Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

  So, then, if the sword was forged by the Dynion Mwyn, was truth the sword’s most divine gift?

  Could it be that Caledfwlch was meant to reveal the truth of her spirit?

  In that vein, why did the sword glow blue in her mother’s presence? But not in hers?

  Why, indeed?

  Because Morwen was evil?

  Or because Morwen herself was truth?

  And consequently, if Morwen was truth, what terrible brand of truth might she be?

  Nay… this wasn’t right.

  There was a piece of the puzzle still missing—something Seren should have discovered in the grimoire…

  She tried to remember everything Isolde had said…

  Together, the Mother Goddess and the Horned God fashioned all things in their union, and because the Goddess herself was said to conceive and contain all life in her divinity, then all beings were divine by their birth, only without truth until it was learned.

  More riddles, she hadn’t a clue how to decipher…

  According to the teachings of the Holy Church, if Eve was the representation of the Goddess, the snake in the garden must be the Horned God, and mayhap the apple he gave her was the incarnation of truth…

  Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

  Growing desperate, Seren concentrated harder, poring over all the things she’d learned…

  A pentagram was also said to express truths about the hidden nature of existence. There was a very good reason it must be drawn in the proper order to accomplish a given task: Some spells called more to the Goddess, others to the Horned God. The five points, each aligned to an element, were ascribed to one or the other. But the fifth element, the quintessence, formed a marriage of both… essentially creating a divine child.

  And yet, it was interesting to note that the elements were unevenly distributed, and more interesting yet was the fact that there were only three divine elements, and each of these were aligned to the Goddess.

  How did these play in her role?

  Or did they at all?

  Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

  According to Isolde, the gods were able to manifest themselves, either through dreams, or as physical beings, but also through the minds and bodies of a priestess or priest. The latter was essentially the making of a Regnant, whereby the Goddess must be called upon to bestow divine possession.

  Only how was it done?

  Compelled to examine the sword again, she opened her eyes, lifting it to inspect it, wondering that perhaps there might be a key in the artwork. Pressing, caressing, she admired the intricate design, running her fingers over the writhing serpents. But then, having found nothing, she laid the blade in her palm…

  Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

  Losing patience, she turned the blade, nicking her flesh so it bled… though not much… only a thin red line. And yet it was certainly blood. “Ouch,” she said belatedly, lifting the sore hand to her lips, and lapping at a droplet of blood.

  So much for imbuing the sword with divinity. Anyone who dared to face her mother with this accursed blade would be sorely equipped to survive the ordeal. She was beginning to feel like a failure. For weeks and weeks now, ever since Isolde put the thought in her head, she had been trying in vain to find her true self.

  Find yourself, the woman had said, then imbue Caledfwlch with the power of the divine.

  Then, and only then would she know what to do in order to save, not only England, but the Realm of the Living. It was a terrible burden to suffer for a woman who’d only ever coveted a normal life…

  Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

  Damnation.

  By now, she had lain in this bed so bloody long that morning arrived, illuminating her room with a warm vestal light.

  Time was her enemy.

  Urgency quickened her veins.

  Desperation wrenched her heart.

  Outside, she could spy the first light of sunrise, and as it so happened, choosing that instant to return to her window, the damnable crow came to rest on her sill, it’s beady little eyes peering into her room. “There you are,” she said, annoyed. “Where have you been?”

  “Caw!” it said, and then beat its shining wings.

  Alas, she was going out of her mind. Speaking to a stupid little bird, who seemed to enjoy pecking holes in her sill.

  Peck. Peck. Peck.

  “You are not a woodpecker,” she scolded the bird as it continued to worm its little beak into the fresh wood of her sill. Perhaps consuming insects? Or mayhap it was senile—like Isolde— and couldn’t remember how it was that a crow was meant to behave?

  Sighing despondently, Seren returned her attention to the blade, lifting it higher to admire the gleam of dawn light against the metal.

  “I am unworthy,” she said, with feeling. “Sweet Goddess, I am only a humble servant of men. Why must it be me?”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  And then something unexpected happened.

  As Seren tilted her head to better examine the reflection… the sword burst into flames, illuminating the room with its light. To her amazement, she held a raging fire in her hands, but it emanated no heat.

  “Caw!” said the bird excitedly.

  Mesmerized, Seren stared at the firelit sword for a moment longer, then lifted one hand into the pale golden flame, touching it with wonder. Inconceivably, it was cold, and the fire left her hand unharmed.

  Drawing the hand away to inspect her fingers, she found them completely unaffected, and then instinctively, she lifted her hand again to the blade, turning the sword against the meat of her palm to nick her flesh…

  This time she didn’t bleed.

  Withdrawing her hand again, she inspected it closely, and, not only was there no second cut, the first cut was no longer present, nor was she scarred.

  Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

  A sense of quietude fell over her, a feeling unlike anything she had ever known in her life, a sense of purity that had no words. The room in which she lay faded to white, and she longed to rise—and did, though she had the sense that she did so only in her mind.

  Surrounded now by a blinding array of white light, she heard a disembodied voice…

  A drop of your blood to reveal,

  The mysteries of life my sword conceals.

  “Who are you?” Seren longed to ask, but her voice never emerged through the tightness of her throat.

  The Goddess nevertheless replied. “I am who I am, Seren Pendragon,” she said, with a timbre that echoed throughout eternity. “You are blood of my blood, heart of my heart, soul of my soul.”

  A maternal face materialized from a cloud of white—eyes first, shaded the palest amber to mirror the flame of the sword in her hand. Kind and gentle eyes…

  Next, she saw a perfect patrician nose. High, beautiful cheeks, like those of a Saracen’s. Lush, full lips, like those of a Nubian Princess. Wings of a Valkyrie. Breasts, high, round and firm. Thighs, long and stout. Hair, flowing like a thousand rivers to the sea… She was every woman at once, and all these things rippled from the aether, forms in a cloud, inconstant, and ephemeral, almost as though if Seren dared to expel a breath, it would all dissipate and never reappear. Therefore, she held her breath.

  “Come,” the woman demanded, and Seren knew in her heart that she spoke to the Goddess. Quickly, sensing herself crossing time and space, she knelt at the feet of this exquisite creature, who seemed to embody every woman she had ever met… a heavenly body made of wind and fire and aquavit, all at once, though it hardly seemed possible.

  The Goddess materialized fully then, her face furious and terrifying, a maelstrom of every sacred element, glowing and swirling like the eye of a storm.

  “Where am I?”

  Despite her terrifying visage, there was a benevolent note in the woman’s voice, and her words rang li
ke melody. “Some call it Heaven. Some call it Tween. Others call it the Other Realm. Only someday you’ll know it for what it is… the dominion of the Sylph.”

  “Sylph?”

  Your true kind.

  “Caw, caw!” said the black bird from the dark recesses of Seren’s mind, but it was not here in this place. It was perched on some windowsill in another world, one she no longer inhabited…

  We are bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  I to you, and you to me…

  Choose me, or choose to be free.

  As you will it, so mote it be.

  “I… choose… you,” Seren heard herself say.

  “Caw!” said the black bird.

  Art certain, child?

  You do not sound certain.

  The path you are destined to travel is perilous,

  Only truth may light your way.

  Wander into shadow and your soul will be the price you pay.

  “I am certain,” said Seren, and she felt the woman’s smile like an ember burning through her breast.

  Art willing to die for truth?

  “I am.”

  “Caw!” said the black bird.

  Will you shed your blood for love?

  “I will.”

  “Caw!” said the black bird.

  Will you sacrifice the fruit of your womb?

  “I…”

  “Caw!” said the black bird insistently.

  Will you?

  “A-Aye,” said Seren, yet not so quickly.

  The woman’s voice, which had been soft and soothing before, filled with empathy, now boomed with the fury of thunder and the promise of retribution. Her face twisted so that Seren could no longer tell if she was male or female. Horns grew upon her head—horns like those of a stag.

  The voice reverberated across the universe itself.

  Now is the revelation of truth.

  Now is the light of our kind born in you.

  Now is the seed of all lies revealed.

  Now is the verity of your words made known. If, indeed, you choose me, turn the blade, and we will see…

  “Caw!” said the black bird, as an unseen wind stirred, growing now in intensity, whipping Seren’s hair about her face, so that even in her dream state it stung her flesh like whips of fire. To her dismay, the longer she stood without making a true decision, the more violent the wind grew, and the tendrils of the Being’s hair grew long, and fiery, like the appendages of a She Dragon in a raging lake of fire…

  “I choose you!” Seren shouted above the din, fearing she’d angered the creature, but uncertain how.

  The voice demanded, “If you choose me, turn the blade, and see…”

  “Caw, caw!” said the black bird.

  It was only belatedly that Seren realized she was still holding Caledfwlch in the palm of her hand—the Sword of Ages, the ancient blade of Uther and Taliesin. In that instant of realization, the sword erupted more violently with flame, only this time the flame turned as blue as the Endless Sea.

  Arising from her knees with great difficulty, Seren dragged up the heavy sword along with her. Whereas before she’d felt weightless as a feather as she’d drifted to the Goddess, she now felt heavy as a lump of iron, anchored to the very spot where she stood, constrained as though by a thousand chains of steel. And yet somehow, though she wondered if she’d drifted back to sleep in her own room, on her own bed, she felt in the marrow of her bones that dream, or no dream, whatever choice she made here and now… whatever the end result of this vision, she would carry the consequences in life… and death.

  The voice was furiously insistent. If you choose me, turn the blade, and see…

  In a moment of terror, Seren understood what He was saying. The creature meant for her to prove the veracity of her words with a willing sacrifice… only a sacrifice of her person… a sacrifice of her womb.

  If you choose me, turn the blade, and see…

  “Caw, caw!” said the black bird.

  Only now, she understood, and once again, despite the angry face that glared down upon her, the same sense of quietude arose within her, and she knew… deep in her heart… if the Goddess was life, then, as her lover, the Horned God must be the one to light the spark of truth in her to create the Divine Child. She was the Divine Child. The Chosen One of her Age. The Regnant of her Day. But only if she gave herself to this sacrifice… and the sacrifice she now knew was a child of her womb. And yet if she chose this, she would be barren for the rest of her days. She would never, so long as she breathed, give Wilhelm a child of his blood. She would never know what it was like to be a mother…

  Why? Even her grandmother had known the joys of childbirth. Why must she make this choice before ever having conceived?

  Every path is different, my daughter… your child is every child…

  The booming voice was gentle again, although it buckled and twisted against the wind, breaking like the voice of a youth on the verge of becoming a man.

  Male. Female. Child. Mother. Father. Indistinguishable.

  We are bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  I to you, and you to me…

  Now you may choose, or choose to be free.

  As you will it, so mote it be.

  Tears brimmed in Seren’s eyes, but she steeled her heart and wiped her face. Now was no time to weep.

  If she did not choose this now, it could be that no more children would be born to the realms of men.

  If she did not choose this now, her sisters might die, as well…

  So, too, would Wilhelm—the man she loved more than life itself.

  If she didn’t choose this, her mother’s shadow would descend over the realm, extinguishing the light of this world, and the hearts of men would lie stillborn in a cradle of night.

  With a defiant scream, Seren lifted the Sword of Ages and turned the blade—but not within her hand.

  Understanding what was required of her now, she turned the blade so that its point was poised to enter her breast, and then with a sob, she fell upon it with all her might.

  The sword pierced her flesh, filling her body with excruciating pain. It found her heart, and she screamed, sobbing over the death of her body, and suddenly, as the wind died, the clouds dissipated, all faces vanished…

  She lay very still upon her bed… in the morning’s first rays.

  The black bird flew away.

  For a long, long moment, she lay prone on the bed, confused, wondering how in the name of the Goddess she’d come to lie face down on the Sword of Ages.

  “Seren!” said Rose as a flash of light illuminated the room and they saw her lying so still on the bed. “Seren!”

  “Sweet loving Mother!” said Elspeth.

  Seren heard the rush of feet to her bedside, felt her sisters shove her over, and lift her gently off the sword. She felt hands sweeping over her body, her breasts, her limbs…

  The sword went clattering to the floor as someone hurled it from the bed, and the voices that surrounded her now sounded a bit less frantic.

  “Was it another dream?” pressed Elspeth.

  “I-I don’t know! I heard her scream and thought it must be one of our babes.”

  A warm hand slapped Seren upon the cheek. “Seren?”

  “Is she ill?”

  “I don’t know,” said Rose.

  “Wounds?”

  “I see naught. Seren, wake up! Seren!”

  “Look at her hair,” said Elspeth, expelling the words with a gasp, as Seren opened her eyes.

  20

  Sleep eluded Rhiannon.

  For the love of the Goddess, Cael hadn’t freed her; he’d put her in the hands of a fellow executioner.

  Didn’t he know?

  But, of course, he did.

  We are not aligned, he’d said.

  We are not aligned.

  Tears pricked at her eyes as his words needled her heart, far, far more painfully than did any of the brambles she’d slept near. He’d kissed her good-b
ye, perhaps forever, and now it seemed that instead of saving her, he’d given her over to be murdered for the good of the realm?

  Marcella claimed she was taking Rhiannon to her sisters—or at least, this was what Rhiannon had presumed. Only now that she considered it, no one had ever said they were taking her to Warkworth. Had they?

  Nay.

  Marcella had merely said she’d been tasked to “remove” Rhiannon from Blackwood, and yes, perhaps to keep her safe, but only so long as she didn’t deem Rhiannon a threat to the Realm…

  By the by, before you think to judge me… consider that before we are done, one of you—either you or your sisters—will put a blade through your mother’s heart.

  Therefore, you are no better than a huntsman.

  Either you will spill Morwen’s blood, else she’ll spill yours, and for the good of the realm… I am prepared to slay you all.

  Frustrated, Rhiannon turned on her pallet, peering into the treetops. By now, the fire had long since died, and she was cold, but she hadn’t the wherewithal to cast a warming spell. Her teeth chattered viciously, perhaps more from nerves than from the chill. Every time Marcella or Jack turned in their beds, disturbing bracken, it made her heart leap painfully against her ribs.

  She was afraid, she realized.

  Terrified.

  Perhaps for the first time in her life.

  During these past few days, Marcella had managed to strip Rhiannon of her pride. She gave her a true glimpse of her own vulnerability. Rhiannon wasn’t anyone’s savior, nor anyone’s protector. She was merely a woman, surrounded by uncertainty, who missed her husband… desperately.

  Using her cloak for a blanket and her arm for a pillow, she tossed and turned, doing her best to avoid brambles. Alas, the more she fidgeted, the more they clawed at her, even as worry pricked at her belly.

  She could leave, she realized.

  Now, whilst they were still sleeping…

  Like her sisters, she was a child of the forests. She might have a chance alone. She didn’t know precisely where Warkworth was, but she knew it was north and close to the sea. She also knew how to gauge direction by the position of the sun. Whatever she didn’t have in her saddlebag, she could forage from the land.