Ah, yes, even now, I hear wee Elspeth whimpering beside me… I see her tiny fist rising up to wipe her runny nose… and all the while her grandmamau burns.
Burn, witch, burn!
By the Cauldron, I will slay her again, and her granddaughters, as well… except for these shackles.
For weeks they have been my burden, leaving me wasted of magik and challenged by even the smallest of tasks. And yet… now that I know them… now that I know what power they possess… I will put them to my own good use. One fine day, I will clasp these bracelets on my daughter’s wrist, and I will devise a retribution, fit for a traitor.
As for that other bitch, Matilda… I do have plans for the woman whose piety was ever the bane of my existence.
It was not enough she turned her nose at me as a willful child, not enough that she begrudged me all I earned… not enough that she accused me of murdering her self-righteous mother, or that she disdained five sisters of her own true blood, only because they were born to me. But even after all this she revealed me as a heretic, and if you must know why I murdered her father when I could… it was for fathering a monster… and then for aligning her to the Holy Church, by whose very dictum I am dispossessed.
All those cold, dark years spent dreaming at the bottom of the Sea… all my delight over returning to my holiest of Grails—all for naught, because that pinch-nosed bitch deprived me of Blackwood. And yet… though I have been thwarted, Blackwood’s cauldron belongs to me—a relic of my Avalon—and I will restore myself as its keeper.
Morgan Pendragon be damned.
Matilda be damned.
Kings and queens be damned.
All will grovel before me.
“It won’t be long now,” announces the guard, offering a wink and a smile. I wink back, grateful for his succor. Despite that he would not defy his king by removing these accursed shackles, he brings me soft, warm blankets and clean water to drink. Every now and again, he retrieves my philters—else, I’d never have kept my glamour so long.
Beauty is the finest weapon. Rot and curse Seren for wasting hers so ignorantly. She’s been gifted that for which I now must strive, against the laws of nature. For love of beauty men will do anything—anything—and the price for the unlovely is repulsion.
Poor, poor Morfran.
I tried to avenge you, my son.
I longed to give you but a trace of what your sister possessed—Creirwy, who married your Nemesis only to crush me. She was ever your father’s favorite, and to me, whilst I carried you in my womb, he gave naught but grief. He filled me with loathing, and you were my odium manifest. You were the face of envy, bitterness, and jealousy.
Morfran, oh, Morfran.
Tegid, I will see your blood expunged from this world—vanished, like your hair—plucked painfully from this realm until none remain. I could have loved you, you ungrateful fool; I could have loved my daughters, as well. And I could have taught them so much…
But nay.
I smile now, closing my eyes, satisfied with the dealings of the day. Bran is lost to me, but it was worth it.
One down, four to go.
I will smite you all as you smote Morfran. I will destroy you as you destroyed my Avalon.
After a while, my guard returns, and this time he brandishes a key, his face split with a toothy grin—and of course he should be pleased. I have promised him more than silver and gold. I have promised him immortality… for a price.
He jingles his chain, and asks, “Art ready, my lady?”
I lift my chin to the unnatural glow, for it is not the key to my cell he holds. Iron bars could never contain me, and if not for greed, no dewine would ever suffer this sorcery. Like these shackles locked about my wrists and the Palatine swords imbued by Taliesin, this key was forged from blooms of steel containing a special consecrated alloy that glows in my presence.
“I was born ready,” I reassure the man, and I rise from the pillow that softens the seat of my chair, crossing the measure of carpet, far quicker than he can unlatch my door. Eagerly, I offer my wrists, only waiting.
He uses one dull key to unlock the cell, and it is all I can do to maintain patience, waiting for him to employ the key to unlock my shackles.
“The king bids you join him in his apartments. But, first, a warm bath has been ordered to your chambers, along with a bit of supper. He wouldst see you refreshed before your meeting, and he begs pardon for the judgment you were wrongly given.”
The ensorcelled key glows brighter as it stretches toward me and I twist my shackled wrists to reveal the small aperture—a perfect fit for the tongue and grooves.
For barely an instant the scratch of metal is unbearable to hear, and then I catch the click, and the air itself sighs as the manacles unclasp, releasing my long-imprisoned flesh. Only there, where the alloy resisted my glamour, my skin appears bruised and paper thin, peppered with liver spots. I quickly rub them in relief and the damage is healed before my gaoler can blink. “I hope the vin is better than the vin served here,” I say, as I slide past my dutiful servant. And now, as I abandon my plush little prison, I reassure him. “Come to me later to claim your prize, my pet.”
“I will, my lady. I will.”
And I leave him to the joys of his trade, as my ravens delight upon the sill and sing to me in chorus.
Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw, caw!
8
Dressed in leathers, fresh from practice, Rosalynde stood in the bailey, arms crossed, waiting as they lifted the iron portcullis to admit her sister’s cavalcade.
Heavy as it was, it took half a dozen men to lift the heavy, bolted iron, but closing it wasn’t nearly so much of an ordeal. Taking their lessons from Aldergh’s construction, Giles employed pulleys to lift the gate more effectively, but instead of cutting and wasting lengths of rope, a clasp was designed so that the gate would release with the turn of a latch. Little by little, the castle was coming to completion—a bulwark that wouldn’t so easily be vanquished, should Eustace decide to return.
At long last, the gate was open, and Elspeth rode in with an escort of seven well-armed men. She slid down from her mare the instant she spied Rosalynde and came rushing with arms open wide. Tears in her eyes, Rosalynde welcomed her eldest sister, embracing her joyfully.
“Rose,” said Elspeth, returning the embrace, and Rosalynde buried her fingers into the soft velvety folds of her sister’s cloak, grateful for her company.
“Elspeth,” she cried. “What are we to do?”
She held her sister tighter, afraid to let go, and for the longest interval, the two stood embracing, unwilling to part for fear of the void they would suffer—not so acute for Elspeth as it was for Rosalynde, because she and Arwyn had shared a womb. In her absence Rosalynde felt bereft. It was all she could do not to weep inconsolably, and her throat grew too thick to speak as she hugged Elspeth, but thankfully, they had no need to command well-trained men to do their jobs.
Warkworth’s aides moved to assist with the horses. Elspeth’s retainers did the same, giving up their reins and conferring with Rosalynde’s men-at-arms. It was as somber an occasion as any they’d met over the past twenty years, and there were none present who did not understand the loss the sisters had incurred.
Dry though they were at the instant, Elspeth’s eyes were red-rimmed from weeping—as Rosalynde’s must be, as Seren’s must be as well. Poor Seren, Rosalynde thought.
Poor, poor Seren.
At least she and Elspeth had each other. Seren was out there… somewhere, alone in the world. There was simply no way to know if Wilhelm had found her. Every day, Rosalynde feared the worst—that Morwen encountered both her sisters together and even now Seren was being held in London. If that should be the case, Giles would know it soon. And in the meantime, she was sick with worry and anguish.
She didn’t worry so much for Rhiannon as she did for Seren. If there was one thing she knew about Rhiannon, it was that Rhi could fend for herself.
“No word yet?”
Elspeth asked, releasing Rose, but reluctantly.
They couldn’t stand in the middle of the open bailey, weeping like babies. They had attendants to see to and men and women who looked to them for direction.
“No word at all,” Rosalynde said, dabbing a finger to the corner of her left eye to stem the stubborn flow of her tears. “Not yet.” And then, realizing her sister had arrived without a wet-nurse and her babes, she peered up in surprise. “Where are the babes?”
Elspeth shook her head somberly. “I daren’t bring them. So much as it pained me to leave them, they are safer at home. We could not be certain Morwen would not set upon us as Mordecai did with you in the woodlot.”
Rosalynde nodded, understanding. A few months ago she and her husband and his half-brother encountered a Shadow Beast in the woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey. Although Morwen herself never appeared, if her manservant could shapeshift as no dewine they knew ever could, what more could her mother do? Sadly, Elspeth was right to leave the boys at home. Grown as he might be, it gave her a shiver to think of Giles in her mother’s proximity.
Stubbornly pushing away the thought, she hooked her arm about her sister’s and said, “Come inside. You may tell me everything whilst we dine. The lot of you must be famished.”
“I am not,” said Elspeth, peering back at her escorts, and then her gaze scanned the premises. “I… I have not been hungry since…”
Arwyn.
Rosalynde, too, had felt sick to her belly since the perception. Food was the very last thing on her mind, and despite that, she forced herself to sup when she could, because what good would she be to her people if she wasted away to naught.
“Where is your donjon?” Elspeth asked, her tone full of surprise.
Rosalynde smiled gently. “No donjon yet. For now, we have a marquee.”
Her sister turned about, examining the immediate surroundings with furrowed brow, Her gaze returned to Rosalynde, inspecting her leathers with a troubled expression. Instinctively, Rosalynde understood her sister’s concern. She and her eldest sister might not be twins, but she knew Elspeth only too well. “Worry not, Ellie. The donjon will be finished soon. In the meantime, we are safe here. Where is Malcom?” she asked, changing the subject.
There was misery in her sister’s voice, but not a trace of bitterness. “Where he e’er is of late—in council with David. For better or worse, he has made his decision. He will nevermore bend the knee to Stephen, nor raise a sword for the glory of England. But, I fear it pains him to turn his back on a man he once loved. Alas, to make matters worse, there are many who oppose his return to David’s council.”
Rosalynde nodded with comprehension. Few understood the role Malcom Scott had played for England, all to aid her sister in her flight from Llanthony, but it was no piddling matter. He was once a member of the king’s elite Rex Militum, a powerful but secret guard assigned to protect the king’s interests—and, so Malcom had once believed, the welfare of the realm itself. For those whose loyalty remained fast to Scotland—as most Scots doubtless would be—they were bound to be offended by the return of a prodigal son.
In fact, Malcom’s own father, a powerful laird, disowned him for a good many years; thankfully he was also the first to embrace his son’s return.
Unfortunately, these were fickle, fickle times, and the barons—particularly the border lords—remained suspicious for a reason. Words of fealty were far too easy to speak; it was what a man did in times of war that mattered most. Too many waffled in their allegiance, one minute siding with Matilda, the next with Stephen.
But come what may, Malcom’s fealty was sealed. Already once, despite Malcom’s initial defection, and in spite of some of the counsel, David mac Maíl Choluim rode to Aldergh’s defense, even though he’d been called upon by an unlikely ally… Elspeth herself. After all, it was David of Scotia who so long ago put forth the indictment against their grandmamau. It was his actions that sealed Morgan Pendragon’s fate and sent her to the Inquisition, where, by their own half-sister’s intervention the lady of Blackwood was dispossessed and dragged through the streets of London to be burned at the stake as a heretic. The Empress’s own husband sentenced her to death, and though Matilda might have believed she was spiting her father’s mistress, in the process they’d murdered one of the kindest souls that ever took a breath. And yet, somehow, Elspeth still blamed David for their grandmamau’s death, never Matilda. That was the bone Rhiannon always wished to pick with Elspeth—and Rosalynde, as well.
But, no matter; this world was rife with unlikely alliances—not the least of which included her own marriage, for she, a dewine, a daughter of Avalon, was now wed to an executioner for the Church.
Nothing was simple anymore; so Rosalynde said nothing. She listened quietly, squeezing her sister’s arm when words might be expected but wouldn’t serve.
Elspeth told her briefly about the Scot king’s visit some weeks ago, about his generous gift of armored soldiers—a gesture meant to appease Malcom since her husband was constantly en route to Carlisle. But at least Aldergh was well defended. There was not an inch of the fortress that wasn’t manned by guards, and what was more, Elspeth had installed a powerful warding spell only to be certain.
Rosalynde expressed her disappointment not to be able to hug her sweet nephews, because their presence alone was like a shining light, but she assured Elspeth that she understood. A mother must do what was best for her babes.
Elspeth patted her hand and said, “Oh! I brought the book.”
The Book of Secrets.
“Good,” said Rosalynde, with no small measure of relief, because if there was one thing they needed right now it was the words of their dewine forebears. Somewhere in that ancient tome there must be some means to defeat Morwen—and if not defeat her, per se, then perhaps disarm her.
But what a wonder it was that Elspeth was so willing to exploit the secrets the grimoire contained, when little more than a year ago her eldest sister would have gone to great lengths to deny their dewine heritage.
Rhiannon would be amazed.
9
The brume Seren conjured near Dover doggedly pursued them, showering them with a fine, cold mist that never quite soaked them, but left them immersed in a discomforting cocoon of dampness.
As a matter of expediency, they dared travel by road, avoiding travelers whenever they must.
Although it was impossible to say whether anyone knew that she and her sister had been hiding aboard the Whitshed, there was no immediate sign of pursuit, and so, concealed beneath Wilhelm’s immense, brown cloak, a glamour spell wasn’t necessary. Albeit, dressed as she was, Seren couldn’t help but feel like an oversized sack of meal.
Chafing beneath the crude hood, her hair teased loose from her braid, clinging damply to her cheeks. Now and again, she swept the wayward strands beneath her hood, and dared not complain. It was her own doing, after all, and the best she could hope for was to ride out of the brume.
Considering the circumstances, Wilhelm was sober as he should be. Jack was hard-pressed to keep his eyes from welling with tears. All afternoon, the mood remained grim.
Then again, Seren couldn’t have borne it had there been gaiety or laughter. No one could possibly have any reason to laugh. She felt grief-stricken, and still couldn’t weep.
Silence ensued as she contemplated her losses—her sister, foremost, but that certainly wasn’t all. Along with Arwyn, Seren had lost her one true chance to escape England. Now she was well and duly caught amidst the politikal machinations of would-be kings and queens.
Women like her were little more than pawns to be played.
What would be her fate once her intended got hold of her?
Would he do as he’d sworn to do and marry her, all the while bending the knee to an unworthy sovereign?
But, of course, he had too much to lose to break faith with the crown. Naturally, he would honor their betrothal. The king’s son had burned his castle once already. Stephen had all bu
t threatened to do it again. But sweet fates, if he was aligned with Stephen, then for certes he would be aligned with her mother, and to be within her mother’s grasp would be a fate worse than death.
Arwyn, she thought. Poor, poor Arwyn.
By the time they’d returned to the harbor, the entire area was aswarm with guards. It was fortunate enough she’d been wearing Wilhelm’s cloak, or they may have recognized her, though, in truth, fugitives though they were, it didn’t appear anyone knew that Arwyn Pendragon was aboard the vessel when it burned. Her sister’s name was not bandied once, and, in truth, there was no one who even bothered to wonder what had happened to the captain’s son.
Nary a survivor emerged from the wreckage. Not one. Her sister was well and truly gone. Whatever had set that ship aflame had done so with great expediency and violence. Barely a cinder remained; and what little survived, sank to the bottom of the harbor. Captain Airard, so it seemed, came from a cursed lineage. After two generations had found their graves amidst shallow seas, she hoped Jack would be smart enough not to follow in his father’s shoes.
Each mulling over their own part in the day’s tragedy, the trio journeyed in silence, with no one quite certain how to breach the ever-expanding chasm.
After all, how did one comport oneself after the loss of a loved one when there wasn’t time for grief or tears?
Danger lurked in every passing shadow. Any moment Morwen could pounce upon them, and there was little to be done more than persevere.
There was no time for tantrums or tears.
No time for regrets or self-recrimination.
No time at all for suspicions or doubts.
And nay, she didn’t like Wilhelm overmuch—he was brusque and unbending—but at least he seemed dutiful, and she had a sense he was honor-bound to defend her—Jack, as well, if only because she’d begged.
But for all that Seren sensed he was acutely aware of them—every muscle taut and ready to defend—he scarcely looked at her. Betimes he rode ahead, betimes to the rear, but never beside them, always keeping to himself.
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