Only now that she understood why that was the case, she wished she had practiced more oft, although despite that she could do so freely now, she still didn’t experience the joy Rhiannon did when she manipulated the aether.
Perhaps because of the binding spell, magik simply didn’t come naturally to Seren, unless her emotions were heightened, and then, she couldn’t control it. It rushed over her like a torrent and dissipated like the wind.
Practice, practice, practice, Elspeth now demanded—quite the change from the old days when she’d wagged a finger at them any time the Craft was employed.
So here she was.
Again.
But at least she didn’t have to feel guilty over slipping away. Even her duties had been appropriated. So much as she had enjoyed helping Rosalynde with her chatelaine’s duties, her sister’s newborn babe was well cared for by a wet-nurse, and Rosalynde had insisted upon returning to her household duties so that Seren might “find herself in prayer.”
But that was yet another thing Seren didn’t particularly enjoy—prayer—perhaps, because, while at Llanthony, the priests had used it as a form of punishment, and never once guided them to do it properly.
Generally, once those monks were finished in the chapel, she and her sisters were ushered inside, and the doors were locked from Sext to None, while the monks were busy filling their bellies and sampling their ale. If she and her sisters couldn’t manage to find peace through prayer during this time, they were encouraged to clean for three hours straight, whilst their bellies grumbled in complaint. The entire experience left a sour taste in Seren’s mouth, and she had never truly allowed herself to learn to meditate thereafter.
Unfortunately, now it was imperative she learn.
Although she would like to say she wasn’t frightened, she really was. She didn’t have the same understanding about the Craft that Rhiannon had, nor was she born with her grandmother’s gift of knowing. Rhiannon was the one who had, day after day, moment by moment, strengthened her prowess. She was the one who’d defied Elspeth to practice, and she was the one whose gifts now excelled. It didn’t make sense that Seren should be Regnant, though she knew in her heart it was true. Once the truth was revealed, it was no longer so easily denied. So, then, one way or the other, she must find a way to fulfill the prophecy.
It was sheer desperation that led her to lie with a blade—cold steel against her warm flesh. She rested with one hand on the hilt, and hours later, eyes closed, she still lay next to the sword, as she deliberated the cryptic inscription…
There must be something in those words… something…
She could glean little from its story, no matter how many times she pored over the tales Isolde had told her. Aye, she knew the blade was enchanted. She also knew it glowed in the presence of evil. She knew it once belonged to Uther, and that it was forged by the Fair Men of Glastonbury, whose dewinity was bestowed, not by the Goddess, but by the Horned God of Donn, the Dark One from the House of the Dead. Whereas some people believed the Mother Goddess represented life, the Dark One represented death, and according to Isolde, his home, Cnoc Fírinne was where all souls gathered in death… beneath the Hill of Truth…
Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…
So, then, if the sword was forged by the Dynion Mwyn, was truth the sword’s most divine gift?
Could it be that Caledfwlch was meant to reveal the truth of her spirit?
In that vein, why did the sword glow blue in her mother’s presence? But not in hers?
Why, indeed?
Because Morwen was evil?
Or because Morwen herself was truth?
And consequently, if Morwen was truth, what terrible brand of truth might she be?
Nay… this wasn’t right.
There was a piece of the puzzle still missing—something Seren should have discovered in the grimoire…
She tried to remember everything Isolde had said…
Together, the Mother Goddess and the Horned God fashioned all things in their union, and because the Goddess herself was said to conceive and contain all life in her divinity, then all beings were divine by their birth, only without truth until it was learned.
More riddles, she hadn’t a clue how to decipher…
According to the teachings of the Holy Church, if Eve was the representation of the Goddess, the snake in the garden must be the Horned God, and mayhap the apple he gave her was the incarnation of truth…
Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…
Growing desperate, Seren concentrated harder, poring over all the things she’d learned…
A pentagram was also said to express truths about the hidden nature of existence. There was a very good reason it must be drawn in the proper order to accomplish a given task: Some spells called more to the Goddess, others to the Horned God. The five points, each aligned to an element, were ascribed to one or the other. But the fifth element, the quintessence, formed a marriage of both… essentially creating a divine child.
And yet, it was interesting to note that the elements were unevenly distributed, and more interesting yet was the fact that there were only three divine elements, and each of these were aligned to the Goddess.
How did these play in her role?
Or did they at all?
Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…
According to Isolde, the gods were able to manifest themselves, either through dreams, or as physical beings, but also through the minds and bodies of a priestess or priest. The latter was essentially the making of a Regnant, whereby the Goddess must be called upon to bestow divine possession.
Only how was it done?
Compelled to examine the sword again, she opened her eyes, lifting it to inspect it, wondering that perhaps there might be a key in the artwork. Pressing, caressing, she admired the intricate design, running her fingers over the writhing serpents. But then, having found nothing, she laid the blade in her palm…
Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…
Losing patience, she turned the blade, nicking her flesh so it bled… though not much… only a thin red line. And yet it was certainly blood. “Ouch,” she said belatedly, lifting the sore hand to her lips, and lapping at a droplet of blood.
So much for imbuing the sword with divinity. Anyone who dared to face her mother with this accursed blade would be sorely equipped to survive the ordeal. She was beginning to feel like a failure. For weeks and weeks now, ever since Isolde put the thought in her head, she had been trying in vain to find her true self.
Find yourself, the woman had said, then imbue Caledfwlch with the power of the divine.
Then, and only then would she know what to do in order to save, not only England, but the Realm of the Living. It was a terrible burden to suffer for a woman who’d only ever coveted a normal life…
Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see…
Damnation.
By now, she had lain in this bed so bloody long that morning arrived, illuminating her room with a warm vestal light.
Time was her enemy.
Urgency quickened her veins.
Desperation wrenched her heart.
Outside, she could spy the first light of sunrise, and as it so happened, choosing that instant to return to her window, the damnable crow came to rest on her sill, it’s beady little eyes peering into her room. “There you are,” she said, annoyed. “Where have you been?”