Goddess of light shield us tonight.
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
A band of light burst at the edges of her diagram, thrumming softly, then vanishing, and she exhaled in relief, never realizing she’d been holding her breath. Aether, it must be. If she were doing this wrong, there would be no power in her words. Encouraged, she continued again, murmuring softly, so as not to disturb Jack.
With cloth and cord of darkest night, I shroud my soul.
Light is the weapon I wield to keep us whole.
By all on high and law of three,
This is my will, so mote it be.
14
Wilhelm held back, reluctant to disturb.
After their encounter with the Shadow Beast, her sister had insisted upon casting that very same warding spell every night before sleeping; he recognized the strange motions Seren was making with her stick.
Doubting the power of magik wasn’t an option. The alternative was far worse. God only knew, he’d witnessed the unbridled power of evil with his own two eyes, and if magik couldn’t protect them, Wilhelm would never sleep again.
His gaze drifted to Jack. Somehow, the boy was fast asleep under his blanket in the middle of her rendering, completely unaware of the protection spell Seren was summoning—oh, to be so innocent. Clearly, he trusted his elders to keep him safe. Poor boy, he couldn’t possibly understand what menace surrounded them, and if Wilhelm could spare him that truth, he would. As annoyed as he’d been over having to bring the lad into their fold, he was coming to admire him. His father had taught him well. He was polite, intelligent, respectful, and if he had a wandering eye for Lady Seren’s breasts… well, then… Wilhelm hadn’t any stones to throw. He was hard-pressed not to look himself. But, more and more, he was coming to see that whatever beauty Seren possessed on the outside, she possessed it threefold within. For all that she was angry over her sister’s fate, and for all that she seemed to need to blame Wilhelm, she took good care of the boy, willing to challenge even Wilhelm over the child’s wellbeing.
And, in truth, had Wilhelm not been so ill-humored, he would have jumped to her bidding. Helping that boy was the right thing to do.
He bided his time, watching her work…
Before meeting Rosalynde, he’d never believed a word of those rumors. He was not a believer in witches; the very word was but an epithet for women the likes of Morwen Pendragon. But now he was a believer. There was no denying the things he’d witnessed over these past months. And he still couldn’t conceive it, but his weedy little brother, the boy who wouldn’t put down his books to consider a sword, was a Paladin for the Church—a huntsman Rosalynde called him.
Huntsman… executioner… headsman…
God only knew, there was so much about Giles Wilhelm still didn’t know—and to think he’d once doubted his brother’s prowess with a blade.
Never again.
If the Black Knight of legend was a master swordsman, Giles was something other, expertly wielding his weapon with incredible feats of physicality. Much as he’d feared that Shadow Beast, some part of him would go back and do it again, if only to see his brother in action—standing atop his mount and pirouetting his weapon like a spintop.
Shifting his burden from one hand to another, he waited for Seren to finish, his heart squeezing over the way she looked at the boy—her gaze so full of tenderness. To his chagrin, it still gave him a small tweak of envy, even as it warmed the cockles of his heart.
How might it be to have her look at him with so much affection? Only for him with the heat of desire.
She is grieving, fool. Get your head out of your breeches. And what makes you think she would think of you this way? Only look at her, and then look at yourself.
She looked tired, he thought, bedraggled even, though her long, pale red hair was no longer escaping her thick plait. That’s precisely why he’d bought her the new ribbon, and he was pleased to see she’d found it and used it. It gave him a strange feeling down in the pit of his gut…
Pleasure? Pride? Satisfaction?
As much as he tried to understand, he couldn’t fathom how his brother could turn his back on the lady. She was nothing at all what Wilhelm had supposed… she, too, was something other… And yet, so much as he’d feared she would seduce Giles, she was seducing him without even trying. And perhaps that was the greatest source of his unease… because if he chanced to misjudge her… if she was more like her mother…
Here we go, again.
Cursing himself for a fool, he shifted the cony yet again, feeling the slow drip of warm blood glide down the butt of his palm. It was early yet. If he had his druthers, they would eat, nap briefly, then return without delay to the road. The sooner they returned to Warkworth, the better.
By now, Giles would have left to attend Stephen in London. Wilhelm had promised to hurry back, to watch over Rosalynde. Much as he loathed the thought, there was a good chance his brother might not return. Rosalynde had no inkling of this, else she might never have let him go, and there was little wonder Giles gave her his sword. Evidently, he feared as Wilhelm feared, that the instant he repudiated Seren and refused to kneel before Stephen… well… he shouldn’t dwell on that right now.
Giles was his own man and Wilhelm trusted him to do the right thing. And if doing the right thing got his neck in a rope or his entrails fed to Morwen’s birds… well, there was little he could do about that.
Right now, his main concern—his only concern—should be Seren. Come what may, he would deliver the lady safely to Warkworth… or die trying.
As for that boy… he didn’t know what to do with Jack. Perhaps his brother’s affiliations would better determine his fate. In slumber, the lad seemed so bloody innocent, and Wilhelm’s heart swelled with pity for the loss he’d endured. Even as a man grown, Wilhelm had wept blood tears to look upon his own sire’s burnt carcass, and even now, the memory wedged a meaty lump in his throat.
In contrast, even despite her own grief, and soft as she appeared, Seren had been a pillar of strength.
Wilhelm was slowly but surely coming to admire her as well.
All night long they’d traveled in silence, stopping only when necessary, and unless she was caring for the boy, she scarcely spoke, much less sniveled or mewled. So much as he loathed to confess the truth, he, himself, had been far more whingey than she. It took Wilhelm a while, but he was over his pique at having been judged and found wanting. So he wasn’t a scholar, like Giles. Never once had he aspired to be one. He was a warrior to the bone, and the sword in his belt was deadlier than any pen. And this time, given the opportunity, he would use it with deadly force.
Impatient now, he fidgeted yet again, feeling guilty for spying. But he sensed she felt ill-at-ease performing her sorcery in front of others, so it was only after she was finished with her incantation and then had a chance to sprinkle handfuls of leaves over the edges of her diagram that he stepped forward from the shadows.
Gasping in startle, Seren raised a hand to her throat. She had scarcely completed her ritual when Wilhelm appeared. Without a word, he emerged from the trees, stepping gingerly over the pile of leaves she’d put down.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t wish to intrude.”
Was it her imagination, or was his tone a little gentler?
“Hungry?” he asked, and when she frowned at the poor, dead beast she spied in his hand, he put the cony down and divested himself of the quiver on his back, emptying the contents. Out spilled his arrows, along with a stash of mushrooms, berries and truffles.
“A peace offering,” he said, with a tiny smile.
“For me?”
He inclined his head, giving her a nod, and his full lips tipped higher at the corners, his lips parting enough to give her a glimpse of straight, white teeth. The sight of his smile made Seren’s heart thump.
“Pax?”
Seren nodded eagerly. “Pax,” she agreed, and cam
e forward to admire the wealth of his foraging. Amidst the lot, she recognized a horse mushroom, along with wood-ears, and grisettes, but she also spied a suspicious one, and plucked it up. “This is not edible,” she said, plucking off a piece, and showing it to him. “It looks like the others, but when you bruise it, it turns yellow.”
He nodded, his gaze shifting from Seren to the mushroom, then back. Standing so close, it was impossible to ignore his gargantuan size, and she wondered idly what he’d eaten as a child to make him sprout to such great heights.
Smiling, she said, “It won’t kill you, but…” She winked. “You might wish it had.”
It would seem more natural for Elspeth, as an Earth Child, to excel at herbs, but Seren’s natural affinity was akin to an apothecary’s. She was quite well versed in medicinals. The yellow-staining mushroom might fill his belly, but it would empty it in minutes.
He nodded, and she blushed, feeling oddly embarrassed about discussing these matters with him. To cover her nervousness, she lifted up the horse mushroom, tasting it gingerly. Clearly, he’d put so much effort into hunting for sustenance in order to please everyone. Jack would be grateful for the rabbit, but, she would be quite content with whatever he’d foraged. Whilst living at the priory, their meals had rarely consisted of animal flesh. Betimes they ate a bit of fish, but Seren preferred to harvest what could be grown in their garden.
In London, there had been no dearth of carrion on the table, but it was not appetizing in the least to ogle a carcass made to look as though it could still be alive, complete with head and eyes. Thankfully, their mother rarely invited them to sup. Mostly, their meals had been consumed in the privacy of their own quarters. And, fortunately for them, Rosalynde was a handy little thief, so she’d quite oft ventured down into the kitchens to pilfer whatever could be found. Whilst on the road with Arwyn, they’d eaten nothing but bread—so much pan that Seren now felt like a fat loaf herself.
This was a nice surprise.
“Thank you,” she said.
He cast a backward glance at Jack, snuggled comfortably underneath the blanket, and shrugged. “Your sister did eat some cony, but it seemed to me she preferred not to. I thought perhaps you might feel the same.”
“Thank you,” she said again, surprised by his thoughtfulness, dropping the poisonous mushroom and crushing it beneath her slipper so Jack wouldn’t find it and mistakenly eat it. Then, wiping her fingers on her skirt, she wondered what else Wilhelm knew—and moreover, whether he’d spied her at her casting. There was that about his expression that made her feel maybe he had, and she tilted him a glance. “Did you see me?”
“I did,” he confessed, blushing, then averting his gaze, and turning toward the horses. Once again, he stepped over the leaves, and she knew beyond a shadow of doubt it was not a coincidence. Withdrawing something small from his saddlebag, he returned, once again taking care to avoid her pentacle lines. He knelt by the kindling, picking a stick. “Thank you,” he said, waving it at her.
“For what?”
“For gathering wood.”
Seren smoothed her skirts. “Well… it was the least I could do,” she said, feeling self-conscious. And then he peered up, surprising her with a question. “It was never my forte,” he confessed, pointing at the tinder. “Before I go making a clod of myself, I don’t suppose you can…”
Seren’s brows collided. “Kindle the fire?”
Wilhelm nodded, and she blinked, surprised that he would ask—not that she wouldn’t happily do it, if she could, but it surprised her they were speaking so frankly about the unspeakable. Her grandmamau was executed only because Elspeth had breathed a word of magik. How times had changed.
She thought perhaps Wilhelm was trying to make the point that he was okay with witchery. But, alas, she couldn’t do it. “I’ve never been good with fire,” she said, shaking her head.
Wilhelm nodded, then shrugged. Resigned, he struck his fire-steel to the pile of tinder as she knelt to watch, thinking that, after all, it might be a good time to broach the unbroachable. “So… you know?”
Two more times he struck his fire-steel to the kindling, then cursed. “Aye.”
Seren inhaled sharply, then exhaled. “You are not afeared?
He peered up then, his dark brows furrowing. “What gave you that stupid idea?”
Seren frowned. “Well… because… you don’t appear to be afraid.”
He tilted his head, and said with certainty, “You are wrong. I am terrified.”
And with that declaration, Seren’s heart sank.
15
Wilhelm realized he must have disappointed her with his answer, but he was unaccustomed to speaking aught but truth. He wasn’t afraid of Seren, per se, but he was, indeed, afraid of everything she represented.
And more, he was afraid unto death that he would fail her—and this man-boy as well—just as he’d failed his kinsmen on the eve of Warkworth’s burning.
As he’d failed her sister the night in the woodlot.
If there was one thing he’d learned that day it was that there were forces at work outside his dominion that he was powerless to control, much less defeat.
That day, he’d been little more than a raging beast himself, brandishing his weapon against a creature that could not bleed—least ways not the way mortal men bled.
That strange amalgamation of smoke and shifting flesh had put the fear of God into him. Alone, he had been powerless to stop it. It descended from the heavens like a winged serpent, with a wingspan longer than Wilhelm was tall and a tail that could have sliced his flesh to the bone. Both appendages had put him on his arse faster than he could blink, and it was Rosalynde and Giles who’d discovered a way to defeat the creature—if, indeed, it was dead.
Somehow, Rosalynde’s incantation gave it form, and the instant Giles severed its head, it shifted again, metamorphosing into the shape of a man, then into a rush of foul-smelling smoke that vanished into a bauble.
God’s truth, he didn’t know where that reliquary was now, but he hoped with all his heart to never to encounter it again. Harmless though it might be, the very thought of it gave him a shiver, and truth be told, he wasn’t over the ordeal any more than he was over the burning at Warkworth. Admittedly, he’d experienced a jolt of fear when Seren ran toward that burning ship to save her sister, and he was still suffering the consequences—physically. He had a bellyache that could only be attributed to the greasy turkey leg he’d consumed in the market—that, or the ungodly knot of fear she’d inspired in the pit of his gut.
And by the by, it didn’t help matters overmuch that she’d felt the need to enlighten him about the mushroom. Of course, he didn’t eat any, but he needn’t eat a bad mushroom to suffer the ill effects she was warning him about, and it was as though somehow she knew… as her sister seemed to know so much. These dewine sisters were canny in a way that gave Wilhelm pause. In fact, he wasn’t even all that tempted by the cony he intended to cook. He knew the boy would be famished, and he wanted Seren to have her choice of sustenance, but, for his part, he would have been content enough with the pan in his saddlebag, and little of that besides.
He frowned. To be sure, they had this much in common: He couldn’t start a fire to save his life. Cursing beneath his breath, frustrated by his lack of skill, he struck the fire-steel half a dozen more times, until finally, a spark ignited. Very quickly, he settled the flame over the thin, dry end of a twig and was immensely relieved when the flame took, spreading swiftly over the brittle stick.
Watching him intently on the other side of the fire, Seren sank to her bottom, no doubt trying to think of more words to speak, although it seemed to him that perhaps she thought better of it, because she said nothing more. She was still holding a small bit of mushroom.
“Eat,” he demanded. “Then rest. We won’t be here long.”
“How long?”
“Not long,” he said curtly, and Seren huffed a sigh of frustration, the flames bending against her breath�
�in much the same way he longed to bend as well.
God’s truth, he bloody well didn’t like the way he felt—or maybe he did—but never in his life had he felt so much like a poppet. If only she would smile at him one more time, as she had when he’d revealed the mushrooms, he would prostrate himself at her feet. If there was aught of witchery at play this morning, it was her smile. She was irresistible and yet, he must resist, for this was no time for foolery and flirtation.
What in God’s name was he thinking?
Hadn’t he learned his lessons already? Loving a lady who could not love him back? What a halfwit he must be.
Seren Pendragon is not meant for the likes of you.
“Why are you so ill-tempered?”
He flicked her a glance, his cheeks warming to his chagrin. Because I can’t stop thinking about you, woman. Because I yearn for something I cannot have.
She sighed. “So much for our peace.”
Dispirited perhaps, her gaze fell upon the fire, and Wilhelm felt heartsore, because he wanted so desperately to be different. He wanted to sit here beside her, as Giles had done with Rosalynde, and banter wittily. He wanted to learn more about Seren and her sisters. He wanted to tell her about his own life. He wanted to know what she loved, what she despised. He wanted to reassure her that in some ways they weren’t very different—and perhaps share their losses.
But, alas, it wasn’t only Seren who’d judged him and found him wanting. He imagined himself through the eyes of a lady of her caliber, and saw only a fool of a man who would like to be something more. But that was the trouble… she made him long to be what he wasn’t. So, then, if he was, indeed, ill-tempered, it was all because of her. The way he felt about her was like a gaping hole in his leathers, leaving him vulnerable in a way he might never have anticipated.
Fire Song (Daughters of Avalon Book 4) Page 12