Sylph…
Her mother was Sylph.
How was this even possible?
Sylphkind were beings Rhiannon had only ever heard of in legend—children of the Gods, so they said, formed of moon dust and spirit, ethereal as air. Said to be skyspeakers, they were able to communicate with creatures of the air—and this perhaps rang true, though it was unfathomable.
Moreover, how was it that something purported to be so exquisitely lovely could be so base?
By all accounts the Sylphkind were lauded to be creatures of beauty and love… untouched by the guile or greed of men.
They were said to be so fiercely beautiful that to look into the eyes of a Sylph could, in fact, blind like the sun.
Like Avalon, Sylphkind were like chimeras… here one instant, gone the next… ephemeral and without constant form. And yet, Morwen did have a physical form.
Sylph?
Truly?
Nay, it couldn’t be… and yet… she knew the ring of truth when she heard it.
In the darkness, she was moved to examine her own hands— solid, with distinct human form. She had never once—not once—had an inkling she could shift her form. And yet, she, too, must have Sylph blood running through her veins—her sisters as well—though Rhiannon bled like anyone else.
More to the point, so did Morwen.
A memory filtered into her mind—her mother slicing a finger, not on accident. Using her dagger with the obsidian handle, she’d bled herself for a spell—blood magik, so she’d said. Only now that Rhiannon recalled… that dagger also glowed blue in Morwen’s presence, like Rhiannon’s manacles… and the key. The glow for Rhiannon was faint, more like a shimmer, but it was nevertheless there.
She tried to remember what her mother had said about the glow when asked… Rhiannon was four, watching, as her mother’s blood dripped into a chalice. “What are you doing?”
“Can’t you see I am busy, child? Go away!”
Much to Rhiannon’s detriment, the athame had already captured her attention, and curiosity compelled her. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the ancient blade.
“Why does it glow?”
Her mother’s sigh was disparaging. “Because it sees my true soul,” she’d said, annoyed.
“Does it see mine?”
“Nay.”
“Why not?”
Morwen’s amber gaze sought her then, eyes slitted, and burning like coals. “Because you are imperfect,” she’d said meanly. “Plain, ugly. Have you never looked into a mirror, child? Only a blind man will ever claim you with that affliction.”
Disheartened, Rhiannon’s lips had turned down at the corners, but even then, she’d refused to weep. One did not show weakness in front of Morwen.
Instead, a four-year-old’s burgeoning fury had welled up inside her as her mother shouted for Elspeth. “Elspeth! Get this brat out of my sight, right now! Else I’ll think better of it, and drain her pitiful body of the blood I need for my spell.”
Elspeth had rushed over at once, removing Rhiannon from her mother’s proximity, whisking her out of the apartment and down into the castle kitchen to pilfer a sweet cake from the cook.
It sees my soul.
Did the athame leech from Morwen, like those manacles?
Nay. Nay.
Somehow, those two were the same, but not the same, because her mother still carried the athame on a chain about her neck. Therefore, the manacles must be changed by the binding spell etched into the metal.
Tenetur in argenteas
A capite ad calcem, tace, et sile
Bound in silver,
From head to toe, silent and still
Something about those words spoke to her sense of knowing, just as something about the blue shimmer of the metal seemed relevant to their cause.
It sees my soul.
Will it see mine?
Nay.
Why not?
Because you’re imperfect.
Tears stung Rhiannon’s eyes.
Sadness permeated her heart—sadness and anger.
In truth, she had never been a lovable child. Ellie used to claim she was born angry, and it was undeniable. And yet, why shouldn’t she be furious? She’d suffered the death of her twin in the womb. Both of them had been close to death—poisoned by their own mother—and Morien had given up her life force to save Rhiannon. Her death gave Rhiannon the strength to be restored, and whilst her own heartbeat had strengthened over time, her sister’s body began to decay in the womb. Most people might not recall events before their birth, but Rhiannon was not most people: She was a dewine. She remembered everything. She had a blood sister no one—not even her living sisters—had ever chanced to know. Only she understood the sacrifice Morien made for her that day. Only she truly knew the heart that stopped beating only for her—no less a sacrifice than the one Arwyn had made at twenty.
Pushing aside the pain of her reopened wound, she tried in vain to rest, resigning herself to her current path and realizing that they would have another long day. She bolstered herself with surety: No longer was she a poor, pitiful child dependent upon a cruel beast for a mother. She was a woman, grown, married for whatever good it might do her.
And Cael… he did feel something for her…
Something…
He’d kissed her much too passionately, his longing betrayed by the smoke in his eyes—eyes that made love to her despite that his hands and body never would.
Nay. She must believe Morwen was wrong: Someone did love her, even if their love was doomed.
Where are you, Cael?
Are you alive?
Please, please don’t die.
Live.
Those gloomy thoughts held her transfixed. And then, at long last, when finally she drifted into a fitful slumber, she heard Marcella rise. But at least the woman didn’t immediately attempt to wake her. Rhiannon watched through slitted eyes as Marcella tapped her protégé with the tip of her boot. Jack rose at once, without complaint, and set about to righting their camp, but his demeanor, too, seemed changed this morn. Perhaps he, too, had come to understand something of his own fate, after the stories Marcella had shared by the campfire.
When they were ready to go, Jack came over to gently wake Rhiannon. “Time to rise,” he said.
Rhiannon opened one eye to his winsome smile.
In the bright morning light, he didn’t appear particularly sinister, and she was glad now that she’d remained.
However, she saw everything through new eyes. Knowing what she knew now, nothing would ever be the same.
Nodding sleepily, Rhiannon sat, then stretched—taking simple pleasure in the fact that she could do so without lifting heavy manacles. Even bone-tired, and riddled with midge bites, she must at least be thankful for that much, and this was proof that Marcella didn’t intend to kill her—at least not yet. The paladin had left her free to defend herself, and there was no doubt in Rhiannon’s mind that Marcella knew precisely what Rhiannon was capable of, even despite her dire words last night.
Without a word, she rose, still mulling over the night’s deliberations. She led her mare to the brook to drink, and there, she knelt to lave the metallic stains from her wrists and refresh her face.
Peering into the water, she spied her own visage. The girl who stared back was sorely unkempt, though she was not plain or ugly. She was fierce, to be sure… dark copper hair, her features dark, as well—all but the bright blue eyes.