, gawking at her with a flame of longing burning in his eyes, nor did he linger in the doorway. He’d turned and fled—as though she were a viper he’d discovered coiled amidst the dust beneath his bed.

  It was mortifying. Seren only wanted to be clean so she could wear one of the lovely dresses he’d procured for her. She longed desperately for him to look at her again as he had that night before arriving at Neasham, despite that, considering the circumstances, appealing to a lowborn bastard was the last thing that should be on her mind.

  For Creirwy’s sake, her sister was dead—or had she forgotten so easily?

  But nay, she had not.

  It was just that… Wilhelm made her feel… what?

  Not so lonely? Admired? Cherished?

  All these things and more.

  And nevertheless, he was not courting her, she had to remind herself much too frequently. He was only escorting her to her sister—not even to Giles.

  And still, though she longed desperately to take offense over his motives, not once during the long hours they’d spent together had he once behaved inappropriately. Unlike most of the lords she’d encountered at court, Wilhelm Fitz Richard had treated her with utmost respect—and, no, it wasn’t as though she wanted him to kiss her. She only wanted him to want to. It was all so confusing.

  Winding the excess length of reins in her hand, she gave him another narrow-eyed glance.

  Wilhelm had the good graces to look away, and she watched as his aura shifted from red to brown—good, then, let him be discomfited. For certes, she herself had never felt more a fool, and she could not say it was all his fault, because she was the one who’d tormented herself with thoughts of a man she could never have.

  And, lo, now that she realized it was perfectly possible all along—that he wasn’t betrothed to her sister—mayhap she shouldn’t want him, but she did. But clearly, he didn’t want her, and it was becoming quite apparent that the red in his aura was not desire at all; it was something else.

  Finally, he turned to look at her, his lips twisted ruefully. “Take it as you will, Lady Seren; I did not believe you would agree to accompany me if I did not say it was to return you to your betrothed.”

  Fie! So now he would return to formalities? Lady Seren, Lady Seren, Lady Seren! For the love of night, she was no more a lady than he was a lord. “And yet you might have told me it was my sister who’d commanded you to find me—she’s your mistress, after all.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “So to speak.”

  “So to speak,” Seren railed, feeling her witchwind rising yet again with her anger. “So to speak!”

  The tops of the trees shimmied with fright, and the poplar leaves tinkled like warning bells.

  “You speak in riddles, Wilhelm de Vere. If Rosalynde is not your mistress, then say so. If she is, speak true.”

  His voice was taut. “I am not de Vere,” he corrected. “I am Fitz—”

  “Richard, yay, I know. What does it matter? Amidst my own dewinefolk, we are kindred no matter whether we are conceived in the rushes or in a fine-feathered bed.”

  He said naught.

  “I do not understand your English sensibilities.”

  His cheeks were flushed. “I am sorry,” he said, and then he hung his head, looking too much like a sweet young boy, save that there was nothing so small about him, nor could she mistake him for a boy.

  Furiously, Seren coiled the reins tighter, trying desperately to master her emotions.

  This was all too much.

  For months now she’d been fleeing her mother’s wrath—all to no avail, because her sweet sister was dead. She had allowed herself to trust this man. And that was not all. Yay, it was true; she must confess it all: Her heart fluttered each and every time Wilhelm came near enough for her to smell his male scent. All it ever took to make her nipples taut was to hear him speak her name so intimately. For Creirwy’s bloody sake, she was like a lute to be played at his whim—an instrument of desire that remained finely in tune to his every sigh. It was disgusting. Maddening. Embarrassing.

  “Seren,” he said, the timbre of his voice low and husky, and once again, it spoke to some secret part of her she had never even known existed.

  “Fie on you, Wilhelm! I’d not hear you speak my name ever again,” she said irrationally.

  He grumbled, then asked, “What would you have me call you?”

  In truth, Seren didn’t know. She might be daughter to a long-dead king, but she was no more high-born than Wilhelm was, even despite having been appointed a title. She couldn’t bring herself to ask him
to address her as a lady, because she most certainly wasn’t a lady. And regardless, her true kinsmen had no need for such formalities. She was Seren to those who knew her best, and Seren to those who knew her least. And even so, she did not wish to hear Wilhelm speak that name again so intimately… as though in itself the word could be a caress.

  Fie on him.

  Fie on Giles.

  Fie on her mother.

  Fie on Rose, too! Though why Rosalynde, Seren didn’t precisely know. Her poor sister had had naught at all to do with any of this. If Rosalynde was guilty of anything at all it was only that she hadn’t insisted this stiff-necked behemoth reveal the entire truth to her the minute he met her.

  And nevertheless, knowing Rosalynde, her sister would never have suggested he lie—she would no more have done so than she would have… what?

  Lain with another woman’s betrothed?

  Ye gods, Seren was so confused.

  “I am sorry,” he offered again, and then he left her to ruminate in silence and rage.

  Sensing her witchy wind rise again, Wilhelm fell silent.

  God’s truth, when most women got in a temper, they roused an altogether different sort of tempest. When Seren Pendragon grew angry, she bestirred a wind that shook the very tree-tops. It was unsettling to say the least.

  And still, he couldn’t say for certes whether she even realized what it was she was doing. Watching her expression as she surveyed the shivering woods, he could easily believe she was as startled by the revelation as he.

  She peered at him through long, thick lashes, lowering her gaze so that her lashes fanned her rosy cheeks, but not before he spotted the torment stirring in those beautiful, stormy eyes. It made him long to put his arms about her and offer solace, though it was quite clear to him she would never accept it—least ways, not right now.

  Thereafter, three things occurred to Wilhelm all at once: the first, no matter how vexed Seren might be with him, she was somehow more embarrassed by her tantrum and the tempest it roused—which gave rise to the second revelation; two, she wasn’t particularly savvy about magik, because it seemed to him that she was as clueless as he was about the power she wielded; and three, she was sorely affronted by him and the choices he’d made. If he dared speak another word to her in her present mood, she would raise a storm that would rip out the trees by their roots. Therefore, he fell silent, giving her all the time and space she needed. But, in truth, he felt sick to his gut over the mood his actions engendered, and even so, if her anger gave her the strength to endure, he would endeavor to take comfort in that, because, even now, he felt a persistent sense of danger… a knowing in his gut that had little to do with her mood, nor even the threat of her witchy wind.