Fire Song

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  The ruins were not approachable by road. They must circle around peat bogs said to be greedy enough to swallow a man whole, and then re-enter Holystone Wood through the Lady’s Walk. From there, it was another league or two traipsing over dry land.

  A well-equipped cavalcade of fifty, they traveled all night long, and at long last, when the tower appeared on the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise, still sweltering enough to boil flesh in the confines of Rosalynde’s helm.

  With a gasp of distress, she drew off the helm, shoving back the coif to consider the battlefield and the best course of action…

  The tower itself where Morwen was said to be keeping the babe was not so impressive, save that it was impossible to believe such an edifice had remained standing for so many decades, much less centuries. The structure seemed ancient as Avalon, surrounded by a mantle of black ash—as though the entire premises had suffered a fire.

  A cacophony of bird cries filled the air. Nearly every tree within a half-a-mile radius was laden with shrieking birds.

  Worse, Morwen had lit a circlet of blue fire to keep her enemies from the tower—witchfire, no doubt. Barred by that fire, it was only possible to breach by air, and the last time Rosalynde looked, she didn’t have wings to fly, and neither did Elspeth.

  But that wasn’t what gave Rosalynde the greatest pause; it was that army of black-clad soldiers standing outside the circlet’s perimeter, three rows deep—hundreds at the ready to do her mother’s bidding. Her fifty-odd soldiers were no match for this army, not even with the help of witchery, and even the simple boon that Mordecai was nowhere to be seen was only small comfort.

  Fear prickling her flesh, she stood watching from the shelter of the woods, wishing to the Goddess that they had more men. So, it seemed, they’d underestimated Morwen.

  Yet again.

  “God’s teeth,” exclaimed Edmund, bringing his mount forward to advise Rosalynde. “She has an army of mercenaries.”

  “Nay…” Rosalynde said. “They are not mercenaries.”

  She swallowed convulsively, recognizing the sigil. She had never once laid eyes upon that seal in person—at least never emblazoned upon armor—but Rhiannon had illustrated it so oft that the image was etched upon her mind. It was also writ upon many of the pages in the grimoire.

  “Those… are…”

  Elspeth shook her head quickly, warning Rosalynde without words to remain silent, because these were no common soldiers. No matter that their husbands had accepted them and their legacy, most men were still unprepared to know their dewine secrets. Loyal steward though he might be, Edmund was but a simple man who’d served the old lord of Warkworth—a mortal man with mortal expectations. He was unprepared for the truth. Sweet fates, neither Rosalynde nor Elspeth were prepared themselves. But there was no denying what their eyes revealed… these men they would face wore the sigil of the house of Avalon—the twin golden serpents entwined about the stem of a winged chalice… the sacred cauldron some would call the Holy Grail.

  But how… how was this possible?

  Avalon, and all its denizens was long vanished from this realm. Now, who was Morwen Pendragon to claim them?

  The question sent a frisson of fear down Rosalynde’s spine. Elspeth’s, too. Their bellflower gazes mirrored the same questions. The answers brought a new fear: Clearly, there was much they did not know about their mother. She had forces beyond their knowing at her beck and call. And nevertheless, her eldest sister remained stoic, prepared to do battle for the return of her son.

  So, too, was Rosalynde.

  It would serve no one for either of them to fall to their knees in despair. But what now? She swallowed a growing lump of fear, turning to regard her loyal steward.

  “Remember your lessons,” he said grimly. “You can do it, m’lady. Stay in the saddle, boots in the stirrups. Maintain the advantage of height. Swing wide, but not so wide you cannot reclaim your sword. ’Tis heavy and will wont to fly. Use both hands. I will guard your back.”

  Rosalynde gave the elder man a nod, grateful for his vote of confidence, and, more, his willingness to fight beside her, and still… she was paralyzed with indecision, hot tears pricking her eyes.

  Goddess help her, even if she issued the command, they could advance no further than the circlet. She had never had an encounter with witchfire, but she knew it to be deadly. The very instant the intense blue flame ignited, it was impossible to extinguish, even with water. In fact, according to legend, Taliesin taught the Greeks to create a similar conflagration from naphtha and quicklime. Greek Fire, they’d called it, and like witchfire, it ignited on contact with water. Whatsoever it touched—with even the tiniest spark—burned until consumed. Though, unlike witchfire, Greek Fire was an invention of the natural world and could be extinguished with some effort. Both burned with that same intense blue flame, but if the circlet had been born of Greek Fire, by now, it would have spread into the surrounding woodlands. Nay, this fire was not naturally made. Rosalynde had no doubt in her mind… it was witchfire, and she hadn’t any clue how to fight it.

  But even if they could find some way into the circlet, they would first have to battle their way through Morwen’s black-clad soldiers—all of them afoot, though armed to the teeth. Their armor shone black as raven’s wings.

  The surrounding woods were rife with dragonflies and midge flies. The stink of molder and mire filled the air. A smoldering miasma wove itself through the aether—so thick in places that Rosalynde’s dewine eyes could see it clearly.

  “What is this place? she asked.

  Edmund frowned. “The only thing I know for certes is that the tower is cursed. Moons ago a lord dared claim this land. They found his bride prone beneath the tower. Every year, the meadow surrounding it springs to life with her favored flower. And every year, the bellflowers creep further and further afield, as though she would still claim these lands in the name of her lord. No sane man will ever again claim these lands again. Not even King Henry would count it among his Royal Forests.”

  It was a queer place… overgrown with brambles all choking the trunks of nearby trees. Lichen and moss grew, but not only on the north side, on the south side as well—as though the very laws of nature were circumvented here.

  The place was made stranger still by the profusion of birds squawking and gawking from the branches.

  Shivering, Rosalynde peered again at her sister. Elspeth’s lips quivered, but Rosalynde restrained herself from reaching out to comfort her.

  They had both heard of places like these—portals to the Nether Realm, like fairy glens. They were inexplicably perceptible when you stumbled across one, because the hairs of the nape stood at end, and the air held an unnatural chill. And yet, here, the sun shone brightly, glittering off bits of what appeared to be coal.

  “How far lies York?” she asked.

  “More than twenty leagues.”

  Rosalynde’s shoulders fell with resignation. It was not possible to send another messenger to see if Malcom had received their message. And while it was certainly possible to travel the distance from York in a single day, it didn’t seem possible for Malcom to plead his case to David, then travel all the way back in time to meet them here.

  Still, she prayed. To any god or goddess who would listen.

  In the meantime… fighting their way into the tower didn’t appear to be a wise option… therefore, they must negotiate… and pray to the Goddess their mother would honor her part in the bargain.

  Swallowing another knot of fear that rose to choke her, Rosalynde fingered the pommel of her sword. Even at this distance, it had begun to hum in response to her mother’s proximity. “You have the Book?” she asked Elspeth.

  Elspeth nodded, flicking a glance at her sword. “It’s glowing,” she said softly.

  Rosalynde gave a single nod. “Is there aught at all in that book to aid us?”

  Elspeth shook her head.

  Desperate for something, anything, Rosalynde asked, “You spoke wor
ds at Aldergh without knowing them beforehand… can you do it again?”

  Elspeth shook her head. “I only spoke what the Goddess told me, but I do not hear her now.”

  The sisters turned their gazes to the tower, each whispering silent prayers to the Goddess, knowing full well that her intervention was not a given. The Goddess worked in mysterious ways, bending only where it served the spirit of the age. Such as it was, one lone child might not merit the altering of fate—not even for dewinefolk.

  Soft and haunting, a melody drifted from the tower… rising in crescendo until it reached their ears… a familiar song… an echo of their youth…

  When thy father went a-hunting,

  A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand,

  He called the nimble hounds,

  ‘Giff, Gaff; catch, catch, fetch, fetch!’

  The tune lifted on the fetid breeze, impossibly loud, and nevertheless quiet as the scurry of a mouse.

  “She’s here,” said Elspeth, shuddering. And even as she uttered the words, Morwen’s dark-clad army shifted in formation, parting to form a path to the circlet.

  Heart pounding with fear, Rosalynde waited to see what Elspeth would do. It was her child; the decision must be hers.

  Lifting her head, Elspeth pushed back her shoulders, accepting their mother’s invitation. Her sword hissed as she withdrew it from her scabbard and rode forth, eyes bright with vengeance—bright and blue as the fire girding the tower—leaving Rosalynde to follow.

  * * *

  The path grew narrow now, with wild carrots growing thickly beside a meandering trail. By now, Seren’s bottom ached, so did her legs. She felt like a court jester who’d turned summersaults for the king. By the blessed cauldron, she never knew there were so many ways to have relations; Wilhelm must have learned every one as thoroughly as he had the use of his sword—not only the one in his scabbard. The very thought made her cheeks bloom again, but she sighed contentedly.

  “How far did you say we must ride?”

  With a lazy grin, Wilhelm asked, “Art complaining already?”

  Seren laughed softly. “Nay, I am not.” She eyed him meaningfully. “I would but know. Thanks to you, yesterday’s pursuits have left me… disadvantaged.”

  He chuckled low, the rich sound of his laughter lifting her spirits as few things could do, considering the circumstances.

  Soon enough, she would face Rosalynde, and what could she possibly say to make amends? Even after contemplating the Whitshed night after night, she hadn’t the first inkling what had happened back in that harbor. Mulling it over again and again, she recounted the day as meticulously as she could. She’d gone to see a courier with Jack. They didn’t linger going there or back. Forsooth, she wasn’t even gone very long. By the time she’d returned, that ship was already consumed.

  “Art thinking of your sister?”

  “I am,” Seren confessed. As of yet, over the course of these past few weeks, they’d barely spoken of the ordeal.

  “There was little you could have done differently,” he suggested. “Except perish with her… would you have it that way, instead?”

  Seren shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “I would not.”

  Not the least for which she would never have known Wilhelm. She cast a glance at the man she had begun to think of as her Goddess-given champion, watching him as he ripped off a length of dried corned-beef—a gift from the sisters at Neasham.

  “Thank you,” she said, again. “Were it not for you, ’tis certain I would have been returned to my mother’s keeping.”

  His lips curved ruefully, as though he felt guilty over the events of these past few days, and she only meant to reassure him. “Wilhelm… if I had a thousand lives to lose, I would entrust them each to you.”

  His dark eyes twinkled with black humor. “Aye, well, you have but the one,” he advised, and averted his gaze.

  Seren sensed that, no matter how many times she spoke to the contrary, he would blame himself for stealing her maidenhead. And, in truth, there would be consequences to pay for this, but Wilhelm stole nothing. Furthermore, she would never regret it—not even if she lived to be a thousand.

  She frowned then, remembering that dewinefolk were hardier and lived longer than most. Her grandmamau was seventy when she died more than twenty-two years ago. Her forbear, Yissachar, was said to have lived to be two-hundred and twenty. Morwen? Goddess only knew. Would she grow old enough to watch the man she loved die in her arms? It was a sobering thought, but however long she lived, Seren could never regret loving him, and she vowed to be a better mother than Morwen was—and suddenly, she found herself grinning, peering up at Wilhelm, realizing, only for the first time since their consummation, that she could, indeed, be carrying his child. She put a hand to her belly in wonder.

  Oh, sweet Arwyn, she said silently, shifting from a high note to a heartrending low.

  Would that you could know him.

  Wishing with all her might that she did not feel such intense joy over an occasion that was born by her sister’s tragedy, she peered up into the sky, and it was then her eye caught a formation of birds in the distance… black birds… ravens… thick as smoke…

  The tiny hairs on her nape prickled.

  Only once before had she seen them fly like that, mimicking the ebb and flow of smoke… as though reveling in the burning. Another mass of birds swooped in, then another… all of them diving into nearby trees, and the closer Wilhelm and Seren rode in that direction, the louder their squawks.

  Seren could tell by Wilhelm’s expression that he’d spied the birds as well. “Morwen,” he said with a note of trepidation, and Seren’s eyes returned to the skies.

  There was nothing in the natural world that could draw so many ravens altogether.

  Unwilling to leave Seren behind and unwilling to ride ahead, Wilhelm led them through the woods, along the Lady’s Walk.

  Alone, he might have been far more inclined to take chances; but he was not prepared to endanger the woman he loved. Aye, it was true, he loved her. Now that he understood something about his own true heart, he realized he’d never loved Lady Ayleth at all. That was affection, and perhaps lust, but not at all the same sort of longing he felt for Seren.

  Now, the possibility that her mother was near filled him with dread down to his bones, because, this time he realized beyond a shadow of doubt, if he lost the love of his heart, he would never endure another day without her.

  He would perish with grief.

  The Lady’s Walk was said to have been forged in the first days of Christianity by the lady of Rothbury. Nearby there was a small pool where St. Ninian was said to have baptized Christians. Her husband meant to build a church to claim these ancient lands in the name of his faith. He managed to construct no more than a bell tower when his wife’s body was found limp by the door. Now, even when the woods grew thick enough to throttle the trees, the Lady’s Walk always remained passable. By far, it was the easiest pass to Warkworth, up until you reached the meadow with the tower. From there, they must return to the lower bogs, but they were not the first to traverse this path over the past few days. He spied the evidence cast at their feet—hoof prints made by fifty or more horses.

  Following the path with some trepidation, they emerged near the tower. And there, in the meadow, he spotted the glitter of chainmail. Dismounting, thinking to leave Seren only an instant whilst he assessed the situation, he froze, recognizing the sigil of his house.

  These were Warkworth’s soldiers.

  Swallowing with trepidation, he recognized his brother’s wife at once, her glorious red-gold mane unbound, and his brother’s glowing sword in her hand. Before he could speak to warn Seren, she, too, slid from her mount and rushed toward the clearing.

  “Rose,” she shouted. “Ellie! Rose!”

  32

  After everything she had endured—after losing Arwyn—nothing in this Goddess-given world could keep Seren from her sisters. Never had she been so relieved to se
e two people in all her life. She would know them from leagues away.

  “Rose,” she called, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Rose!” Only belatedly, she realized something was terribly wrong.

  These were not all her sisters’ soldiers. Armed in black, some stood staring, like statues. They did not even acknowledge her when she approached.

  “Seren!” exclaimed Elspeth, sliding from her mount, and coming to embrace her, eyes red-rimmed and feverish, as though she’d been weeping for days. Her cheeks were high with color—anger, Seren realized.

  Bright, burning anger.

  Rosalynde, too, alit from her mount, only after re-sheathing her sword. She cast her arms out in greeting, but the reunion was short lived. Explanations were hurried: Their mother awaited inside that tower with Elspeth’s child. In trade for the boy, she wanted the Book of Secrets. Rosalynde herself had brought fifty armed soldiers—but altogether they were not enough to challenge Morwen’s army, so she’d commanded them to stand down and stay back.

  Seren’s eyes widened with fright as her gaze alit upon the grimoire in Elspeth’s hand—that ancient tome Rosalynde herself risked her life to steal. Even despite the risk of returning it, they intended now to return it, except that the circlet of witchfire was impassible. Though none of Morwen’s dark soldiers had so much as moved to prevent them from attempting, the sisters each understood the danger of attempting it.

  “How did you find us?” asked Rose.

  “The birds,” said Wilhelm. Rosalynde met his gaze, and the two embraced as a rich, peal of laughter resounded from the tower.

  “Oh, my,” said Morwen, excitedly. She was holding Elspeth’s babe in her arms. “How fortuitous!”

  The hiss of metal stole through the glade as Rosalynde unsheathed her sword. “Give us that child!”