Seren waited.
It was his to take…
“Cael?”
“I… am… not… Cael,” he said as he accepted the proffered sword. He lifted it high to inspect it, then brought it down with a confident swing, reveling in the feel of it.
“I am Maelgwn ap Cadwallon, true King of Gwynedd, Dragon Lord of Anglesey, firstborn son of Cadwallon Lawhir.”
35
Maelgwn would love to have imagined a collective gasp.
Alas, there was only one… the one emitted by his wife… the only person he did not wish to displease.
At least… this was not the manner in which he’d wished to reveal himself.
And so, it seemed, the remainder of those gathered already knew who he was… and still they would grant him the sword.
For a long moment, that fact left him reeling, confused, though he’d reached for the sword anyway, the temptation too difficult to resist.
The very instant the cold steel had met his flesh—familiar even through the ages—it sent a sizzle through his veins, a surge of vigor and strength that hardened his cock where he stood. His breath halted over the feel of Caledfwlch in his hands, the fine way the pommel melded with his palm, the precisely honed steel crafted only for him… so long he’d coveted this weapon, even after it stole his life, and everything he’d loved…
Even now, he was a man possessed, willing to gamble for the sword, no matter the cost.
“Is it true?” asked his wife softly, her voice filled with pain.
She was astute enough to understand what was happening.
Rhiannon was no fool; she knew full well what things were possible through magik. Although she hadn’t once suspected who he was, he knew she would know the truth when she heard it… and when he met her gaze, the look on her face filled him with dread. He responded instinctively, merely intending to remind her of her promises to him and her place by his side. The words came out harsher and less hospitable than he’d intended. “’Tis true,” he said. “I am the Dragon Lord, and lest you forget, you are my wife!”
Rhiannon stood then, formidable as any woman could be. “Nay,” she said. “Need I remind you, my lord? I am a Pendragon. I make up my own mind who I stand beside.” And then, very swiftly gathering her skirts, she marched out of the hall, all three of her sisters filing out behind her.
“Rhiannon!” shouted Elspeth. “Wait!”
She was immediately followed by Rosalynde, but neither of her sisters could break her pace. Rhiannon disappeared from his sight, and Seren turned to give him a subtle smile, though her final words as she followed Rhiannon were not for her departing sister. She said quietly to Cael, “That sword is a gift, my lord. But so, it seems, you’ve not yet earned my sister’s trust. Both are Goddess-given. One may provide you Wales, the other will gift your true heart’s desire. Choose wisely, Dragon Lord, or you may lose them both.”
Rhiannon had known he was keeping secrets from her—something dark and dreadful. And yet, she would never have imagined it could be this—not this.
Sweet fates!
His life had been prolonged by blood magik. And though she didn’t know precisely how that was done, she knew enough to know that in order to return to this realm, he must have been cauldron born, and bound to his summoner…
Morwen.
No wonder he did not kill her when he had the chance.
No wonder he did not turn away from her villainy.
No wonder he’d kept Rhiannon imprisoned far too long.
A shadow beast…
Bound to her mother.
Time and again, he had said quite plainly that his aim was Morwen’s aim. Well, now she understood why. Only what, precisely, did it mean? Was he compelled by her mother? Did he possess free will? Was his life bound only to the Witch Queen? And now, if they killed Morwen, what did that mean for Cael?
All these questions formed a melee in her mind, though she found answers for not a one.
But worse! He was a sworn enemy to her family—a foe of the man who had, according to Marcella, slain Maelgwn ap Cadwallon so long ago—six hundred years, to be precise.
Six hundred years!
And still… somehow, he was young and vibrant, with the vitality and passion of a flesh and blood man!
Sweet fates. She’d lain with him, and even so, she must confess: She did not regret it. Not for a moment. Even now, her heart ached for him, and some tender part of her soul mourned for the man he had been.
All those years ago, he had faced his own mortality, lost everything that was good and true in his life—his kingdom, his wife, his children and heirs…
The notion was too much to bear.
Marcella had warned her. In her own way, the paladin had revealed so many pieces of the puzzle—pieces Rhiannon hadn’t had the wherewithal to comprehend.
And now she truly knew how arrogant she had been—to think she was so wise. Well, she was not.
Commiserating, she and her sisters ensconced themselves into what Elspeth claimed to be a women’s solar, although the room was neither pleasant, nor comfortable, nor even well furnished. Spartan as it was, it was as barren as the womb of a crone. Verily, it appeared to Rhiannon that no woman had ever turned her hand to the chamber’s good use, except for a broken-down, old loom. And yet, according to her sister, this was once the refuge of Dominique Beauchamp, the beautiful sister of Amdel’s now dead lord, who was bride to Blaec d’Lucy.
Rhiannon wondered if the lord of Drakewich would bother to come. It would serve Cael right if he turned his nose at the request, and nevertheless, they needed all the help they could get. She prayed to the gods that Jack would manage to persuade him. And then she wondered why she bothered to pray, because, in truth, her mother was a child of the Sylph, made by gods. How much good would it do?
Like Lucifer, she was cast down from the heavens. And therefore it must be true: witches were angels, and demons were born by their whimsy—Cael himself was proof.
Her sisters gave her a long moment to grasp the import of her discoveries. And meanwhile, Rosalynde brushed a hand along her back, the gentility of her sister’s sweet touch a comforting balm. It had been so long since she’d reveled in a sisterly touch, and it took every ounce of Rhiannon’s strength not to cast herself into Rosalynde’s loving arms and weep like a disconsolate child.
“So I’m told, he swore to eradicate our blood from this realm,” said Elspeth, with a note of bitterness. “Art certain you still trust him?”
Rhiannon shook her head, then nodded, and said with tears forming in her eyes, “He is my husband.”
And yet, she feared; it was entirely possible they harbored an enemy in their midst, and hadn’t Cael said so?
Hadn’t he warned her endlessly over these past five years?
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
And still, he did leave Morwen at Blackwood, perhaps to die, and he came after Rhiannon to help defend her.
Or had he really?
She was so confused now.
What if, all along, he’d been doing her mother’s bidding? What if he had brought them here to this godforsaken ruin instead of to Warkworth so they could be ambushed by her mother? For five long years, Warkworth had been preparing for this confrontation, and here they were… in a place and state of disrepair, with no chance to survive any siege and few allies to speak of—not to mention, they were ill-equipped to win a simple battle. If Morwen should descend upon them right now, whether alone, or with allies, they would be like lambs drawn to a slaughter.