“Won’t they find it?” Rhiannon protested, feeling oddly sentimental about her wedding gown. It was the loveliest dress she’d ever possessed—a bride’s gift from Cael, though not nearly as precious as the other gift he’d laid in her hand early this afternoon: the key to her shackles. If she lingered now, that gift would be squandered and England itself might be doomed…
The sound of her gown renting made Rhiannon wince. “That is precisely the point,” said Marcella. “They’ll send out the dogs first and they’ll find the gown with your true scent. The tunic I gave you has been treated with another.”
Tears scalded Rhiannon’s eyes as she stepped out of her ruined gown, faltering in her step. She was only vaguely aware that Marcella produced a vial and sprinkled the substance over her discarded gown.
Benumbed, and breeze kissed, Rhiannon donned the sour-smelling tunic, and once it fell over her hips, she stopped to tug on the leather chausses, lacing them quickly, never bothering to step out of her slippers.
She was dressed none too soon. As they reached a promontory, they found horses waiting, and Rhiannon noted a second companion, presumably her guide. The lad waited with the reins to their horses in his hands. He handed one to Rhiannon, and said, “I am Jack.”
Marcella wasted no time. She placed Rhiannon’s shackles into her own saddlebag—perhaps realizing that even within proximity the bracelets would siphon her magik. “There are boots, as well,” she said, pointing to a dark spot in the grass. “Put them on, toss your slippers into your bag.”
As soon as that was done, they were away, on foot, leading the horses down a narrow path by a sliver of moon. Only for good measure, Rhiannon whispered a prayer, but it wasn’t for freedom she prayed—she prayed with all her heart that Morwen wouldn’t wake to harm Cael.
11
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 regardless, Cael was very well 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 they worked.
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…