A solid horn blast erupted from the ramparts.
At this point, they had bolstered their defenses as best they could. At least one person was assigned to man the wall at all times. Right now, it was Marcella’s turn. Seizing both reliquaries, Cael looped them about his neck and moved to the window. Rhiannon followed behind.
Away, in the distance, filtering from the trees, came a good-sized army—too big to belong to Drakewich, too small to belong to Morwen.
“Who is it?”
Cael narrowed his eyes, searching for banners, and once he spied one, he turned to Rhiannon and grinned.
“Come with me,” he said, taking her by the hand.
It was a bittersweet reunion.
Five years since the sisters were all in the same room, and here they were, again, all together… without Arwyn.
The loss was felt no less keenly for the years gone by.
This evening, Amdel’s hall resounded, though not with laughter, but quiet sobs.
There were tear-stained cheeks and tunics.
Embraces held too long.
On a bright note, they were six no more, but more than three hundred strong, with the Pendragon sisters all reunited and stronger for the power they wielded together.
And despite this, Morwen should never be underestimated. She was an ancient being, wielding all the power of her birthright. Maddeningly, all the while soldiers trickled into Amdel’s bailey, crows and ravens continued to gather in the trees of the surrounding forest, their numbers so great that they burdened the trees with their weight—a reminder that this was no reunion for pleasure and their time now was growing short. Once all their greetings were made, everyone attended an emergency council in the great hall: Giles with Rosalynde; Seren with Wilhelm; Elspeth stood with Marcella; and Edmund, Warkworth’s seneschal, sat on a trestle table, his helm by his side, his face mottled from having worn the accoutrement so long. Arms crossed, Rhiannon stood beside her husband, his hand on her shoulder as they discussed matters at hand. The first question was posed to Elspeth. “What of Malcom? Will he join us?”
Elspeth nodded, though solemnly, her response somewhat less than affirmative. “If my message reaches him, I warrant not even his king will keep him from it.”
Giles tore his gaze away from Rosalynde, a muscle ticking at his jaw. “What of the Scots King?”
Elspeth shrugged. “Your guess is good as mine,” she said. “Already, I have appealed to him twice, and twice he has answered when he did not have to. I only hope he values my husband well enough to support him.”
“Is this not Duke Henry’s war as well?” asked Wilhelm tersely. “Why is that pup not here?”
Giles appealed to his wife, and she gave him a subtle nod, then said, “His mother will rally forces, so I’m told. But they were due at Warkworth, and the question remains if he will arrive in time.”
“Unfortunately, ravens are not an option,” said Cael. “Save for a few stragglers, she commands them all.”
“Pigeons neither,” agreed Elspeth. “At this point, ’tis not entirely certain whether any winged creature can be trusted.”
“I am certain,” said Seren, rising from her chair to pace. “They cannot be trusted.”
And this was perhaps the greatest shock to Rhiannon—to see her sister’s altered appearance. Seren’s hair had once been such a lovely shade of golden red; now it was silvery white. Her eyes, which were once blue, were the brightest amber—and, nevertheless, they were not crossed, nor did her face reveal any of the haggardly lines of a woman with hair of that shade. Her skin was smooth as a baby’s bottom, and pale—as though she’d never once enjoyed the sun. And yet, despite this, she was lovely, her appearance radiant and her presence ethereal. There was no doubt she had found her place in the service of the Goddess.
“Explain,” said Giles.
“As many of you know by now, my mother is Sylph, aligned to all creatures of the air. Free will is, indeed, a gift from the gods, and yet, as ’tis well known… birds of a feather will flock together.”
“Sylph?” asked Wilhelm, and Seren endeavored to explain, meeting Rhiannon’s gaze at the end, if only for an instant. I am sorry, she said, mindspeaking. I know you believed this to be your destiny.
Rhiannon was quick to reassure her. I am your servant, my sister. It matters not to me who should be Regnant, only that our mother is defeated. I am content enough with my lot. Do not fret for me.
The sisters both shared a nod of solidarity.
This was no time for envy or discord.
All must work together to defeat Morwen, and not even Seren was capable alone.
Please, forgive me for what I must do, Seren said cryptically, and then, averting her gaze from Rhiannon, she gave a discreet nod to Warkworth’s steward.
“Bring it,” she said, and the seneschal departed the hall, only to return a moment later with a golden scabbard, revealing the shining hilt of a sword. Rhiannon’s eyes widened, knowing intuitively what it was, although nothing could have prepared her for what transpired next.
Edmund handed Seren the sword.
Her sister turned to face Cael. “Dragon Lord!” she said, in a voice completely unrecognizable. Even her countenance seemed to change in that moment, the air about her shivering like steam from a kettle.
For his part, Cael appeared momentarily stunned, though Rhiannon was certain he’d understood the appellation.
“Dragon Lord,” Seren called again, moving toward him. “I present you the key.” She unsheathed the ancient sword from its scabbard, revealing it fully before them, and laid it upon her two hands.
The sight of it was momentarily blinding.
Cael blinked against the weapon once used against him.
The sword that took his life.
That same gift he was presented by Taliesin.
In all its silvered glory, it lay before him, presented in the very same manner it had been revealed to him on that fated night so long ago… lying atop open palms, so the inscription could easily be read. Etched in the most ancient of languages, lay inscribed and imbued, Take me, but turn the blade, and we will see. Between the hilt was written: Caledfwlch.
After all these years, there it was… with its intricately crafted serpents entwined about the elegantly fashioned hilt…
Shaken by the sight of it, Cael’s fingers ached to reach for it, but he met Seren’s gaze, well aware that his wife was watching him carefully.
This was not revealed to her as yet… his relation to the sword. His relation to her kinsmen. His vow to kill everyone who bore Taliesin’s blood. All his dark and terrible secrets. Even now the sword called to him, beguiling…
“All that you give you must give freely,” said Seren. “Once again the sword has been imbued, so that he who wields it will not bleed. Even now my mother gathers the heirs to the twelve who conspired to betray you. She will give you all you seek, and more… wealth, power… Anglesey…”
Try though he might, Cael could not avert his gaze from that shining blade. “I… I don’t want it,” he said, not trusting himself to touch it. The temptation was all too real. With that sword, he could retake Wales.
He could rebuild his isle.
He could—
“Cael?” said Rhiannon, sounding bemused.