Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “So, then… are we friends now?”

  “Of a sort,” Marcella said, with a crooked smile, and just at that moment, a small, bent-legged crow came to perch upon her shoulder. “Well, hello there?” she said, not at all surprised. She handed the bird a nut, as though it might take it, and when it cawed in protest, she put the nut into her own mouth, and said, “Suit yourself.”

  “You speak to ravens?”

  Marcella’s green eyes glinted. “Paranoos does not suit you, Rhiannon. Does she look like a raven? Nay, mon amie, ’tis only a wretched old crow.”

  “Caw!” said the bird in complaint, and Marcella laughed.

  Nevertheless, there it remained, seated atop her shoulder, watching Marcella eat her nuts, and all the while, Marcella chatted with the creature—a one-sided conversation that didn’t make a bit of sense.

  “So, ’tis done?”

  “Aye?”

  “Good.”

  “’Tis a relief, I tell you. I was beginning to believe it all in vain.”

  Rhiannon listened intently, but there was nothing at all said to enlighten her. Overtired from a night’s lack of sleep, she decided to mind her own affairs, leave the daft girl to talk to herself. After a while, the crow flew away, and the trio continued in silence.

  Warkworth Castle

  After having spent most of these past four years fortifying Warkworth Castle in the event of a confrontation with Morwen, the Pendragon sisters now prepared to abandon their sanctuary. For the time being, their children would remain inside the curtain wall, and this time, Elspeth hadn’t a single complaint over the state of their fortification. Indeed, it was better defended than Aldergh, and, really, more so than Westminster as well.

  As a matter of practice, they kept two years’ worth of rations inside the main fortification, and a second, smaller wall—also warded with complex enchantments—prevented anyone from entering their village.

  Like the witchwater in the motte, anyone entering the general vicinity simply forgot where they were and wandered away.

  Using each of their affinities to the best of their abilities, the sisters then cast separate defense spells.

  Rosalynde enshrouded the castle with a mist that rolled for two miles beyond the outer wall.

  Elspeth warded the interior with a spell that should keep all but its denizens at bay—and this time, no one would be allowed to enter.

  Finally, Seren enchanted all the animals in the surrounding woodlands. Anyone approaching would discover themselves sorely abused by great, tusked boars.

  Considering the circumstances, there was no rest for the weary—not even for a mother fresh from the birthing table. Rosalynde hadn’t the luxury of time to nurse her newborn babe, so she gave the duty to her wet-nurse, and only now, as she stood peering down into her son’s face, she couldn’t help but recall her sister’s desperation and fear when their mother had threatened her eldest child. Anxious to leave him, even despite all the precautions, she clung to young Richard with a new mother’s desperation, kissing him very gently upon the forehead, before handing the babe back to his nursemaid.

  Named for his grandsire, the boy went without protest, although his dark eyes, so like his father’s, never left his mother—not till she vanished amidst a sea of armored men.

  It was not normally a woman’s place to lead armies, and yet, it was always presumed that, no matter how capable their champions were, in the end, it would be the Pendragon sisters who must challenge their mother.

  After all, what good was cut steel against hud du?

  Fortunately, all three sisters were wed to men who understood their lot in life, and who not only accepted their fates, but prepared them with all the skills and knowledge they would need to prevail.

  Day after day, for four long years, Seren and Rosalynde had sparred with swords. Elspeth came now and again—nearly every time Malcom was meant to be away.

  And finally, as a gift from the Holy Church, the sisters were each afforded ringmail suits, all blessed by the Pope and fitted to their precise measurements, complete with coifs, chausses, sturdy boots and gauntlets. Moreover, each sister rode a courser trained by the paladins, and the horses were lightly armored as well. Each sister wielded a finely honed sword, calibrated precisely for her weight and height… with one exception: Seren carried Caledfwlch, though Caledfwlch was meant for another.

  Now, as Warkworth’s army prepared to ride, messengers were dispatched to Malcom Scott at Carlisle, another to King Stephen at Wallingford, yet another to Duke Henry in place of Matilda. For all her years of battling Stephen’s barons, the Empress Matilda seemed content enough to remain in Rouen and tend to affairs in Normandy.

  Sadly, there was no guarantee anyone would answer their summons. After twenty long years, England was finally at peace. For all intents and purposes, their days of war were behind them. But little did anyone realize that the greatest battle of their day was soon to be waged… but not at Wallingford.

  Sweet Goddess have mercy, if this battle was lost.

  If it was lost…

  It wouldn’t matter what peace Stephen and Duke Henry had wrought; England would face certain doom, dark days would descend on the land…

  God save the realm.

  Seren saw it all now.

  She’d witnessed the tapestry of time weaving itself through the ages: the brotherhood of twelve kings, their dewine imbued swords; the bloodshed that ensued betwixt them; the betrayal at Llanrhos, where her forebear, Taliesin, conspired with Uther to take the life of the true Dragon Lord.

  And, aye, she knew now what he was, as well—a Shadow Beast, whose soul was bound, and whose eternal life could only be ended by destroying the reliquary his soul was bound to.

  And, more importantly, she knew what and who her mother was. Morwen had lived by many names: The Dark Goddess, the Shadow Crone, the Shapeshifter of Legend, the Mother of Avalon, Keeper of the Cauldron and Defender of the Grail. But there was only one true name for her: Cerridwen, destroyer of realms.

  And still she was more: She was a true-blood daughter of the God and Goddess, who’d created all realms. She was, as Lucifer was, an angel fallen from grace, and in her true form, she was a Sylph—she who was tasked to protect the realms of men, and who, in her fury, betrayed her promises to the coven and was banished from Heaven and earth.

  Morwen’s soul, like Cael’s and Mordecai’s souls, was bound to a reliquary, but for one very crucial difference: Hers was the soul of a goddess, and could never be fully destroyed.

  At best, they might hope to put an end to her mortal form.

  As it happened, gods and goddesses did not die the same way mortals died, and the crux of it all was that, despite their immortal blood, a dewine was only a demigod, and therefore bound by mortal laws. They bled as men bled. Their hearts beat as all hearts beat. They were merely more attuned to the aether, which was, in its essence, the breath of life.

  The day seemed bleak as ever.

  The sun refused to shine.

  At the end of July, there was a pall over the land that lingered, despite the season.

  In truth, there was no reason to believe they would prevail. There were no more favors to be called upon from Scotia, or anyone else.

  And, aye, the Church had sent its company of paladins, but it would never dare confess its true relation to the company of assassins, and neither would they ever acknowledge a preternatural threat to this realm that was directly opposed to their doctrine. No matter the truth, to their specifications, witches were not angels, or natural beings. They were aberrations of nature, to be feared and reviled.

  And neither would they acknowledge any but the “One True God” and put no others before him, not even the woman who was his mate. England was a patriarchy in the truest sense.

  Truth itself was a weapon to be feared, and therefore, a call for banners would be raised in the name of England, but it could be that Warkworth’s would be the only army to bear the King’s standard.

 
; As though to add insult to injury, the skies parted about midmorn, pouring down over the troops—a wet, cold deluge that dampened the spirits as surely it did the infantry, and even hope itself.

  But this was no time for weakness in spirit.

  No time for despair.

  Every able-bodied warrior was conscripted to ride, and once the sisters were ready, they moved together to the head of the line, preparing to lead their warriors into battle.

  Taking his cues from Rosalynde, Warkworth’s seneschal rode to the helm. Loyal to his lord and lady, Edmund cried out to the gatekeeper. “Gates!” To his troops, he said, “Prepare to ride!” And then, if only because he insisted, he rode ahead of his mistresses to secure the way.

  “Art ready?” asked Rosalynde of Elspeth as Edmund passed them by.

  Elspeth nodded, and then both sisters looked to their Regnant—wholly transformed by her recent consecration.

  White hair flowing at her back, face and skin radiant as a pearl, lips red as an apple, and cheeks rosy with color, Seren Pendragon moved to ride directly behind Edmund, with the sword Excalibur in her belt, and a small, bent crow riding atop her shoulder.

  Their destination: Amdel.

  22

  First, they discovered the riderless horse.

  Then, traveling in the direction from whence the horse had come, they happened upon a man’s body lying next to a brook. Caught unawares with his breeches down, there was a bloody hole between the man’s eyes where a sharp blade had once rested. The wound was deep, penetrating the skull, and to inflict such a wound, the assassin must have been very, very close, or very, very precise and skilled.

  Since it didn’t appear there was any sort of scuffle, Giles presumed the latter.

  He knew only one woman who could wield a knife with such deadly precision: Marcella le Fae. However, if, indeed, she had passed this way with her charge, then everything was going according to plan and he must let them go. The sooner they found Eustace and returned him to his father, the sooner they could return home.

  At his back, Wilhelm busied himself inspecting the boot and hoof prints surrounding the carcass. “These tracks are fresher than the rest,” he said.

  “Boot or hoof?”

  “Both.”

  “How many?”

  “One man, I believe. No less than fifteen stone, riding a courser, so it appears.”

  That was not Marcella. She was tall for a woman, not heavy. “Fresher than the rest, you say?”

  “Aye,” said Wilhelm. “’Tis as though he came lately, and stopped to investigate.”

  “Same direction as the rest?”

  “Aye,” said Wilhelm, again.

  “This one’s a King’s man,” said Giles, examining the livery of the dead man. He wore Stephen’s standard on the front of his gambeson. However, nothing on the horse they’d found, nor on the corpse had been pilfered, even so near to Darkwood. In fact, the horse’s satchel still contained all his travel supplies and there was a small gold purse, filled with coppers, tied to his belt.

  It was only by a stroke of luck they’d encountered the horse, standing beneath the shade of a tree, so they’d first thought, waiting for its master to return for it. It was a good-sized destrier of the sort normally conscripted for the King’s army, and thinking it might be Eustace, Giles had put Wilhelm in charge of tracking. His brother could scout better than any man Giles had ever encountered, and for the most part, he trusted Wilhelm’s instincts without fail. When they’d spied the vultures circling over this woodlot, they knew they’d found their man.

  “How long do you suppose he’s been dead?”

  “Half the day, no more.” Giles had seen more than his share of dead bodies to know. “How many traveling altogether?” he asked his brother.

  Wilhelm shrugged. “Looks like four, mayhap, not including the dead man.” He hitched a thumb at the corpse. “Appears to be either three women traveling together, else three young men. The one following behind is more than twice their size and weight.”

  “Hmm,” said Giles.

  “Whoever the fourth rider is… he didn’t linger long. He took a gander, then moved along.”

  “Neither did he bother to inspect the body,” said Giles, pointing to the sack of coppers. “Else he hadn’t much interest in coins.”

  “So he’s in pursuit of the others?”

  Giles nodded. “That’s what I gather. Can you tell which direction they are going?”

  Wilhelm examined the woodlands, then peered up into the trees at the sun in the sky. “They came southwest, more or less, traveling northeast.”

  Indeed, they were traveling in the direction of Warkworth. Instinct told him that it must be Marcella, and if that was the case, she was coming from Blackwood, and the extrication had gone according to plan. He’d yet to reveal the plan to her sisters, because he hadn’t wished to raise their hopes. In fact, he hadn’t even told Wilhelm, because Wilhelm could keep no secrets from his wife. He didn’t know who the fourth rider could be, but it wasn’t Morwen. That witch wouldn’t be traveling alone, unless it was her manservant. And nevertheless, this was a big country, and, in fact, it could be anyone—Eustace, included.

  He didn’t say so, however. If, for an instant, Wilhelm thought there might be danger en route to Warkworth, God himself couldn’t keep the man from returning home. Nay, he had long ago learned to follow his gut, and his gut said to let this go, and continue their mission.

  It went against his sense of propriety to steal a dead man’s coins, so he left them where they were, knowing good and well that they would be gone with the next passerby.

  So be it. Better it should go to someone in need. He had plenty of his own.

  “Do you know to whom these lands belong?” asked Wilhelm, still studying the landscape.

  Giles peered about, and said, “I’d gander ’tis a Royal Forest, perhaps Morfe, south of Wellington and Amdel?”

  “Beauchamp’s seat?”

  “Perhaps,” said Giles as he nodded. “The idiot. Word came whilst I was still at Wallingford… he met his end at the end of Blaec d’Lucy’s blade.”

  “Will he be punished?”

  “D’Lucy?” Giles shook his head. “Nay. To the contrary. He’s been raised to Earl by order of King Stephen. His brother renounced the seat.”

  “Will Duke Henry honor it?”

  Giles shrugged again. “Who knows, brother.”

  Wilhelm scratched his head. “What of Beauchamp’s land?”

  “Haven’t a bloody clue,” said Giles. “He’s survived by a sister, who’s, in fact, wed to Blaec, so I don’t know how it will reconcile. What I do know, however, is that Stephen will take his counsel from Duke Henry, and Duke Henry will not welcome the opportunity to reward Stephen’s barons. Rather, he’ll award lands to those who supported him.”

  Wilhelm pointed down to the corpse. “Think he’s one of the men who rode out with Eustace?”

  Considering everything, Giles peered over at the dead man’s horse. The animal might slow them down, but it would be cruel to leave it to fend for itself. “Could be,” he said. “But if so, I’d warrant it wasn’t Eustace who killed him. That greedy bugger would have taken his coins.”

  “Probably,” said Wilhelm, with disgust. “Could be this one left him and met a poor end on his own. With Darkwood so close, there’s no telling what skamelars lay in wait.”

  “Very true,” said Giles, and then both their gazes slid one toward the other. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Amdel lies empty?” asked Wilhelm.

  Giles nodded. “Aye.”

  “Do you think Eustace might be there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Giles, lifting his brows. “Let’s go see.”

  Dinogad’s shift is speckled, speckled,

  Made from marten pelts.

  ‘Wee! Wee!’ Whistling.

  We call, they call, the eight in chains.

  Marcella’s Welsh lilt was a trace more apparent now as
she sang. But it wasn’t only the diction of her words… the song was oddly familiar, leaving Rhiannon with an inexplicable note of dread…

  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!’

  “That song,” she said, trying to place it.

  Marcella shifted her dark eyes. “‘Dinogad’s Shift,’” she said, and sang the verse again in their native tongue—far more eloquently than Rhiannon could ever have.

  Pan elei dy dat ty e helya;

  Llath ar y ysgwyd llory eny law.

  Ef gelwi gwn gogyhwc.

  Giff gaff. Dhaly dhaly dhwg dhwg.

  The paladin smiled then, and for the first time since meeting Rhiannon, that smile lit her lovely green eyes. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was a girl,” she explained.

  “Seems to me I’ve heard it before.”

  “Aye, well… no doubt you have, Lady Blackwood. Your mother enjoyed it, too.”

  Rhiannon tapped a finger to her breast. “My mother?”

  The paladin nodded, though it was impossible to imagine Morwen as a wee girl enjoying anything so achingly sweet as a lullaby. That was not the woman Rhiannon knew, and if Morwen had ever even once sung Rhiannon a song, the memory was long overshadowed by all the atrocities she’d committed since.

  Nay, indeed, there was nothing tender in her memories of Morwen. But Rhiannon supposed she still could have heard the song through Elspeth.

  Of all her siblings, Ellie was the only one who’d ever really known their maternal grandmother, and for all that Rhiannon had received Morgan’s gifts, she’d never once met the good lady face to face—a fact she was sorely aggrieved by, if not for the blessing of a hug, then for the sake of her Craft.

  There were few souls remaining who’d studied the Old Ways. People no longer believed in faefolk. Or even the wonder of ordinary magik—the birthing of a babe, the life-giving warmth of the sun, the gathering of dew in the curve of a leaf, or in the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a moth.