Alas, that tome harbored centuries’ worth of dewine histories and receipts—summoning spells, banishing spells, transmutation spells and more.
Ages and ages of trial and error and painstaking documentation by all her dewine sisters. Sadly, all those histories were a loss beyond telling.
No doubt, she and her sisters could craft all new spells, but those histories were another matter entirely.
For her part, Isolde had only snippets to share, and Seren had a terrible, terrible suspicion that the key to defeating her mother lay hidden in their past.
One way or another, even without the help of the grimoire or even Isolde, Seren must persevere. She must find her “true self” so she could imbue the sword—but what did that mean?
Did it mean that simply knowing oneself as Regnant wasn’t enough? Did it mean she must come to know herself experientially? Or rather, should she pray to the Goddess for bestowal of her gifts? Or perhaps it was really so simple as discovering some way to remove the glamour spell that had been cast upon her as a child?
The answers to these questions eluded her, and Isolde was no help at all. Instead of offering clues, she came to pester Seren whilst she slept, cocking her silly little bird head and stealing her sleep like a mean old hag.
Carefully now, so as not to drip candle wax, she made her way down the darkened hall.
At this late hour, the entire castle was abed, but since Seren hadn’t any babies to wake and feed, she found herself drawn to the workshop she shared with Rose. Elspeth was here as well, to witness the birth of Rosalynde’s firstborn child.
Removing the chain from around her neck, she unlocked the heavy banded door, then pushed it open, entering cautiously, half anticipating pixies.
Not a soul stirred.
In the dead of night, the workshop was eerily silent. The ancient sword remained precisely where she’d left it on the herb-littered bench.
Approaching it reverently, Seren took some comfort in the lack of blue shimmer on the shining steel. She had only witnessed that effect once… a chemical reaction to her mother’s magik? A warning from the aether?
Find your true self.
Only then will you find your answers.
Isolde’s words accosted her again as she gnawed at the tip of her thumbnail. Trying to remember all she’d learned over these past weeks, she stood studying the ancient weapon—a sword originally imbued by the father of their coven, and gifted to the Dragon Lord of the Anglesey.
He wasn’t a witch, but his wife was. And merely because Maelgwn had valued his lady’s counsel, the Church pronounced him an enemy. Plotting against him, they’d sent Taliesin and Uther under the guise of friendship, and one night, after drinking his wine and supping at his tables, they’d slaughtered the Dragon Lord, murdered his son, captured his daughter, and stole his pennants. Thus was born the new dynasty, through treachery and blood.
This was the story, according to Isolde.
And nevertheless, that was only part of the tale… a tale that began ages and ages before Uther and Maelgwn…
It began with Cerridwen and her hatred for her husband. For all her fury against the man, she’d brought down a wrath from the gods so fierce that the consequences were felt far and wide.
“What am I supposed to know?” she asked quietly, regarding the ancient sword. “Tell me, Goddess, lest I fail you.”
Silence was her answer—a deep, abiding silence that betrayed nothing. The shutters remained closed against the night. No crow returned to her sill.
Whatever truth she must reveal, it would not come easily.
“Where the devil are you, Rhiannon?”
Rhiannon alone had the knowledge their grandmother bestowed. Without her, this task seemed daunting and indomitable. And nevertheless, Seren knew there was no time for regrets.
Everything happened for a reason—wasn’t that what her sister claimed? To arrive at this place and time, there was no other path to have been taken. If Elspeth hadn’t escaped from Llanthony, she wouldn’t have met Malcom. Instead, she would have been trapped in a loveless marriage with the lord of Blackwood. And she would never have defeated Morwen at Aldergh, nor would Rosalynde have been inspired to leave London with Morwen’s grimoire.
More importantly, Rosalynde’s affiliation with Giles now gave them possession of this sword… the only weapon of consequence to be used against Morwen.
Sadly, if Arwyn hadn’t sacrificed herself that night… Seren, too, might now be dead…
Like a window to the past, she saw it in her mind’s eye—a glimpse of that moment on the Whitshed, when Arwyn, holding that shard of Merlin’s Crystal, hurled it at the door. Like a dream, she witnessed the final moments and heard the words Rhiannon spoke before she, too, fell silent evermore: Aye, ’tis she, she’d said.
She.
The witch goddess whose sins doomed Avalon.
She whom her mother and uncle had summoned here from exile.
Only now, if no one stopped her, she would doom England as surely as she’d doomed her beloved isle.
How to stop her was the question… and the key… in part… was the sword.
The beauty of it was immeasurable.
Undetectable to any but dewine eyes, a tangle of intricately carved serpents writhed over its silver inspired hilt. On the blade itself lay etched in the most ancient of tongues, “Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see.” And still, no matter how long Seren stared at the sword, or how many times she repeated the phrase, she hadn’t any clue what it meant.
Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…
There was another word etched betwixt the serpents: Caledfwlch. Translated from her native tongue, it meant “cut steel.” And in the language of the Holy Church… Caliburn.
Some also knew it as Excalibur.
Crafted from some alloy taken from the heart of Avalon, the blue shimmer was not its only blessing. It had another, so ’twas said—one that could only be actuated by a Regnant, which Seren was not…
Not yet.
Even so, she must find a way to fulfill the ancient prophecy, so that he who wielded the sword might not bleed. Without that quality, it was uncertain that anyone could survive an encounter with her mother.
“Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see,” she said aloud, again. Unfortunately, those words meant nothing to her, and by now, she had turned the blade more times than a cake in a pan. Nothing ever happened.
She was a dewine, indeed, a Promised One, according to Isolde, but she hadn’t any notion how to entreat the Mother Goddess for all the gifts she’d been promised.
“Seren? What are you doing at this late hour?” asked Rose from the doorway.
Seren turned to find her youngest sister peering into the workshop. “Oughtn’t you be sleeping?”
“I woke to feed the babe,” said Rose. “I saw the light pass my door and I thought it might be you.”
Seren drew a weary hand through her hair. “I could not sleep.”
“More dreams?”
“Nay. The bird.”
Rosalynde hitched her chin. “Isolde,” she whispered softly.
“I cannot help but feel she is trying to tell me something.”
“What do you suppose?”
Seren shrugged. “I don’t know. Something has changed. Nothing I can put my finger to, but I can feel it in my bones.”