Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  And then, he positioned himself between her thighs, nesting himself there, as he pushed himself inside her. He entered slowly, then paused for an instant to savor the silky heat of her body. But her eagerness was, again, his undoing. Undulating beneath him, she lifted her hips to welcome him, and he gave her what she sought. Feeling her maidenhead rupture, he bent to swallow her soft cries with his hungry mouth, offering his heart, his body, and soul, and finally, his seed—though not until she cried out one last time, so intensely that he momentarily feared he had harmed her. And nevertheless, he felt her body stiffen, and knew instinctively she’d found release. That carnal knowledge set free the beast within, and he filled her desperately, sweat dripping from his temples as he worked for his pleasure, until he cried out with sweet release, then collapsed atop her with a heart filled with joy, and his cock still throbbing violently.

  Unwilling to withdraw even then, he grasped her by the arse and turned them both so she held his cock inside her, both their bodies pulsing with pleasure.

  “Christ have mercy,” he said.

  And this was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say, because his impish wife grinned sportingly, and said, “Oh, my dear husband… God may, indeed, provide you mercy, but I will not.”

  And then she smiled a secret smile, and again began to undulate atop him, her hips rocking him ever so maddeningly, slowly, slowly, coaxing, coaxing… coaxing.

  Inconceivably, he found himself hard as stone once more, and ready to be ridden. Of their own accord, his hands found her hips, prepared to guide her, but then he felt her tighten about him, and he nearly died with pleasure. Submitting entirely to her will, he let his hands ride the silken curve of her hips, giving Rhiannon complete control over their loving.

  Five.

  These were the number of years Rhiannon had dreamt of this moment—ever since she’d spied this glorious man in her vision. Goddess ordained, he was her husband, and all the Sylphs in Heaven and all the dragons on deep couldn’t keep her from taking her fill of him.

  Here and now, this very instant, she confessed, if only to herself, she would have moved Heaven and earth on that day she’d helped Elspeth escape, to keep her sister from this glorious man who was destined to be hers. It was in some ways the most selfish act of her life, and would she have coveted him if he were not Goddess sent?

  Yes, she thought. Yessss…

  With the greatest satisfaction, she rode him fiercely, like a primal queen atop her cherished steed, eternally grateful for Marcella’s advice, because even as she watched, his eyes rolled back into his head and she knew the instant he submitted to her pleasure.

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, one to another.

  Here now and forever.

  The sky outside her window was a cloudless blue.

  Rhiannon laid her head atop her husband’s arm. His free hand cupped her bottom, and when she stirred, he sleepily drew her close.

  “Good morning,” she said, when he opened his eyes. This near, they were so deep and dark they appeared fathomless, and she could peer into them evermore.

  He slapped her bottom gently. “Good morning, wife.”

  Rhiannon smirked. “No regrets for having wed a witch?”

  “None at all,” he said, lazily caressing the sting from her flesh. It was only then that she realized that, sometime during the night, he’d risen to retrieve his reliquaries. He was naked still, but for those twin chains, and the reliquaries they were bound to. Both fell heavily between them and she dared to lift one up to better inspect it.

  “One belongs to me,” he said. “The other to your mother.”

  “So you said. What are they?”

  “Grisial huds, so I’m told.”

  Magik crystals—but to what purpose?

  Rhiannon thumbed one of the crystals, brushing it thoughtfully.

  She really didn’t know, Cael realized, thinking back to his conversation with Marcella.

  Of course, he didn’t say it then, nor had Marcella asked. Alas, though, he realized he couldn’t keep the truth from his wife. Reaching out for the chain in her hand, he explained the reliquary’s purpose, waiting to see disgust in her eyes.

  “Shadow magik,” she whispered.

  Cael’s soul was bound to the reliquary, his body borrowed—usurped from a man he’d never met, save through the intricacies of his body. He’d assumed a dead man’s name instead of his own after Morwen summoned him back to this realm. Unfortunately, he’d always known she could and would return him from whence he came.

  “So then… d’Lucy is not your true name?”

  “Nay,” he said.

  “What, then?”

  Cael shook his head, unable to speak the rest of his truth.

  God’s blood, what could he say? He was born before she was ever a thought in her mother’s head? That her great, great, great, grandsire was his foe? That he was murdered six hundred years before she was born?

  Nay.

  It was inconceivable. The very thought of speaking those words made him feel like a madman… except that… it was all true.

  And nevertheless, he could offer a partial truth.

  “What Mordecai is, that’s what I am, too.”

  “A… Shadow Beast?”

  There was contempt in her voice. Cael tugged his reliquary from her hand and let it drop between them. “If that’s the name I must bear.”

  “Nay,” she said. “You are not what he is! I know that in my heart!”

  And yet, he was…

  “Oh, my love,” she said gently, catching his cheek in her palm. “A man is not the sum of his body parts, but rather, the sum of his deeds.” Very gently, she moved her hand to his chest, laying it atop his beating heart. “I know you! You are not the same as Mordecai.”

  Cael swallowed whatever words he’d been about to say.

  He wanted desperately to believe she spoke true… wanted to see himself through her eyes—not as the shell of a man he’d become. Later, he decided. Later was soon enough to reveal the rest—later, when he hadn’t any choice.

  Right now, bathed in the light of his wife’s love and adoration, he couldn’t bear it if she turned away. One last time before they rose, he longed to taste the sweet nectar of her body and revel in the warmth of her touch. Forgoing any more words, he rolled atop her, lifting himself up and taking his cock into his hand, he gave her a lazy smile…

  34

  Morwen did not appear that day, nor the next, nor the next.

  Every moment that passed stretched by as taut as the string of a bow; something terrible was looming, no doubt.

  Even the air began to thicken like a mire.

  Anticipation bubbled like a yeasty brew.

  Outside the castle, a few common black crows had begun to congregate, perching in nearby trees like an infestation of fleas.

  Knowing intuitively that six alone could never defend against Morwen, they dispatched Jack to Drakewich in order to engage d’Lucy’s cousins. Cael wasn’t entirely certain they would feel compelled to make this fight their own, but regardless, if indeed, Morwen should descend upon these parts with an army of Welshmen, Drakewich was too close not to be warned. At the very least, they should be armed with information and be allowed to choose a side—not that Cael had any delusions that his “cousins” had any true regard for him. They’d met but thrice, and despite that Cael did hold Blaec with the utmost respect, they were hardly close. They were cousins in name only—pressed upon the details of their affiliation, Cael would surely fail such a test.

  And nevertheless, what was there to apologize for? He was not the one who chose this man’s body. He was simply the one forced to occupy it. Whether the true d’Lucy lord was kind or cruel, Cael hadn’t a bloody clue.

  Such as it was, no matter what happened here in these parklands over the following weeks, and no matter whether he confessed himself to Rhiannon, the lords of Drakewich would never hear the truth from him.

  In sp
irit and mind, they were aligned.

  Rhiannon found him poring over the reliquaries late one afternoon, trying to determine how best to employ them. If only he could determine which was his, beyond doubt, he could destroy the other.

  And yet, he wasn’t even certain that would have any bearing on Morwen’s presence in this realm. It was a crystal, no more, and her soul was already bound to the body she’d appropriated.

  Well, at least hers bore the same blood in her veins.

  He was someone else, and his true self was a man long forgotten.

  Worse yet, Rhiannon did not fully grasp the truth. In Mordecai’s case, he, too, was returned to his own body.

  Conversely, Cael was not who Rhiannon believed him to be.

  She leaned over his shoulder, examining the reliquary in his hand, watching him fiddle with the crystal, poking at the place where it sat mounted—seamless.

  “Even diamonds can be destroyed,” she said. “They crack when struck. Have you tried?”

  Cael nodded solemnly. “I have,” he lied.

  “Have you tried burning them? Even the strongest of metals will melt given the proper degree of heat.”

  Cael sighed, and shook his head, ashamed to say that he had, in fact, never intended to destroy his. Only once, in his anger, had he ever attempted to crush the stone, and he was heartily relieved when it refused to break.

  She slid her arms about his neck, leaning close so he could feel her warm lips on his cheek. “You know… I once saw my sister battle a Shadow Beast…” She peered at him, offering a smile, and teased, “Perhaps you can shift shapes, as Mordecai can?”

  Her jovial tone intimated she didn’t believe it. But it wasn’t particularly amusing, and Cael did not laugh. “’Tis not an art your mother ever taught me.”

  “Of course not,” she said, withdrawing, but leaving a hand on his shoulder. “Why would she share anything with anyone?”

  She still didn’t understand, he realized. He sensed she understood that he was bound by the reliquary, but not how he was bound to it. He longed to say more… ached to find the words to tell her the truth—everything.

  Fear caught and held his tongue.

  “At any rate,” she said. “My sister spoke words to bind the Shadow Beast to his body. That alone was not meant to destroy him, only to keep him from shift—”

  A solid horn blast erupted from the ramparts.

  At this point, they had bolstered their defenses as best they could. At least one person was assigned to man the wall at all times. Right now, it was Marcella’s turn. Seizing both reliquaries, Cael looped them about his neck and moved to the window. Rhiannon followed behind.

  Away, in the distance, filtering from the trees, came a good-sized army—too big to belong to Drakewich, too small to belong to Morwen.

  “Who is it?”

  Cael narrowed his eyes, searching for banners, and once he spied one, he turned to Rhiannon and grinned.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking her by the hand.

  It was a bittersweet reunion.

  Five years since the sisters were all in the same room, and here they were, again, all together… without Arwyn.

  The loss was felt no less keenly for the years gone by.

  This evening, Amdel’s hall resounded, though not with laughter, but quiet sobs.

  There were tear-stained cheeks and tunics.

  Embraces held too long.

  On a bright note, they were six no more, but more than three hundred strong, with the Pendragon sisters all reunited and stronger for the power they wielded together.

  And despite this, Morwen should never be underestimated. She was an ancient being, wielding all the power of her birthright. Maddeningly, all the while soldiers trickled into Amdel’s bailey, crows and ravens continued to gather in the trees of the surrounding forest, their numbers so great that they burdened the trees with their weight—a reminder that this was no reunion for pleasure and their time now was growing short. Once all their greetings were made, everyone attended an emergency council in the great hall: Giles with Rosalynde; Seren with Wilhelm; Elspeth stood with Marcella; and Edmund, Warkworth’s seneschal, sat on a trestle table, his helm by his side, his face mottled from having worn the accoutrement so long. Arms crossed, Rhiannon stood beside her husband, his hand on her shoulder as they discussed matters at hand. The first question was posed to Elspeth. “What of Malcom? Will he join us?”

  Elspeth nodded, though solemnly, her response somewhat less than affirmative. “If my message reaches him, I warrant not even his king will keep him from it.”

  Giles tore his gaze away from Rosalynde, a muscle ticking at his jaw. “What of the Scots King?”

  Elspeth shrugged. “Your guess is good as mine,” she said. “Already, I have appealed to him twice, and twice he has answered when he did not have to. I only hope he values my husband well enough to support him.”

  “Is this not Duke Henry’s war as well?” asked Wilhelm tersely. “Why is that pup not here?”

  Giles appealed to his wife, and she gave him a subtle nod, then said, “His mother will rally forces, so I’m told. But they were due at Warkworth, and the question remains if he will arrive in time.”

  “Unfortunately, ravens are not an option,” said Cael. “Save for a few stragglers, she commands them all.”

  “Pigeons neither,” agreed Elspeth. “At this point, ’tis not entirely certain whether any winged creature can be trusted.”

  “I am certain,” said Seren, rising from her chair to pace. “They cannot be trusted.”

  And this was perhaps the greatest shock to Rhiannon—to see her sister’s altered appearance. Seren’s hair had once been such a lovely shade of golden red; now it was silvery white. Her eyes, which were once blue, were the brightest amber—and, nevertheless, they were not crossed, nor did her face reveal any of the haggardly lines of a woman with hair of that shade. Her skin was smooth as a baby’s bottom, and pale—as though she’d never once enjoyed the sun. And yet, despite this, she was lovely, her appearance radiant and her presence ethereal. There was no doubt she had found her place in the service of the Goddess.

  “Explain,” said Giles.

  “As many of you know by now, my mother is Sylph, aligned to all creatures of the air. Free will is, indeed, a gift from the gods, and yet, as ’tis well known… birds of a feather will flock together.”

  “Sylph?” asked Wilhelm, and Seren endeavored to explain, meeting Rhiannon’s gaze at the end, if only for an instant. I am sorry, she said, mindspeaking. I know you believed this to be your destiny.

  Rhiannon was quick to reassure her. I am your servant, my sister. It matters not to me who should be Regnant, only that our mother is defeated. I am content enough with my lot. Do not fret for me.

  The sisters both shared a nod of solidarity.

  This was no time for envy or discord.

  All must work together to defeat Morwen, and not even Seren was capable alone.

  Please, forgive me for what I must do, Seren said cryptically, and then, averting her gaze from Rhiannon, she gave a discreet nod to Warkworth’s steward.

  “Bring it,” she said, and the seneschal departed the hall, only to return a moment later with a golden scabbard, revealing the shining hilt of a sword. Rhiannon’s eyes widened, knowing intuitively what it was, although nothing could have prepared her for what transpired next.

  Edmund handed Seren the sword.

  Her sister turned to face Cael. “Dragon Lord!” she said, in a voice completely unrecognizable. Even her countenance seemed to change in that moment, the air about her shivering like steam from a kettle.

  For his part, Cael appeared momentarily stunned, though Rhiannon was certain he’d understood the appellation.

  “Dragon Lord,” Seren called again, moving toward him. “I present you the key.” She unsheathed the ancient sword from its scabbard, revealing it fully before them, and laid it upon her two hands.

  The sight of it was momentarily
blinding.

  Cael blinked against the weapon once used against him.

  The sword that took his life.

  That same gift he was presented by Taliesin.

  In all its silvered glory, it lay before him, presented in the very same manner it had been revealed to him on that fated night so long ago… lying atop open palms, so the inscription could easily be read. Etched in the most ancient of languages, lay inscribed and imbued, Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see. Between the hilt was written: Caledfwlch.

  After all these years, there it was… with its intricately crafted serpents entwined about the elegantly fashioned hilt…

  Shaken by the sight of it, Cael’s fingers ached to reach for it, but he met Seren’s gaze, well aware that his wife was watching him carefully.

  This was not revealed to her as yet… his relation to the sword. His relation to her kinsmen. His vow to kill everyone who bore Taliesin’s blood. All his dark and terrible secrets. Even now the sword called to him, beguiling…

  “All that you give you must give freely,” said Seren. “Once again the sword has been imbued, so that he who wields it will not bleed. Even now my mother gathers the heirs to the twelve who conspired to betray you. She will give you all you seek, and more… wealth, power… Anglesey…”

  Try though he might, Cael could not avert his gaze from that shining blade. “I… I don’t want it,” he said, not trusting himself to touch it. The temptation was all too real. With that sword, he could retake Wales.

  He could rebuild his isle.

  He could—

  “Cael?” said Rhiannon, sounding bemused.

  Seren waited.

  It was his to take…

  “Cael?”

  “I… am… not… Cael,” he said as he accepted the proffered sword. He lifted it high to inspect it, then brought it down with a confident swing, reveling in the feel of it.

  “I am Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, true King of Gwynedd, Dragon Lord of Anglesey, firstborn son of Cadwallon Lawhir.”