Chapter 21

Twenty-One

Abandoning the man's corpse, with his breeches trussed about his ankles and a pit in his forehead, they sent his horse traveling south, with an empty saddle, in hopes that it should distract anyone who came searching for him.

Jack took the lead, as Marcella took stock of her arrows, counting them and inspecting them one by one, then returning them to the quiver she kept on her horse.

"Where are we going?" asked Rhiannon after a while, at long last breaching the silence.

"North to the Pennines, then west," provided Jack.

"Your sisters are at Warkworth," said Marcella. "'Tis my duty to reunite you."

Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief as the witch-paladin reached into her saddlebag and took out a sack full of something Rhiannon assumed must be filberts. Plucking a nut out of her sack, she popped it into her mouth, crunching very loudly, and swallowing before she said, "You appear relieved, Rhiannon."

Rhiannon averted her gaze from Marcella's shrewd eyes. "I-I thought?—"

"I know what you thought," she said, and Rhiannon recognized amusement in her voice. "Apparently, it was agreed upon by all: Seren must be Regnant, but Rhiannon Pendragon is the hope of England."

"I thought you said?—"

"I know what I said," Marcella interrupted. "But, truly, do you believe I'd be here if I hadn't come to believe it as well?"

Rhiannon turned to look at the woman, and Marcella proffered her a nut. Rhiannon shook her head, and Marcella placed it into her own mouth.

After a while, she said, "By the by, I've kept the manacles in my satchel, not to keep you away from them, or to save them to use later, but to keep them away from you… a subtle difference. Knowing what I know, I'd not have your energy siphoned when we need you most."

Rhiannon slid the paladin another glance, and Marcella said with a wink, "Cast away, mon amie. You need all the practice you can get."

"So, then… are we friends now?"

"Of a sort," Marcella said, with a crooked smile, and just at that moment, a small, bent-legged crow came to perch upon her shoulder. "Well, hello there?" she said, not at all surprised. She handed the bird a nut, as though it might take it, and when it cawed in protest, she put the nut into her own mouth, and said, "Suit yourself."

"You speak to ravens?"

Marcella's green eyes glinted. "Paranoos does not suit you, Rhiannon. Does she look like a raven? Nay, mon amie, 'tis only a wretched old crow."

"Caw!" said the bird in complaint, and Marcella laughed.

But there it remained, seated atop her shoulder, watching Marcella eat her nuts, and all the while, Marcella chatted with the creature—a one-sided conversation that didn't make a bit of sense.

"So, 'tis done?"

"Aye?"

"Good."

"'Tis a relief, I tell you. I was beginning to believe it all in vain."

Rhiannon listened intently, but there was nothing at all said to enlighten her. Overtired from a night's lack of sleep, she decided to mind her own affairs, leave the daft girl to talk to herself. After a while, the crow flew away, and the trio continued in silence.

After having spent most of these past four years fortifying Warkworth Castle in the event of a confrontation with Morwen, the Pendragon sisters now prepared to abandon their sanctuary. For the time being, their children would remain inside the curtain wall, and this time, Elspeth hadn't a single complaint over the state of their fortification. Indeed, it was better defended than Aldergh, and, really, more so than Westminster as well.

As a matter of practice, they kept two years' worth of rations inside the main fortification, and a second, smaller wall—also warded with complex enchantments—prevented anyone from entering their village.

Like the witchwater in the motte, anyone entering the general vicinity simply forgot where they were and wandered away.

Using each of their affinities to the best of their abilities, the sisters then cast separate defense spells.

Rosalynde enshrouded the castle with a mist that rolled for two miles beyond the outer wall.

Elspeth warded the interior with a spell that should keep all but its denizens at bay—and this time, no one would be allowed to enter.

Finally, Seren enchanted all the animals in the surrounding woodlands. Anyone approaching would discover themselves sorely abused by great, tusked boars.

Considering the circumstances, there was no rest for the weary—not even for a mother fresh from the birthing table. Rosalynde hadn't the luxury of time to nurse her newborn babe, so she gave the duty to her wet-nurse, and only now, as she stood peering down into her son's face, she couldn't help but recall her sister's desperation and fear when their mother had threatened her eldest child. Anxious to leave him, even despite all the precautions, she clung to young Richard with a new mother's desperation, kissing him very gently upon the forehead, before handing the babe back to his nursemaid.

Named for his grandsire, the boy went without protest, although his dark eyes, so like his father's, never left his mother—not till she vanished amidst a sea of armored men.

It was not normally a woman's place to lead armies, and yet, it was always presumed that, no matter how capable their champions were, in the end, it would be the Pendragon sisters who must challenge their mother.

After all, what good was cut steel against hud du?

Fortunately, all three sisters were wed to men who understood their lot in life, and who not only accepted their fates, but prepared them with all the skills and knowledge they would need to prevail.

Day after day, for four long years, Seren and Rosalynde had sparred with swords. Elspeth came now and again—nearly every time Malcom was meant to be away.

And finally, as a gift from the Holy Church, the sisters were each afforded ringmail suits, all blessed by the Pope and fitted to their precise measurements, complete with coifs, chausses, sturdy boots and gauntlets. Moreover, each sister rode a courser trained by the paladins, and the horses were lightly armored as well. Each sister wielded a finely honed sword, calibrated precisely for her weight and height… with one exception: Seren carried Caledfwlch, though Caledfwlch was meant for another.

Now, as Warkworth's army prepared to ride, messengers were dispatched to Malcom Scott at Carlisle, another to King Stephen at Wallingford, yet another to Duke Henry in place of Matilda. For all her years of battling Stephen's barons, the Empress Matilda seemed content enough to remain in Rouen and tend to affairs in Normandy.

Sadly, there was no guarantee anyone would answer their summons. After twenty long years, England was finally at peace. For all intents and purposes, their days of war were behind them. But little did anyone realize that the greatest battle of their day was soon to be waged… but not at Wallingford.

Sweet Goddess have mercy if this battle was lost.

If it was lost…

It wouldn't matter what peace Stephen and Duke Henry had wrought; England would face certain doom, dark days would descend on the land…

God save the realm.

Seren saw it all now.

She'd witnessed the tapestry of time weaving itself through the ages: the brotherhood of twelve kings, their dewine imbued swords; the bloodshed that ensued betwixt them; the betrayal at Llanrhos, where her forebear, Taliesin, conspired with Uther to take the life of the true Dragon Lord.

And, aye, she knew now what he was, as well—a Shadow Beast, whose soul was bound, and whose eternal life could only be ended by destroying the reliquary his soul was bound to.

And, more importantly, she knew what and who her mother was. Morwen had lived by many names: The Dark Goddess, the Shadow Crone, the Shapeshifter of Legend, the Mother of Avalon, Keeper of the Cauldron and Defender of the Grail. But there was only one true name for her: Cerridwen, destroyer of realms.

And still she was more: She was a true-blood daughter of the God and Goddess, who'd created all realms. She was, as Lucifer was, an angel fallen from grace, and in her true form, she was a Sylph—she who was tasked to protect the realms of men, and who, in her fury, betrayed her promises to the coven and was banished from Heaven and earth.

Morwen's soul, like Cael's and Mordecai's souls, was bound to a reliquary, but for one very crucial difference: Hers was the soul of a goddess and could never be fully destroyed.

At best, they might hope to put an end to her mortal form.

As it happened, gods and goddesses did not die the same way mortals died, and the crux of it all was that, despite their immortal blood, a dewine was only a demigod, and therefore bound by mortal laws. They bled as men bled. Their hearts beat as all hearts beat. They were merely more attuned to the aether, which was, in its essence, the breath of life.

The day seemed bleak as ever.

The sun refused to shine.

At the end of July, there was a pall over the land that lingered, despite the season.

In truth, there was no reason to believe they would prevail. There were no more favors to be called upon from Scotia, or anyone else.

And, aye, the Church had sent its company of paladins, but it would never dare confess its true relation to the company of assassins, and neither would they ever acknowledge a preternatural threat to this realm that was directly opposed to their doctrine. No matter the truth, to their specifications, witches were not angels, or natural beings. They were aberrations of nature, to be feared and reviled.

And neither would they acknowledge any but the "One True God" and put no others before him, not even the woman who was his mate. England was a patriarchy in the truest sense.

Truth itself was a weapon to be feared, and therefore, a call for banners would be raised in the name of England, but it could be that Warkworth's would be the only army to bear the King's standard.

As though to add insult to injury, the skies parted about midmorn, pouring down over the troops—a wet, cold deluge that dampened the spirits as surely it did the infantry, and even hope itself.

But this was no time for weakness in spirit.

No time for despair.

Every able-bodied warrior was conscripted to ride, andonce the sisters were ready, they moved together to the head of the line, preparing to lead their warriors into battle.

Taking his cues from Rosalynde, Warkworth's seneschal rode to the helm. Loyal to his lord and lady, Edmund cried out to the gatekeeper. "Gates!" To his troops, he said, "Prepare to ride!" And then, if only because he insisted, he rode ahead of his mistresses to secure the way.

"Art ready?" asked Rosalynde of Elspeth as Edmund passed them by.

Elspeth nodded, and then both sisters looked to their Regnant—wholly transformed by her recent consecration.

White hair flowing at her back, face and skin radiant as a pearl, lips red as an apple, and cheeks rosy with color, Seren Pendragon moved to ride directly behind Edmund, with the sword Excalibur in her belt, and a small, bent crow riding atop her shoulder.

Their destination: Amdel.