Chapter 19

Nineteen

In a motion equally as fluid as his effort on his horse, Giles re-sheathed his sword and swept Rosalynde into his arms, leaving Wilhelm and the horse to follow. "You're injured," he said, in a far gentler tone than she'd expected. And yet, even as Rosalynde clung to her Book, she was terrified.

That was Mordecai—her mother's disciple—but what in the name of the Goddess was he? A gargoyle?

Her brain still could not reconcile what she'd witnessed.

Wilhelm recovered himself far more quickly than she did, hurrying ahead, snatching a blanket from the back of his horse and shaking it out as Giles carried Rosalynde over and placed her gently atop it. He laid her down with such care that it made her throat tight.

She peered up, clutching his tunic. "Thank you," she said, groaning in pain as he released her.

"I beg pardon, but…" His gaze fell to her waist, where her gown was soaked with her own blood, and Rosalynde blinked, glancing up again, meeting his gaze. "I would see what damage was done."

"It doesn't hurt," she lied, and tried to push him away. Even now, she didn't wish to explain. If he would just leave her be and go away, she would heal herself and be done. Already, the blood flow was ebbing. If he hadn't already determined who Morwen was, she was beginning to doubt the wisdom in revealing herself.

He caught her by the wrist and said, "I would see it with my own eyes… with your permission and your pardon."

Realizing he wouldn't let it go, Rosalynde nodded dumbly, and let him push her gently back onto the blanket. He produced a knife from his boot and sliced the gown at her midriff, so he could see her wound, but still salvage some semblance of modesty.

"There's a lot of blood," he told her, his face crestfallen, and Rosalynde peered into his dark eyes, her own eyes filling with telltale tears as she lifted her hand instinctively to heal herself. Not understanding her intent—perhaps thinking her too modest, he once again caught her hand, holding it firmly in his own. "I don't know how deep it is," he said. "You shouldn't disturb it."

Rosalynde was afraid… though not about the wound. For the first time in her life, someone besides her sisters was looking at her… perhaps not with love, but concern, and it begged her to speak her truth. She lay exposed—literally—and trust was the only means to her salvation.

Inhaling a fortifying breath, she shook free of his hand, holding his gaze, and pleading with her eyes for him to allow her to do what she must.

Giles frowned but didn't resist, and she peered down to inspect her wound. Now that the shock was wearing off, it was beginning to ache, but not for long. She put a hand over the torn flesh and whispered the necessary words—not out loud. It wasn't necessary, and she would be embarrassed for him to hear her. Slowly, her flesh began to close before his eyes. They couldn't see her magik working, but they could witness the end result—healed flesh, only stained by blood as proof of what she had endured. Except the burn on her palm remained. Healed though it might be, the scar remained dark… and she glanced down, moving her dress to find that her puncture marks were black as well.

Alas, there was no sense holding anything back now…

These men, too, had suffered by her mother's hand, and if anything, it gave her hope of convincing them to ally with her. She had no doubt any longer that Giles was her champion—hers, not Seren's. No one could have done what he did, and she would be dead now without his help.

Without being asked, Rosalynde proceeded to explain all that she dared to explain, beginning with the details of her glamour spell. It wasn't much different than a lady with maquillage, she told them, only this face paint was not powder or cream, it was a mask woven of aether, a suggestion by the Goddess to give mortal eyes what she wished them to see.

She went on to explain about the grimoire, as well—how important it was to deliver the Book to Elspeth. Alas, Aldergh was the only place she knew to take it. Her sister Rhiannon was being held at Blackwood by agents of her mother's, and she had no hope of infiltrating that stronghold without help—nor could she ultimately be certain the grimoire alone would be enough to give Rhiannon the means to overcome her captors. After all, the only place she felt certain would receive her without sending her back to Stephen was Aldergh. Malcom Scott had once been a vassal of the Usurper's, but he was no longer. Stephen had named him an enemy to the crown.

"I know who he is," said Giles.

Of course, he did. There seemed to be very little of her story that surprised him. But, all through the telling, Wilhelm stared at her, his dark eyes wide with horror, his shredded and blood-stained face like the Shadow Beast, contorting with every word she spoke. Only now that she had revealed herself, she was entirely at their mercy and she was too far into her explication to pretend it was aught less than it was. "I am not a witch," she explained. "I'm a dewine." But, when both men furrowed their brows, she relented. "Very well, I am witch. But this is not what you suppose."

She didn't like that word—witch—because of what it meant to others. She was a child of the Earth Mother, a Maiden pledged to the hud, but for all these men knew of the Craft of the Wise, witchery was as good as any word she might use. And nevertheless, she endeavored to explain that in their native tongue, they were known as dewines, not witches. Translated more precisely, they were enchantresses, but also healers, prophets, seers. As with any art, not everyone had the same skills, and certainly not all were dark.

"And your mother?"

"Whatever Morwen may be, her heart lies far from the principles of our tenets, which dictate we do good, harm none." She looked warily between the brothers, trying to gauge their thoughts, but there was no help for it. Here and now, she would propose treason, and they might as well know it. She held Giles's gaze, ignoring Wilhelm, realizing that Giles now held her future in his hands. She said, pointedly, "My mother is an enemy of the realm, so much as Stephen may not realize… so, too, is his son."

To this, Giles merely nodded, and without a word, he stood, unsheathing the golden blade from his scabbard. He laid it down on the blanket beside her, flicking a glance at his brother. "Do you see that sword?" he asked. "Do you know what it is?"

"'Tis a sword," said Wilhelm, confused.

Rosalynde shook her head.

"Look closer," he bade her, and with Wilhelm peeking over her shoulder, she dared to look closer to read the inscription etched in Latin.

"Mea est ultio, et ego retribuam," she said, and evenas she read, the golden serpents in the sword's hilt seemed to slither and the words themselves lifted from the blue steel, doubling in size and igniting before her eyes—magik.

Vengeance Is Mine, I Shall Repay.

She blinked, recognizing the passage from her days in the priory. If your enemy be hungry, feed him; if he be thirsty, give him drink; for in so doing you will heap coals upon his head. Never avenge yourselves… but… She finished the passage aloud, with sudden revelation, "Leave it to the wrath of God," she whispered, and Giles gave her a nod.

His brother sat utterly still, listening, and Giles finished the passage for Rosalynde, lifting a golden brow. "For it is written that, ‘Vengeance is mine, I Shall repay, saith the Lord.'"

Rosalynde peered up, into Giles's face—into his dark knowing eyes, alight with something not entirely holy.

He gave her another short nod, realizing she understood, and then a bow. "I am and ever shall be the wrath of God on Earth, a humble servant of the Palatine Guard."