The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Aye,” my daughter replies, though nothing seems to discompose her. She wears a cloak of tranquility that grates on my nerves, like shards of glass in my slipper. Where in the name of the cauldron she inherited that trait, I do not know, for even now my smile is fragile and ready to shatter.

  “He’ll make a fine stallion. Alas, my dear, he is not for you,” I say, and still, she remains silent, a pillar of genteel strength even as I grit my teeth in fury. “I have someone else in mind,” I say sweetly. “Do you remember William Martel?”

  Stephen’s loyal steward was a rotund man, with a head like a melon, and a face only a mother could love. As of yet, he hadn’t any title to his name, but as loyal as he is to the king, I know Stephen is predisposed to rewarding him, and, after all, Martel is the one man closest to Stephen, with access even to his garderobe and cupboards. Already once, I have persuaded him to do my bidding—when he was steward to Henry. My daughter says naught, and I continue, “Alas, he’s hardly the most attractive man, but I have a use for him.”

  “He’s twice my age,” she says, finally, providing the first note of unease I detect.

  I smile victoriously. “Since when does age matter, my dear? Your father was thrice Adeliza’s age when he wed her—fifty-three to her eighteen, and you are older than she.”

  “Well, we know how that went. She bore him no children, and since remarrying for love, she has borne William d'Aubigny five babes, and counting.” There was a wistful sigh in her voice. “By the by… I hear she is expecting again… apparently, that’s why Lord Arundel went rushing out the door.”

  My daughter is a silly little fool. The only reason Adeliza of Louvain did not bear Henry any children is because I cursed her womb. What good would it have done me to allow more brats to his list of successors? But her silky tone grates on my nerves. A flap of nuns passes by. I smile for their sake, nodding serenely, though I am filled with rage—in truth, not so much for my daughter’s forbearing as I am for Stephen’s offense to me. I know that man too well. He will undermine everything I have accomplished, only to best me. Thank the cauldrons his son has more sense, and the sooner I get him on that throne, the better off I will be.

  I laugh softly. “Dearest, do you think I give a damn whether you bear Martel’s brats? In fact, I would greatly prefer you did not, as I will be certain to have myself named heir to your dower, in the event you should pass before I do.” My smile thins, as I cast her a sideways glance. Her enduring silence does not assuage me, and I continue, “It happens all the time you realize? Only think of your dear grandmamau, taken from us all too soon.”

  “Thanks to you,” she says, in her sing-song voice.

  Alas, all my daughters are bitches, but despite Seren’s confidence and even tone, I know she is unnerved.

  “That man is an ogre,” she says, her mettle weakening. “And nevertheless, I maintain faith in our Mother Goddess. Whatever she sees fit to provide me, I will embrace. After all, I must remember Elspeth as my example.”

  Elspeth.

  It is all I can do not to shriek. Her very name sends a burst of heat through my veins, and if I am not careful, it will ignite the world as I pass. If I could have my eldest here before me right now, I would introduce her to suffering unlike anything she has ever endured.

  My daughter.

  My betrayer.

  My little Judas.

  How she could best me, I do not know. None of these backwater girls have ever had the least bit of instruction and whatever magik they possess can never match my own. Simply having dewine blood is not enough to perform great feats. Much the same as an archer may not find his mark with his first shot, simply being a dewine is not proof against failure. Even with practice, success is not assured. She must have found some wellspring to strengthen her, and I would not put it past my mother to have imbued each of my daughters with her dying breath. The thought infuriates me—that woman doted on my brats and never once gave me a bit of praise. How it galls, even now, to hear the fruit of my loins described as beauteous! Unparalleled—as though I, myself, am not gifted with the prophet’s blood!

  “Seren… I would caution you, my dear. Do not tangle with me, or you will find yourself twisted in so many directions you may never recover.”

  Again, she answers with silence—silence!—as though she must be concentrating every effort to block me.

  I turn slowly, regarding her with canny eyes.

  She is blocking me, I realize. And suddenly, as we near my apartments, I catch the tang of fear on my tongue, even as it drifts to me on the aether. I smell it stronger, and stronger as we approach my quarters, and I know instinctively before we arrive: Something has gone awry.

  My reaction is swift as an adder’s. Reaching out, I grasp Seren by the tender flesh of her arm, and wrench open the door to my apartments, pushing her inside. “What in the name of the Goddess have you done?”

  Inside the room, Arwyn faces me, her face pale, and I sense both my daughters trembling as I slam the door, realizing at once that my prickly little Rose is gone.

  “Where is she?”

  Arwyn shakes her head and I narrow my gaze, attempting to read the girl’s thoughts. Like her sister, her mind is now closed to me like a padlock against thieves.

  I bristle, shifting my attention to Seren, doubling my efforts, and Seren, I realize—the tricky little witch—has mastered the art of artifice. Some of her thoughts are open to me; others have receded to the darkest corners of her mind, like little cockroaches hiding from the light. But they cannot persevere, and I will break them. And nevertheless, a frustrated growl bursts from my throat as I shove my loveliest daughter toward her cowering sister. And then… another thought occurs to me, even before the two chance to embrace—the grimoire.

  My eyes fly to the trousseau where I have safeguarded the Book so long. My feet do not move as I summon my mother’s box. The lock clicks. The lid flies open to reveal a void that seeps into the marrow of my bones.

  My grimoire… it is gone.

  The single word that roars from the depths of my lungs is thunderous enough to bring a shiver to the rafters. “Where?”

  “How should I know?” says Seren all-too sweetly. “I was with you!”

  “Liars!” I shout. “Filthy liars!”

  Suddenly there is a knock at the door, and I slam my hand down so both my daughters are brought to their knees, their beautiful faces contorting with pain as their knee-joints crack against the hardwood floors. They should be so fortunate if all I do is break their legs. Summoning all my composure, I press a finger to my lips, bidding them to silence, hoping our visitor will leave.

  Seren’s anger is like a crack of thunder against the silence. “I will not—”

  I don’t care what she is about to say. “Gwnïo ar gau!” I cut my hand through the air, viciously, whispering the words as another knock beats upon the door. And, even as I turn, I sense the stitches piercing the insides of my daughters’ lips, sewing their mouths shut with invisible but infrangible threads. By the time I place my hand on the door knob, they are duly silenced, kneeling dutifully, as though preparing to pray.

  “My lady,” says the matron who greets me. She peers nervously within, and I, of course, have naught to hide, so I swing the door open, smiling with certainty that my daughters appear beatific in their reverent poses. I, too, join my hands together as though in prayer, and my daughters both mimic my gesture and bow their heads as I do.

  “What pious young ladies,” says the maid admiringly. And her brows slant with apology as she adds. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, Lady Blackwood, but his Grace begs you join him in his chambers.”

  It is all I can do not to shriek with despair. “Right now? Are you quite certain?” I tilt her a forbearing glance. “You see, I have only just returned from the hall.”

  “Aye, Lady Blackwood. I am certain. And in his present mood, ye’d best not keep him waiting.”

  She hasn’t any clue how close I am to cutting out her to
ngue for daring to advise me.

  “My dear, you are too kind,” I say. “You must know well enough the title is no longer mine, but I thank you just as well for your deference—and your advice. Please, my dear, can you not apprise the king that I am… indisposed?”

  The woman shakes her head. “Nay, my lady. He stated quite clearly that you must come at once, and—”

  “And what?”

  She fidgets nervously. “If you do not, he shall provide an escort.”

  I exhale annoyedly and turn to my daughters, cutting them a warning glance. I wave a hand to release them, and say, “Please, my dears, find your sister at once. I expect she will be waiting here, in this room, when I return.”

  Both girl nod at once, and, reluctantly, I move to follow the king’s messenger. Alas, there is no way to avoid this summons, so I must deal with the missing grimoire when I return.

  “Pray she is not lost,” I say to them, and I know the menace in my tone is not lost to the woman at my door. She shivers as I pull the door closed behind me, and she hurries away, leaving me to follow.

  Never mind… I know the way…

  Chapter 6

  The simple fact that Rosalynde had managed to escape London without any sign of Morwen’s birds was no cause for celebration. Her mother might not care so much about her, but she would never stop searching for the Book.

  The undyed wool gown was chaffing her skin, and she longed to rip off the itchy wimple, but, until she knew for sure that no one was pursuing her, she must keep her wits about her and her disguise in place.

  Intuitively, she sensed that she had already pushed the mare as far as she could for the night, and despite that she’d covered a fair distance, she couldn’t have traveled more than two or three leagues. Sadly, so much as she longed for more distance between her and her mother, she also had to consider the night’s precautions. Tomorrow, once she had her bearings, she could travel longer. In the meantime, hopefully Morwen would think her stupid and reckless and more than prepared to travel the night through. Then, she might not concentrate her hideous birds so near, and, thanks to Elspeth, she hadn’t enough of them to do a wide search.

  Was it too much to hope that she had tested Stephen’s patience once-too-oft, and he’d locked her in a tower?

  Sadly, she had no doubt that, even then, Morwen would find a way to extricate herself. The scope of her influence and power was frightening.

  But she couldn’t worry about that right now—right now, she must find a good place to rest for the night.

  By now, she was certain her mother would have returned to her quarters, and with Mordecai gone, the first thing she would do would be to interrogate Arwyn. Considering what was at stake, Rose had no doubt Arwyn would remain strong, but when Morwen didn’t get the answers she sought, she was bound to be enraged and there was naught so frightening as Morwen in a fit of rage. She feared for Arwyn, but her one consolation was that if Morwen should ever harm her twin, Rosalynde would know it, and right now, she sensed Arwyn’s heart beating strong.

  Nevertheless, when Arwyn proved useless, Morwen would consult her crystal, and this was where Rose must depend on the strength of her magik.

  And for this, she must thank her sister Rhiannon. Even as a wee one, Rhi had understood that someday they would all need their dewine gifts, and so often she had defied Elspeth, teaching them in private.

  Essentially, whilst Rose and her sisters worried about being discovered by Elspeth, Elspeth had worried about being discovered by Ersinius. And, perhaps in the end, Elspeth had been right to worry, because the instant she’d left the priory, Rhiannon openly defied Ersinius—where she was now nobody knew for certain. The aether remained dreadfully silent—silent as these woods.

  All day long she’d been repeating the only vanishing spell she knew by rote, over and over again. But, no matter how desperately she wished it were otherwise, no spell could make anyone vanish. It only dimmed one’s presence to the perception of others. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not. And, regardless, her simple concealment spell was not proof against the full force of her mother’s hud du. Rosalynde’s only hope would be a proper warding spell, and she knew none in practice, only in theory. For that, she needed the book. After all, the hud itself was one thing—it was a gift of magik—and the Craft of the Wise was another. Inherently, it was a practical study of the hud, and the grimoire held every recipe and every spell her ancestors had ever performed.

  Guiding her stolen mare through the forest, she searched for a suitable refuge, and, at long last, she came upon a well-concealed thicket and slipped inside, leading her mare into the covert as well.

  She would need plenty of space to draw herself a proper pentacle—one aligned to her own affinities, and the reason for that might prove difficult to explain, and perhaps more difficult to comprehend. There were four main elements—five altogether—and each shared a quality with two more elements.

  For example, since Rosalynde was aligned to water, water was moist like air, warm like fire, but it had naught in common with earth. Therefore, all things related to the earth element lay outside Rosalynde’s affinity.

  To make matters more complicated, there was a fifth element, better known to her people as the quintessence. Borne of the spirit, this element was perfect in nature, and therefore, difficult to manipulate. But, if one did not have an affinity bordering on the quintessence, one could not cast aether spells. And regardless, only a dewine with a primary to the aether could hope to master all five. Rhiannon was such a dewine. Like their grandmamau, she bore the Mark of the Mother—those crossed, amber-lit eyes that distinguished her as a regnant priestess—a point of contention that Morwen had long bemoaned. No matter how powerful their mother might be, or how finely honed her gifts, she would never truly master all five elements, as Rhi could.

  And yet, Morwen did have one thing going for her that the sisters did not. She dabbled with blood magik—strong hud du that neither she nor her sisters would ever have the gumption to consider. Cast with sacrificial magik, it was dangerous business, and a blasphemy to the Goddess.

  And nevertheless, used improperly, even white magik could be risky. There could be no escaping the Law of Three, which dictated that all magik, good or bad, once unleashed into the world must return to the summoner threefold. Nothing occurred without consequence. It was the law of nature. For common folk consequence was no less a veracity, but for a dewine, whose magik might alter the will of gods, the consequences were more severe.

  Black or white, there was a price to be paid for magik, and one single conjuring, no matter how well intentioned, could change the fate of nations and end innocent lives.

  Alas, magik was not to be avoided—not today.

  Realizing there was no possible way she could draw a pentagram large enough to include the horse, nor could she compel the beast to stay within its bounds, she hobbled the mare nearby, so she could keep an eye on it, yet far enough that her hooves wouldn’t disturb the diagram.

  Once the mare was settled, she found a sharp stick and began, as best she could amidst so much bracken, to draw her diagram precisely as she recalled, beginning with the earth affinity for a banishing spell.

  Here again, the reasons were complicated. But while she had no true affinity to earth itself, the point at where she began to draw also had a bearing on the form of her magik.

  Over these past months, she’d learned so much from the Book of Secrets, and there were essentially two types of spells to be cast: All things were either summoned or banished, accepted or denied, created or destroyed, transformed or reformed. Each of these fell under one of two elements: aether or earth—else, as the common folk would say, all things were under the dominion of heaven or earth.

  A protection spell was in essence a banishing spell, meant to repel. Therefore, she should begin drawing her pentacle with the earth affinity at the southernmost point, because it was also her divergent affinity, then up to the west, to aether, across to the east, to
fire, across again, to air, and up to the vertex, water, always her true north.

  On the other hand, to cast a summoning spell, she would have begun drawing in the opposite direction, beginning with aether, but still keeping her divergent affinity at the southernmost point.

  And, regardless of how she began to draw, she must always end with water at her vertex, with the properly drawn symbol, leaving her most vulnerable ingress at her feet.

  Conversely, if she were to draw her pentagram with the earth symbol at its apex, it would give her no benefit.

  Or, if she made the mistake of choosing the aether to place at the vertex—a very common mistake, considering the quintessence was, after all, the most powerful of the elements—it would still leave her defenseless.

  On the other hand, for someone like Rhi, whose primary was aether, she would always complete her pentacle with aether at her vertex, and water as her divergent, though, in truth, Rhiannon had no weaknesses, and once she mastered the Craft, she would be a maven of all the elements.

  Alas, only a dewine aligned to fire did not have some mastery over the aether, and this would be the case with Arwyn. So much as Arwyn hadn’t any issue with the Craft, the Craft did not love her back. She could summon a flame easily enough, but she could do little more than that. And to make matters worse, her affinity was weak and Rosalynde often feared she had somehow leeched her sister’s share of magik in the womb. After all, it could easily happen. On the death of her twin in the womb, Rhiannon had received all her twin’s gifts—Welsh magik, powerful enough for two dewine babes.

  Regardless, elemental magik was complicated, essential knowledge for a dewine. Though simply because one dewine could manipulate elements, did not mean all dewines shared the ability; the Craft was specific to everyone. If Rosalynde were like Arwyn, whose affinities were lacking, she might concentrate on the hud where it enriched her… perhaps alchemy, divination, or charming.

  At last, when her diagram was finished, Rosalynde attended to other matters. As soon as she could, she would ward her pentagram with a banishing spell, but in the meantime, she needed to see to the mare. At this late hour, it wouldn’t behoove her to search for a burn, so she pooled her hands together, concentrating on her primary.