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Maelgwn would love to have imagined a collective gasp.
Alas, there was only one… the one emitted by his wife… the only person he did not wish to displease.
At least… this was not the manner in which he’d wished to reveal himself.
And so, it seemed, the remainder of those gathered already knew who he was… and still they would grant him the sword.
For a long moment, that fact left him reeling, confused, though he’d reached for the sword anyway, the temptation too difficult to resist.
The very instant the cold steel had met his flesh—familiar even through the ages—it sent a sizzle through his veins, a surge of vigor and strength that hardened his cock where he stood. His breath halted over the feel of Caledfwlch in his hands, the fine way the pommel melded with his palm, the precisely honed steel crafted only for him… so long he’d coveted this weapon, even after it stole his life, and everything he’d loved…
Even now, he was a man possessed, willing to gamble for the sword, no matter the cost.
“Is it true?” asked his wife softly, her voice filled with pain.
She was astute enough to understand what was happening.
Rhiannon was no fool; she knew full well what things were possible through magik. Although she hadn’t once suspected who he was, he knew she would know the truth when she heard it… and when he met her gaze, the look on her face filled him with dread. He responded instinctively, merely intending to remind her of her promises to him and her place by his side. The words came out harsher and less hospitable than he’d intended. “’Tis true,” he said. “I am the Dragon Lord, and lest you forget, you are my wife!”
Rhiannon stood then, formidable as any woman could be. “Nay,” she said. “Need I remind you, my lord? I am a Pendragon. I make up my own mind who I stand beside.” And then, very swiftly gathering her skirts, she marched out of the hall, all three of her sisters filing out behind her.
“Rhiannon!” shouted Elspeth. “Wait!”
She was immediately followed by Rosalynde, but neither of her sisters could break her pace. Rhiannon disappeared from his sight, and Seren turned to give him a subtle smile, though her final words as she followed Rhiannon were not for her departing sister. She said quietly to Cael, “That sword is a gift, my lord. But so, it seems, you’ve not yet earned my sister’s trust. Both are Goddess-given. One may provide you Wales, the other will gift your true heart’s desire. Choose wisely, Dragon Lord, or you may lose them both.”
Rhiannon had known he was keeping secrets from her—something dark and dreadful. And yet, she would never have imagined it could be this—not this.
Sweet fates!
His life had been prolonged by blood magik. And though she didn’t know precisely how that was done, she knew enough to know that in order to return to this realm, he must have been cauldron born, and bound to his summoner…
Morwen.
No wonder he did not kill her when he had the chance.
No wonder he did not turn away from her villainy.
No wonder he’d kept Rhiannon imprisoned far too long.
A shadow beast…
Bound to her mother.
Time and again, he had said quite plainly that his aim was Morwen’s aim. Well, now she understood why. Only what, precisely, did it mean? Was he compelled by her mother? Did he possess free will? Was his life bound only to the Witch Queen? And now, if they killed Morwen, what did that mean for Cael?
All these questions formed a melee in her mind, though she found answers for not a one.
But worse! He was a sworn enemy to her family—a foe of the man who had, according to Marcella, slain Maelgwn ap Cadwallon so long ago—six hundred years, to be precise.
Six hundred years!
And still… somehow, he was young and vibrant, with the vitality and passion of a flesh and blood man!
Sweet fates. She’d lain with him, and even so, she must confess: She did not regret it. Not for a moment. Even now, her heart ached for him, and some tender part of her soul mourned for the man he had been.
All those years ago, he had faced his own mortality, lost everything that was good and true in his life—his kingdom, his wife, his children and heirs…
The notion was too much to bear.
Marcella had warned her. In her own way, the paladin had revealed so many pieces of the puzzle—pieces Rhiannon hadn’t had the wherewithal to comprehend.
And now she truly knew how arrogant she had been—to think she was so wise. Well, she was not.
Commiserating, she and her sisters ensconced themselves into what Elspeth claimed to be a women’s solar, although the room was neither pleasant, nor comfortable, nor even well furnished. Spartan as it was, it was as barren as the womb of a crone. Verily, it appeared to Rhiannon that no woman had ever turned her hand to the chamber’s good use, except for a broken-down, old loom. And yet, according to her sister, this was once the refuge of Dominique Beauchamp, the beautiful sister of Amdel’s now dead lord, who was bride to Blaec d’Lucy.
Rhiannon wondered if the lord of Drakewich would bother to come. It would serve Cael right if he turned his nose at the request, and nevertheless, they needed all the help they could get. She prayed to the gods that Jack would manage to persuade him. And then she wondered why she bothered to pray, because, in truth, her mother was a child of the Sylph, made by gods. How much good would it do?
Like Lucifer, she was cast down from the heavens. And therefore it must be true: witches were angels, and demons were born by their whimsy—Cael himself was proof.
Her sisters gave her a long moment to grasp the import of her discoveries. And meanwhile, Rosalynde brushed a hand along her back, the gentility of her sister’s sweet touch a comforting balm. It had been so long since she’d reveled in a sisterly touch, and it took every ounce of Rhiannon’s strength not to cast herself into Rosalynde’s loving arms and weep like a disconsolate child.
“So I’m told, he swore to eradicate our blood from this realm,” said Elspeth, with a note of bitterness. “Art certain you still trust him?”
Rhiannon shook her head, then nodded, and said with tears forming in her eyes, “He is my husband.”
And yet, she feared; it was entirely possible they harbored an enemy in their midst, and hadn’t Cael said so?
Hadn’t he warned her endlessly over these past five years?
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
And still, he did leave Morwen at Blackwood, perhaps to die, and he came after Rhiannon to help defend her.
Or had he really?
She was so confused now.
What if, all along, he’d been doing her mother’s bidding? What if he had brought them here to this godforsaken ruin instead of to Warkworth so they could be ambushed by her mother? For five long years, Warkworth had been preparing for this confrontation, and here they were… in a place and state of disrepair, with no chance to survive any siege and few allies to speak of—not to mention, they were ill-equipped to win a simple battle. If Morwen should descend upon them right now, whether alone, or with allies, they would be like lambs drawn to a slaughter.
“Listen to your heart,” said Rosalynde sweetly. “As you know, I wedded a huntsman, Rhiannon. Like you, I should have never trusted Giles.”
“And yet do you?”
Rosalynde nodded fervently. “Implicitly.”
“What has he said?” pressed Elspeth, not so kindly.
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
“That is not the question to ask,” reprimanded Seren, and then with a smile in her golden eyes, her middle sister knelt beside Rhiannon, placing a hand to Rhiannon’s knee. Up close, Seren’s skin was perfectly radiant. Her hair shone like filaments of light. “As you once told Arwyn—remember?—you must trust your heart.”
Rhiannon blinked away a tear. “You were there?�
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“Nay, I was not, my sister. And yet I have seen it.” She sighed woefully, and said, “I have witnessed more than I ever cared to see. And still, I know what I know, and I do not know what I do not know.”
“What does that mean?” snapped Elspeth. “Please, Seren! Do not confuse her with riddles. She has enough of a burden to bear.”
“Goddess, alive! You might be eldest,” argued Rosalynde. “But you are not all-knowing. Leave off with the tyranny, Elspeth!”
“Please, sisters,” begged Seren. “This is not the time to battle amidst ourselves.”
Rhiannon exhaled wearily.
So much had changed, and yet, so much remained exactly the same. Elspeth was just as domineering as ever, only this time, it wasn’t her eldest sister and her at odds. She smiled ruefully over that, amused despite the situation. In all her days, she would never have imagined Elspeth defending her… at least, not since they were children. And here she was, doing precisely that.
As usual, Seren’s patience was heroic. “What I meant is this: I have seen the past, but the future is still to be written. I do not have the ability to see it. Rather…”
She turned to Rhiannon, mindspeaking her own words, and Rhiannon gave them voice. “Life is like a spider’s web—so many threads flowing from its center, all leading to destinations unknown.”
“Precisely,” agreed Seren. “Such as it is, I cannot receive answers for which I do not know the questions.”
Elspeth frowned. “Every day, you sound more and more like that crazy old bat, Isolde—riddle me this, riddle me that!”
“Isolde?” said Rhiannon, her attention piqued, and Rosalynde explained about the old crone’s visit to Warkworth, and all about the old crow that arrived at the same time. Remembering the crow perched on Marcella’s shoulder, Rhiannon wondered… could it be?
Just in case, she told her sisters about the encounter, and all that Marcella had told her, including the tale of her mother’s death, who was also, coincidentally, named Isolde.
“Isolde is dead?” asked Elspeth, confused.
“She died moons ago,” said Rhiannon. “Marcella claimed it was the year she deposited us all at Llanthony.”
“Hmm,” said Elspeth, clearly disbelieving. “And what about Marcella? Do you believe we can trust her?”
“Aye,” said Rhiannon, remembering the sword that the paladin placed between herself and Cael—or rather, between herself and Maelgwn.
Sweet fates, she was so confused.
“Indeed, you may trust me,” said Marcella. She stood in the doorway, cocking a smile at all four sisters.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” she said, before sauntering within. “If you do not mind, this is my story to tell.” And true to form, she did not wait for permission. Without preamble, she confessed her story to the sisters—her love affair with Morwen, her departure from Blackwood after Ellie was born, as well as her very brief, but bittersweet betrothal to Cael.
Apparently, it was the real Cael d’Lucy who was once affianced to her, not Maelgwn ap Cadwallon. Ever-ready to use her minions to her own selfish purpose—even someone she claimed to love—Morwen had urged Marcella to play the part of d’Lucy’s betrothed, only to claim Blackwood. If, indeed, those two had wed, and Morwen had managed to wrest Blackwood by another means, she would have forgotten all about her daughters. Originally, it was her plan to share it all with Marcella.
“D’Lucy was a fool,” the paladin explained. “A poppet, too easily led.” Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, as the case must be for Cael, Morwen discovered a grisial hud, like that one she kept around her neck. She performed the same blood rite that was performed to summon her return, though I do believe she anticipated it must be Taliesin’s crystal, and she meant to end him once and for all.” Marcella smiled benevolently at Rhiannon. “It wasn’t, of course. The reliquary belonged to Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, and once he assumed d’Lucy’s body, your mother had a change in plans.”
“Please, do tell,” said Elspeth, smartly.
Marcella eyed her cannily. “At first, she thought she might wed him herself, but he was never interested in the least. Oh, he gave her his fealty quick enough, as well as the use of his sword, but never his cock.”
Rhiannon blushed hotly, feeling some measure of relief. She looked to see that her sisters’ eyes widened over Marcella’s crude language, but no one dared utter a word in rebuke, and Marcella continued. “Eventually she sent me away to spy on the Holy Roman Emperor, whilst she remained in England to press her wiles. I suppose I grew tired of her lies and found myself inspired by your sister Matilda.”
Elspeth visibly softened, as she confessed, “She inspires me as well. I knew her to be driven, even as a young girl. When William died, I hoped my father would cede her his throne—and, of course, he did. But clearly this is not a woman’s time to rule.” Her tone sounded disappointed now, and she found even more cause to commune with Marcella.
“Alas, my friend, a woman’s arse might not be allowed to warm a throne, but no good king ever reigned without a good woman at his side.”
“Indeed,” said Elspeth, as she nodded. “So was it then you joined the Guard?”
Marcella nodded. “Indeed. And it was your sister who arranged it. I served as her personal guard for a long time, and then, when her husband died, and she was sent away, she made certain I was given an assignment with the Guard.” She grinned then. “I was not entirely welcome.”
The sisters all laughed, only imagining the first time Marcella had walked into their company.
“Marcella is a dewine,” offered Rhiannon. “Aligned to earth, alchemy her calling.”
“Is that true?” asked Elspeth. And then she put a hand to her breast. “I, too, am aligned to earth.”
“Aye, so I am told,” said the paladin. “We have this in common.”
Only Seren seemed unsurprised by these revelations. Her sister sat quietly for a moment as they all discussed the potential applications for the pursuant battle.
Elspeth could help with a few more warding spells. She and Rosalynde had discovered some way to create witchwater, though not the type that needed summoning. With so much water lying about, it would be easy enough to gather it all into the motte. Whatever became of anyone who fell into it was entirely up to the gods.
“That’s a good idea,” said Marcella. “I have herbs that could enhance the brew.” But, really, it was only a half measure. The five of them alone, even working all together, wouldn’t be any true match for Morwen and an entire army of her creatures. No doubt she was gathering all her sycophants, else she’d already have been here by now. What they really needed was aid from Scotia, Stephen and the Church.
“Speaking of which, I suppose I should say that Jack has joined the Guard as well.”
“Jack?” the sisters, all but Rhiannon, asked in unison.
It was Rhiannon who nodded, and then explained. “He and Marcella escorted me from Blackwood together. He’s gone to seek the aid of Cael’s… cousin…”
Implicit in that disclosure was the truth of the matter: The lord of Drakewich was not her husband’s cousin.
Would he ever be told the truth? And if so, what purpose would it serve? Not only was it inexplicable, it was far too fantastical to be believed: witches, demons, Sylphs, angels, gods and magik. And Cael—she did not know him as Maelgwn, and refused to think of him thus—was for all intents and purposes, a demon, summoned by hud du. The very thought made Rhiannon’s head hurt. Somehow, she, a daughter of the Goddess, was wedded to a Shadow Beast.
“What a tangled web,” offered Seren, with a shrug.
Cael sat with his head in his hands.
He was not the man he used to be. That man was gone, dead and buried. Quite literally. If he ever chanced to locate where “Maelgwn ap Cadwallon” lay resting, he would unearth a pile of dirty bones.
Or would there be ash?
He didn’t know.
All he knew for certes was this: He was monstrously ashamed of what he was, and what he’d done.
In the end, all he’d sought to achieve would amount to nothing without Rhiannon.
What, indeed, profiteth a man if he gained the entire world, but lost his soul?
Lifting both reliquaries from his tunic, he removed both chains from around his neck, placing them gingerly on the floor at his feet to study each in turn.
They were exactly alike—nothing to distinguish them at all.
He wished to Heaven he knew how they worked.
If it so happened that he destroyed the wrong one, he might leave Rhiannon to battle her mother alone.
Conversely, if he destroyed them both… he could save them all, but then he would be gone from this world, and his time with Rhiannon would be done.
And nevertheless… she would live, unburdened by a monster for a husband. She would find herself a better man, who could love her and keep her as she so deserved.
But God’s blood! He wanted to be that man.
He wanted to wake each day to her sultry smile until they were old and toothless—and he would love her even then.
To his dismay, the thought of another man touching her… loving her… filled him with white-hot rage.
Destroy the right one, and he might yet live the life he craved…
Destroy the wrong one and he would leave Rhiannon alone.
Destroy them both…
He swallowed convulsively, his hand reaching for the sword beside him on the bed.
Caledfwlch.
Even now, he sensed its innate power, and knew that, no matter how many times someone might attempt to destroy the grisial huds, they would fail immeasurably. Contrarily, this sword would do the job. Of that, he hadn’t any doubt.
He could wait to face her in battle, and see which reliquary shone in her presence… and then, attempt to destroy the right one… but that may not work, he realized.
Even despite the sword’s fabled blessing—that he who wielded it would not bleed—he couldn’t be certain it was true. At least, not for him.
Neither was Morwen to be underestimated.
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 28
