How was this possible?
Even by her own admission, Marcella was a witch. For obvious reasons, those two professions did not align.
Disbelieving what she’d heard, Rhiannon met Jack’s gaze, only to be sure. He nodded swiftly at the question in her eyes, and Rhiannon blinked yet again.
How was this possible?
For ages, their dewinefolk had been hunted by paladins—and not merely in past times. From its conception, the Papal Guard had ruthlessly hunted her kind, dragging them out from their homes only to be burned at the stake—like her grandmother. Shortly before Rhiannon was born, her grandmother was sentenced to death, and executed by a company of paladins. They were, essentially, no more than executioners for the Church.
And nevertheless, she shouldn’t be so surprised, because her own forebear was said to have aided huntsmen. The great and esteemed Taliesin was Uther’s mage, and Uther was said to be a founding member of the Papal Guard. There wasn’t a living witch who knew their dewine history who didn’t feel some measure of ambivalence over the conflicts of their past. There might appear to be clear sides—right or wrong—but the truth was far more complicated.
A pure-blood dewine herself, Cerridwen should have been the one to whom their loyalties were bound. After all, she was a Goddess, and Taliesin was her child, natural born though he was not. And nevertheless, it was her blood that made him, and in the end, he’d betrayed her—as he later betrayed their dewinekind by aligning himself with Uther Pendragon.
As the story was told to Rhiannon, Uther hunted faefolk and slew them till their numbers had dwindled. He was the reason her people hid themselves in the sacred forests, and buried their grimoires for fear of persecution.
And nevertheless… here was Marcella… aiding Rhiannon… at her cousin’s behest. It was enough to make Rhiannon’s head ache as much as her heart. Even with the burden of her manacles lifted, she could scarcely think to make sense of all the things she’d learned. Everything was clear as sludge.
And yet, she knew that not all paladins were agents of destruction. Proof of that was her brother by law; Giles de Vere was Rosalynde’s champion and now her husband. For love of her sister, he’d turned his back on his paladin vows.
Had Marcella as well?
And what, pray tell, was Marcella’s connection to Cael?
Whose side was she on?
And so, it seemed, even after so many centuries, there were still no clear lines to be drawn… Morwen was evil, perhaps because she was betrayed, and despite that this alone was no true defense, neither was Taliesin an innocent man. Their ancient feud—fanciful though the bards might make it—was as real as the nose on Rhiannon’s face, vicious besides.
There was no way around it; Morwen must die. And yet, despite this, Rhiannon suddenly understood something about her mother’s plight—perhaps even sympathized with her as well.
And now, if she sensed ambivalence in Marcella, at least she understood why: Marcella might, in truth, be her dewine sister, but she was a slayer of her own kind. Therefore, she was not to be trusted nor trifled with, and, yes, indeed, Rhiannon must keep her wits about her, until she chanced to discover what it was that motivated the paladin.
In the meantime, one thing was certain: It was going to be a long, long journey to Warkworth.
15
By the time they crossed into England, Rhiannon felt her strength nearly returned. Although her body wasn’t so hale as it was before the confinement, her head felt clearer than it had in ages—as clear as it could possibly be while plagued with thoughts of Cael.
Unfortunately, there was little she could do for Blackwood’s lord, and she must accept the truth. Her husband had chosen his fate. Whatever his attachment to Morwen, his consequences were his own to bear. And nevertheless, it still made her miserable—as miserable as she’d been over the loss of her sister, although, in truth, they shouldn’t be the same.
She’d known Arwyn her entire life.
In contrast, she’d known Cael but a small portion of that.
And furthermore, Arwyn was an innocent, a good woman, who’d spent her entire life following the dictates of her heart.
Rhiannon didn’t know what Cael was, but he wasn’t particularly “good,” and neither was he innocent.
Inherently, it was a waste of time to grieve for a man like him. And nevertheless, she was coming to realize that love was not reasonable, and neither was it kind—not if the ache in her heart was any indication.
Distracting herself from her wayward thoughts, following her guides, she idled away the hours honing her Craft, summoning water from the aether, then tossing it away—a tiddly little spell that didn’t require much manipulation so it shouldn’t call undue attention. Their proximity to Blackwood was still too precarious and she wasn’t yet strong enough to cast a big enough protection spell to make the gamble worthwhile. But this spell was so simple that she performed it by rote, casting it again and again, strengthening her connection to the hud by virtue of the repetition. She was desperate to prepare herself in case her mother should appear, and they were far enough now that it should be safe.
On the bright side, they’d been traveling for most of the day, and still, there was no sign of Morwen or Cael. If luck remained their ally, perhaps by the time they made camp this eve, she would be strong enough to cast a proper protection spell. If not, she’d find some other way to defend herself and her companions—whether or not they deserved her protection. One way or the other, the onus must fall to Rhiannon. Only she had any true chance to prevail against Morwen, because, skilled as she might be, Marcella’s sword was a poor defense against hud du. Paladin, or nay, her Craft left much to be desired. Bravado would take her only so far. With that sword, she might fare well enough against brigands, but Morwen was another matter entirely. Potions were weak and ineffectual, compared to elemental magik.
Although, at this point, the sword had returned to her scabbard, all day long, she’d been swinging it as though in warning, casting narrow-eyed glances toward Rhiannon each time Rhiannon dared perform a new spell. This was the extent of their interaction, and Rhiannon quickly came to realize how much that woman resented her.
Envy perhaps?
If not over Cael, then mayhap over magik?
Ready to do battle over her right to defend herself, Rhiannon summoned another palmful of water, and then cast it away, marveling over the rush of magik through her veins.
Only a dewine’s eyes could spy the small points of dew that flew to her hand, each lit by a soft incandescent glow that reminded Rhiannon of tiny stars—dew lights, she’d called them as a child.
Oblivious to those dew lights, Jack rode beside her, regaling Rhiannon with tales of his days at sea with his father. He recounted all their travels, the ports they’d visited and all the commissions they’d accepted from her half-sister Matilda.
“That’s how I came to know your sisters,” he said, and Rhiannon frowned.
“Sisters?”
He smiled ruefully. “Seren and Arwyn,” he said. “My papa was capitaine of the Whitshed. Sadly, he died in the same fire that took your sister’s life, though I do not blame Arwyn.”
“I-I’m… sorry,” Rhiannon said, stunned.
Why hadn’t she realized sooner?
This, then, was the reason for the melancholy so evident in his pale blue eyes, ever present even despite his good humor. Apparently, he’d been a witness to her sister’s sacrifice, and by no choice of his own, had lost his father as well. Only, it occurred to her suddenly that if he was there that day, he would also know if Seren survived. Because of her infuriating shackles, Rhiannon never had the opportunity to find out. Now, she was afraid to ask.
“Four years ago last month,” he said. “I miss him still.” And then he crossed himself and kissed his thumb.
Rhiannon’s fingers fluttered to her breast, pressing the dampness into the rough wool of her tunic. “And Seren?”
He shook his head, and Rhiannon’s
heart tripped painfully.
“I’ve not seen her in years,” he said, “though I believe she and Rosalynde now reside together at Warkworth.” He smiled sadly as he added, “You know, it was Arwyn who first taught me my letters, and then… Seren who held me together…”
He didn’t seem able to finish, and Rhiannon’s gaze shifted into the treetops, hoping to stem the flow of tears—relief and sorrow warring inside her.
Seren was alive!
“I did not mean to upset you,” he said.
A well-worn grief came back to haunt her and Rhiannon lifted her hand to her throat, shaking her head mutely. Emotion stuck in her throat.
It was not Jack’s fault.
It was not Jack she blamed.
Rhiannon was the one who’d encouraged Arwyn in those final moments… That day, she’d mindspoken, defying their lack of proximity, earning herself a pair of manacles and her sweet sister a fiery end. Thereafter, Rhiannon had wept for days, until Morwen’s lackey arrived to place her in shackles. From that day forward, she’d nourished her anger, because grief alone would have broken her entirely.
“She was a kind soul,” Jack said. “Unlike my father, your sister had a way of making figures seem like the most diverting task. She made me long to read.”
It had been so long since Rhiannon had had news of any of her sisters, the telling of his tale was bittersweet. Her breath hitched, remembering Arwyn…
Her sweet, young sister could raise anyone’s spirits. She had loved fiercely, and in the end, had proven that love. The world was darker without her.
“She had this… crystal,” he said. “As my reward for a job well done, she would betimes allow me a look at it to see what I could spy.”
Merlin’s Crystal.
The scrying stone her sisters had destroyed before leaving London. Older yet than the Book of Secrets, it was priceless and irreplaceable. Alas, like every scrying stone, it only revealed itself to those with the sight.
“And did you ever spy anything?”
He shook his head. “Your sister made me believe I could… but, nay… never.”
Rhiannon nodded, grateful for all that he’d shared. “Thank you,” she said, wanting to know more, but not strong enough to ask. At any rate, he was a bit of a blathererprater and she didn’t really need to coax him.
Throughout the day, he told her about his mother and his father. Evidently, his mother was a distant relation to Geoffrey d’Anjou, second husband to Matilda, and father of Duke Henry. Jack’s father’s father was a ship’s captain as well, as was his great grandsire—the latter having captained the flagship of The Conqueror’s invading fleet. No small feat. He said he’d once thought he might enjoy being a ship’s captain, too, but after his father died, he lost his love for the sea. Relieved over his change of heart, his mother had convinced him to apply himself to the Empress’s guard.
“So you returned to France?” Rhiannon asked.
“Eventually.”
That’s when he told her about Wilhelm of Warkworth, the bastard son of Richard de Vere—a bear of a man whose bark was sharper than his bite. Sent by his brother to locate Rhiannon’s missing sisters, he’d discovered both Seren and Arwyn hidden away on the Whitshed. Unfortunately, not in time to save Arwyn. However, it was then that Wilhelm had appointed himself as Seren’s champion. He later married her as well. “I don’t remember much about that morning,” Jack said. “But I vividly recall that fire.” He shook his head. “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen—those bright, bright blue flames rose higher than the masthead.”
“Witchfire,” said Rhiannon. “’Tis—”
“Oh, I know,” he said, perhaps hoping to spare her the explanation. “Of course, I did not witness it myself, but I’m told your sister cast the same blaze at the Battle of the Tower.”
Rhiannon furrowed her brow.
“Battle… of the Tower?”
Averting his gaze, Jack sucked in a breath, perhaps realizing how little she’d been told. He then proceeded to explain: After the fire, Wilhelm escorted Jack and Seren as far as Neasham, leaving Jack there, in the care of the nuns. He was thirteen, he said, and neither Wilhelm nor Seren had relished the thought of exposing him to danger. In those days, he’d had no knowledge of witches, and he’d begged them not to leave. Turning a deaf ear to his pleas, they left him anyway, and neither did they tell him the truth, not until they returned to collect him many months later. By then, Jack had already heard the news.
Apparently, after leaving him at Neasham, Wilhelm and Seren continued on to Warkworth, taking a familiar route. It was in Holystone Wood that they’d encountered Rose and Elspeth at some ruin called the Widow’s Tower…
Of course, Rhiannon knew none of this, because all of it took place after they’d placed her in shackles, effectively blocking her magik. Naturally, nobody ever bothered to inform her—yet another reason for her to be furious with Cael.
Evidently, having been summoned by Morwen, her sisters arrived to retrieve Elspeth’s son. Surrounded by Morwen’s army, and far outnumbered, they’d feared the worst.
“She took Ellie’s son?” interrupted Rhiannon. “I don’t understand… how was she able to enter Aldergh castle? After Eustace and Morwen’s attack, I helped Elspeth fortify a warding spell.”
Jack shrugged.
“Because your mother’s a canny old witch, that’s why,” announced Marcella, tugging on her reins and falling back to ride alongside them. Her green eyes glittered fiercely. “She gave herself a glamour to resemble Elspeth.”
Rhiannon peered around Jack to better see Marcella, and asked, “So you were there?”
“Nay, I was not,” said the witch-paladin. “’Tis simply my business to know.”
“Did my husband know as well?”
The witch-paladin eyed Rhiannon shrewdly. “I cannot say what your husband did, or did not know.” She lifted her chin. “Would you like to feed your angry wolf, or would you like to hear the rest of the tale?”
Rhiannon’s changing emotions returned to annoyance over Marcella’s officious tone, and nevertheless, she swallowed her ire and said, “I’d like to hear the rest, please.”
Marcella smiled victoriously. “Deceived by Morwen’s glamour, your sister’s guards invited Morwen into the castle; there, she stole the elder boy, and took him to the Widow’s Tower, threatening to murder him if they did not return her grimoire.”
Rhiannon pressed a hand to her breast. Even all these years later, prickles of fear sidled down her spine in anticipation of hearing the rest. “What then?”
“Seren—”
“Nay,” Marcella interrupted Jack. “Seren did not cast the witchfire. Rather, she was the one to put it out. It was Morwen who summoned witchfire, and demanded that Seren pass through it to trade the Book for the child.”
“And did she?” Rhiannon swallowed convulsively.
Marcella shook her head. “Nay, she did not. For love of her, and in fear for her life, Wilhelm Fitz Richard seized the grimoire before Seren could comply, intending to sacrifice himself to save the child. So it seemed, the battle would be lost, but Seren saved the day, dousing Morwen’s witchfire with her witchwater, even as your mother fled, taking the grimoire with her.”
So many questions sprang to Rhiannon’s lips. “What of the child?”
“Fine.”
“And Wilhelm?”
“Fine.”
“My sister did that?”
“Aye,” said the paladin very smugly.
“My Seren?”
Marcella lifted her brows. “Perhaps you know another?” When Rhiannon shook her head, she said with a sniff, “Seren will be Regnant, so I’m told.”
Rhiannon was too stunned by the revelation to take offense over Marcella’s high-minded tone.
Witchwater?
Seren had cast witchwater?
Seren?
With the power to heal, and cast away demons, the Church had once used witchwater for their sacraments. However, since the
break between the Papacy and the doom of Avalon, they’d been using plain old well water, blessed by a priest. There were only three sacred elements in the world—witchwater, witchwind and witchfire. Supposedly, if a dewine grew strong enough, and her affinity allowed it, she could find within her ability to cast one sacred element. However, no witch in modernity had ever had the power to summon them all… not even her grandmother.
None of her sisters were skilled enough for that.
Elspeth was aligned to earth. All her magik—what little she’d dared perform—always hearkened this alignment. Rosalynde’s affinity was water; from the time she was young she could cover a windowpane with frost in the middle of summer. But Seren?
And yet, somehow, it did make sense…
Someone had to be the Regnant, and her sister’s magik had always been odd—as though it were bound. Her middle sister had displayed a very strange combination of affinities. Although Rhiannon had always supposed she was aligned to air, she was also gifted with the skill to charm, much like Ellie, only better. However, charm was a skillset aligned to earth, and earth was not compatible with air. Therefore, the only logical explanation should be that Seren, too, was aligned to aether. Rhiannon had never seriously considered this, mostly because she herself was aligned to aether, and the alignment to aether was so incredibly rare it was far more likely that all her sisters would be aligned to a single affinity, rather than to have even one aligned to aether… much less two… or three.
“Art certain?” Rhiannon asked, casting another dubious glance at Marcella.
Marcella lifted a black brow. “Quite,” she said. “Your sister will be Regnant—Goddess willing.”
“But… I… am aligned to aether,” Rhiannon said. “’Tis highly improbable to have three dewines all in one family aligned to aether…”
“Nay, not three,” Marcella countered, and Rhiannon tilted the paladin a questioning look. “Your mother is not aligned to aether,” she said, and then she averted her gaze, staring straight ahead with her chin raised belligerently. “God’s blood! You look exactly like her,” she interjected, and it sounded like a complaint.
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 12
