“All are persuaded.”
“Good,” I say. “Send my ravens. You and I will await our travel companions.”
“Aye, meistres.”
“Go now,” I say, anger darkening my tone—a fury not unlike that day so many ages thence when I last faced my makers, and they exiled me for my “tantrum.” And yet, they did send me to rule the realms of men, and this I will do.
Damned be their prophecy!
Damn be the words written in the grimoire!
I will not return to a watery grave!
Ego Draconis,
Natus Sylph
A capite ad calcem, igneus et fortes.
I am the dragon.
Born Sylph,
From head to toe, fiery and strong.
31
They found the oubliette in, of all places, the evening shadow of the church, constructed so that the spire, with its swordlike crucifix, might cast its long, punitive shadow into the rat-infested pit—a daily reminder to repent.
Clearly, the Prince hadn’t any compunction over his sins. He spat at Wilhelm before entering the pit. “My only regret was that you were not there when Warkworth burned,” he said, and Wilhelm reared back, and punched the man, breaking his nose, drawing blood. The Prince squealed indignantly, bringing a hand to his face to catch the blood. “Do you know who I am!” he railed. “Do you know who I am?”
With something like a snarl, Wilhelm pushed the man backward, not bothering to afford him a ladder or rope. He plummeted downward, landing with a thud and a crack.
Rhiannon was close enough to hear the exchange, but not close enough to know whether he was injured—clearly, not badly, because she could still sense his heart flame strong, and he continued to shout so loudly that his voice carried all throughout the bailey.
She could still hear him, even as she searched the garden, hoping to find ingredients for a good meal.
Although there was little to celebrate, they would need their strength over these coming days, and Rhiannon hoped there might be enough vittles to provide them all sustenance after a sennight of travel.
Unfortunately, magik could not produce food from thin air. That’s simply not the way it worked. It was only possible to manipulate the aether in ways that did not violate the laws of nature.
Fortunately, there were still a number of chickens living and thriving, nourished by the remnants in the garner. She counted more than a dozen hens and two healthy cocks pecking around the yard. Without delay, she and Marcella collected two of those hens, then found the kitchen to clean and prepare their prizes, then Rhiannon returned to the garden to see what else she could find.
At one time, these raised beds must have been well-cared-for. But they had gone wild during these past few months while the castle sat empty—not more than two or three, she thought. She was heartened to find radishes, peas, parsnips and leeks, as well as carrots.
However, whilst she was exploring, she caught an image as she passed… It was her sister Elspeth, kneeling with a lovely young woman next to a bit of bedstraw, both of them tugging at weeds. It was no more than a glimpse, but she knew intuitively it was a look into the past, and she fell to her knees where her sister had once knelt, missing Elspeth so dearly that she feared she might weep.
Five years.
Five long years since she’d last seen any of her sisters, except through visions and dreams…
“Soon,” she whispered. “Soon.”
For better or worse.
She thrust a hand into the cool, damp earth, and just as surely as she could feel it fill the palm of her hand, she knew she would see her sisters again…
It was a feeling she couldn’t explain, but it was strong now… strong enough to squeeze her heart.
Ellie had been here… right here, in this very garden… perhaps en route to Aldergh…
Perhaps, in truth, this was where Malcom had left her that day when he’d returned to Wales to find Rhiannon.
Smiling over the memory of Malcom Scott approaching her tumbril, she sprinkled the soil back into the bed.
She knew who he was the instant she saw him. Tall, with a great bearing and a face that no doubt made women swoon, he’d approached her tumbril with a sense of purpose and she’d had little doubt he would draw his sword and fell every last guard assigned to her travels.
She wouldn’t allow it.
Affecting a pretense so that her guards wouldn’t realize she was mindspeaking with him, she’d shouted obscenities at Lord Aldergh and tossed a makeshift grimoire at his head. She felt badly about that now, but a sense of panic had come over her when she’d realized he meant to free her.
I go where I need to go, she’d said.
Straight to her destiny…
Straight to Cael.
During a thorough search of the premises, Giles and Wilhelm discovered a well-equipped armory. Unfortunately, most of the weapons had already been confiscated. Still, there remained an anvil and forge, and more than enough tools and scraps to effect repairs. Therefore, while Giles assisted, Wilhelm put to use his modest skills, honing all their weapons in preparation for the struggle to come.
Marcella made use of the kitchens to brew more philters, and meanwhile she cooked up a few hens.
Cael inventoried supplies, then devised a plan for defense.
It was to be expected, perhaps, that, after Beauchamp’s death, someone—likely the King’s men—would have swept through these grounds and seized most of the dead lord’s valuables. In fact, it could be that Beauchamp’s sister, now wed to Blaec d’Lucy, had appropriated what she could. But Cael suspected it was Eustace who’d laid the castle bare, stripping even the walls of its tapestries, if only to sell.
However, they found no evidence of plunder on the premises—not until they discovered a small room adjacent to the lord’s chamber, which, in fact, did contain some of the relics belonging to Bury St. Edmunds.
Here, the King’s son had evidently begun to store his treasures, perhaps having seized upon Amdel as a base from which he’d intended to mount a coup against his father.
In support of this conjecture, they found evidence to that effect within the lord’s chamber, including a list of barons who might be persuaded to rally to his cause.
They also discovered maps of Winchester and the treasury at Flint Tower. More documents like these were littered about the lord’s bower. Cael gathered them all together and took everything to Giles, leaving Rhiannon to further investigate the room. It was a mess, littered with sour-smelling cups, and items of note that probably belonged to Eustace—a fine sword, a golden scabbard, a nice bow with fletching, a very nice set of ringmail armor, with all the necessary bits, all in very good shape. As it so happened, because Eustace was slight of figure, it also fit Rhiannon, so she put it aside.
The room itself smelt of spew and piss.
Evidently, Eustace had also discovered a store full of ale, and perhaps consumed every last drop, judging by the horrid state of his room. It was no wonder he did not join his men on the wall; his pores had also reeked of alcohol—easy to scent at twenty paces, and more.
Evidently, he was sulking, and furious over his dispossession—a manner of depression that manifested itself with a terrible stink that he never bothered to dispel, even despite having the use of a large, ornate tub.