The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  As for the dream about Rhiannon… perhaps, after all, she wasn’t alone. Perhaps Rhi would guide her, and she must trust her sister above all.

  “You’ve been gone a long time, Giles. Not everything is as it was. And nevertheless, I’d not steer you wrongly.”

  Wilhelm’s tone was resentful, and yet, Giles didn’t answer, despite that Rosalynde sensed there was a pointed message in his brother’s statement. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep? If she hadn’t so much on her mind, Wilhelm’s rambling would have had the same numbing effect on her.

  At last, she decided that the time had arrived—now before she lost her nerve.

  If she hurried, she could still find a good place to conceal herself before the sun set.

  Scooping up her Book, she got up, belly roiling, though not over the meal she’d so ravenously consumed.

  Without a word, she took the grimoire and bounded away, abandoning the cloak. She didn’t want them to suspect, and she didn’t need the cloak anyway. She’d only taken it because Arwyn had given it to her and it would be easy enough to cast another warming spell once she was safely away.

  Chapter 17

  Alas, nothing ever happened quite as one expected. It was Wilhelm, not Giles, who sprang to his feet to follow. “Sister!” he called out, and Rosalynde winced, pretending not to hear him. He shouted a little louder, and she feared he might wake his brother. “Sister, wait!”

  Goddess please!

  Was she never going to be away?

  Realizing that she couldn’t possibly outrun the man, she halted, turning to face the lout, pasting a serene smile on her face, and raising the Book to hide her quickened breath. “What may I do for you, Wilhelm?”

  Cheeks flushing, the big man cast a nervous glance toward their camp, where his brother remained seated by the fire, still sleeping, judging by his repose.

  “I beg pardon if I have offended,” he said, and Rose softened at the pleading quality of his voice.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I should like to confess my sins,” he said, his face twisting with what appeared to be regret—or perhaps it was only indigestion. Rosalynde couldn’t tell. She had a grumble in her belly herself.

  “My lord, I am no priest,” she protested.

  He smiled awkwardly. “And I am no lord—baseborn,” he said sheepishly, and then he stood, scratching his head, then gesturing to her book. “In truth, I wouldst simply pray… if you might. ’Tis been an age since I have done so, and I am not certain God will listen.”

  “God always listens,” she reassured him.

  Smiling gratefully, he nevertheless glanced back toward their camp, then swept out a hand, gesturing nervously. “Shall we walk apart?”

  With a sigh, Rosalynde peered back at Giles, feeling her opportunity slipping away. Even now, the sun was lowering.

  “Please, Sister,” he begged, and put a hand beneath her elbow to lead her away from Giles, deeper into the woods. “You see… I fear I’ve dishonored my father by dishonoring my brother…”

  Rosalynde felt like a lamb being led to her slaughter and she sorely hoped his God would be listening, because she hadn’t any notion how to help this man. She was very glad her grimace remained hidden behind her veil. Her sister Elspeth had been far more dutiful at her prayers. More than not, Rosalynde had spent her days at the priory dreaming of new adventures, and if, in truth, she knew the hours of prayer, it was only so she could better plan when she could escape into the woods to forage. “Alas, I love a lady my brother was promised to…”

  Rosalynde’s brow furrowed, curiosity getting the best of her. “Lady Ayleth?” she asked, and that same prickle of envy reared unexpectedly.

  Wilhelm lifted a bushy black brow. “Perchance you knew her?”

  Rose shook her head. “Nay, I but guessed. I heard you speaking of the lady on the road and I wondered who she was. So she and Giles must have been betrothed?”

  “Never,” he said. “Though I am quite certain it disappointed her uncle when my brother left for the seminary.” He looked even more discomforted, scratching his head, leading her farther afield. “You see, what ails me is that Ayleth loved my brother, and even now that she’s gone, I envy him her love—particularly so, because it seems to me that Giles never cared.”

  Rosalynde flicked a finger across the vellum, feeling oddly defensive over Giles and his honor.

  “Wilhelm, envy is a sin, love is not,” she explained, telling him what she thought the Goddess might want him to know. “But you cannot fault yourself for loving Lady Ayleth. In truth, you cannot force a heart to love where it should any more than you may force it to love where it should not. And, besides, my Lord Giles must have cared for the lady; did he not say he would give alms for her soul?”

  In answer, Wilhelm peered into the treetops, mayhap supplicating for strength. “Aye, and, truly, it does soothe my soul to know he offers alms, though… I confess… it was all I could do not to weep blood tears when King Stephen offered my brother an earldom and Lady Seren Pendragon to wed.”

  Her attention well and duly caught by the mention of her sister, Rosalynde turned to face him.

  Wilhelm’s eyes were narrowed. She could see the fury burning in them. “The lady comes to him with a generous emolument, and Stephen himself would presume to pay for the wedding. And yet, ’tis not so much that I begrudge him a bride—nor even a title, Sister, ’tis...”

  “I notice Lady Seren does not travel with you,” she interrupted, wanting desperately to know more about her sister and Giles. “Did your brother not accept?”

  Wilhelm looked annoyed by the change in subject. “Of course, he did, only on the condition that he return six months hence to take his vows—like some poppet.”

  “I see,” said Rose, wishing vehemently that luck would have found her traveling with her sister—except that it would have meant leaving Arwyn alone, and some part of her was grateful they were still together.

  And more, she didn’t wish to think of Giles and Seren together, though why that should be true, she didn’t care to explore.

  And still, too bad for Seren, because Rosalynde had already determined Giles was an honorable man. Her sister would be so fortunate. Torn between sisterly pride and some burgeoning sense of envy, she longed to ask Wilhelm what his brother thought of her beautiful sister, but that was all the more reason for Rosalynde to leave—now, before Giles de Vere had the chance to undermine her good sense and will. The last thing she intended was for any man to come betwixt her and her sweet sister—as a woman must surely have come between these brothers. “Do you not love your brother?” she asked gently, laying a hand on his arm.

  “I do,” said Wilhelm. “I would give my life for Giles.”

  His brotherly admission made Rosalynde both happy and sad. She, too, would die to save her sisters, and this doubtless was the reason she had insisted upon taking the grimoire to Elspeth. Not only did she believe she was the most capable, but she had known in her heart that neither gentle Seren nor innocent Arwyn could ever manage such a harrowing quest.

  “How did Lady Ayleth die, if you would pardon my asking?”

  The warrior’s countenance darkened. “Burned alive,” he said, and his face was a sudden mask of fury. “By the Count of Mortain and his Welsh witch.”

  Morwen. Sweet fates, how many more atrocities had her mother wrought in this world? Her evil was like a poison filtering through the veins of this land, destroying all it touched.

  “They came in the wee hours with torches. I lost two sisters, as well as an elder brother, and my—our sire.”

  “And Lady Ayleth?”

  Rosalynde’s heart wrenched for the man.

  Wilhelm nodded glumly, and the grief-stricken look on his face tugged at her heart. It was no wonder he was so tormented. “I should have died that night with my kinsmen,” he explained. “Alas, I was away with a message to Arundel. Imagine my shock to return and encounter my home in ruins.”

  Poor man.


  She closed her arm around his. “Wilhelm,” she entreated, “do you love your brother truly?”

  “I do,” he vowed. “More than aught I wish to purge my heart. I suffer night terrors, Sister Rosalynde. I cannot wrest these images from my mind, neither waking, nor sleeping.”

  “Oh, Wilhelm…” Rosalynde shook her head with compassion. “I… I am … so… so sorry.” Hot tears brimmed in her eyes, and she swallowed, with some difficulty. “Do not worry, my brother. God will forgive you.” She sensed this was precisely what he needed to hear. “I feel the love in your heart is greater than your ire, else you would never have sought my counsel.”

  Wilhelm nodded fervently. “Still, I worry,” he persisted, his eyes dark with torment. “So much as envy is my burden, I’d not lose my brother, good Sister. I fear it more than I fear my own death. Giles is all that remains of my blood kin, and he is too arrogant and too certain of himself, despite that his blade has never shed a drop of blood. He is an innocent, learned by books and the Church, not by his blade, and in this day and age, I fear for his safety, even as I fear for my soul.”

  Rosalynde’s brows lifted. “Art certain of that?” she asked, because she did not feel it could be true. She did not read auras so well as Elspeth, but Giles was no innocent. And, to be sure, neither did he strike her as an arrogant man, nor a man who took his responsibilities lightly. It was only now, as she stood conversing with Wilhelm that she suspected it might have been folly to try to escape him. She had a good sense that his honor would not allow him to leave her to the mercy of the world at large. And now that she understood… she realized that he had been far more patient with his wayward brother than even was prescribed. If either of them had hubris to be disposed of, it was Wilhelm, not Giles. Giles had treated Wilhelm with enduring patience, even as the elder man had baited him, and now she understood that Wilhelm thought his age and experience to be worthier than his brother’s. She was not fit to make such a judgement, but she knew in her heart that it took a great man to wield unyielding patience over anger, and a strong mind to understand that his brother’s temperament was not a sign of disloyalty, but rather, a tormented and confused mind.

  “Only tell me what to do,” Wilhelm pleaded.

  Rosalynde lifted her hand, laying it upon his whiskered cheek, advising him from her heart. “Go to your brother, Will. Tell him all you have told me. Pledge him your obeisance, as it should be… as your father no doubt would have wished.”

  He shook his head adamantly, lifting a hand and pushing Rosalynde’s away. “Nay, you do not understand… I cannot turn my face and allow my brother to endanger himself, when I am the one who knows better. He is my lord, but he is my brother, and I would prostrate myself if I could, but for the sake of his life and for the sake of Warkworth, I will not!”

  Rosalynde didn’t have any opportunity to disabuse him of his notions. Just then, a darkling shadow passed over their heads, like a bird of prey… circling…

  She realized only belatedly that they were standing in an open glade, ripe for the plucking. Her first thought was for Morwen’s ravens, but all at once, the woodlands grew cold and dark, and she longed for her mother’s cloak—that profane coat she could scarce bear to touch, much less wear, no matter how chilled she might be.

  The shadow captured Wilhelm’s attention as well, and he glanced up, his face contorting, and even as his chin tipped skyward, Rosalynde heard the sound of Rhiannon’s voice—so terrifying in its incarnation that it wasn’t possible to feel relieved. For eight long months she had longed to know if her sister lived, and if Rhi had broken her silence, it was only because there was danger.

  Run! she screamed.

  Only Rosalynde heard the warning, and for the briefest instant, she wasn’t certain that what she’d heard was real. Her instant of doubt was her undoing. She peered into the boughs and saw it—enormous and terrifying!

  Run! Rhiannon shouted again. Run, Rose, run!

  This time, Rosalynde bolted, but Wilhelm—a giant bulwark of a man, perhaps thinking himself invincible—stood fast, unsheathing his sword. The blade left its scabbard as the shadow—large as a flying horse—swooped into the glade, diving toward Rose.

  She tripped as Wilhelm stepped into the Shadow’s path, but he didn’t have any chance to raise the sword. He cried out in pain and surprise as the weapon flew from his hand.

  Rosalynde screamed.

  Chapter 18

  Run, Rose, run!

  What happened next happened so swiftly Rosalynde could scarce anticipate it. There was no place to hide. Nowhere to run. No time to think. Her immediate concern for the grimoire, she seized the book and scrambled to her feet, searching desperately for somewhere to hide, only to realize with a sinking heart that she couldn’t leave Wilhelm.

  Her heart pounding fearfully, she turned to find the Shadow Beast had pinned him to the ground, its black wings pummeling. The creature cast back an enormous deformed head, opening its bloody beak, to give a terrifying shriek, and then returned to pecking at Wilhelm’s head, as he thrashed the air before him. Inexplicably, though the beast drew blood, Wilhelm’s fists could not find purchase, and in the end, he screamed piteously, lifting both hands to defend his face.

  Rosalynde swallowed her fear.

  Sweet, sweet Goddess. She had never witnessed anything of this sort—nor even dreamt about it in her night terrors. Neither did she remember any such beast from the drawings in the Book of Secrets—its ebony form pulsing, the edges of its body indistinct and billowy, like smoke. It was impossible to say what shape it held, because, like a murder of crows soaring altogether, its form swelled and ebbed, changing and reforming—first in the shape of a monstrous raven, then a man, then a serpent, curling around Wilhelm’s body and choking his breath, so he could no longer scream.

  Rosalynde stood frozen, uncertain what to do. But she couldn’t do nothing, and she couldn’t leave an innocent man to die only because he’d tried to protect her.

  Water.

  Desperate to help, she held out a trembling palm. Never taking her eyes off the twisting beast, she filled her palm with water, and, dropping the grimoire, she closed her other hand about her palm, forming a small lump of ice. She hurled it, hoping if naught else to get the beast’s attention, but to Rosalynde’s horror, it passed through the Shadow Beast, smacking Wilhelm on the temple and the thrashing warrior went frighteningly still.

  So did the beast.

  Its head spun unnaturally, its giant beady eyes fixing on Rosalynde. Slowly, deliberately, it released its prey, uncoiling itself from around Wilhelm’s body, and with another ungodly screech, it flew at Rose.

  Rose screamed, and to her horror, it was only belatedly that she remembered it wasn’t her the monster wanted. It was the grimoire, and rather than pursue her when she had already abandoned the Book, it fell upon the sacred volume, eddying about the Book of Secrets, like a tempest, lifting the tome from the ground with a long-speared tail.

  Finding her courage where only seconds ago she’d been as shivery as the Beast itself, she turned, and dove after the book—the only solid form in the midst of the shadow. Locking her arms about the book, she held on for dear life.

  She was vaguely aware that Wilhelm revived. With a ferocious growl, he reclaimed his sword, pouncing after them, the look on his face as fierce as a bear. Shouting obscenities, he swung wildly at the Shadow, narrowly missing Rosalynde’s shoulder, as the gleaming blade slid through the creature without purchase.

  It was going to take her grimoire! There was naught she could do to stop it. Sweet fates—Mother Goddess!

  Trying to shake her free, the beast whipped Rosalynde about like a sheet in the wind, howling as it raged, lifting both Rosalynde and the grimoire skyward, with scarcely any effort. It was only then she spied the necklace it wore, dangling like a carrot—a shining bauble bound to a chain, with a glowing crystal. Fear urged her not to release the grimoire, but something else, a voice ageless as time, compelled her else-wise.


  Let go, Rose. Seize the reliquary.

  Nay. If she did so, she would lose the book forever—if she released it, the beast would fly away. She would fail. She would fail. The book would be gone. Morwen would win.

  No, no, no, no…

  Wilhelm continued to swing his sword, snarling furiously as the sword missed time and again. Tiring of his efforts, the Beast’s viper-like tail cut through the air, catching Wilhelm beneath the knees and spilling him again to the bracken.

  Sweet, sweet fates. Rosalynde felt the book slipping now, and she curled her fingers more tightly around the vellum, whispering rites to hold it fast.

  Let go.

  Nay, she thought… nay… nay… but so often intuition was a gift from the Goddess—a gift too many failed to heed.

  Let go.

  Now.

  Crying out, Rosalynde dragged herself up and swung closer to the bauble, dropping the book as her fingers caught the cold metal.

  Bind it, Rose.

  The reliquary and chain cut into her palm, searing her flesh as the Shadow Beast squealed in triumph, catching the grimoire with its mutating tail, curling around the book.

  Now, bind the Beast.

  Rosalynde didn’t know binding words—and nevertheless, even as she lamented the fact, strange words sprang to her lips.

  I call the fifth to me!

  Goddess hear my plea!

  Of smoke and mist you might be born.

  Here I bind you now in mortal form.