Chapter 2

Two

News of the outside world was scarce, though even in the confines of her plush apartments, without the use of her magik, Rhiannon sensed a growing darkness, a shadow that, left unchallenged, would creep over the land and swallow it whole. For weeks now, she'd had a terrible premonition—a sense of foreboding she couldn't shake. It multiplied tenfold when she heard the horn blast.

Minutes later, when she also heard footsteps ascend the tower, she braced herself for a confrontation.

Was it Cael?

Please, let it be Cael.

Sweet, sweet fates—let it be Cael!

What if it was Morwen?

After all this time, would he hand her over?

Glowering down at her shackles, she acknowledged that if she were whole, she would know who it was. But nay, nay… she could only wait… and hope…

But why should she care?

After five long years with only Blackwood's mysterious lord for company, she must confess she barely knew the man. Oh, yes, they made some pretense at flirtation, but no matter how many witty jests he made, or how long they spent in each other's company, like the castle itself, he was a fortress filled with secrets, and his truest self remained locked away no less securely than he kept her.

Four long years without answers or speaking to her sisters. Four years without practicing her Craft.

Four years!

The footsteps came closer… louder… faster.

Once again Rhiannon peered down at her manacles—impossible contraptions that defied logic. By order of her mother, they'd clapped them upon her wrists, and with the turn of a key they'd made her into a worthless bag of bones. Her lack of ability was infuriating.

Mercifully they were no longer bound together—a kindness served by the lord of Blackwood, who'd painstakingly reworked the metal over long, long hours to gift her the freedom of movement. And despite the fact, it was difficult to be thankful for his effort, when she knew good and well that he could free her with a word if he chose to.

Until such time as her mother returned to claim it, Cael d'Lucy was still lord of this demesne.

It was him, thank the gods!

By now, she recognized his footfalls—soft and sure, like a wolf on the prowl. Her heart skipped a beat, and she cursed herself for the weakness. Nearly every time she saw him, she waged a battle in her heart, one she would never, ever confess—it was true; she thought him beautiful, clever, and thoroughly impossible.

Unfortunately, whatever good she sensed in Cael d'Lucy, it was tempered by the fact that she knew him to be an agent for darkness—a scourge to England and Wales.

Indeed, he might well be respected in Stephen's court, and perhaps even throughout Wales, but Cael d'Lucy was no less a servitor for darkness than the rest of her mother's minions. And, in the end, he bowed, not to justice, nor to England's King, but to a destroyer of realms.

Morwen.

Nay, she reminded herself, not Morwen.

Cerridwen. The Dark Goddess, the Shadow Crone, the Shapeshifter of Legend…

And now she was here; Rhiannon could feel it in her bones. It gave her a shiver.

What now, sweet fate?

There was so much she longed to say to her sisters.

Goddess only knew, whatever perfidy Morwen was planning, Blackwood was at the center of her plans. It was that cauldron, she realized—that holiest of grails. Life was born from its belly and Rhiannon knew intuitively that it was the cauldron Morwen wanted. But it was not so simple as taking it, else she would have done so long ago. King Stephen wasn't so witless as to allow a great fortress to slip from his grasp. Instead of returning it to her family, he'd awarded it to the commander of his Rex Militum, and if Morwen tried to usurp it, he would mount an army to retake it.

No, her mother wasn't stupid either. Rather, she meant for her daughter to take it for her. But no matter how Rhiannon felt about Cael, she would be damned if she'd allow Morwen to win this game—never would she take d'Lucy's name!

But this was something she didn't comprehend: Why?

Whywas Cael so indebted to her?

Whywas he so willing to turn a blind eye to all she did?

What precisely did her mother have to leverage over Cael?

Considering all these things, perhaps for the thousandth time, she fingered the etching on one of her manacles, still sharply inscribed no matter how many years had gone by…

Hic est Draco,

Ex undis,

Tenetur in argenteas

A capite ad calcem, tace, et sile

Here be the dragon,

From the waves of the sea,

Bound in silver,

From head to toe, silent and still

Rhiannon was not the dragon, but she was a Pendragon, and so it seemed that whatever magik had been imbued into the words, it was strong enough to endure.

The footsteps stopped abruptly in her antechamber. Ready to do battle, she spun to face the door, watching through the crack as her guards silently dispersed.

And there he was… lingering in the shadows, hesitating, and she knew why. After all they had professed, he fully intended to betray her at her mother's behest.

"What are you waiting for?" she said acerbically.

At long last, the lord of Blackwood revealed himself, sauntering into her chamber with a turn of his lips that revealed the barest trace of a smile.

"Ah, my dear Rhiannon, don't tell me you missed me?" he asked, with his usual mordancy, though it wasn't a question, and even if it were, Rhiannon suspected he had long ago surmised the truth—devil take him!

She had missed him, though she'd be damned if she'd ever say so, certainly not to him.

"Hardly," she said. And no matter that the timbre of her voice seemed laden with contempt, her heart did a telltale leap at the familiar glint in his eyes.

He had no right to be so beautiful, and now she understood Lucifer's lament—no man with a heart so dark had a right to shine so bright. There were no half measures where he was concerned; his shoulders were impossibly wide, his hair was dark as coal, his lips were sinfully full.

And truly, for a blackguard, he had a very endearing, but telltale habit of holding his chin and brushing a thumb over his mouth when he looked at her, as though he would love to kiss her. It never failed to steal Rhiannon's breath.

"How sad," he quipped, and Rhiannon lifted her brow.

"So says the lord with a smicker."

He regarded her a moment longer, still brushing that thumb across his lips, and then he frowned. "Have I not treated you well enough?"

He had, and so he had.

Far better than her mother would have liked. Had she had her way, Rhiannon would have remained chained to a wall in the tower, deprived even of a window.

"Have I not provided your every desire?"

"Everything but my freedom," she said easily, never at a loss to remind him.

Clearly, he was in no mood to banter. She saw his countenance darken, and winced. And suddenly he approached her, and Rhiannon took a defensive step backward—not that she was afraid of him.

Rather, it was that she no longer trusted herself in his presence. Having spent so much time alone together, playing Queen's Chess, supping and drinking, sharing wit and words, she had by now developed very disturbing feelings for her gaoler—feelings that thoroughly confused her.

In truth, Blackwood's lord was ever gentle, showering her with gifts. And still, she remained a prisoner. No matter whether she be draped in scarlet, or that her bed was piled high with ermine, she could not for one minute afford to forget what he was: at best, an opportunist; at worst, a murderer—and perhaps even worse than that.

And yet, when she should utterly despise him for aiding and abetting her mother, she found she could not. Instead, she suffered a pang of longing whenever he wasn't near, and she loathed herself for the inexcusable weakness.

Today, his eyes glinted strangely.

"Is anyone truly free?" he asked, still assessing her. And then he came closer yet, and said, "With the absence of constraints should come great restraint; without it, the strong are said to enslave the weak. It is, as they say, a conundrum."

Rhiannon frowned. "Ever with the posturing, my lord! Make no mistake, I am not weak." She lifted her right arm, proffering the right wrist, returning his canny smile. "At least, I would not be without these. Care to test me?"

The familiar timbre of his laughter threatened to warm the cockles of her heart.

"Alas," he said, standing before her, so desperately close that he could have reached out to brush a wisp of hair from her face, as he ofttimes did. "There has never been aught about you I've found to be weak, Rhiannon. In fact, I have come to fear you will be my ruin."

"Your ruin?"

Sweet fates. He must be jesting!

"Aye," he said, and Rhiannon took yet another step backward, unnerved by his proximity. "What do you want, Lord Blackwood?" Her nerves were frayed, and she was tired of his posturing. It was easy enough to speak drivel whilst he held her in shackles. As for his ruin, there was little about Cael d'Lucy that one could ever mistake for fear, but neither would she cow to him, or apologize for whatever sense of distress he was feeling.

"Your mother is here," he confessed, at long last, and it was just as she'd feared. Rhiannon's heart tripped painfully.

"And?"

"And," he said, without further ado, because, in truth, what more need be said? They both knew well enough that her mother despised her. Whatever the former Lady of Blackwood had in mind for her second eldest daughter, it would simply not behoove Rhiannon.

She swallowed hard, uncertain what more to say.

No matter how lightly she and Cael bantered, no matter how much consideration he gave her, in the end, he was still her mother's minion, and all she knew for certes this moment was that her time had run out. If Morwen was here after so long an absence, she was returning because it was time to put her plans in motion. Once more, she cursed the manacles for blocking her magik. Without the hud she was hapless as a babe, and it galled her that she felt reduced to begging for freedom—still, she would not.