Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

“Dearest,” Maelgwn said with regret, and he tried to lift up a finger to her cheek, falling short of her face. It fell limp beside him on the bed. Indeed, he could feel his life slipping away… like sands in a glass.

  “Mael!” she cried. “Only speak the word, and I shall gift you my life! True love’s tears might save you!”

  Oh, yes… They would spend eternity together, he and his beauteous wife, whose glorious bosom was the pillow of his choice. He could learn to love her properly, and give Nesta her heart’s desire—a prince of her womb. “You and I,” he said. “Forever… and ever… and ever…”

  To bloody hell with thrones and crowns. So long as he had her love, he would be happy evermore.

  “Yay,” he said weakly. “Yay…”

  His wife rose at once, her tall, lithe body towering over him, her shining gold mane surrounding her like a halo. She spilled her tears into the palm of her hand, and then he heard her words and recognized the gleam and slash of her ceremonial blade. But even as she worked, he fell in and out of shadow, somewhere at the back of his mind, understanding the rite she was speaking…

  Here, with my blade, I take your former life,

  Here, with my art, I still your beating heart,

  Eternal thy flame, Lord of Shadows thy name.

  And then she knelt once more by his side, and said her final good-bye. “Rest in shadow, my beloved, till you are once more summoned to the light.”

  Invoked perhaps by the sultry nature of her words, shadow and light danced before his eyes like fornicating lovers.

  Shadow and light converged, again and again, until, with a violent clap of thunder, a rush of wind rose from the casket of his body, and for the sweetest interminable moment—he and his wife were caught between worlds, their souls united as one, until the torrent died like a winterbourne in summer… devoid of life, but not quite dead.

  At the end of her ritual, Nesta’s body lay lifeless on their chamber floor. Maelgwn could see it as though in a dream. Her maids lifted her up, then laid her beside the empty shell of her husband—his own body. When Uther arrived to claim the banner and crown, he was told the Dragon Lord’s queen ended her life with her husband’s last breath. No one noted the reliquary in the hand of her maid. She gave Uther the message with a nervous curtsy before quitting the chamber, rushing away with a heartfelt promise for the Lord of Shadows: “I shall keep you in secret till The One arrives, and someday, my lord, you must avenge my lady’s death! A pox on the house of Pendragon!”

  1

  Blackwood Castle, July 1153

  He should have died.

  He did die.

  And still, here he was, flesh and blood, and it was Morwen who’d freed him. For that alone, he owed her a debt of gratitude.

  Pensive and mirthless, the lord of Blackwood sat behind his escritoire, studying a small reliquary on his desk.

  So he’d been told, there were three of its kind remaining in the world—one his, one belonging to Mordecai, and the last he presumed must be Morwen’s…

  Presumed, only because she kept it about her neck on a chain, the same way he kept his own.

  Exquisitely etched, cylindrical in shape, his was about a half inch in diameter, and one and one-quarter inches long, with a strange, blue-veined crystal fashioned at one end, the fit so seamless it was impossible to remove. The metal was intricately inscribed with runes that, to his knowledge, could no longer be read.

  He met a priest once who’d called it a reliquary, although, in truth, it was nothing like those receptacles they used to hold the bones of saints. It looked like one, perhaps, but it wasn’t.

  If he shook it, there was nothing inside, and if he put it to his ear, he heard a hint of wind… like a seashell.

  Admittedly, he didn’t know how it worked, nor did he dare disassemble it. This was all he knew: It alone was the key to his existence—a ridiculous little bauble that Morwen had called a grisial hud. In his Welsh tongue, it meant, quite literally, magic crystal.

  Lifting the pendant from his desk, he turned it slowly, examining the strange metal and markings, perhaps for the thousandth time since acquiring it.

  Puzzling.

  Only to see it was to imagine it an impossible sepulcher, and yet… what dimensions should one expect to provide for the totality of a human soul?

  It was everything… and yet…

  Nothing.

  Cael d’Lucy was a creature of shadow, a man with far more to lose by dwelling in light than he did in darkness. He had more secrets than most, and too much to lose—including his life—should they ever come to light.

  Nevertheless, he was confused.

  He’d come to know Rhiannon Pendragon well, and, indeed, his heart wept for Uther’s heir. Still… whenever he thought to pity her, he was forced to ask himself: What was five years compared to six hundred?

  Six hundred and six, to be precise.

  Six hundred and six years during which his only conscious thought had been to avenge his beloveds.

  Now that he had his chance, he dared not rest until the task was done. Then, and only then, could he hope to find peace.

  Regretfully, the matter had become… complicated.

  Almost daily, he had to remind himself who she was. Lovely though she might be, in her delicate blue veins, she bore the sins of her fathers. And, in truth, no matter how many years had gone since Uther’s betrayal, his sorrow was fresh as the loam over a day-old grave.

  Thinking of Nesta, his jaw worked angrily. Faded by time, an image arose from the dusty depths of his memory—her lifeless form prone on the chamber floor, her sacrifice to save his damnable soul.

  Was it worth it?

  Nay, he thought.

  It was not.

  And nevertheless, for every moment of these past six hundred and six years, he’d been acutely aware of his losses, feeling their pain like limbs plucked from his body.

  He was the Pendragon.

  Not Uther.

  And what had the Judas gone and done?

  He’d settled himself on Cael’s throne, then eaten the meal from his larders.

  The image sent a torrent of hatred rushing through his blood, for his true name was not Cael d’Lucy. He was Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, High King of Gwynedd, Dragon Lord of Anglesey. He was not the cousin of some paltry English lord, but the firstborn son of Cadwallon Lawhir, great-grandson to Cunedda, who, by order of Governor Maximus, led the Votadini against the Pechts. And for his part in the campaign, his forebear had been awarded the entirety of Gwynedd—the Jewel of Wales, so ’twas written by a contemporary of Maelgwn’s time.

  And the true Dragon Lord… felled by a creature with golden eyes and hair who’d cursed him with a yellow death.

  He, who’d fought and won the dragon throne, only to lose it all… over what?

  Lust for a sword?

  Perhaps she was not the sole heir to Blackwood; still she bore the blood of his nemeses in her veins. That alone should keep him from coddling her.

  That alone should force him to remember.

  Remember!

  Fool. She’s not simply some hapless maid whose mother is cruel.

  Unlike her sisters, she was not the progeny of a king. Hers was a… distinctly maculate conception, and her father was a reincarnation of the man by whose hand his life was taken—that druid who’d once called himself Merlin to Britain.

  God’s blood, it galled him that she looked like him—all save for that wild, copper hair. She bore those same chiseled cheeks, the same fair skin, the same shape of her brows—perpetually arched, as though she alone were privy to the mystery of creation.

  And, God’s blood, her eyes… blue and stormy as a winter sky, while Taliesin’s had been deepest amber, imbued with a cunning that few could forswear.

  Not that she wasn’t cunning, mind you.

  She was certainly wily enough to sense every chink in Cael’s armor… and therefore, why should he care whether her hands were weighted with the burden of manacles?

&nb
sp; Why should he care what became of her?

  At least she still had lungs to breathe and hands to carry a child of her womb.

  To the contrary, Nesta’s arms were empty in death, and he himself might never see an heir to his legacy—such as it was: a decrepit old castle in the Black Mountains, not at all the kingdom he’d been promised.

  Certes not his beloved Anglesey…

  And what now?

  He would risk even this for a beauteous witch…

  “Rhiannon,” he said aloud, testing the weight and feel of her name on his tongue.

  Rhiannon.

  He couldn’t help but remember the way she’d faced him the day he’d met her, straight from her prison tumbril… with her hair disheveled, and her dirt-stained cheeks, her shoulders back and high… like a witch queen in her own right.

  Even then, she’d had a fire in her eyes that matched the flame of her hair.

  But now… that blaze was diminishing day by day, and there was a joyless turn to her lips…

  Still… he owed her mother.

  He owed for his life… and if he did not keep his promises, Morwen would collect her due.

  She was a necessary evil.

  A means for revenge.

  And aye, she might use him as well—as she used everyone—but he would gladly allow it because… in the end, his goal was her goal: a reckoning for the Pendragon’s heirs.

  “Ah, Nesta,” he said, with a heartfelt sigh, and then he attempted with some difficulty to summon her golden visage… all that materialized was a flame-haired beauty, whose words cut like diamonds and whose eyes, like a mirror, reflected the same sense of fury as his own.

  Rhiannon.

  Very, very gingerly, he set down the reliquary, considering the irony that he would now aid and abet the very institution whose gold once sought his ruin.

  Indeed, with Maelgwn ap Cadwallon’s death arrived a new day for the Empire. Uther himself became the new Dragon Lord, whose son later ascended to his throne…

  And where was Maelgwn’s heir?

  Dead and buried mere days after his—

  Startled from his reverie by the blast of a horn, he peered back at the door, suddenly discomposed.

  This time it would not be her messenger; it would be the Witch Queen herself. Two months ago, she’d given him an ultimatum—wed Rhiannon, or wed her. No matter what he chose, the consequences were considerable: force Rhiannon and he would lose her evermore; marry her mother and he’d risk his own goals; defy the Witch Queen and he would lose more than his life…

  And… he suspected… deep in his heart… she wouldn’t be satisfied until her daughter was dead.

  Knowing this, something other than common sense spurred Cael from his seat.

  No doubt Rhiannon had heard the horn blast as well. Even without her magik, she must sense her mother’s presence.

  It would take Morwen and her company another interval to ascend to the gate. Once admitted, there would be no turning back. If, in truth, these were the End Days of her prophecy, it must be now or never…

  2

  News of the outside world was scarce, though even in the confines of her plush apartments, without the use of her magik, Rhiannon sensed a growing darkness, a shadow that, left unchallenged, would creep over the land and swallow it whole. For weeks now, she’d had a terrible premonition—a sense of foreboding she couldn’t shake. It multiplied tenfold when she heard the horn blast.

  Minutes later, when she also heard footsteps ascend the tower, she braced herself for a confrontation.

  Was it Cael?

  Please, let it be Cael.

  Sweet, sweet fates—let it be Cael!

  What if it was Morwen?

  After all this time, would he hand her over?

  Glowering down at her shackles, she acknowledged that if she were whole, she would know who it was. But nay, nay… she could only wait… and hope…

  And nevertheless, why should she care?

  After five long years with only Blackwood’s mysterious lord for company, she must confess she barely knew the man. Oh, yes, they made some pretense at flirtation, but no matter how many witty jests he made, or how long they spent in each other’s company, like the castle itself, he was a fortress filled with secrets, and his truest self remained locked away no less securely than he kept her.

  Four long years without answers, or speaking to her sisters. Four years without practicing her Craft.

  Four years!

  The footsteps came closer… louder… faster.

  Once again Rhiannon peered down at her manacles—impossible contraptions that defied logic. By order of her mother, they’d clapped them upon her wrists, and with the turn of a key they’d made her into a worthless bag of bones. Her lack of ability was infuriating.

  Mercifully they were no longer bound together—a kindness served by the lord of Blackwood, who’d painstakingly reworked the metal over long, long hours to gift her the freedom of movement. And nevertheless, it was difficult to be thankful for his effort, when she knew good and well that he could free her with a word if he chose to.

  Until such time as her mother returned to claim it, Cael d’Lucy was still lord of this demesne.

  It was him, thank the gods!

  By now, she recognized his footfalls—soft and sure, like a wolf on the prowl. Her heart skipped a beat, and she cursed herself for the weakness. Nearly every time she saw him, she waged a battle in her heart, one she would never, ever confess—it was true; she thought him beautiful, clever, and thoroughly impossible.

  Unfortunately, whatever good she sensed in Cael d’Lucy, it was tempered by the fact that she knew him to be an agent for darkness—a scourge to England and Wales.

  Indeed, he might well be respected in Stephen’s court, and perhaps even throughout Wales, but Cael d’Lucy was no less a servitor for darkness than the rest of her mother’s minions. And, in the end, he bowed, not to justice, nor to England’s King, but to a destroyer of realms.

  Morwen.

  Nay, she reminded herself, not Morwen.

  Cerridwen. The Dark Goddess, the Shadow Crone, the Shapeshifter of Legend…

  And now she was here; Rhiannon could feel it in her bones. It gave her a shiver.

  What now, sweet fate?

  There was so much she longed to say to her sisters.

  Goddess only knew, whatever perfidy Morwen was planning, Blackwood was at the center of her plans. It was that cauldron, she realized—that holiest of grails. Life was born from its belly and Rhiannon knew intuitively that it was the cauldron Morwen wanted. But it was not so simple as taking it, else she would have done so long ago. King Stephen wasn’t so witless as to allow a great fortress to slip from his grasp. Instead of returning it to her family, he’d awarded it to the commander of his Rex Militum, and if Morwen tried to usurp it, he would mount an army to retake it.

  No, her mother wasn’t stupid either. Rather, she meant for her daughter to take it for her. But no matter how Rhiannon felt about Cael, she would be damned if she’d allow Morwen to win this game—never would she take d’Lucy’s name!

  But this was something she didn’t comprehend: Why?

  Why was Cael so indebted to her?

  Why was he so willing to turn a blind eye to all she did?

  What precisely did her mother have to leverage over Cael?

  Considering all these things, perhaps for the thousandth time, she fingered the etching on one of her manacles, still sharply inscribed no matter how many years had gone by…

  Hic est Draco,

  Ex undis,

  Tenetur in argenteas

  A capite ad calcem, tace, et sile

  Here be the dragon,

  From the waves of the sea,

  Bound in silver,

  From head to toe, silent and still

  Rhiannon was not the dragon, but she was a Pendragon, and so it seemed that whatever magik had been imbued into the words, it was strong enough to endure.

  The footste
ps stopped abruptly in her antechamber. Ready to do battle, she spun to face the door, watching through the crack as her guards silently dispersed.

  And there he was… lingering in the shadows, hesitating, and she knew why. After all they had professed, he fully intended to betray her at her mother’s behest.

  “What are you waiting for?” she said acerbically.

  At long last, the lord of Blackwood revealed himself, sauntering into her chamber with a turn of his lips that revealed the barest trace of a smile.

  “Ah, my dear Rhiannon, don’t tell me you missed me?” he asked, with his usual mordancy, though it wasn’t a question, and even if it were, Rhiannon suspected he had long ago surmised the truth—devil take him!

  She had missed him, though she’d be damned if she’d ever say so, certainly not to him.

  “Hardly,” she said. And no matter that the timbre of her voice seemed laden with contempt, her heart did a telltale leap at the familiar glint in his eyes.

  He had no right to be so beautiful, and now she understood Lucifer’s lament—no man with a heart so dark had a right to shine so bright. There were no half measures where he was concerned; his shoulders were impossibly wide, his hair was dark as coal, his lips were sinfully full.

  And truly, for a blackguard, he had a very endearing, but telltale habit of holding his chin and brushing a thumb over his mouth when he looked at her, as though he would love to kiss her. It never failed to steal Rhiannon’s breath.

  “How sad,” he quipped, and Rhiannon lifted her brow.

  “So says the lord with a smicker.”

  He regarded her a moment longer, still brushing that thumb across his lips, and then he frowned. “Have I not treated you well enough?”

  He had, and so he had.

  Far better than her mother would have liked. Had she had her way, Rhiannon would have remained chained to a wall in the tower, deprived even of a window.

  “Have I not provided your every desire?”

  “Everything but my freedom,” she said easily, never at a loss to remind him.