Daughter of Destiny

by Evelina, Nicole

  Argante seemed unfazed by the strange reply. “Thank you, Mother.” She continued on in the traditional way. “May your goodness be forever praised. What say you of this sacred place?”

  “Soon the final passage shall be crossed by one of great power, allowing the lily to emerge from shadow and bloom in the light. An unlikely rose is transplanted to this isle and blossoms in its rich soil. But beware the rose and handle her carefully, for her thorns threaten to pierce the bud of the lily, thus causing the whole garden to die.”

  A murmur rippled around the circle, but Argante paid no heed.

  “We thank you for your wisdom. May your protection be forever on us. What say you of these, your servants?”

  “These here gathered serve me well, and I am pleased. But the day will come when sister shall oppose sister, both in this sacred place and without. Loyalties will be tested and betrayed, so heed my warning. That which is birthed in jealousy shall not give life but infect all who draw near. Therefore, act with love and not out of spite. Only then shall you escape the fate the stars foretell.”

  Silence followed. Around the circle, my confusion was mirrored in all but a few faces. Argante, however, seemed to have comprehended the Goddess’s enigmatic words fully, for she leaned against her cane, nodding as if in agreement with what she heard, eyes shining with newly formed tears. Morgan too appeared to have gleaned some knowledge from the prophecy, for she once again bore that sly, cat-like expression that made me suspect she knew more than she let on.

  We bid the Goddess farewell and Morgan led Viviane aside to recover from the strain. I was called forward to gaze in the well of seeing. Every month, a different priestess took her turn scrying in a cauldron filled with water from the confluence of the sacred springs. Sometimes her visions elaborated on the prophecy given by the Goddess. Other times they yielded a message that pertained to one or more of the priestesses present, while sometimes nothing was seen at all.

  I stood over the cauldron, gazing at my own reflection and breathing deeply, trying to calm myself enough to open my perception. As I leaned forward and exhaled, my breath ruffled the surface of the water, shattering the mirror image before me. A mass of colors swirled in the water, and I sent my consciousness downward through them, into the depths of the dark. I breathed out once again and my hair fell forward, separating the watery oracle from the rest of the world around me. Slowly, my spirit rose up and escaped my body. Smoke-like tendrils of gray mist began to dance on the surface of the water. Then the visions came.

  At first, all I could see were shapes, but then I became aware of enough details to know what I was seeing. It was Northgallis. I recognized my father’s sign—an eagle with a thistle blossom clutched in its talons—flying high above the watch towers. The sight of the familiar walls made my heart soar, but that joy was short-lived. My father came into view first, unkempt and unshaven, tears etching canyons in his cheeks. On his shuffling heels followed a tall blond man whose ritual robes marked him a Christian priest. My lady’s maid, Octavia, trailed behind, scarcely able to stand, so great was her grief.

  Bringing up the rear was an honor guard transporting a bier. The body was shrouded and covered in a black cloth, but I recognized the symbol embroidered on it immediately. It was a knot work horse, the symbol of my mother’s clan. Beside the bier, a young man carried a small box draped in matching cloth but bearing my father’s standard. It was a baby’s coffin; this woman had died in childbirth. Somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I knew who she was, but my mind could not bear to admit it.

  The vision splintered to pieces as stabbing shards of light filled my eyes. From somewhere far away, a banshee’s high-pitched wail shattered the night. It was only moments later, as my hand struck the cauldron and sent it tumbling to the ground, that I realized I had been the one screaming.

  My knees could no longer support me, and my mind threatened to collapse as well. I sank to the ground, heedless of the steaming waters that soaked my skirts. A merciless claw squeezed my heart so hard I thought I would die. I struggled to breathe but could not take in air. Cold, stiff fingers like those of the Death Mother herself pawed at my arms, trying to help me to my feet.

  “Guinevere, what is it? What have you seen?” The voices echoed from a great distance.

  I swallowed, fighting back the blackness that threatened to engulf me. “My mother—she is dead.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After seventeen miserable days tracing old Roman roads north from Avalon with Morgan and a handful of guards, this was not the homecoming I had envisioned. I expected to be greeted warmly at the gates by my family and long-estranged friends, but there was nary a soul present to welcome us home, not even a wandering dog.

  Our guards shouted out our arrival. A moment later, the entry doors opened and we were ushered quickly inside the gates with only the merest of polite greetings, as if those inside feared to speak with us. While the others hurried quickly indoors, I lingered in the doorway, drawing comfort from the feeling of protection the thick walls of the fortress gave me.

  “My Lady, do come inside.”

  My thoughts were interrupted by the nasal Midland accent of a blond serving girl who had mysteriously appeared by my side. She tugged on my arm with outrageous familiarity not befitting a woman of her rank. I thought to chastise her for it, but she quickly whisked me away before I could speak.

  The fire popped and crackled in the hearth as we stood in the foyer, anxiously awaiting some acknowledgement of our presence. Morgan and I avoided eye contact, still refusing to speak to one another, clinging to the grudge that had begun to fester on Beltane and had only grown worse with time. I still harbored a pit of jealousy over her selection as the Virgin Queen. She had grown secretive and developed a bitter edge in the aftermath of the ritual—I guessed because she had not fulfilled her duty by conceiving a child—using her long-practiced hatred of me as an outlet, never letting me forget she had been chosen and I swept aside. We were only together now because she was ordered to accompany me. I could not wait to bid her farewell.

  Time passed slowly, and I began to wonder if my father was even in residence at the moment; perhaps that was why we were so coldly welcomed. Finally, the maid reappeared in the doorway and announced the master of the house was otherwise engaged, but we were all to bathe and rest; my father would entertain our company at dinner.

  It was strange that my father would not come to welcome me himself, but it had been many years since I was a resident of this house. Schedules and decorum could change in far less time.

  Though I needed no assistance finding my way up to my old chamber, the maid insisted on accompanying me. I planned to return to Avalon after our mourning period, but Argante had insisted I bring a small bag with me. Without thinking, I began to unpack what remained of my life on the isle: a few sundry mementos and the two blue robes I was given to wear when performing my duties as a priestess at births, funerals, and other sacred events.

  “Please, my Lady, allow me.”

  The squeaky, small voice of the maid pulled me out of my memories. For a moment I simply looked back at her, uncomprehending. Then I realized I had grown so accustomed to doing things for myself in Avalon, I forgot the same actions were unthinkable in this world.

  Unsure of how to comport myself, I busied myself by admiring the tapestry hanging on the wall above my bed. The hanging depicted a beautiful young maiden befriending a unicorn as a host of faeries and other nature spirits looked on. It was a scene from one of my favorite childhood stories—a tale my mother recounted on many dark winter nights in front of the fire. She and I had just begun constructing the tapestry shortly before the Irish raid and the whirlwind that whisked me away to Avalon. It pleased me to see she had completed it in my absence. I could only wonder if each stitch gave her comfort in knowing she had set her daughter on the path the Goddess intended, or if each dip of the needle pricked at her heart, tormenting her conscience over sending her young daughter so far away.
r />   Alas I would never know; she was not here to ask.

  I wiped a tear from my cheek and, without a word to the maid, fled from the room on silent feet, seeking sanctuary, somewhere familiar to get my bearings. Rushes, stone, and dirt passed as a blur beneath my toes, and when I next raised my head, I found myself in the armory.

  It was strangely quiet, so I knew I was alone. But if I stopped and listened, I could hear the soldiers practicing not far away.

  Their grunts and clamor carried on the wind. For a moment, I even fooled myself into believing my mother’s authoritative voice commanded and corrected them, but when I really attuned my ears, I found that Rhys, captain of my father’s guard, had taken her place as drill master.

  Little had changed in this land of iron, bronze, and leather. Gear for each man was still neatly stacked on shelves against one wall, ready at all times for battle, while scores of javelins, swords, daggers, polished bronze-and-wooden shields, and other weaponry lined the racks. I inhaled, savoring the unique bouquet only the close quarters of an armory could produce—the heavy scent of tanned hides, stale sweat, the sharp tang of polish, and just a little wood smoke from the temporarily silent forge. Strange as it may have seemed, this was the scent of home.

  Of course my feet would lead me here; it had been my favorite place as a child. Before I was old enough to walk, my mother carried me as she inspected the equipment. I was fascinated by the glimmer of sunlight on the metal objects that surrounded me, entranced as though in a crystal cave. Later, once I could feed myself, she gave me a tiny blunted dagger, which eventually gave way to a wooden sword when my lessons began. Then finally, only two years before I went to Avalon, she bestowed on me my first real sword, a miniature version of her own. I could still picture the intricately crafted pommel and feel the twists of braided metal in my clenched fist.

  I sought out my sword now, as eager for its reassuring touch as a babe for her favorite blanket. In the far corner, the tall chest containing my father’s arms and armor stood slightly ajar. But its twin, which had held my mother’s fighting paraphernalia, had been removed, as had the small trunk that housed my sword and childhood armor. Dismayed, I picked through my father’s things, hoping he had decided to store it all in one case, but I found only his belongings.

  Glancing wildly about me, I began searching for the treasure I could not believe was gone. But then I caught my reflection in one of the polished brass shields that hung on the wall and froze. I was not alone after all. Standing behind me to my left was a dark-haired woman. For a moment I thought it the shade of my mother, but when the figure advanced on me, it proved to be very human. Turning slowly, I tried to ignore the cold sweat blanketing the back of my neck at being caught where I ought not be.

  “Octavia!” I exclaimed in a sigh of relief. My lady’s maid would give me up to no harm. I ran to her side and enveloped her in my arms, suddenly feeling so weak and weary that I had to draw my strength from her.

  “Blessed child, you have returned to us.” Octavia smiled at me warmly, though her face still betrayed the sorrow in her heart. “Come, let us go outside. This is no place for a reunion.”

  She led me into the sunlit courtyard, and we stood watching the warriors spar while she insisted on hearing every last detail of my time in Avalon. While I was happy to oblige her with tale after tale, somewhere in the back of my mind I knew we were both simply delaying an inevitable conversation. Finally, in a moment of silence, I could take no more.

  “Oh, Octavia,” I cried, a surge of hot tears racing down my face. “I wish Mother were here so she could know all that has happened to me.” I clung to the older woman’s shoulders, surprised at the force of my own emotion. Burying my face in her long black ringlets, I choked on my tears.

  “I know. So do I.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and tipped up my face to meet her eyes. “But one thing is for certain, she hears you now, and she is very proud of you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so.” She kissed me on the forehead.

  I smiled weakly. “Octavia.” I licked my suddenly dry lips. “I have to know. The baby—was it my brother or my sister?”

  “It was a boy.” She hesitated a moment. “That is why your father was so upset. It was the heir to the kingdom he had been praying for. Now it will likely pass to your cousin Bran.”

  I thought I was the heir to his kingdom. I frowned. I would bring this up with my father when I next saw him.

  Octavia saw my puzzled expression and attempted to explain. “Your father has placed a greater emphasis on his Roman heritage, of late. Despite all of the pregnancies your mother lost and babes who died young, your father had always hoped for a son to pass his kingdom on to, so that it would not fall into another lord’s—your future husband’s—hands upon his death.”

  I started to protest.

  Octavia waved away my rebuttal. “I know your mother intended you to inherit, but Northgallis is a long way from the traditions she endorsed, so your father had a valid concern. Then with the death of the boy child and of your mother, all of his dreams fell apart. You were so far away. He felt he had nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Anger flared within me, heating my cheeks and quickly drying my tears to an invisible crust. “Is that what I am? Is that why my mother’s arms are gone, so that not a memory of her remains? And what of my sword? Have I no say in the placement of my own possessions?”

  Octavia clasped my hands in hers and regarded me gravely. “Your mother’s sword is buried with her, as is her right of honor. As for yours…” She hesitated. “Your father melted it down. He wishes no more training of the kind for you.”

  I gaped and attempted to interrupt, but Octavia held up a hand to silence me.

  “Guinevere, your father is not the same man you left here all those years ago. He has changed so much. Many things, many traditions died with your mother. You must realize that. Take what I have told you into consideration when you see your father, and do not be too hard on him. Have pity on him instead.”

  The weight of her words lay on my shoulders like chain mail. I could not respond. I had hoped to return to a place of warmth and love, but instead found myself in a house full of perplexing strangers.

  Could four years really change so much?

  Late that night, when the candles burned low and all the servants had gone to bed, I padded barefoot along the corridors, searching for my father. He had not shown up to dinner, so Octavia, Morgan, and I ate our meal in awkward silence amid the gaping stares of a handful of servants I did not know. They were obviously curious about me, and more so about Morgan—especially given the tension that sparked the air between us—but fortunately knew their place well enough not to ask questions.

  Later, as I lay my head on the pillow, willing the racing questions in my mind to cease, I finally accepted sleep would not come until I saw my father again. He was not in his room and his attendant was fast asleep, so I set out to find him, stealing through halls that seemed much smaller than my childhood memories would have me believe.

  The kitchen was abandoned, as was the great hall, so I began to trace the corridors, peeking into unlocked storage areas and long-abandoned living quarters. With every beat of my heart, my conviction grew. I had to see my father, to know that he still cared for me, despite his recent change in attitude. He was my last living link to my mother, and I his. As the thought skittered across my mind, I began to wonder if that was why he had yet to greet me; maybe I reminded him too much of her.

  I slowed as I neared a room near the end of the hall on the uppermost floor. The soft flicker of candlelight spilled out through a door slightly ajar. It took me a moment to orient myself and then my heart stopped as I realized where I was. This was my mother’s chamber.

  I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, steeling myself with a few deep breaths. Splinters pricked my fingertips as I clawed at the wall and squeezed my eyes tight, fighting back memories of all the times I played in my m
other’s wardrobe or sat on her footstool while she braided or brushed my hair. She had nursed me in that room through many ailments, insisting I would rest easier sleeping in her bed, with her warmth to soothe me. A shiver shimmied down my spine. She died in that bed. It was only natural my father would be there.

  I pressed my lips together and tiptoed over to the door. I could barely make out my father’s silhouette in the pale light of the single candle burning on the windowsill like a beacon, silently calling my mother’s soul back to the place she so loved. I took another deep breath. I had thought myself prepared to face my father and all our missing years, but I was not ready to face my mother’s ghost as well.

  I took a tentative step into the room, knowing my father would soon be able to see me out of the corner of his eye. “Father,” I called softly as I approached, not wanting him to mistake me for a specter.

  He lifted his head and looked at me, at first unseeing as though I had roused him from a waking dream. Then slowly, comprehension dawned and he smiled, brushing away the tears staining his cheeks. “Guinevere,” he breathed. “Daughter, my heart warms to see you.”

  I raced over to him and hugged him tightly, alarmed to feel fragile bone rather than the hard muscle of the warrior king I remembered. After a moment, he released me, holding me at arm’s length and squinting to consider me in the dim light.

  “You are not a little child anymore.” He sighed.

  I reached for a blanket draped over the edge of the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. “That is true, but even grown women have need of their fathers,” I said, climbing up into his lap just like I did as a little girl.

  He wrapped his arms around me, as if he feared I would disappear like the smoke rising from the candle wick. I closed my eyes and laid my head on the crook of his neck. His hair, now turning gray, still smelled of the same imported citrus oil that punctuated my youngest memories.