Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She didn’t need these paladins…

  Unfortunately, the horses were weary from so many long days. Like Rhiannon, they hadn’t rested properly since leaving Blackwood, and if she left now, her poor horse would pay the price of her impetuosity.

  So, then, she could travel afoot… concealing herself with magik, though Marcella was a dewine. She would know what signs to look for.

  Anyway, Marcella would have use of the horses, and she also knew precisely where Rhiannon was going. Doubtless, they would pursue her till caught.

  Going back wasn’t very wise either. Although they’d managed to slip away, by now, Morwen was no doubt in pursuit. She would push her band to their limits to make up for lost time.

  Nay, in the end, it simply wouldn’t be wise to waste more time trying to escape a woman who, according to her own word, had been assigned to protect her. She must believe that Cael would never put her in the hands of a mercenary who meant to kill her. And yet, she lay there, confused by all she’d learned—one shocking revelation after another from the instant she’d left Blackwood.

  Sylph…

  Her mother was Sylph.

  How was this even possible?

  Sylphkind were beings Rhiannon had only ever heard of in legend—children of the Gods, so they said, formed of moon dust and spirit, ethereal as air. Said to be skyspeakers, they were able to communicate with creatures of the air—and this perhaps rang true, though it was unfathomable.

  Moreover, how was it that something purported to be so exquisitely lovely could be so base?

  By all accounts the Sylphkind were lauded to be creatures of beauty and love… untouched by the guile or greed of men.

  They were said to be so fiercely beautiful that to look into the eyes of a Sylph could, in fact, blind like the sun.

  Like Avalon, Sylphkind were like chimeras… here one instant, gone the next… ephemeral and without constant form. And yet, Morwen did have a physical form.

  Sylph?

  Truly?

  Nay, it couldn’t be… and yet… she knew the ring of truth when she heard it.

  In the darkness, she was moved to examine her own hands— solid, with distinct human form. She had never once—not once—had an inkling she could shift her form. And yet, she, too, must have Sylph blood running through her veins—her sisters as well—though Rhiannon bled like anyone else.

  More to the point, so did Morwen.

  A memory filtered into her mind—her mother slicing a finger, not on accident. Using her dagger with the obsidian handle, she’d bled herself for a spell—blood magik, so she’d said. Only now that Rhiannon recalled… that dagger also glowed blue in Morwen’s presence, like Rhiannon’s manacles… and the key. The glow for Rhiannon was faint, more like a shimmer, but it was nevertheless there.

  She tried to remember what her mother had said about the glow when asked… Rhiannon was four, watching, as her mother’s blood dripped into a chalice. “What are you doing?”

  “Can’t you see I am busy, child? Go away!”

  Much to Rhiannon’s detriment, the athame had already captured her attention, and curiosity compelled her. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the ancient blade.

  “Why does it glow?”

  Her mother’s sigh was disparaging. “Because it sees my true soul,” she’d said, annoyed.

  “Does it see mine?”

  “Nay.”

  “Why not?”

  Morwen’s amber gaze sought her then, eyes slitted, and burning like coals. “Because you are imperfect,” she’d said meanly. “Plain, ugly. Have you never looked into a mirror, child? Only a blind man will ever claim you with that affliction.”

  Disheartened, Rhiannon’s lips had turned down at the corners, but even then, she’d refused to weep. One did not show weakness in front of Morwen.

  Instead, a four-year-old’s burgeoning fury had welled up inside her as her mother shouted for Elspeth. “Elspeth! Get this brat out of my sight, right now! Else I’ll think better of it, and drain her pitiful body of the blood I need for my spell.”

  Elspeth had rushed over at once, removing Rhiannon from her mother’s proximity, whisking her out of the apartment and down into the castle kitchen to pilfer a sweet cake from the cook.

  It sees my soul.

  Did the athame leech from Morwen, like those manacles?

  Nay. Nay.

  Somehow, those two were the same, but not the same, because her mother still carried the athame on a chain about her neck. Therefore, the manacles must be changed by the binding spell etched into the metal.

  Tenetur in argenteas

  A capite ad calcem, tace, et sile

  Bound in silver,

  From head to toe, silent and still

  Something about those words spoke to her sense of knowing, just as something about the blue shimmer of the metal seemed relevant to their cause.

  It sees my soul.

  Will it see mine?

  Nay.

  Why not?

  Because you’re imperfect.

  Tears stung Rhiannon’s eyes.

  Sadness permeated her heart—sadness and anger.

  In truth, she had never been a lovable child. Ellie used to claim she was born angry, and it was undeniable. And yet, why shouldn’t she be furious? She’d suffered the death of her twin in the womb. Both of them had been close to death—poisoned by their own mother—and Morien had given up her life force to save Rhiannon. Her death gave Rhiannon the strength to be restored, and whilst her own heartbeat had strengthened over time, her sister’s body began to decay in the womb. Most people might not recall events before their birth, but Rhiannon was not most people: She was a dewine. She remembered everything. She had a blood sister no one—not even her living sisters—had ever chanced to know. Only she understood the sacrifice Morien made for her that day. Only she truly knew the heart that stopped beating only for her—no less a sacrifice than the one Arwyn had made at twenty.

  Pushing aside the pain of her reopened wound, she tried in vain to rest, resigning herself to her current path and realizing that they would have another long day. She bolstered herself with surety: No longer was she a poor, pitiful child dependent upon a cruel beast for a mother. She was a woman, grown, married for whatever good it might do her.

  And Cael… he did feel something for her…

  Something…

  He’d kissed her much too passionately, his longing betrayed by the smoke in his eyes—eyes that made love to her despite that his hands and body never would.

  Nay. She must believe Morwen was wrong: Someone did love her, even if their love was doomed.

  Where are you, Cael?

  Are you alive?

  Please, please don’t die.

  Live.

  Those gloomy thoughts held her transfixed. And then, at long last, when finally she drifted into a fitful slumber, she heard Marcella rise. But at least the woman didn’t immediately attempt to wake her. Rhiannon watched through slitted eyes as Marcella tapped her protégé with the tip of her boot. Jack rose at once, without complaint, and set about to righting their camp, but his demeanor, too, seemed changed this morn. Perhaps he, too, had come to understand something of his own fate, after the stories Marcella had shared by the campfire.

  When they were ready to go, Jack came over to gently wake Rhiannon. “Time to rise,” he said.

  Rhiannon opened one eye to his winsome smile.

  In the bright morning light, he didn’t appear particularly sinister, and she was glad now that she’d remained.

  However, she saw everything through new eyes. Knowing what she knew now, nothing would ever be the same.

  Nodding sleepily, Rhiannon sat, then stretched—taking simple pleasure in the fact that she could do so without lifting heavy manacles. Even bone-tired, and riddled with midge bites, she must at least be thankful for that much, and this was proof that Marcella didn’t intend to kill her—at least not yet. The paladin had left her free to defend herself, and there
was no doubt in Rhiannon’s mind that Marcella knew precisely what Rhiannon was capable of, even despite her dire words last night.

  Without a word, she rose, still mulling over the night’s deliberations. She led her mare to the brook to drink, and there, she knelt to lave the metallic stains from her wrists and refresh her face.

  Peering into the water, she spied her own visage. The girl who stared back was sorely unkempt, though she was not plain or ugly. She was fierce, to be sure… dark copper hair, her features dark, as well—all but the bright blue eyes.

  “You look exactly like her,” Marcella had said.

  And she did… only to be fair, her mother was more beautiful, even if her heart was black as a raven’s wings.

  Even if her gaze was so full of loathing that hate was all Rhiannon had ever gleaned from her.

  It was no wonder Rhiannon had always despised her own reflection.

  Plain. Ugly.

  Have you never looked into a mirror, child?

  Only a blind man will ever claim you with that affliction.

  And yet, her eyes were no longer afflicted; they were blue… no longer crossed.

  She could no longer deny the truth: She was not to be Regnant. And more, whether it be from the manacles, or nay, neither was she so strong as she liked to believe.

  She would not grow up to slay this particular demon, not alone…

  Everything she’d ever believed of herself mightn’t even be true now that Seren was Regnant… beautiful, beautiful Seren… whose eyes… had always been blue… although she must have been glamoured by a spell so strong that not even Morwen had been able to see beyond the visage displayed.

  Rhiannon sighed.

  Life was not fair.

  And no matter, despite that she’d like to be angry for having borne the brunt of a disfigurement that wasn’t her own, she couldn’t truly be angry at Seren.

  Neither was Seren’s beauty a lie; she was lovelier yet on the inside, and this is where it counted most.

  Rhiannon had learned so much since leaving Blackwood… and regardless, no revelation had shocked her so much as the knowledge that Marcella once knew her mother so well.

  Loved her, in truth.

  That was more than evident by the shine of her tears. They’d spoken louder than words. And yet, so much as Rhiannon wished to know more… she feared hearing more “truth.”

  How much more could she bear?

  Heaving another sigh, she swept a hand across the visage of her face, dispersing the eerie likeness to a watery grave, and then, resolved to rise and face whatever the day might hold—until she heard a voice at her back, a voice she didn’t recognize, and froze.

  “Well met,” said a man.

  “Well met,” said Jack, appearing behind her.

  Marcella, too, crept into the vicinity, although she said nothing and Rhiannon came to be acutely aware that the paladin had moved into the space betwixt her and the newcomer, as though to defend Rhiannon.

  Rhiannon daren’t turn… not yet.

  She stood slowly, reaching for her mare’s reins as the animal continued to drink from the brook.

  “Di’ ye hear the news?” the man said joyfully.

  “What news?” inquired Marcella.

  Rhiannon heard only one man dismount, his feet landing in the bracken…

  Was he traveling alone?

  “At long last! We have peace!” When nobody spoke, he continued. “The King and Duke Henry have formed a new treaty.”

  “Before witnesses?”

  “Aye,” said the man, excitedly.

  “Signed?”

  “Not yet, though Duke Henry is withdrawing from Wallingford as we speak.”

  “What of the King’s sons?”

  “Bugger’em both,” said the man.

  Rhiannon brought herself to her full height, although for some reason, she was still afraid to turn and face the man, instinct warning her to keep her face hidden.

  She could hear him walking his horse to the brook to drink, and wary though she might be, Marcella let the man pass. He was directly behind Rhiannon now, his horse stretching its long, shining chestnut neck to drink from the brook beside Rhiannon. In her periphery she saw that the stranger gave her a good, long look.

  “What about Eustace?” Marcella inquired, perhaps to distract him.

  “Ah, well,” he said, turning to answer the paladin’s question. “The fool’s gone mad.”

  “Mad?” asked Jack. “How so?”

  “Fool. He fled the King’s marquee in a rage. Accused his father of ruining his life, and swore to avenge himself. He took a number of barons with him, though most returned, falling to their knees and begging forgiveness. Seems Prince Eustace took it upon himself to relieve Bury St. Edmonds of God’s due.”

  “God’s due?” inquired Jack, moving closer to where Rhiannon stood.

  “Gold, jewels, he took a bloody cartload.”

  Directly beside Rhiannon, the man’s horse lifted its head and slid Rhiannon a long, black-eyed glance. She sent a calming spell to settle the mare, if only for good measure.

  “Only Prince Eustace remains at large,” the man continued. “A few have been sent to locate the moron and return him to his sire, before he does more harm.”

  The man inhaled a long breath, and then slapped his belly. “However, if’n ye ask me, I believe that fool means to seek his Welsh witch.”

  Morwen.

  “We mean to find her before he does,” said the man, untying his breeches, and despite being in the company of women, he pulled out his cock and began to piss in the brook, yammering all the while.

  “We?”

  “A few of us. If you ask me, I don’t know why the King would trust those Warkworth brothers to do his bidding when neither has ever had any love for him.”

  Silence.

  “No matter, while they’re preoccupied, we’ll find that Witch and put her daughters down, as well—else we’ll see them all packing to Rome, let the Church do their worst.”

  The silence persisted.

  “If’n ye ask me… the Empress had the right of it all those years ago, burning that elder bitch at the stake. You know, I was there that day… she never screamed… not once… but those eyes… I felt cursed just the same.”

  Rhiannon’s blood began to simmer.

  Nobody had asked the man a bleeding thing, though he seemed to know everything. Sweet fates, she wanted to reach a hand into his throat and twist his tongue into knots.

  All sound abated as the man continued to speak and the breath of the world came to pause… only the sound of his piss tinkling into the brook sounded at all.

  Rhiannon swallowed her words, anger searing her veins. She had to hold herself back, because she longed to pounce on the man like a wild cat, and scratch out his eyes.

  “Wicked witches,” he said. “I’ll put a blade to their throats sooner’n they blink, and I’ll do it right if I ever see one. Believe me, I will…”

  Very, very slowly, Rhiannon turned to face the man, and everything happened so quickly. His eyes widened with recognition at the sight of her.

  “You!” he spat, mistaking her for Morwen. Dropping his cock, his hand moved swiftly to the hilt of his sword, drawing the weapon from its scabbard as his breeches fell to his knees. “Vile, disgusting bitch,” he spat.

  Jack moved at once to stand in front of Rhiannon, and everything happened with a blur of motion.

  The man spat another round of curses, but Marcella was quicker than he was, unsheathing a knife from her boot. She tossed the blade so hard, the thunk it made when it penetrated the man’s skull was akin to the sound of an arrow piercing hard wood.

  He didn’t even realize what was coming. With the blade embedded in his forehead, he fell backwards into the bracken, with an arm dunked into the brook, and Marcella moved swiftly to cuff him with the heel of her boot, just to be sure. Satisfied, she cast one glance over her shoulder at Rhiannon, then bent to pluck the knife unerringly from th
e man’s face. She wiped it on her tunic, then said calmly, “Let’s go. It’s not safe.”

  21

  Abandoning the man’s corpse, with his breeches trussed about his ankles and a pit in his forehead, they sent his horse traveling south, with an empty saddle, in hopes that it should distract anyone who came searching for him.

  Jack took the lead, as Marcella took stock of her arrows, counting them and inspecting them one by one, then returning them to the quiver she kept on her horse.

  “Where are we going?” asked Rhiannon after a while, at long last breaching the silence.

  “North to the Pennines, then west,” provided Jack.

  “Your sisters are at Warkworth,” said Marcella. “’Tis my duty to reunite you.”

  Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief as the witch-paladin reached into her saddlebag and took out a sack full of something Rhiannon assumed must be filberts. Plucking a nut out of her sack, she popped it into her mouth, crunching very loudly, and swallowing before she said, “You appear relieved, Rhiannon.”

  Rhiannon averted her gaze from Marcella’s shrewd eyes. “I-I thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” she said, and Rhiannon recognized amusement in her voice. “Apparently, it was agreed upon by all: Seren must be Regnant, but Rhiannon Pendragon is the hope of England.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “I know what I said,” Marcella interrupted. “But, truly, do you believe I’d be here if I hadn’t come to believe it as well?”

  Rhiannon turned to look at the woman, and Marcella proffered her a nut. Rhiannon shook her head, and Marcella placed it into her own mouth.

  After a while, she said, “By the by, I’ve kept the manacles in my satchel, not to keep you away from them, or to save them to use later, but to keep them away from you… a subtle difference. Knowing what I know, I’d not have your energy siphoned when we need you most.”

  Rhiannon slid the paladin another glance, and Marcella said with a wink, “Cast away, mon amie. You need all the practice you can get.”