Taliesin and Uther.
He stepped closer to her body, staring down at the twin reliquaries in his hand… one cold and tarnished, one warmer and glowing blue.
Trying to understand, he stepped back again, further and further, watching the glimmer fade, until the one nearly matched the other. Without the luminesce they were indistinguishable, even to the crystal.
Once again, he moved closer, watching the return of the glow, knowing in his heart it was hers—it must be hers!
The fact that she was lying so still… it must be proof that, in mortal form, she was as vulnerable as he was.
If he took her life…
If he dared…
Rhiannon, he thought.
It would bring an end to the bloodshed and violence.
But…
Very carefully, he removed the dagger from the chain, and then bent to lay the athame atop her breast. Still kneeling, he opened both fists to examine the contents of both hands. In one he held the vial filled with Marcella’s potion; in the other he held both reliquaries.
If he kept her grisial hud and threatened to destroy it, could he persuade her to his will?
He didn’t know, but for all that had passed between them, he couldn’t kill her—not here, not yet. At the instant, she was naught but an insensate, vulnerable woman, and he couldn’t kill her, but… he suddenly couldn’t see the wisdom in remaining to see her wake. He had betrayed her by setting her daughter free, and Rhiannon was right: She would not forgive him. Rhiannon was the last of her daughters to be bartered, and Cael had effectively taken that away.
Decided, he flung both chains around his neck, then examined the vial in his hand, realizing what it was that he should do…
If he stayed, she would inflict her anger on the innocents in this hall, if only to punish him. She would test him, and she would test them, stopping at nothing to extract the truth. On the other hand, if he left… she might leave them be, realizing they were as much a victim in this as she was. None of those remaining would deny the Witch Queen what she sought. She would ask them if they knew, and some might even tell her they remembered him escorting Rhiannon from the hall…
Kneeling by her side, Cael plucked the stopper from Marcella’s vial, placing the bitter, foul-smelling liquid to his nostrils and wincing.
Would another dose kill her?
It very well could, and if he gave her an overdose, he would have to live with it, he supposed, because, suddenly more clear-headed than he’d been in years, he knew what must be done…
Sliding an arm beneath her shoulders, he lifted Morwen so that her head tilted back, naturally parting her lips, and then, all the more resolved, he emptied the contents of Marcella’s vial into her mouth, and gently laid her back.
Now it was done.
Now, he must go, and when she awoke, she would find him gone. She would know he’d conspired with Marcella to betray her. And she would pursue them both by all means. The very least he could do for Rhiannon was to free the hounds. Shaking his head with disgust over the present circumstances, he hurled the vial across the room, although he should have laid it by her side. She would know anyway, and she would curse him for it, and if he was wrong about the reliquaries, she would stop at nothing to destroy him.
Turning from the woman to whom he owed his freedom, and his second chance at life—the Lady of Avalon, the mother, mage and crone—he made his way to the stables to prepare his horse, with a name on his lips and in his heart: Rhiannon.
12
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.