Chapter 28

Twenty-Eight

Like Warkworth, so many new castles were being designed with an eye toward safeguarding against fire. The brothers had learned the hard way how devastating such a happenstance could be. Five years ago, at Morwen's behest, Warkworth was put to the torch, on the command of the man who now lay hidden within this very fortress.

It was Wilhelm Fitz Richard who proposed sending a few, well-placed missiles onto the ramparts— "An eye for an eye," he said. Positioned right, those arrows could very well ignite the entire edifice, especially if those dull wits atop the barbican were keeping barrels of pitch over the gates, ready to boil and turn. If those should happen to catch fire, the parapet would ignite and burn swiftly.

As with Warkworth, there were two curtain walls, one defending an already compromised outer bailey and a smaller, stone wall surrounding the keep.

Only part of the outer wall was made of stone, and the wood they'd used to bolster it was dry and ready to burn, even despite the deluge they'd received last night.

Additionally, the ground, though puddled, was baked, signifying an overall lack of rain.

All things considered, they decided it would be simple enough to take out the outer wall without compromising the inner wall. Worst case, if the arrows didn't catch, they would create a suitable distraction, and Giles and Wilhelm could approach the gates to set fire to the doors.

Rhiannon thought it was a terrible plan, even if it was the only one they had. There was simply no way to know if there were barrels of pitch stored up on the ramparts, much less be sure where to find them. Simply because they employed such tactics at Warkworth did not mean the lord of this demesne would know to do the same. Clearly, though Beauchamp had had plans for his castle, he hadn't found the funds to complete it, much less defend it.

There were but four men, though unless they caught a pitch barrel, the flames could be easily extinguished, and quickly.

Moreover, they could run a torch to the gate and set it to burn, but only if they could get close enough for long enough to nurture a blaze, without acquiring an arrow through the skull. In the end, there was naught to ensure those flames would catch in time.

Frowning as the men prepared arrows, Rhiannon stared at the castle, a feeling of intense unease growing inside her.

Time was of the essence…

They must breach these walls and get within to fortify the castle's defenses, but not at the expense of anyone's lives—at least none of their side.

They had only six altogether, and on the other hand, Morwen had an entire army ready and willing to die for her cause.

Peering up, she spied a lone bird circling overhead—a reminder of how little time was left to be wasted.

Panic welled within her as everyone prepared to engage.

"Is there any reason you might wish to recruit any of those bowmen?" she asked, referring to the men inside.

Marcella shook her head adamantly. "Nay," she said. "Those idiots would betray us."

Giles added, "I agree; if anything, they'll be emboldened by the witch's presence."

"Let's burn them all," declared Wilhelm.

Rhiannon swallowed her fear, knowing intuitively that the moment they'd all dreaded had arrived.

So, it seemed, they would face her mother, with very few supplies, no soldiers to speak of. Their chances seemed grim, and it was imperative they enter the fortification as quickly as possible to begin warding the premises and to search for more supplies.

Unfortunately, without the grimoire, her efforts would be entirely instinctual, and there was no surety any of it would work. No matter that she liked to imagine herself a powerful dewine, she was as much a novice as her sisters.

But this much gave her hope: Now was the moment she had prepared for her entire life.

Now was the time she would be tested.

This, indeed, was the reason she had defied Elspeth at every turn, because Rhiannon had always known this moment was fated. She might not be Regnant, in truth, but she could not allow her grandmother's gifts to lie fallow.

At any rate, Seren was not here, neither was Ellie, nor Rose. As she had always feared it would be, Rhiannon was the one who must rise to the occasion.

"So be it," she said, and without further ado, before anyone could make her reconsider, she cast her thoughts in the direction of the ramparts and summoned a flame—not the same sort of flame as witchfire, but the conflagration was sudden and fierce. The gate erupted first, sending its torrent along the outer wall—the pier and beam floors, all the wooden accoutrements, as well as the gate itself. The edifice lit like a peat-covered torch.

Shouts resounded within. Men screamed as they burned, two cast themselves over the parapet, into an empty motte. The others shouted like banshees until they were consumed.

"Goddess alive!" exclaimed Marcella, with the firelight reflected in the pupils of her eyes. "Like mother, like daughter," she said, although there wasn't any indication of condemnation in her tone; rather, there was admiration.

"Bloody hell," said Giles.

Her husband said nothing, though his gaze traveled slowly from Rhiannon to the castle and then back.

Rhiannon averted her gaze, unwilling to look into his eyes, lest she spy contempt or revulsion for the sin she'd just committed against life. No doubt the Goddess would require she atone for those lives. Threefold their deaths would return to haunt her. And Cael… he might, indeed, say he understood, and he might have once aligned himself with her mother, but she had lived too many years spying revulsion and fear in the eyes of others. It was one thing to know what she was, and another to witness it.

Simply because she must, she hardened her heart.

This was war, she told herself, and those men on the parapet had cast in their lot with Morwen.

It was only Jack she was concerned about now, remembering only belatedly that he had been a witness to his father's demise. The young man stood, staring into the raging flames, his face pallid and his blue eyes wide as saucers. He grimaced as the last of the bowmen cast himself over the wall.

"Blast and damn," said Wilhelm, with a note of exultation.

Alas, Rhiannon daren't look directly into anyone's eyes. She watched the ramparts burn until every inch of wood was consumed and then finally extinguished. It happened swiftly, like a pile of old dry leaves put to a flame.

"Remind me to never anger you," jested Cael, and Rhiannon felt the heat of his gaze. Even so, she daren't face him—not yet… because… she didn't want anyone to see the uncertainty that must be emblazoned upon her face.

Uncertainty was weakness.

This was no time to be weak.

And worse—she must confess—there was a hint of rapture in her heart. She might not be too proud to have ended those lives, and yet… and yet… she had, indeed, thrilled over the return of her magik—the song in her veins longing to be sung. Even now, her body thrummed with energy and the hair on her head stood on end as she thought about her mother. I will end you, she thought silently.

I promised retribution, and I will give it.

Finally, at last, she would put an end to the woman who gave her life. Her mind whirring with thoughts of vengeance, she stood back and watched as the gate was completely consumed, leaving only a dark smoldering crater in a blackened wall.

When the smoke cleared, altogether they mounted their horses, and one after the other, marched into the castle, as that same, white-necked raven soared overhead.