Chapter 11

Eleven

In slumber, her face was… serene.

The frown lines about her mouth, eased, the creases between her brows, softened. A thousand years may have been erased from her countenance by the curative power of sleep, and in the truest sense, she was, indeed, a sleeping beauty.

And yet, Cael was very aware that, like a viper, she was equally as dangerous. One wrong move and she would sink her fangs into his flesh, and never let go until her venom sucked the life from his veins.

Very, very gingerly, he eased the witch goddess's limp form from her chair, to the floor. Somehow, her position in the chair had prevented her fall.

Once on the floor, he rolled her over to inspect her more thoroughly.

Clearly, Marcella's potion was more powerful than she'd anticipated. He had his own vial ready in the palm of his hand, but he paused to assess her face.

It was true; Morwen did resemble her daughter. As with Taliesin, they had the same almond-shaped eyes, the same full lips. The only differences between them were the coloring of their hair, and the contents of their hearts.

And still… here and now… it was so easy to see her as the woman she had once been: Nay, not his master, nor his mistress, but his emancipator, and… at one time… she'd been a friend. As shocking as that might be to some, he hadn't any outrage in his heart for Morwen… only a burgeoning sense of unease for the cancer in her heart—that hatred that consumed her day by day. But she wasn't always this way…

In the beginning, there had been moments of reason between her bouts of fury. She'd sat with him on many occasions, baring her heart and woes. Like Cael, she'd returned to this world with a heart full of grief and a drive for vengeance… and, very much like him, she'd also faltered in her mission, every now and again regretting the path that drove her to this end.

In fact, he remembered when she'd first met Henry—the longing in her heart for a love of her own. Contrary to the belief of some, she did not scheme to rule in those days. She'd only wished to be his lover, and she'd tried to befriend Matilda and William, as well, but to no avail.

Alas, she might be a goddess, in truth, but she had a woman's heart, and the fury of a woman scorned—not once, but thrice.

In fact, in the beginning, she'd been so different that Cael had doubted the rumors he'd heard—most notably, the sinking of the White Ship to murder the King's heir. But now… he knew her well enough to believe it. And no matter that he felt conflicted, he knew in his heart that he shouldn't be. His decision should be clear: He should remove the athame from around her neck—slowly, circumspectly, he reached for it now, slipping it from beneath her gown.

He should take the weapon in hand, and plunge it through the bones of her breast, into that cold, cold heart.

What then would be the consequences… for him?

Considering that question, he wrested the chain from around Morwen's neck, perhaps only to inspect it…

The dagger was quite ancient, made of the same alloy as Caledfwlch. It glowed faintly blue whilst in her presence, and yet… the reliquary she kept on the same chain did not. He studied it now, considering the bauble more closely. It looked like the one he wore about his neck… except…

He drew out his own to compare, startled to discover his glowing blue… like her athame.

And yet, the one she'd worn about her neck did not… why?

Once, long ago, she'd confessed to him that her soul was bound to a grisial hud like his. Could his belong to her… and hers to him? Was it possible that she'd given hers to Cael, knowing full well that he would protect his own sepulcher with his life… because his soul depended upon it.

He placed both reliquaries in the palm of one hand, side by side—presumably his, presumably hers—and then stood, moving away from the listless form on the floor, watching the glow of one fade, if ever so slightly.

Neither of the stones had ever glowed for him.

Down in his gut, he sensed the truth: For some reason, Morwen had kept his grisial hud, entrusting him with hers… though she'd allowed Mordecai to keep his own.

Why?

Cael didn't know precisely how theyworked.

He didn't even know if he had to be in its presence to make use of it—specifically, whether his soul would locate his sepulcher outside proximity if it should separate from his body.

What was it she'd said?

His soul was bound to the crystal. So long as the reliquary remained undestroyed, wherever he was, his body could be slain, but his soul could endure and be summoned.

Presumably, this was how she'd returned Mordecai to his body some years ago, with a ritual at the Widow's Tower. He wasn't there to witness it, because Cael had begun to question her motives, and shortly before then, they'd quarreled over her method and madness. Little by little, he'd hardened his heart against her. Now, it was growing more and more difficult to see the good in her—more difficult yet after watching the enmity she held for her own daughter.

She'd brought him back to this world, and for that, Cael would always owe her a debt of gratitude, but the fury in his own heart had blinded him to the evil in hers, and perhaps even some small part of him had relished her vengeance.

After all, he, too, had been betrayed—and by none other than those folks who'd played the Witch Goddess false…

Taliesin and Uther.

He stepped closer to her body, staring down at the twin reliquaries in his hand… one cold and tarnished, one warmer and glowing blue.

Trying to understand, he stepped back again, further and further, watching the glimmer fade, until the one nearly matched the other. Without the luminesce they were indistinguishable, even to the crystal.

Once again, he moved closer, watching the return of the glow, knowing in his heart it was hers—it must be hers!

The fact that she was lying so still… it must be proof that, in mortal form, she was as vulnerable as he was.

If he took her life…

If he dared…

Rhiannon,he thought.

It would bring an end to the bloodshed and violence.

But…

Very carefully, he removed the dagger from the chain, and then bent to lay the athame atop her breast. Still kneeling, he opened both fists to examine the contents of both hands. In one he held the vial filled with Marcella's potion; in the other he held both reliquaries.

If he kept her grisial hud and threatened to destroy it, could he persuade her to his will?

He didn't know, but for all that had passed between them, he couldn't kill her—not here, not yet. At the instant, she was naught but an insensate, vulnerable woman, and he couldn't kill her, but… he suddenly couldn't see the wisdom in remaining to see her wake. He had betrayed her by setting her daughter free, and Rhiannon was right: She would not forgive him. Rhiannon was the last of her daughters to be bartered, and Cael had effectively taken that away.

Decided, he flung both chains around his neck, then examined the vial in his hand, realizing what it was that he should do…

If he stayed, she would inflict her anger on the innocents in this hall, if only to punish him. She would test him, and she would test them, stopping at nothing to extract the truth. On the other hand, if he left… she might leave them be, realizing they were as much a victim in this as she was. None of those remaining would deny the Witch Queen what she sought. She would ask them if they knew, and some might even tell her they remembered him escorting Rhiannon from the hall…

Kneeling by her side, Cael plucked the stopper from Marcella's vial, placing the bitter, foul-smelling liquid to his nostrils and wincing.

Would another dose kill her?

It very well could, and if he gave her an overdose, he would have to live with it, he supposed, because, suddenly more clear-headed than he'd been in years, he knew what must be done…

Sliding an arm beneath her shoulders, he lifted Morwen so that her head tilted back, naturally parting her lips, and then, more resolved, he emptied the contents of Marcella's vial into her mouth, and gently laid her back.

Now it was done.

Now, he must go, and when she awoke, she would find him gone. She would know he'd conspired with Marcella to betray her. And she would pursue them both. The very least he could do for Rhiannon was to free the hounds. Shaking his head with disgust over the present circumstances, he hurled the vial across the room, although he should have laid it by her side. She would know anyway, and she would curse him for it, and if he was wrong about the reliquaries, she would stop at nothing to destroy him.

Turning from the woman to whom he owed his freedom, and his second chance at life—the Lady of Avalon, the mother, mage and crone—he made his way to the stables to prepare his horse, with a name on his lips and in his heart: Rhiannon.