Chapter 18

Eighteen

When Jack did not return by sundown, Rhiannon began to worry. "Should he be out there, alone?"

"He knows what he's doing," said the paladin, in a complete reversal of attitude, as she led her horse back from the brook and tethered the mare to a nearby tree. "He's spent the past four years training precisely for this. As young as he is, he's even more adept than his teachers."

"At what? Arguing," Rhiannon said, with a lifted brow, although it wasn't meant to disparage the young man.

Marcella laughed, as she began to undo the straps that kept her blanket secured to the back of her saddle. "Hunting," she said carefully.

Dewines wasthe first thought that accosted Rhiannon, though she didn't speak it aloud, careful to maintain their fragile new peace. "Who were his teachers?"

"To begin with… Giles."

"Now you?"

Marcella's smile lit her green eyes. "Yes, of course," she said.

And with that single revelation, so much made sense.

That council where Jack had testified in Rhiannon's behalf was a council of the Papal Guard. Therefore, if Giles was a paladin, and Marcella was a paladin, Jack must be a paladin, too. Did that mean Cael was a paladin, as well?

Surely not.

A spy perhaps, though Cael didn't strike her as a man who played both sides, and regardless… the possibility left her feeling utterly bemused.

On the one hand, if it was true that he was working surreptitiously to defeat her mother, it might serve to wash the stain of guilt from his honor.

On the other hand, if he, too, was a paladin, then he was a slayer of dewinekind—a huntsman, according to her people. Never in her life had she ever thought to associate with one, much less two—and now, perhaps she was married to a huntsman as well?

So, it seemed… the more she discovered about Cael… the less she knew.

In fact, the more she discovered about life itself, the less she realized she knew.

How in the name of the Mother were they ever going to defeat Morwen when there were so many questions left unanswered?

As it was, Rhiannon felt unprepared for this task, particularly so when she'd once believed herself to be the Regnant, destined for this fate. But Marcella was right. She had, indeed, presumed too much, and everything she thought she knew was wrong.

Oh, she realized she had a part to play—felt it deep in her bones—but what that part was had greatly diminished just since discovering her sister was to be Regnant.

It was all very humbling.

Mulling over all that she'd learned—quite a lot during the span of these past few days—she claimed a spot for her pallet, then kindled a fire, anticipating something more to put in her belly besides nuts and smoked beef. Her sisters had always contented themselves with vegetables from their garden, but Rhiannon's appetite had more raptorial tendencies. She would be pleased enough with whatever could be foraged, but she certainly wouldn't turn down a bit of cony. Thankfully, Jack arrived with a nice, fat one, and later, over supper, whilst he roasted it "the way Wilhelm taught me," they settled back to devour the fruits of his labor, and that was when Marcella shared the remainder of her tale.

According to her, shortly after the battle at the Widow's Tower, Jack returned to Warkworth. There, he learned a bit of swordplay from Giles, after which, Giles handed him over to a Papal emissary, who then introduced him to Marcella.

Evidently, Marcella, too, had once apprenticed with Giles—and this made sense. It explained very well why Giles had embraced Rosalynde so easily. Through his own apprentice, he'd already been exposed to the Craft. But clearly, it was easier for the Church to accept Marcella's brand of dewinity than it was for any of them to embrace dewines likes the Pendragons. But she supposed it didn't help matters much that they were also kin to Morwen.

By the by, Marcella interjected—in case Rhiannon might be wondering: She'd had nothing to do with the death of Rhiannon's grandmother. That business, she explained, was a bit of misfortune that originated with the Empress herself, perhaps spurred by her hatred for Morwen—a visceral and passionate thing Matilda carried with her to this very day.

Apparently, the Would-be Queen held Morwen entirely responsible for the death of her mother, although Rhiannon had never heard a word of that tale before now—not that she doubted her mother was capable of it. Morwen was many, many things, but according to everything Rhiannon knew, Matilda was already sixteen and wed by the time Henry's first wife died. It wasn't until six years after the Old Queen's death before Morwen ever came to Henry with a belly full of child, and at least a good three years after that that he'd taken himself a new wife—Adeliza of Louvain. A sweet, but timid creature, who'd never born him any children, though she sure did whelp a few for William d'Aubigney. Still, perhaps it didn't set well with Matilda to return to England to discover a Welsh witch warming her father's bed, and a young, but barren Adeliza, scarcely older than she was, seated on her mother's throne.

Truth be told, King though he might be, Henry was a bit of a roué. He'd fathered more bastards during his sixty-seven years than most men knew how to count. That he wasn't Rhiannon's sire was no reason to weep. And yet… at least he took care of his bastards, and he'd counted Rhiannon as one, awarding her a dowry no less than her sisters.

Fortunately, only Rhiannon and her mother knew for certain who her true father was—not even her sisters knew—and Rhiannon had good cause to keep it a secret.

All this time, Marcella had been watching her, perhaps waiting for Rhiannon to put all her stories together. And then Marcella said, at last, "You know… she… was… my friend."

"Who?"

"Morwen."

Marcella tore another bite from her cony and chewed, while Rhiannon pondered the inflection of Marcella's words. A flicker of emotion—sadness?—crossed Marcella's lovely features, and then it vanished, replaced with a brand of steely temperance that was entirely her own.

"We grew up together," she said, and Rhiannon blinked back her momentary shock, because it couldn't be possible. Marcella was too young. Even on closer inspection, it would seem the paladin was no older than Rhiannon…

With furrowed brow, she examined the woman's soft, smooth face—lacking even a hint of crow's feet at the corner of her eyes.

Startling her even more, Marcella claimed to be seventy-three, attributing her "youthful appearance" to a bit of alchemy, and good dewine blood.

Listening intently, Jack held his tongue, his gaze alternating between Rhiannon and Marcella, though if any of this was a surprise to him, he gave little indication of it. Looking bored, he tossed a mauled bone into the flames, and watched the fire flare over the grease.

"Alas, I must confess… we were close—very, very close."

Rhiannon stopped chewing only to stare open-mouthed at the paladin, wondering what it was she was trying to convey. Something about the way she said the word… close… gave Rhiannon pause.

"She wasn't always the way she is now. As a girl, she was… well…" She shrugged. "She was Morwen."

She said it with such tenderness that Rhiannon had to work hard to swallow the bite of food she had in her mouth.

"What… happened?"

Rhiannon had meant the question drolly, but Marcella responded very soberly. "One evening… whilst I was out with your grandmother, foraging for herbs for my potions, your mother and Emrys borrowed her grimoire…" She averted her gaze now, tears brimming in her eyes. "She was never the same after… and well, Emrys… neither was he." She hushed then, swiping a tear from her cheek. "We were fifteen."

"So, then, you knew her… before?"

Before the change that made her a Witch Goddess.

"Aye," said Marcella, with a nod. "Quite well." And then she said again, with meaning, "Quite."

Rhiannon blinked over the revelation, realizing how little she knew of her own mother. Clearly, this woman had loved Morwen—truly loved her. The very notion was… unthinkable. Not only because—well, she was a woman, and so was Morwen, but… because it was impossible to imagine Morwen as a maiden in love.

Really, their kind were not pietists. She'd heard many such Beltane stories about free love under the stars—maidens and stags, stags and stags, maidens and maidens… it was simply that… well… she was talking about Morwen.

Rhiannon blushed hotly, and Marcella offered a hint of a smile. "We were young," she explained. "Both of us filled with so much wonder and love for our Craft. Alas, I was never very skilled… So much as I adored the Craft, it never came so easily to me as it did to Morwen."

She broke off then, looking angry, ripping another bite from her cony, before casting the bones into the weeds. Afterwards, she sat chewing, the tension in her body unmistakable, clenching and unclenching one fist, until at last, she pierced Rhiannon with a pointed glance. "As you already realize… she is no longer who she was. But what you cannot know… is… her true form… she's Sylph."

"Morwen?"

"Cerridwen."

Swallowing with some difficulty, Rhiannon's lips parted, then closed again, realizing intuitively what it was that Marcella was telling her: Her mother wasn't a witch aligned to aether… she was of the aether.

"So… you see… this is why there are two Pendragon sisters aligned to aether."

Rhiannon considered that another moment, before Marcella added, "'Tis also why it was possible to bind Seren and to deceive your mother. Even considering what she was, Morwen never suspected there could be two."

Blinking again in shock, Rhiannon felt as though she might purge the contents of her belly.

"This is also why I agreed to remove you from Blackwood… to keep you safe—not merely for Cael. But rather… because… well, in truth, neither you nor your sisters have any notion what you are capable of… and neither do we."

"We?"

"The Guard, of course."

Rhiannon's gaze shifted to Jack. His brow was furrowed as though this did surprise him. He stopped chewing and sat ruminating.

"Alas, you above all are an anomaly, Rhiannon. Born of two true-blood dewines, and bearing the hud of three…"

Rhiannon recognized truth in her words…

She and her sisters were each born with dewine blood, but her mother was in fact the essence from which they drew. They were demigods, like the cauldron-born fae… but Morwen… she was a Goddess, in truth.

"You share her blood," Marcella reasoned. "And yet, despite that your sister is to be Regnant, you are, indeed, an aberration. It could well be that, after five years, those manacles have weakened your affinities, but I cannot rest easy until I know your heart. As Jack here has said… you might, indeed, be England's salvation… but it could be that you will be its doom."

The look she gave Rhiannon was unmistakable, and the knife hilt at her boot glinted ominously against the firelight. "You, Lady Blackwood, are the reason I hunt my own kind."

Silence permeated the forest about them—a silence so complete that the flame in the pit sounded like a roar.

"And, by the by, before you think to judge me," Marcella added, "consider that before we are done, one of you—either you or your sisters—will put a blade through your mother's heart. Therefore, you are no better than a huntsman. Either you will spill Morwen's blood, else she'll spill yours, and for the good of the realm… I am prepared to slay you all."