Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Magik, in truth, was not so uncommon as people were accustomed to believing. All living creatures had some ability within them, be it a simple sense of knowing, or the ability to heal (far less extraordinary than people presumed). The minds of men, whether they knew it or not, were very attuned to the aether.

  Rhiannon sighed heavily, only to find that Marcella was still watching her—always watching, as though she were a specimen under a philosopher’s glass.

  All the while, Jack rode behind them, silent and thoughtful—as he had been since departing the brook.

  Marcella turned for an instant to regard him, and then, after a moment, returned to her tale.

  “The song was written about a warrior of the Britons led by Urien ap Cynfarch. Do you know him, perchance?”

  Rhiannon gave the paladin an impish smile. “Alas, I never had him for tea,” she jested, and Marcella laughed, a nice sound that filled Rhiannon with something like joy.

  It was the first time in all her life that she’d had a confidante besides one of her sisters, and she was beginning to discover that she liked it. Marcella was brusque betimes, but no more so than Rhiannon, and she was most definitely the sort of woman someone would want on their side—fierce, loyal and smart. “’Tis a widow’s lament?”

  “Nay, nay… not so much a lament, as her praise. In the song, she fashions her babe a beautiful smock made of pelts that her husband hunted for her before his death.”

  “Because, definitively, that is all a man should ever be remembered for,” quipped Jack at their back.

  Ignoring the barb, Marcella continued. “When she discovered her husband had perished along with his lord and king, she offered the verse to his bard…” Marcella slid Rhiannon a meaningful glance. “Whose daughter also happened to be Urien’s widow.”

  “I suppose the poor lady meant to commiserate with the widow through song? It makes sense she would give it to his bard.”

  “Perhaps.” Marcella nodded. “Else… it could be that she simply wished to have the bard publish her song. He was very well regarded. In fact, after Urien’s death, his daughter made a far more prodigious match.”

  “Aye?” said Rhiannon, only half listening now. It was a little difficult to concentrate because Marcella kept looking back over her shoulder, as though someone might be following. “Who did she marry?”

  Marcella’s brows lifted. “Well… of all people, she married Orkney’s King Lot, who… by the by… also happened to be a vassal and half-brother to Uther Pendragon.”

  Rhiannon’s eyes shifted to meet Marcella’s. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, realizing that this wasn’t idle chatter.

  Clearly pleased by Rhiannon’s response, Marcella continued. “You see… all of Urien’s brothers were quite ambitious. Another one, Angus, ruled Moray and Scotland. Twelve brothers in all, every one of them granted swords that were forged by the Dynion Mwyn, each imbued with properties meant to ensure their victory against foes. Together, they formed a Fellowship of Twelve, whose sole intent it was to rule Britain altogether, including Alba and Wales.”

  “Blood brothers?” asked Rhiannon.

  Marcella turned a palm. “So ’tis said. But there, as they say, rests the fly in the ointment. Each of the brothers claimed to be sons of Ambrosius, the old Roman Emperor, and meanwhile, the High King of Gwynedd was not a son of Ambrosius. Rather, Cadwallon was a grandson of Cunedda’s, and his claim to the throne was stronger than any of Ambrosius’s sons, even despite that Ambrosius led and won so many battles against the Saxons.

  “Only then, to make matters worse, Cadwallon urged his son to slay his uncle so that Cadwallon could seize his brother’s lands. It was a fair share of Wales, mind you. Afterward, Maelgwn was so aggrieved by his part in the scheme that he put himself into a monastery, and the Fellowship presumed he’d forfeited his father’s lands. However, later, when the old man died, Maelgwn was called to return, and, naturally, this set the Fellowship’s teeth to grinding. They formed a plan to murder Maelgwn. But Urien and Maelgwn were close allies, and Urien objected. Later, when Urien, too, was found murdered, it was believed to have been perpetrated by none other than the bard in his court—coincidentally the same bard who’d plotted with Uther to kill Maelgwn.”

  Rhiannon experienced a chill as Marcella slid her another meaningful glance.

  “That bard… was Taliesin,” Marcella said, and then cast another long look over her shoulder.

  “My—”

  “Aye,” said Marcella quickly, though she frowned, and rushed to say, “Apparently, King Urien had the misfortune of allying himself to the Dragon Lord, and Uther coveted not only Maelgwn’s territories, but Maelgwn’s daughter, as well.”

  “So, then, if Urien’s wife was Taliesin’s daughter—”

  Marcella nodded again, and said, “Precisely. But she was Morgan le Fae, not Yissachar. As it so happened, Yissachar was wed to Uther, and, later, after Maelgwn was murdered, Uther took the Dragon Lord’s daughter as his concubine. She, as you know, gave him Arthur.”

  “Igraine,” said Rhiannon, leaning forward to pat her mare’s withers. “But these are all my forebears,” she said. “Why have I not heard these tales before now?”

  “In truth lies power,” suggested Marcella.

  And then she snorted inelegantly. “Really, in a sense, what happened in those days is not so different from what has happened between Stephen and Henry. History is ever destined to repeat itself, and so, it seems, man is not content to abide; he must always rule.”

  Rhiannon liked the way Marcella thought; they were very well-aligned. “Goddess forbid that any man should ever bow to a woman! Matilda never had a chance.”

  In fact, her half-sister had spent most of her adult life trying in vain to win her father’s barons. Even with the help of their cousin, Robert of Gloucester, few of them had ever championed her. She’d gone to battle beside them, and it didn’t matter. After her last stand at Devizes some years ago, Rhiannon heard she’d departed England. And, so much as Rhiannon had never had too much love for the half-sister Ellie liked to champion so much, she did feel sorry for Matilda. She also suffered righteous anger over the fact that anyone would be denied their birthright simply because she was a woman.

  “How utterly painful it is to sit and listen to women speak of men,” complained Jack. “You must realize it is not only men who aren’t content to abide. The Empress fought tooth and nail for twenty long years to regain her father’s throne. Now, do you believe she’ll be content to abide, as you say?”

  “Aye,” said Marcella, casting a sharp glance over her shoulder. “Prithee, Jacques, where is she now? I’ll tell you where she is: Home, tending to her house, supporting her son from afar. That is what women do when they lose.”

  The younger paladin lifted a brow, and said, “I warrant ambition is not only a man’s vice, mon patron.”

  Marcella curled her lip at the youth, and offered him her back, and Rhiannon gloated over the endless, but amusing, contention between them.

  She could easily see that the two were oddly enamored of each other—only like children vying for supremacy. Indeed, it seemed to Rhiannon that Marcella considered herself well beyond Jack’s years, and therefore, beyond his reach as well. But Jack wasn’t content to let it lie, even after Marcella had confessed her true age.

  No doubt he’d been brooding ever since, but Rhiannon noted the way he looked at her whenever Marcella wasn’t looking. He loved her, in truth, and age didn’t matter to him at all.

  Dismissing Jack, Marcella returned to her tale, and this time Rhiannon was far more attentive…

  “So, now you have both Taliesin’s daughters wed to brothers—Yissachar to Uther and Morgan to Lot.

  “One day,” she continued, “the sisters learned their husbands were brawling over Igraine. Yissachar became convinced that it was all Igraine’s fault, and in a fit of rage, she took Uther’s sword and slew his concubine… spilling Igraine’s blood with the very same sword t
hat once slew her father.”

  “Caledfwlch,” Rhiannon surmised.

  Marcella nodded again. “Aye.”

  The two shared a knowing look, and Marcella continued again. “So, now, fearing to lose his beautiful bride, Uther defended Yissachar to the Church, saying it was all the fault of the sword. He claimed it was cursed, and thus Yissachar was spared, banished to Blackwood for her crime.”

  Rhiannon nodded, then sang…

  “Blackwood, Blackwood, there she remains,

  All through the dark and light of day.

  Eyes o’ fire, and bright-silver mane.

  Summer to winter and summer again.”

  Marcella nodded as Rhiannon finished her verse. “That’s the one.”

  “So what happened to Uther’s sword?” Rhiannon asked.

  “The Church confiscated every weapon that Taliesin had forged with the Dynion Mwyn—twelve altogether—and they established an elite Guard, awarding each paladin with a sword that formerly belonged to the Kings of Briton.”

  “The Papal Guard,” Rhiannon surmised. “And whose sword do you carry?”

  “I believe it was Urien’s.”

  Rhiannon turned to ask Jack, “And yours?”

  The young man coughed indiscreetly. “I’m not yet worthy to carry a Sword of Power.”

  “You will in time,” returned Marcella, without looking at the young paladin.

  “When?”

  “When I die,” she said matter-of-factly, after which, another length of silence ensued.

  It was, perhaps, a prospect Jack didn’t relish, but to Rhiannon it made perfect sense. If, in fact, there were only twelve swords altogether, unless an officer of the Guard should perish, there were no more swords to hand about. She knew Giles had given his sword to Rosalynde, but that was another matter entirely. Naturally, such was the nature of these things; someone would have to die before another sword was granted.

  “Who else possesses a sword?”

  Marcella smiled forbearingly. “That is not something I’m at liberty to say, but I can tell you this much: One sword never left Alba.”

  “David of Scotia?” Rhiannon said.

  Marcella confirmed nothing, but she said, “You’re quite astute. It took me years and years of investigations to put all these stories together.”

  “To great avail,” allowed Rhiannon. “You know your histories far better than anyone I have ever met.”

  “Well, I made it a point to know,” Marcella said, “all for the sake of a man I once loved.” And then she averted her gaze, into the woods, and Rhiannon sensed intuitively that she must be speaking of Cael, although something in the paladin’s expression kept her from inquiring.

  “So what happened to the other sister?” inquired Jack. “The one called Morgan.”

  It took Marcella a while to respond.

  “Well… it was Yissachar who slew Igraine, so they let her be. In keeping with our kind, she grew to be a very, very, very old woman. She escaped the fate of many of our kind, simply by virtue of the fact that her husband was conscripted to the Guard. Meanwhile, Yissachar languished in her tower, and, by decree of the church, they purged the remainder of dewinekind from the realm.”

  Jack sounded incredulous, and perhaps a little incensed. “Uther allowed it?”

  Marcella lifted a brow, casting Jack a backward glance. “Allowed?” she said. “My dear, Uther led them. Do you not pay attention to your studies, ever?”

  Rhiannon frowned.

  In all her years, she had never heard their story told so succinctly and so candidly. So it seemed, her kindred were a bloodthirsty and treacherous lot—including Taliesin.

  It left much to be considered—particularly Taliesin’s entire role in Cerridwen’s tale. Verily, if the man they’d been led to admire and emulate, was, in fact, a thief and a murderer, then what else could be expected from a man who’d steal a mother’s curative? Of course, she was speaking of the potion Cerridwen brewed for her son Morfran… that boy whose fate Rhiannon had always believed she’d shared.

  Of all people, Rhiannon knew well enough what it felt like to be reviled for the way she looked. Only now that her face was altered, it didn’t eradicate the pain of her youth. In her mind’s eye, she was still that wretched little girl, with the crossed eyes, and a temper as wild as her hair.

  So much of what she’d come to know was utterly wrong.

  In the stories she’d heard about Taliesin, he was the one who was pursued and persecuted. He was the golden mage whose wit and wisdom united kingdoms. He was the wise druid, whose name was known and respected by the Romans. He was the falcon who’d guided them.

  But, in reality, there was another way to perceive the tale, and in this new light, he wasn’t the least bit flattered.

  It was not enough that he’d stolen from those less fortunate, but he’d also befriended the man who’d stolen the Witch Goddess’s daughter, and then he’d turned her against her own mother, only to marry her as well, even amidst their mother’s bitter protests—an incestuous relationship that purportedly enraged Cerridwen. And, it was all because of her fury that Avalon was ultimately destroyed. Considering all this, it didn’t seem entirely fair that Taliesin somehow escaped the wrath of the gods.

  In fact, now that Rhiannon considered it, she understood why, after being possessed by the Witch Goddess, that Morwen had bedded her own brother—an eye for an eye, she supposed. After all that had been done to her, her heart now burned with an ember of hatred that could no longer be extinguished. She was the sum total of her life, Rhiannon supposed, and now she also knew why the Witch Goddess was so bent upon revenge—if only she didn’t also have the grave misfortune of knowing that the Witch Goddess was also Morwen. And therefore, whatever Morwen was in theory, it was hardly what she was in the flesh…

  Still, she was a daughter herself, cast aside and forsaken.

  She was a wounded creature, dangerous and resentful.

  She’d lost everything throughout her life—husband, son, her beauteous daughter, her precious isle, and her standing with the gods… Naturally, all Rhiannon and her sisters were to her now were bitter reminders of the betrayals she’d suffered throughout her life. And really, since she was only borrowing Morwen’s body, in her eyes, they were children of Taliesin’s, not hers. They were ungrateful half-breeds, who shouldn’t be allowed to wield the gifts of the Chosen Ones.

  So much made sense now.

  And yet, it didn’t make the pain of her mother’s existence any less difficult to bear. Morwen’s pain had become her daughters’ pain, and now she hadn’t any more mercy to give—not if you also understood that it was mercy for Taliesin, the babe, that allowed him to live. And then he grew up to be her ruin.

  Alas, so it seemed, there were no true heroes in this tale—none save the innocents who’d found themselves in harm’s way.

  “Rhiannon,” said Marcella, gently, perhaps realizing how difficult it must be to accept all these truths—one terrible revelation after another since departing Blackwood. She was like a hud du doll full of pins, scarcely able to bear the thought of another. Slowly, pensively, Rhiannon lifted her gaze to her new friend.

  “There is one lesson you must take from this tale…”

  “Me?”

  Marcella nodded portentously. “Of all the swords that were forged by the Dynion Mwyn… only one was forged in the spirit of betrayal; it might yet lend itself to this game.”

  Rhiannon furrowed her brow. “What are you saying?”

  Marcella’s voice was sober. “What I am saying is that, indeed, Caledfwlch is cursed. ’Twas made to beguile Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, and with that sword, Uther slew him. Later, Lot slew Urien—again, with the same sword. And then, after, Urien’s wife slew Maelgwn’s daughter… Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Rhiannon thought she did, though it seemed to her that Marcella was trying to say something more.

  “If Taliesin’s own daughter was not immune to Caledfwlch’s hud du, neit
her are we.”

  “My sister Rosalynde has the sword now. Are you saying she will betray us?” Rhiannon was horrified by the prospect.

  Marcella gazed at her mournfully, and Rhiannon shook her head adamantly. “Nay! She would never. My sisters would not. Arwyn died to protect Seren—she died!”

  The look in Marcella’s eyes was full of pity. “Calm down… all I am saying, mon amie, is that when the time comes… there is one among us who could be swayed. And…” She shook her head. “That is all I can say; because to say more wouldst be a betrayal.”

  “To whom? My mother?”

  Marcella laughed bitterly. “Oh, my friend, you cannot betray someone you are not aligned with.”

  “Cael?”

  “Ah,” she said, lifting a finger, then wagging it. “There’s the rub… Lord Blackwood’s part in this tale is his alone to tell. But now I shall truly say no more, because the Law of Three does not only apply itself to the Craft of the Wise, I fear.”

  Rhiannon’s mind whirled. What role in this pageantry could her husband possibly play?

  And then suddenly, another thought occurred to her. “If you and my mother were…”

  “Lovers?” Marcella finished.

  “Aye. Then why didn’t she remember you at Blackwood?”

  Marcella pursed her lips. “Oh, believe me. She remembers. She’s the one who introduced me to Cael, and, regardless of what we once were to each other, she was all too willing to use me to her service. She was merely too arrogant to—”

  “What?”

  Marcella reined in her mount suddenly, sidling about to face Rhiannon. “Never mind,” she said quickly, sliding from her saddle. “None of that is important.”

  “Then why have you told me these things?”

  “Because,” she said, “it could be there won’t be another opportunity.”

  “Why not?”

  Marcella nodded toward the bright sunlight at the end of the forest lane, and said, “We’ve kept to the woodlands as much as possible. Soon, we’ll be leaving Cannock and we’ll not encounter shelter again until Macclesfield or High Peak. But that is not our immediate concern.”