In fact, he remembered when she’d first met Henry—the longing in her heart for a love of her own. Contrary to the belief of some, she did not scheme to rule in those days. She’d only wished to be his lover, and she’d tried to befriend Matilda and William, as well, but to no avail.
Alas, she might be a goddess, in truth, but she had a woman’s heart, and the fury of a woman scorned—not once, but thrice.
In fact, in the beginning, she’d been so different that Cael had doubted the rumors he’d heard—most notably, the sinking of the White Ship to murder the King’s heir. But now… he knew her well enough to believe it. And no matter that he felt conflicted, he knew in his heart that he shouldn’t be. His decision should be clear: He should remove the athame from around her neck—slowly, circumspectly, he reached for it now, slipping it from beneath her gown.
He should take the weapon in hand, and plunge it through the bones of her breast, into that cold, cold heart.
What then would be the consequences… for him?
Considering that question, he wrested the chain from around Morwen’s neck, perhaps only to inspect it…
The dagger was quite ancient—made of the same alloy as Caledfwlch. It glowed faintly blue whilst in her presence, and yet… the reliquary she kept on the same chain did not. He studied it now, considering the bauble more closely. It looked like the one he wore about his neck… except…
He drew out his own to compare, startled to discover his glowing blue… like her athame.
And yet, the one she’d worn about her neck did not… why?
Once, long ago, she’d confessed to him that her soul was bound to a grisial hud like his. Could his belong to her… and hers to him? Was it possible that she’d given hers to Cael, knowing full well that he would protect his own sepulcher with his life… because his soul depended upon it.
He placed both reliquaries in the palm of one hand, side by side—presumably his, presumably hers—and then stood, moving away from the listless form on the floor, watching the glow of one fade, if ever so slightly.
Neither of the stones had ever glowed for him.
Down in his gut, he sensed the truth: For some reason, Morwen had kept his grisial hud, entrusting him with hers… though she’d allowed Mordecai to keep his own.
Why?
Cael didn’t know precisely how they worked.
He didn’t even know if he had to be in its presence to make use of it—specifically, whether his soul would locate his sepulcher outside proximity if it should separate from his body.
What was it she’d said?
His soul was bound to the crystal. So long as the reliquary remained undestroyed, wherever he was, his body could be slain, but his soul could endure and be summoned.
Presumably, this was how she’d returned Mordecai to his body some years ago, with a ritual at the Widow’s Tower. He wasn’t there to witness it, because Cael had begun to question her motives, and shortly before then, they’d quarreled over her method and madness. Little by little, he’d hardened his heart against her. Now, it was growing more and more difficult to see the good in her—more difficult yet after watching the enmity she held for her own daughter.
She’d brought him back to this world, and for that, Cael would always owe her a debt of gratitude, but the fury in his own heart had blinded him to the evil in hers, and perhaps even some small part of him had relished her vengeance.
After all, he, too, had been betrayed—and by none other than those folks who’d played the Witch Goddess false…
Taliesin and Uther.
He stepped closer to her body, staring down at the twin reliquaries in his hand… one cold and tarnished, one warmer and glowing blue.
Trying to understand, he stepped back again, further and further, watching the glimmer fade, until the one nearly matched the other. Without the luminesce they were indistinguishable, even to the crystal.
Once again, he moved closer, watching the return of the glow, knowing in his heart it was hers—it must be hers!
The fact that she was lying so still… it must be proof that, in mortal form, she was as vulnerable as he was.
If he took her life…
If he dared…
Rhiannon, he thought.
It would bring an end to the bloodshed and violence.
But…
Very carefully, he removed the dagger from the chain, and then bent to lay the athame atop her breast. Still kneeling, he opened both fists to examine the contents of both hands. In one he held the vial filled with Marcella’s potion; in the other he held both reliquaries.
If he kept her grisial hud and threatened to destroy it, could he persuade her to his will?
He didn’t know, but for all that had passed between them, he couldn’t kill her—not here, not yet. At the instant, she was naught but an insensate, vulnerable woman, and he couldn’t kill her, but… he suddenly couldn’t see the wisdom in remaining to see her wake. He had betrayed her by setting her daughter free, and Rhiannon was right: She would not forgive him. Rhiannon was the last of her daughters to be bartered, and Cael had effectively taken that away.
Decided, he flung both chains around his neck, then examined the vial in his hand, realizing what it was that he should do…
If he stayed, she would inflict her anger on the innocents in this hall, if only to punish him. She would test him, and she would test them, stopping at nothing to extract the truth. On the other hand, if he left… she might leave them be, realizing they were as much a victim in this as she was. None of those remaining would deny the Witch Queen what she sought. She would ask them if they knew, and some might even tell her they remembered him escorting Rhiannon from the hall…
Kneeling by her side, Cael plucked the stopper from Marcella’s vial, placing the bitter, foul-smelling liquid to his nostrils and wincing.
Would another dose kill her?
It very well could, and if he gave her an overdose, he would have to live with it, he supposed, because, suddenly more clear-headed than he’d been in years, he knew what must be done…
Sliding an arm beneath her shoulders, he lifted Morwen so that her head tilted back, naturally parting her lips, and then, all the more resolved, he emptied the contents of Marcella’s vial into her mouth, and gently laid her back.
Now it was done.
Now, he must go, and when she awoke, she would find him gone. She would know he’d conspired with Marcella to betray her. And she would pursue them both by all means. The very least he could do for Rhiannon was to free the hounds. Shaking his head with disgust over the present circumstances, he hurled the vial across the room, although he should have laid it by her side. She would know anyway, and she would curse him for it, and if he was wrong about the reliquaries, she would stop at nothing to destroy him.
Turning from the woman to whom he owed his freedom, and his second chance at life—the Lady of Avalon, the mother, mage and crone—he made his way to the stables to prepare his horse, with a name on his lips and in his heart: Rhiannon.
12
All Rhiannon needed to do was keep walking, put one foot in front of the other.
Why, then, did it seem to take such effort?
It wasn’t only the physical exertion. Wearing the manacles had been akin to suffering a five-year malaise. By contrast, she felt as though she were walking out of a fog. But she was leaving without Cael, and this was her greatest ambivalence. She worried about leaving him at her mother’s mercy.
And yet, wasn’t he the same as she?
His goals were her goals—isn’t that what he’d said?
On the one hand, he’d been Rhiannon’s willing gaoler.
On the other, he’d kept her sane in a world where all seemed hopeless. Somehow, he’d managed to renew her faith, even despite everything.
Still, why should she worry about a man who’d kept her imprisoned?
She was as confused now as she ever was—perhaps even more so.
The truth was that she
had always had a singleness of purpose from the moment she was born. She’d vowed then to avenge Morien’s death, and she still meant to do it. But here was her dilemma now: Cael was her husband, and her husband was also her enemy. Unfortunately, no matter how she willed it, her heart couldn’t seem to harden against him.
Pausing for the hundredth time since their flight from Blackwood, she cast a glance over her shoulder, hoping to find he’d changed his mind and decided to follow.
“Rhiannon,” Marcella begged. “You mustn’t tarry!”
Rhiannon’s heart squeezed with grief.
Some fool part of her longed to rush back, even knowing that would be unwise. Why, oh why hadn’t she put her poniard through her mother’s black heart whilst she still had the chance?
Because she hadn’t been thinking; that’s why.
Only feeling.
So stunned by Cael’s actions, she’d allowed him to lead her mindlessly from the hall. And now, she couldn’t stop thinking about everything she should have done differently.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him…
Morwen would kill him.
Even if he took the draught and lay prone at her feet, her mother wasn’t a fool.
Wracking her brain, Rhiannon tried to remember their discourse at the table.
Morwen had been so sure Rhiannon didn’t know Marcella, because it was true. She’d smelled Rhiannon’s envy like a hound sniffing merde, and she’d gloated over it. Only now, Rhiannon tried to remember exactly what she’d said—had she confessed that, in truth, she’d never met Cael’s cousin?
If so, would Morwen believe she was lying?
She prayed with all her heart that her mother would believe Cael’s ruse, else he would pay a terrible price.
In fact, he might pay anyway, because Morwen had all the same gifts Rhiannon had, only far more attuned to the aether: If she sensed lies, she would turn him to dust where he stood. But that wasn’t the only thing Rhiannon was worried about; she was worried about this: That draught was bound to work differently on Morwen than it did on Cael or his servants… What if they’d misjudged its potency and Morwen had already roused to find him gone?
What if she was only waiting for Cael to return?
What if she’d killed him right then and there and came flying after them, and even now was hot in pursuit?
In the darkness, every sound conspired to defeat her nerves—the breeze hissing through the trees, startled conies dashing across their paths, nightjars trilling from their perches. The suspense of it left her shivering, wondering if her mother’s minions were already here. Brave as she believed she was, her heart tripped as many times as she did, and the one thing she took comfort in was the absence of barking hounds. She knew Cael kept a stable full, though she’d rarely chanced to see them. Still, she’d often heard them from her bower.
“How long till they wake, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcella.
As it happened, the draught they’d used to sedate the entire hall had been concocted by none other than Marcella, using, of all things, Morwen’s cauldron in the courtyard. All the while Rhiannon had been forced to endure Morwen’s company at table, Marcella and Cael had been in the process of orchestrating the drogue’s administration. As potent as the philter was, only a few drops in each of the ewers had been enough. Just to be certain, they’d waited until Morwen was affected, then sent kitchen maids to administer the rest to the guests. Only Aelwyd had known what they were planning, and she was sent away for her own protection. If everything went according to plan, Morwen would wake with the castle aslumber, and no one the wiser. Then, it would be up to Cael to convince her that he hadn’t had any part in the ruse, but was he clever enough to beguile a woman with the power to read minds?
Only the Goddess knew.
However, if Rhiannon knew her mother at all, she wouldn’t wait about for explanations. She’d sooner strike him down than ask questions. There was no way her pride could withstand losing yet another daughter. She would be out here forthwith, combing the woods, with Mordecai and her ravens at her side…
“How did you know the draught would work?”
“Because,” Marcella confessed. “I tested it on myself.”
“How does that signify?”
“I am dewine.”
Rhiannon blinked. “You?”
“Aligned to earth, alchemy my calling. Apparently, you are not so attuned with the aether as you’d like to believe, Rhiannon. Even unshackled, you did not read my aura.”
Rhiannon bristled, though it was true. It was only then, in that instant, that she perceived the faintest trace of pink in Marcella’s aura—so faint that it was no wonder she’d missed it before.
Pink, you see, was the color of Rhiannon’s kindred—those who bore the blood of Taliesin. Although it seemed that, by its measure alone, Marcella’s blood was much diluted—that, or the ill effects of wearing those manacles might be permanent.
“Dewine?” she said, again, because so long as she’d lived, Rhiannon had never once encountered another witchkind, much less a sister of Taliesin’s blood. Certainly, she’d suspected there were others, but if Marcella was a dewine… what then was Cael?
Not dewine.
Even with her manacles, Rhiannon would have sensed it. And so it would appear… the more she knew about Cael, the more of a mystery he became—a mystery she fully intended to solve once they were out of Blackwood’s shadow.
Warkworth Castle
It was the crow on the windowsill that woke Seren.
Again.
Silent, watchful, it sat perched on the sill, its lustrous blue-black feathers catching a hint of moonlight. “I’m awake,” she groused to the bird, giving it a thankless glance. It was impossible not to sense the beady-eyed gaze, even under a veil of slumber.
Alas, with the gargantuan bed so painfully empty beside her, she was finding it more and more difficult to rest.
Rising up with a breathy sigh, she swung her feet over the edge, searching for her slippers. She didn’t intend to remain here in this bed—not tonight, with her mind scattering all her thoughts to the winds.
No one had heard from Morwen, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t out there, somewhere, scheming. Now, more than ever, Seren felt time slipping away, like sand through a glass. Over and over, Isolde’s warnings kept ringing in her ears: You will be the Regnant—you and only you, and if not you, no other in this day and age. Earn your laurels. Find your true self. Only then will you find your answers.
The problem was… Seren didn’t know how to find her true self. Neither did Rosalynde or Elspeth. And neither did Isolde, for all her cryptic words.
Sometimes it seemed to her that only Arwyn, for all her lack of affinity, had ever truly understood her true purpose in life. Once the occasion had presented itself, her sister had done what she’d known she must, without hesitation.
To the contrary, she, Rose and Ellie were all like blind women leading the blind.
And Rhiannon—where was she? For all her promises, Rhiannon was silent as the grave.
Muttering crossly, she found and donned her slippers, sliding her toes inside, before making her way across to the dressing table to find a taper.
Not bothering with a fire steel, she lit the wick with her will and sighed again—at least her fire affinity was growing stronger.
The wick flamed to life with a deep, amber glow, startling the crow. It took flight from her windowsill and vanished into the night, and Seren took the taper and shoved it into a pricket. “Good riddance,” she said, though she knew she should be grateful for any sort of champion at all, even a puny little crow.
This particular bird had appeared weeks ago, around the same time Isolde came to call, with all her cryptic stories and all her mysterious divinations. As it happened, the old woman and that crow were never in the same place at the same time, and every time Isolde went away, that damnable bird returned. Even so, Seren had never actually witnesse
d a transformation, so for all she knew, it was only a stupid little bird taken to loitering in her window—night after night after night.
It was a good thing Wilhelm was gone, because he’d already threatened to take a sling to the bird.
Shaking her head, she made her way down the hall, holding a hand beneath her pricket, lest the wax mar her husband’s perfectly polished floor.
Indeed, shapeshifting was a rare talent, one most practitioners of the hud did not know how to perform. It was, in fact, a form of hud du. Her grandmother had said that all knowledge of those dark arts—if ever they’d existed—passed away with the fall of Avalon. But this was not precisely true. Morwen was a practitioner of the dark arts, and if, in truth, Isolde was a shapeshifter, as well, then she too was a student of hud du. Alas, the old woman was nearly as mysterious and elusive as their mother, arriving without announcement, then taking her leave without good-byes.
Whenever she was about, she rambled on and on about prophecies, giving more than enough warnings, but answering all their questions with riddles that left Seren scratching her head. Without the grimoire, how was she supposed to learn if Isolde wouldn’t teach her?
By now, Seren had all but given up asking that woman for help, because it seemed she was disinclined—or else she’d forgotten everything she’d ever known. How fortunate for Morwen, if that be the case.
At least Elspeth and Rosalynde had had the opportunity to skim the grimoire at their leisure. That was how they’d learned to concoct a form of witchwater for the motte—a strange brew for transmutation that was made mostly from spoilt mushrooms. It was that very concoction that was responsible for turning a visiting merchant into a thief, and a number of small stones into fish. By now, the poor motte was filled to capacity, and the fishes were jumping about for air, though at least the villagers had their fill of smelt.
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 10
