Here, with my blade, I take your former life,
Here, with my art, I still your beating heart,
Eternal thy flame, Lord of Shadows thy name.
And then she knelt once more by his side, and said her final good-bye. “Rest in shadow, my beloved, till you are once more summoned to the light.”
Invoked perhaps by the sultry nature of her words, shadow and light danced before his eyes like fornicating lovers.
Shadow and light converged, again and again, until, with a violent clap of thunder, a rush of wind rose from the casket of his body, and for the sweetest interminable moment—he and his wife were caught between worlds, their souls united as one, until the torrent died like a winterbourne in summer… devoid of life, but not quite dead.
At the end of her ritual, Nesta’s body lay lifeless on their chamber floor. Maelgwn could see it as though in a dream. Her maids lifted her up, then laid her beside the empty shell of her husband—his own body. When Uther arrived to claim the banner and crown, he was told the Dragon Lord’s queen ended her life with her husband’s last breath. No one noted the reliquary in the hand of her maid. She gave Uther the message with a nervous curtsy before quitting the chamber, rushing away with a heartfelt promise for the Lord of Shadows: “I shall keep you in secret till The One arrives, and someday, my lord, you must avenge my lady’s death! A pox on the house of Pendragon!”
1
Blackwood Castle, July 1153
He should have died.
He did die.
And still, here he was, flesh and blood, and it was Morwen who’d freed him. For that alone, he owed her a debt of gratitude.
Pensive and mirthless, the lord of Blackwood sat behind his escritoire, studying a small reliquary on his desk.
So he’d been told, there were three of its kind remaining in the world—one his, one belonging to Mordecai, and the last he presumed must be Morwen’s…
Presumed, only because she kept it about her neck on a chain, the same way he kept his own.
Exquisitely etched, cylindrical in shape, his was about a half inch in diameter, and one and one-quarter inches long, with a strange, blue-veined crystal fashioned at one end, the fit so seamless it was impossible to remove. The metal was intricately inscribed with runes that, to his knowledge, could no longer be read.
He met a priest once who’d called it a reliquary, although, in truth, it was nothing like those receptacles they used to hold the bones of saints. It looked like one, perhaps, but it wasn’t.
If he shook it, there was nothing inside, and if he put it to his ear, he heard a hint of wind… like a seashell.
Admittedly, he didn’t know how it worked, nor did he dare disassemble it. This was all he knew: It alone was the key to his existence—a ridiculous little bauble that Morwen had called a grisial hud. In his Welsh tongue, it meant, quite literally, magic crystal.
Lifting the pendant from his desk, he turned it slowly, examining the strange metal and markings, perhaps for the thousandth time since acquiring it.
Puzzling.
Only to see it was to imagine it an impossible sepulcher, and yet… what dimensions should one expect to provide for the totality of a human soul?
It was everything… and yet…
Nothing.
Cael d’Lucy was a creature of shadow, a man with far more to lose by dwelling in light than he did in darkness. He had more secrets than most, and too much to lose—including his life—should they ever come to light.
Nevertheless, he was confused.
He’d come to know Rhiannon Pendragon well, and, indeed, his heart wept for Uther’s heir. Still… whenever he thought to pity her, he was forced to ask himself: What was five years compared to six hundred?
Six hundred and six, to be precise.
Six hundred and six years during which his only conscious thought had been to avenge his beloveds.
Now that he had his chance, he dared not rest until the task was done. Then, and only then, could he hope to find peace.
Regretfully, the matter had become… complicated.
Almost daily, he had to remind himself who she was. Lovely though she might be, in her delicate blue veins, she bore the sins of her fathers. And, in truth, no matter how many years had gone since Uther’s betrayal, his sorrow was fresh as the loam over a day-old grave.
Thinking of Nesta, his jaw worked angrily. Faded by time, an image arose from the dusty depths of his memory—her lifeless form prone on the chamber floor, her sacrifice to save his damnable soul.
Was it worth it?
Nay, he thought.
It was not.
And nevertheless, for every moment of these past six hundred and six years, he’d been acutely aware of his losses, feeling their pain like limbs plucked from his body.
He was the Pendragon.
Not Uther.
And what had the Judas gone and done?
He’d settled himself on Cael’s throne, then eaten the meal from his larders.
The image sent a torrent of hatred rushing through his blood, for his true name was not Cael d’Lucy. He was Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, High King of Gwynedd, Dragon Lord of Anglesey. He was not the cousin of some paltry English lord, but the firstborn son of Cadwallon Lawhir, great-grandson to Cunedda, who, by order of Governor Maximus, led the Votadini against the Pechts. And for his part in the campaign, his forebear had been awarded the entirety of Gwynedd—the Jewel of Wales, so ’twas written by a contemporary of Maelgwn’s time.
And the true Dragon Lord… felled by a creature with golden eyes and hair who’d cursed him with a yellow death.
He, who’d fought and won the dragon throne, only to lose it all… over what?
Lust for a sword?
Perhaps she was not the sole heir to Blackwood; still she bore the blood of his nemeses in her veins. That alone should keep him from coddling her.
That alone should force him to remember.
Remember!
Fool. She’s not simply some hapless maid whose mother is cruel.
Unlike her sisters, she was not the progeny of a king. Hers was a… distinctly maculate conception, and her father was a reincarnation of the man by whose hand his life was taken—that druid who’d once called himself Merlin to Britain.
God’s blood, it galled him that she looked like him—all save for that wild, copper hair. She bore those same chiseled cheeks, the same fair skin, the same shape of her brows—perpetually arched, as though she alone were privy to the mystery of creation.
And, God’s blood, her eyes… blue and stormy as a winter sky, while Taliesin’s had been deepest amber, imbued with a cunning that few could forswear.
Not that she wasn’t cunning, mind you.
She was certainly wily enough to sense every chink in Cael’s armor… and therefore, why should he care whether her hands were weighted with the burden of manacles?
Why should he care what became of her?
At least she still had lungs to breathe and hands to carry a child of her womb.
To the contrary, Nesta’s arms were empty in death, and he himself might never see an heir to his legacy—such as it was: a decrepit old castle in the Black Mountains, not at all the kingdom he’d been promised.
Certes not his beloved Anglesey…
And what now?
He would risk even this for a beauteous witch…