Marcella nodded as Rhiannon finished her verse. “That’s the one.”
“So what happened to Uther’s sword?” Rhiannon asked.
“The Church confiscated every weapon that Taliesin had forged with the Dynion Mwyn—twelve altogether—and they established an elite Guard, awarding each paladin with a sword that formerly belonged to the Kings of Briton.”
“The Papal Guard,” Rhiannon surmised. “And whose sword do you carry?”
“I believe it was Urien’s.”
Rhiannon turned to ask Jack, “And yours?”
The young man coughed indiscreetly. “I’m not yet worthy to carry a Sword of Power.”
“You will in time,” returned Marcella, without looking at the young paladin.
“When?”
“When I die,” she said matter-of-factly, after which, another length of silence ensued.
It was, perhaps, a prospect Jack didn’t relish, but to Rhiannon it made perfect sense. If, in fact, there were only twelve swords altogether, unless an officer of the Guard should perish, there were no more swords to hand about. She knew Giles had given his sword to Rosalynde, but that was another matter entirely. Naturally, such was the nature of these things; someone would have to die before another sword was granted.
“Who else possesses a sword?”
Marcella smiled forbearingly. “That is not something I’m at liberty to say, but I can tell you this much: One sword never left Alba.”
“David of Scotia?” Rhiannon said.
Marcella confirmed nothing, but she said, “You’re quite astute. It took me years and years of investigations to put all these stories together.”
“To great avail,” allowed Rhiannon. “You know your histories far better than anyone I have ever met.”
“Well, I made it a point to know,” Marcella said, “all for the sake of a man I once loved.” And then she averted her gaze, into the woods, and Rhiannon sensed intuitively that she must be speaking of Cael, although something in the paladin’s expression kept her from inquiring.
“So what happened to the other sister?” inquired Jack. “The one called Morgan.”
It took Marcella a while to respond.
“Well… it was Yissachar who slew Igraine, so they let her be. In keeping with our kind, she grew to be a very, very, very old woman. She escaped the fate of many of our kind, simply by virtue of the fact that her husband was conscripted to the Guard. Meanwhile, Yissachar languished in her tower, and, by decree of the church, they purged the remainder of dewinekind from the realm.”
Jack sounded incredulous, and perhaps a little incensed. “Uther allowed it?”
Marcella lifted a brow, casting Jack a backward glance. “Allowed?” she said. “My dear, Uther led them. Do you not pay attention to your studies, ever?”
Rhiannon frowned.
In all her years, she had never heard their story told so succinctly and so candidly. So it seemed, her kindred were a bloodthirsty and treacherous lot—including Taliesin.
It left much to be considered—particularly Taliesin’s entire role in Cerridwen’s tale. Verily, if the man they’d been led to admire and emulate, was, in fact, a thief and a murderer, then what else could be expected from a man who’d steal a mother’s curative? Of course, she was speaking of the potion Cerridwen brewed for her son Morfran… that boy whose fate Rhiannon had always believed she’d shared.
Of all people, Rhiannon knew well enough what it felt like to be reviled for the way she looked. Only now that her face was altered, it didn’t eradicate the pain of her youth. In her mind’s eye, she was still that wretched little girl, with the crossed eyes, and a temper as wild as her hair.
So much of what she’d come to know was utterly wrong.
In the stories she’d heard about Taliesin, he was the one who was pursued and persecuted. He was the golden mage whose wit and wisdom united kingdoms. He was the wise druid, whose name was known and respected by the Romans. He was the falcon who’d guided them.
But, in reality, there was another way to perceive the tale, and in this new light, he wasn’t the least bit flattered.
It was not enough that he’d stolen from those less fortunate, but he’d also befriended the man who’d stolen the Witch Goddess’s daughter, and then he’d turned her against her own mother, only to marry her as well, even amidst their mother’s bitter protests—an incestuous relationship that purportedly enraged Cerridwen. And, it was all because of her fury that Avalon was ultimately destroyed. Considering all this, it didn’t seem entirely fair that Taliesin somehow escaped the wrath of the gods.
In fact, now that Rhiannon considered it, she understood why, after being possessed by the Witch Goddess, that Morwen had bedded her own brother—an eye for an eye, she supposed. After all that had been done to her, her heart now burned with an ember of hatred that could no longer be extinguished. She was the sum total of her life, Rhiannon supposed, and now she also knew why the Witch Goddess was so bent upon revenge—if only she didn’t also have the grave misfortune of knowing that the Witch Goddess was also Morwen. And therefore, whatever Morwen was in theory, it was hardly what she was in the flesh…
Still, she was a daughter herself, cast aside and forsaken.
She was a wounded creature, dangerous and resentful.
She’d lost everything throughout her life—husband, son, her beauteous daughter, her precious isle, and her standing with the gods… Naturally, all Rhiannon and her sisters were to her now were bitter reminders of the betrayals she’d suffered throughout her life. And really, since she was only borrowing Morwen’s body, in her eyes, they were children of Taliesin’s, not hers. They were ungrateful half-breeds, who shouldn’t be allowed to wield the gifts of the Chosen Ones.
So much made sense now.
And yet, it didn’t make the pain of her mother’s existence any less difficult to bear. Morwen’s pain had become her daughters’ pain, and now she hadn’t any more mercy to give—not if you also understood that it was mercy for Taliesin, the babe, that allowed him to live. And then he grew up to be her ruin.
Alas, so it seemed, there were no true heroes in this tale—none save the innocents who’d found themselves in harm’s way.
“Rhiannon,” said Marcella, gently, perhaps realizing how difficult it must be to accept all these truths—one terrible revelation after another since departing Blackwood. She was like a hud du doll full of pins, scarcely able to bear the thought of another. Slowly, pensively, Rhiannon lifted her gaze to her new friend.
“There is one lesson you must take from this tale…”
“Me?”
Marcella nodded portentously. “Of all the swords that were forged by the Dynion Mwyn… only one was forged in the spirit of betrayal; it might yet lend itself to this game.”
Rhiannon furrowed her brow. “What are you saying?”
Marcella’s voice was sober. “What I am saying is that, indeed, Caledfwlch is cursed. ’Twas made to beguile Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, and with that sword, Uther slew him. Later, Lot slew Urien—again, with the same sword. And then, after, Urien’s wife slew Maelgwn’s daughter… Do you understand what I am saying?”