Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)
Page 30
She and her dewine sisters shared a look, and a shiver rushed up Rhiannon’s spine as each of her sisters unsheathed a sword…
No time for kisses.
No time for embraces.
No time for good-byes.
No time for regrets.
No time for uncertainty.
It was impossible to say how many new warriors had joined the battle, but the match was still heavily skewed in Morwen’s favor. One last look passed between the sisters as the battle entered their gates. And then, one by one they turned to engage, and Rhiannon hadn’t any more time to wonder about Cael. She had a fleeting thought that his would not be the last arms she would fall upon, and then a dark shadow crossed the sky—a great, winged creature. A bird, no… an angel, descending from the heavens.
It did not alight on the ramparts. Rather, it flew over their heads, straight toward Morwen, landing at the Witch Queen’s feet, standing tall amidst a fury of ringing swords.
Rhiannon blinked, then screamed, realizing who it was…
It was Cael.
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Nothing else fazed her—not the dead lying at her feet, nor the battle engaged. Only now, her face twisted with fury at the sight of Cael, changed in form. “You fool!” she spat. “You’ve no idea what you have done!”
“Oh, I think I do,” said Cael, stretching his feathered wings. Black as a raven’s, they extended twice the length of his body—a dark angel in the flesh.
So, it appeared, destroying the crystals did not destroy the souls they were bound to.
Cael had been wrong: The grisial hud was not his sepulcher; it was a key. But simply destroying the crystal did not sprout him wings. Rather, it was a result of destroying the binding spell that Morwen had placed upon his grisial hud. Indeed, she had summoned him back to this world, but she had cast yet another spell with blood magik to ensure that he could not make use of the gifts he’d been given by virtue of Nesta’s sacrifice. Rage unfurled his wings.
“Without it, your soul is bound to this realm,” she said furiously. “Return me mine!” she demanded, thrusting out her hand.
Cael smiled coldly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, and the two stood facing each other, one dark angel, one light. His key was to the dominion of the Horned God of Donn, the Dark One from the House of the Dead. She was a daughter of the Goddess, banished for her sins against man. Her body might now be consigned to this world, but her spirit had no refuge. At least he had his sanctuary with the Horned God. Truth was his guiding light now, banishing uncertainty from his heart and his brow. All things were revealed in the destruction of his grisial hud.
Morwen raged.
The sky exploded.
Thunder cracked.
Lightning forked.
The Witch Queen stood facing her equal and opposite, her fury so intense that it produced silvered wings. They unfurled to the breadth of his own. Beautiful and terrifying—as he must also be. Morwen’s golden eyes radiated the light of ten suns. Her hair and brows silvered the shade of her wings… the color of Seren’s hair.
She was Sylphkind, as was he. But though she was born with Sylph blood in her veins, Cael was made through grace. Nesta had given her life with love, paying his toll to the House of the Dead. Only this time, when he returned, he would remain forevermore, serving the Horned God beneath the Hill of Truth.
A dark figure emerged from the battlefield, rising to the aid of his mistress. Mordecai descended upon them, his face twisting and morphing, his features ebbing and flowing like smoke.
Slogging through the muck, Rhiannon rushed from the castle, Cael’s wolfhound running behind her, and Morwen smiled gleefully.
“Here she comes,” said the Witch Queen. “At long last she will see you for what you truly are—a servitor of death. How appropriate it was for you to serve as the King’s executioner.”
Breathless, terrified, Rhiannon stumbled after Marcella.
Waylaid by soldiers, the paladin paused only to fight.
Driven to reach Cael, Rhiannon fought her way past soldier after soldier, her limbs heavy with metal as rain seeped past the rings of her suit. Burdensome as it was, the sword in her hand threatened to slip from her grasp. When she stumbled into a puddle, she rose again to face one of Morwen’s black-clad soldiers. Crying out in desperation, she responded with a swing of her sword. The clash of metal left her ears ringing and her hand numb. Dropping the sword, she bent to reach for it, slicing her hand in the process. If it weren’t for Marcella coming to her rescue, Morwen’s soldier would have taken her head where she knelt.
“Go!” said Marcella, reaching down to grasp the muddied sword and handing it back to Rhiannon. “Go,” she said again, her stark green eyes commanding Rhiannon to rise.
Now is not the time for weakness.
Now is not the time to falter.
“Go!”
Summoning all her might and the last of her will, Rhiannon rose again, and ran, her sides aching now. Somehow, she managed to evade more crossing swords, and made it past stumbling horses, men crawling from the muck, soldiers in the midst of combat…
“Spirit of vision, Spirit of night. Cast me a shadow to shield me from sight,” she whispered desperately.
Do not see me!
Do not see me!
Do not see me!
Behind her, she was well aware that Marcella defended her back, but Rhiannon daren’t look now to see how close. She could scarcely lift her own sword, dragging it after her, determined to reach Cael. Once more when she stumbled, she felt the wolfhound beside her, nudging her up, snarling and snapping at anyone who came near. Somehow, thanks to the hound, she discovered her feet again, and ran again, breathless and anguished.
How could they possibly defeat Morwen?
Here in the midst of so many clashing swords, she felt outnumbered and hopeless.
This time when she stopped, the wolfhound stopped again by her side, snarling at the Shadow Beast.
Mordecai.
“Cael,” she cried, stunned by the sight of him.
Crouched, preparing to pounce, the wolfhound growled.
Sweet fates! Cael was exactly as her mother was—both avenging angels. Larger than life, they stood facing one another, wings outstretched to catch silvery droplets of rain. The Goddess herself wept to see her children enraged.
Morwen turned to face her and the light from her eyes made Rhiannon shield her face. Her beauty was startling, her aura shining as brightly as the metal of the sword Cael had tucked behind his back…
Caledfwlch.
The Sword of Ages.
And her husband… his aura dark as a storm-ridden sky… dark as the specter of death… beautiful as well, though even more terrifying for the visage he wore.
What would he do?
Would he join Morwen?
What would he do?
There is one among us who could be swayed, Marcella had said…
It was Cael.
Alas, there was no time to consider her folly or faith.
In his Shadow Beast form, part serpent, part dragon, part raven, Mordecai faced Cael, his thick tail rising up behind him, like a viper preparing to strike…
“Evil, conniving bitch!” screamed Marcella, reaching them at last, distracting everyone for the briefest instant—long enough for Rhiannon to leap at the Shadow Beast, taking him by the chain he wore about his neck.
The wolfhound pounced as well, sinking its teeth into Mordecai’s leg but failing to find purchase. In the meantime, Marcella swung her sword, and Rhiannon summoned those words she remembered her sister speaking in the woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey…
I call the fifth to me!
Goddess, hear my plea!
Of smoke and mist you may be born.
But now I bind you here in mortal form.
“Now!” she screamed. “Do it now!” she demanded, and Cael wasted no time.
Advancing on Mordecai, he drew the ancient sword from its scabbard.
“Go to hell!” hissed Marcella, blood seeping from the corners of her mouth.
It happened so quickly. Morwen tossed her away, hard, so easily. The witch-paladin’s body landed with a sickening thud yards from where they stood. She didn’t rise again.
Morwen turned to Rhiannon then, her smile cool as the mist now roiling about them. The wolfhound whimpered as she thrust a hand out and tossed him away, as well, then with a slam of her hand, she compelled Rhiannon to her knees.
Too late, Rhiannon heard her sisters’ voices, searching.
Seren.
Rosalynde.
Elspeth.
Ignoring everyone, Morwen kept her attention on her second-eldest daughter. She raised a hand to her as though to strike, but she couldn’t do so without gloating. “You thought you would be Regnant; look at you now—piteous and powerless!”
“Mercy for my husband!” Rhiannon begged, haplessly. “Mercy for my sisters!”
Morwen scoffed, until she heard Seren’s voice.
“She might not be Regnant, but I am,” said her sister, and Morwen turned to find Seren holding back her soldiers, her hand lifted so no one could pass.
“You?”
“Aye,” said Seren, with a smirk. “Me.”
“I’ll deal with you in a moment,” she said, her countenance darkening. She returned her attention to Rhiannon, stabbing a finger into the air, and Rhiannon shrieked in pain.
Behind Morwen, the Shadow Beast lost its head. Finally, it crumpled to the ground, its body withering where it lay. As it had once before, the wisp of Mordecai’s soul returned to the grisial hud hanging around his neck. Even as they watched, it was all that remained—a tangle of silver with a darkened crystal, and Rhiannon gave her husband a tremulous smile.
“Leave her!” said Cael.
Morwen turned to him slowly, and said, “Lest you forget, she is mine, Dragon Lord! Born of my blood!” Without even looking her way, she spun a hand at Seren, and Seren found herself cocooned by a fine web of mist, and then Rhiannon as well, fine tendrils of mist coiling about her neck and tightening very slowly, leaving Rhiannon struggling to breathe.
Sweet fates, she couldn’t even lift a hand to her throat to clear the way for a breath. Her face felt hot and engorged, her lips swollen and inflamed.
Air!
She needed air!
“You’ll have to kill me first!” said Cael, as Rhiannon gasped for breath.
Her mother laughed, delighted. “So be it, Dragon Lord,” she said like a cat, stretching her terrible silver wings.
Without warning, both dragon beasts erupted from the ground in a flurry of feathers, rising above the mist now grown so thick that Rhiannon could scarcely see. She tried to move, but couldn’t. She could only watch helplessly as Seren struggled to free herself, and then suddenly there was Elspeth.
“Rhiannon!”
Hands tugged at the bindings of her throat, loosening them so she could breathe again. More hands joined the struggle, but Rhiannon could only stare haplessly into the heavens as cold rain pelted her face, a downpour so violent it stung her cheeks.
“Cael,” she whispered hoarsely, brokenly, but there was nothing she could do. Nothing she could say. No spell she could weave. No sword she could wield. The one she’d born in her hand now lay in the mud. Overhead, both dragon beasts vanished into the storm, and Rhiannon could see little as twilight turned to dusk, and the sound of thunder reverberated throughout.
Now they appeared, then disappeared, their tussling forms visible only in glimpses. Over and over the winged creatures spun and turned—one black, one silver—whirling about through the lowering skies, like a maelstrom.
Feigning, then advancing and parrying, they were half man, half beast, entirely mortal now without the crystals. At last, Morwen tumbled down, then surged up, lifting her sword with the speed of lightning, stabbing Cael with it as he fell into her, straight through his heart.
Roaring in pain, mortally injured, Cael nevertheless managed to raise his own sword and slashed it down across Morwen’s throat, severing her head in one fell swoop.
Like Mordecai’s, her soul withdrew from her body like smoke, then dissipated into the storm, and all at once, Cael’s body plummeted to the ground.
The sound of fury died in that moment, and a rush of black wings darkened the sky as Morwen’s birds took flight.
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Rhiannon was the first to reach Cael.
Desperately, she knelt by his side, tears streaming down her cheeks as she scooped his bloodied head into her lap. “My sweet love,” she said. “My dearest, sweet love.”
He smiled weakly. “It’s only a flesh wound,” he said, and she nearly wept with joy, because, indeed, the spot on his tunic where Morwen had stabbed him was free of blood. His cheeks were still full of life, high with color. Retracting into his body, his wings had vanished by the time everyone else arrived. With Morwen’s death, her soldiers fled. All her Welsh kings retreated into the woods. The mist vanished as well, and once the field was visible again in the waning daylight, only a few dozen bodies remained—mostly Welsh, though a number were allies. Their bodies lay twisted amidst a veritable sea of dead birds.
Later, they found Jack, trampled and dead.
Marcella was alive, though barely.
Rhiannon’s sisters rushed the paladin into the castle, prepared to do what they must to save her life. Thankfully, everyone else was unharmed.
Giles, unharmed.
Wilhelm, unharmed.
Edmund, unharmed.
And Rhiannon… only her heart ached… ached with love for the man who lay resting in her arms, his face so painfully lovely that it made her heart hurt only to see it. “You are not a Shadow Beast,” she said, a hard lump forming in her throat.
His answering smile was as beauteously radiant as his face.
He was Sylphkind, pure and true.
A terrible, beautiful, fallen angel… like her mother.
Only better, kinder, stronger.
Epilogue
Winchester Cathedral, November 1153
Eustace of Blois died of mysterious circumstances. Some claimed the King’s son was poisoned. Others said his heart had failed him, crushed by his father’s betrayal. Still others claimed they’d caught a glimpse of the man as he was readied for interment, and his body was riddled with wormy holes. With concern for a plague, the Church remanded his body for burial, and not even his own father could see him in death. There was, however, a public funeral, open to the many, attended only by a few. Now, with the death of the King’s eldest son and heir, Wallingford’s treaty was ratified at last. Signed before witnesses by both the King and Duke Henry, it was agreed that, as his adopted son and successor, Henry Fitz Empress would assume England’s throne on Stephen’s death. In the meantime, though he would retain his royal authority, Stephen promised to heed all of Duke Henry’s advice. Moreover, in exchange for promises of security for his lands, his youngest son, William, now Count of Boulogne and Earl of Surrey, agreed to do homage to Henry and renounce all claims to the throne.
A number of strategic strongholds were held by guarantors on the Duke’s behalf. All taxes were to be paid as usual, and all foreign mercenaries were demobilized and dispatched. Those who were exiled, including the Archbishop of Canterbury, returned with the King’s blessings.
After all was said and done, Stephen and Henry sealed their treaty with a kiss of peace at Winchester Cathedral, in a ceremony attended by his barons, and their wives. Thereafter, there was a feast held in the Duke’s honor, with dignitaries from the Church in attendance.
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Marcella recovered quickly enough to join her true mistress, the Empress, as a witness to the ceremony at Winchester. She remained thereafter as Matilda’s personal guard.
Weary though he was, and resigned to the circumstances, the King himself remained in good spirits. But though he welcomed his barons in good standing, he ordered those who were not to be executed by his Rex Militum—one final mission for the sake of the realm.
Thereafter, “The Company” was formally disbanded, all its members dispatched to their holdings, and their names stricken from the royal archives.
As for the Papal Guard, if, indeed, it continued its commissions, no records remained, nor were any of its officers ever named.
At long last, the Witch Queen was defeated. No one knew precisely where she’d gone, though it mattered not at all—at least not to anyone who didn’t know the truth.
Alas, Rhiannon and her sisters knew: Morwen was not dead.
In this world, all things were connected, living or dead. Her spirit was out there, somewhere, waiting for another opportunity to return…
And still, for the moment, there was peace.
To commemorate their victory over evil, the Church made yet another decree: the Pendragon name should be banned from further assumption. The dragon pennants were retired with Uther’s son Arthur. And, furthermore, on pain of excommunication, no man could bear witness to the events that unfolded at Amdel. So far as all histories were concerned, no battle ever took place there. The Welsh kings were never present. Avalon did not exist. Wild Wales must now be tamed. Magik was no more than a dream.
Gathered outside Winchester Cathedral, Seren, Rose, Ellie and Rhiannon all stood saying their farewells to Marcella. The paladin’s task before rejoining the Empress in Rouen, would be to visit Jack’s mother in Calais… if for naught else, to give her sympathies, and to award the woman his effects, along with a generous stipend from the Church for his services.