Chapter 12

Twelve

All Rhiannon needed to do was keep walking, put one foot in front of the other.

Why, then, did it seem to take such effort?

It wasn't only the physical exertion. Wearing the manacles had been akin to suffering a five-year malaise. By contrast, she felt as though she were walking out of a fog. But she was leaving without Cael, and this was her greatest ambivalence. She worried about leaving him at her mother's mercy.

And yet, wasn't he the same as she?

His goals were her goals—isn't that what he'd said?

On the one hand, he'd been Rhiannon's willing gaoler.

On the other, he'd kept her sane in a world where all seemed hopeless. Somehow, he'd managed to renew her faith, even despite everything.

Still, why should she worry about a man who'd kept her imprisoned?

She was as confused now as she ever was—perhaps even more so.

The truth was that she had always had a singleness of purpose from the moment she was born. She'd vowed then to avenge Morien's death, and she still meant to do it. But here was her dilemma now: Cael was her husband, and her husband was also her enemy. Unfortunately, no matter how she willed it, her heart couldn't seem to harden against him.

Pausing for the hundredth time since their flight from Blackwood, she cast a glance over her shoulder, hoping to find he'd changed his mind and decided to follow.

"Rhiannon," Marcella begged. "You mustn't tarry!"

Rhiannon's heart squeezed with grief.

Some fool part of her longed to rush back, even knowing that would be unwise. Why, oh why hadn't she put her poniard through her mother's black heart whilst she still had the chance?

Because she hadn't been thinking; that's why.

Only feeling.

So stunned by Cael's actions, she'd allowed him to lead her mindlessly from the hall. And now, she couldn't stop thinking about everything she should have done differently.

She couldn't stop thinking about him…

Morwen would kill him.

Even if he took the draught and lay prone at her feet, her mother wasn't a fool.

Wracking her brain, Rhiannon tried to remember their discourse at the table.

Morwen had been so sure Rhiannon didn't know Marcella because it was true. She'd smelled Rhiannon's envy like a hound sniffing merde, and she'd gloated over it. Only now, Rhiannon tried to remember exactly what she'd said—had she confessed that, in truth, she'd never met Cael's cousin?

If so, would Morwen believe she was lying?

She prayed with all her heart that her mother would believe Cael's ruse, else he would pay a terrible price.

In fact, he might pay anyway, because Morwen had all the same gifts Rhiannon had, only far more attuned to the aether: If she sensed lies, she would turn him to dust where he stood. But that wasn't the only thing Rhiannon was worried about; she was worried about this: That draught was bound to work differently on Morwen than it did on Cael or his servants… What if they'd misjudged its potency and Morwen had already roused to find him gone?

What if she was only waiting for Cael to return?

What if she'd killed him right then and there and came flying after them, and even now was hot in pursuit?

In the darkness, every sound conspired to defeat her nerves—the breeze hissing through the trees, startled conies dashing across their paths, nightjars trilling from their perches. The suspense of it left her shivering, wondering if her mother's minions were already here. Brave as she believed she was, her heart tripped as many times as she did, and the one thing she took comfort in was the absence of barking hounds. She knew Cael kept a stable full, though she'd rarely chanced to see them. Still, she'd often heard them from her bower.

"How long till they wake, do you think?"

"I don't know," said Marcella.

As it happened, the draught they'd used to sedate the entire hall had been concocted by none other than Marcella, using, of all things, Morwen's cauldron in the courtyard. All the while Rhiannon had been forced to endure Morwen's company at table, Marcella and Cael had been in the process of orchestrating the drogue's administration. As potent as the philter was, only a few drops in each of the ewers had been enough. Just to be certain, they'd waited until Morwen was affected, then sent kitchen maids to administer the rest to the guests. Only Aelwyd had known what they were planning, and she was sent away for her own protection. If everything went according to plan, Morwen would wake with the castle aslumber, and no one the wiser. Then, it would be up to Cael to convince her that he hadn't had any part in the ruse, but was he clever enough to beguile a woman with the power to read minds?

Only the Goddess knew.

But if Rhiannon knew her mother at all, she wouldn't wait about for explanations. She'd sooner strike him down than ask questions. There was no way her pride could withstand losing yet another daughter. She would be out here forthwith, combing the woods, with Mordecai and her ravens at her side…

"How did you know the draught would work?"

"Because," Marcella confessed. "I tested it on myself."

"How does that signify?"

"I am dewine."

Rhiannon blinked. "You?"

"Aligned to earth, alchemy my calling. Apparently, you are not so attuned with the aether as you'd like to believe, Rhiannon. Even unshackled, you did not read my aura."

Rhiannon bristled, though it was true. It was only then, in that instant, that she perceived the faintest trace of pink in Marcella's aura—so faint that it was no wonder she'd missed it before.

Pink, you see, was the color of Rhiannon's kindred—those who bore the blood of Taliesin. Although it seemed that, by its measure alone, Marcella's blood was much diluted—that, or the ill effects of wearing those manacles might be permanent.

"Dewine?" she said, again, because so long as she'd lived, Rhiannon had never once encountered another witchkind, much less a sister of Taliesin's blood. Certainly, she'd suspected there were others, but if Marcella was a dewine… what then was Cael?

Not dewine.

Even with her manacles, Rhiannon would have sensed it. And so it would appear… the more she knew about Cael, the more of a mystery he became—a mystery she fully intended to solve once they were out of Blackwood's shadow.

It was the crow on the windowsill that woke Seren.

Again.

Silent, watchful, it sat perched on the sill, its lustrous blue-black feathers catching a hint of moonlight. "I'm awake," she groused to the bird, giving it a thankless glance. It was impossible not to sense the beady-eyed gaze, even under a veil of slumber.

Alas, with the gargantuan bed so painfully empty beside her, she was finding it more and more difficult to rest.

Rising with a breathy sigh, she swung her feet over the edge, searching for her slippers. She didn't intend to remain here in this bed—not tonight, with her mind scattering all her thoughts to the winds.

No one had heard from Morwen, but that didn't mean she wasn't out there, somewhere, scheming. Now, more than ever, Seren felt time slipping away, like sand through a glass. Over and over, Isolde's warnings kept ringing in her ears: You will be the Regnant—you and only you, and if not you, no other in this day and age. Earn your laurels. Find your true self. Only then will you find your answers.

The problem was… Seren didn't know how to find her true self. Neither did Rosalynde or Elspeth. And neither did Isolde, for all her cryptic words.

Sometimes it seemed to her that only Arwyn, for all her lack of affinity, had ever truly understood her true purpose in life. Once the occasion had presented itself, her sister had done what she'd known she must, without hesitation.

To the contrary, she, Rose and Ellie were all like blind women leading the blind.

And Rhiannon—where was she? For all her promises, Rhiannon was silent as the grave.

Muttering crossly, she found and donned her slippers, sliding her toes inside, before making her way across to the dressing table to find a taper.

Not bothering with a fire steel, she lit the wick with her will and sighed again—at least her fire affinity was growing stronger.

The wick flamed to life with a deep, amber glow, startling the crow. It took flight from her windowsill and vanished into the night, and Seren took the taper and shoved it into a pricket. "Good riddance," she said, though she knew she should be grateful for any sort of champion at all, even a puny little crow.

This bird had appeared weeks ago, around the same time Isolde came to call, with all her cryptic stories and all her mysterious divinations. As it happened, the old woman and that crow were never in the same place at the same time, and every time Isolde went away, that damnable bird returned. Even so, Seren had never actually witnessed a transformation, so for all she knew, it was only a stupid little bird taken to loitering in her window—night after night after night.

It was a good thing Wilhelm was gone, because he'd already threatened to take a sling to the bird.

Shaking her head, she made her way down the hall, holding a hand beneath her pricket, lest the wax mar her husband's perfectly polished floor.

Indeed, shapeshifting was a rare talent, one most practitioners of the hud did not know how to perform. It was, in fact, a form of hud du. Her grandmother had said that all knowledge of those dark arts—if ever they'd existed—passed away with the fall of Avalon. But this was not precisely true. Morwen was a practitioner of the dark arts, and if, in truth, Isolde was a shapeshifter, as well, then she too was a student of hud du. Alas, the old woman was nearly as mysterious and elusive as their mother, arriving without announcement, then taking her leave without good-byes.

Whenever she was about, she rambled on and on about prophecies, giving more than enough warnings, but answering all their questions with riddles that left Seren scratching her head. Without the grimoire, how was she supposed to learn if Isolde wouldn't teach her?

By now, Seren had all but given up asking that woman for help, because it seemed she was disinclined—or else she'd forgotten everything she'd ever known. How fortunate for Morwen if that be the case.

At least Elspeth and Rosalynde had had the opportunity to skim the grimoire at their leisure. That was how they'd learned to concoct a form of witchwater for the motte—a strange brew for transmutation that was made mostly from spoilt mushrooms. It was that very concoction that was responsible for turning a visiting merchant into a thief, and several small stones into fish. By now, the poor motte was filled to capacity, and the fishes were jumping about for air, though at least the villagers had their fill of smelt.

Looking back on it now, the simple fact that they'd managed to thwart their mother at the Widow's Tower seemed more of a miracle than it was any sort of achievement. To their good fortune, fate had intervened that day, bringing all three sisters together by chance. Seren had discovered her true destiny only because of happenstance. In the end, they'd won the day simply by virtue of the fact that they'd survived—no small thing to be sure, but they'd lost so much that day, most notably The Book of Secrets.

Alas, that tome harbored centuries' worth of dewine histories and receipts—summoning spells, banishing spells, transmutation spells and more.

Ages and ages of trial and error and painstaking documentation by all her dewine sisters. Sadly, all those histories were a loss beyond telling.

No doubt, she and her sisters could craft all new spells, but those histories were another matter entirely.

For her part, Isolde had only snippets to share, and Seren had a terrible, terrible suspicion that the key to defeating her mother lay hidden in their past.

One way or another, even without the help of the grimoire or evenIsolde, Seren must persevere. She must find her "true self" so she could imbue the sword—but what did that mean?

Did it mean that simply knowing oneself as Regnant wasn't enough? Did it mean she must come to know herself experientially? Or rather, should she pray to the Goddess for bestowal of her gifts? Or perhaps it was so simple as discovering some way to remove the glamour spell that had been cast upon her as a child?

The answers to these questions eluded her, and Isolde was no help at all. Instead of offering clues, she came to pester Seren whilst she slept, cocking her silly little bird head and stealing her sleep like a mean old hag.

Carefully now, so as not to drip candle wax, she made her way down the darkened hall.

At this late hour, the entire castle was abed, but since Seren hadn't any babies to wake and feed, she found herself drawn to the workshop she shared with Rose. Elspeth was here as well, to witness the birth of Rosalynde's firstborn child.

Removing the chain from around her neck, she unlocked the heavy banded door, then pushed it open, entering cautiously, half anticipating pixies.

Not a soul stirred.

In the dead of night, the workshop was eerily silent. The ancient sword remained precisely where she'd left it on the herb-littered bench.

Approaching it reverently, Seren took some comfort in the lack of blue shimmer on the shining steel. She had only witnessed that effect once… a chemical reaction to her mother's magik? A warning from the aether?

Find your true self.

Only then will you find your answers.

Isolde's words accosted her again as she gnawed at the tip of her thumbnail. Trying to remember all she'd learned over these past weeks, she stood studying the ancient weapon—a sword originally imbued by the father of their coven and gifted to the Dragon Lord of the Anglesey.

He wasn't a witch, but his wife was. And merely because Maelgwn had valued his lady's counsel, the Church pronounced him an enemy. Plotting against him, they'd sent Taliesin and Uther under the guise of friendship, and one night, after drinking his wine and supping at his tables, they'd slaughtered the Dragon Lord, murdered his son, captured his daughter, and stole his pennants. Thus, was born the new dynasty, through treachery and blood.

This was the story, according to Isolde.

But that was only part of the tale… a tale that began ages and ages before Uther and Maelgwn…

It began with Cerridwen and her hatred for her husband. For all her fury against the man, she'd brought down a wrath from the gods so fierce that the consequences were felt far and wide.

"What am I supposed to know?" she asked quietly, regarding the ancient sword. "Tell me, Goddess, lest I fail you."

Silence was her answer—a deep, abiding silence that betrayed nothing. The shutters remained closed against the night. No crow returned to her sill.

Whatever truth she must reveal, it would not come easily.

"Where the devil are you, Rhiannon?"

Rhiannon alone had the knowledge their grandmother bestowed. Without her, this task seemed daunting and indomitable. And nevertheless, Seren knew there was no time for regrets.

Everything happened for a reason—wasn't that what her sister claimed? To arrive at this place and time, there was no other path to have been taken. If Elspeth hadn't escaped from Llanthony, she wouldn't have met Malcom. Instead, she would have been trapped in a loveless marriage with the lord of Blackwood. And she would never have defeated Morwen at Aldergh, nor would Rosalynde have been inspired to leave London with Morwen's grimoire.

More importantly, Rosalynde's affiliation with Giles now gave them possession of this sword… the only weapon of consequence to be used against Morwen.

Sadly, if Arwyn hadn't sacrificed herself that night… Seren, too, might now be dead…

Like a window to the past, she saw it in her mind's eye—a glimpse of that moment on the Whitshed, when Arwyn, holding that shard of Merlin's Crystal, hurled it at the door. Like a dream, she witnessed the final moments and heard the words Rhiannon spoke before she, too, fell silent evermore: Aye, 'tis she, she'd said.

She.

The witch goddess whose sins doomed Avalon.

Shewhom her mother and uncle had summoned here from exile.

Only now, if no one stopped her, she would doom England as surely as she'd doomed her beloved isle.

How to stop her was the question… and the key… in part… was the sword.

The beauty of it was immeasurable.

Undetectable to any but dewine eyes, a tangle of intricately carved serpents writhed over its silver inspired hilt. On the blade itself lay etched in the most ancient of tongues, "Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see." And still, no matter how long Seren stared at the sword, or how many times she repeated the phrase, she hadn't any clue what it meant.

Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…

There was another word etched betwixt the serpents: Caledfwlch. Translated from her native tongue, it meant "cut steel." And in the language of the Holy Church… Caliburn.

Some also knew it as Excalibur.

Crafted from some alloy taken from the heart of Avalon, the blue shimmer was not its only blessing. It had another, so 'twas said—one that could only be actuated by a Regnant, which Seren was not…

Not yet.

Even so, she must find a way to fulfill the ancient prophecy, so that he who wielded the sword might not bleed. Without that quality, it was uncertain that anyone could survive an encounter with her mother.

"Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see," she said aloud, again. Unfortunately, those words meant nothing to her, and by now, she had turned the blade more times than a cake in a pan. Nothing ever happened.

She was a dewine, indeed, a Promised One, according to Isolde, but she hadn't any notion how to entreat the Mother Goddess for all the gifts she'd been promised.

"Seren? What are you doing at this late hour?" asked Rose from the doorway.

Seren turned to find her youngest sister peering into the workshop. "Oughtn't you be sleeping?"

"I woke to feed the babe," said Rose. "I saw the light pass my door and I thought it might be you."

Seren drew a weary hand through her hair. "I could not sleep."

"More dreams?"

"Nay. The bird."

Rosalynde hitched her chin. "Isolde," she whispered softly.

"I cannot help but feel she is trying to tell me something."

"What do you suppose?"

Seren shrugged. "I don't know. Something has changed. Nothing I can put my finger to, but I can feel it in my bones."

Intuition was itself a form of magik. All creatures were born with a sense of it—men, women, even dogs, cats and birds… it was imperative to listen.

"Shall I wake Ellie?"

"Nay," said Seren, without bothering to consider. "Let her sleep. She has her hands full with the boys. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

Rosalynde smiled fondly. "Why don't you come back to my room?" she suggested. "We'll snuggle like the old days."

Whilst at Llanthony, all five sisters had slept together in the same bed, and, far from being a burden, it was the one thing Seren most missed.

"I think I will," she said, abandoning the sword. At the door, she handed the pricket to Rose so she could lock the room.