“That’s a good idea,” said Marcella. “I have herbs that could enhance the brew.” But, really, it was only a half measure. The five of them alone, even working all together, wouldn’t be any true match for Morwen and an entire army of her creatures. No doubt she was gathering all her sycophants, else she’d already have been here by now. What they really needed was aid from Scotia, Stephen and the Church.
“Speaking of which, I suppose I should say that Jack has joined the Guard as well.”
“Jack?” the sisters, all but Rhiannon, asked in unison.
It was Rhiannon who nodded, and then explained. “He and Marcella escorted me from Blackwood together. He’s gone to seek the aid of Cael’s… cousin…”
Implicit in that disclosure was the truth of the matter: The lord of Drakewich was not her husband’s cousin.
Would he ever be told the truth? And if so, what purpose would it serve? Not only was it inexplicable, it was far too fantastical to be believed: witches, demons, Sylphs, angels, gods and magik. And Cael—she did not know him as Maelgwn, and refused to think of him thus—was for all intents and purposes, a demon, summoned by hud du. The very thought made Rhiannon’s head hurt. Somehow, she, a daughter of the Goddess, was wedded to a Shadow Beast.
“What a tangled web,” offered Seren, with a shrug.
Cael sat with his head in his hands.
He was not the man he used to be. That man was gone, dead and buried. Quite literally. If he ever chanced to locate where “Maelgwn ap Cadwallon” lay resting, he would unearth a pile of dirty bones.
Or would there be ash?
He didn’t know.
All he knew for certes was this: He was monstrously ashamed of what he was, and what he’d done.
In the end, all he’d sought to achieve would amount to nothing without Rhiannon.
What, indeed, profiteth a man if he gained the entire world, but lost his soul?
Lifting both reliquaries from his tunic, he removed both chains from around his neck, placing them gingerly on the floor at his feet to study each in turn.
They were exactly alike—nothing to distinguish them at all.
He wished to Heaven he knew how they worked.
If it so happened that he destroyed the wrong one, he might leave Rhiannon to battle her mother alone.
Conversely, if he destroyed them both… he could save them all, but then he would be gone from this world, and his time with Rhiannon would be done.
And nevertheless… she would live, unburdened by a monster for a husband. She would find herself a better man, who could love her and keep her as she so deserved.
But God’s blood! He wanted to be that man.
He wanted to wake each day to her sultry smile until they were old and toothless—and he would love her even then.
To his dismay, the thought of another man touching her… loving her… filled him with white-hot rage.
Destroy the right one, and he might yet live the life he craved…
Destroy the wrong one and he would leave Rhiannon alone.
Destroy them both…
He swallowed convulsively, his hand reaching for the sword beside him on the bed.
Caledfwlch.
Even now, he sensed its innate power, and knew that, no matter how many times someone might attempt to destroy the grisial huds, they would fail immeasurably. Contrarily, this sword would do the job. Of that, he hadn’t any doubt.
He could wait to face her in battle, and see which reliquary shone in her presence… and then, attempt to destroy the right one… but that may not work, he realized.
Even despite the sword’s fabled blessing—that he who wielded it would not bleed—he couldn’t be certain it was true. At least, not for him.
Neither was Morwen to be underestimated.
She was frighteningly powerful, even despite her recent misfortunes. If she should happen to take her own grisial hud back… if she destroyed his instead…
Running a hand across the stubble of his beard, he studied the crystals attached to each reliquary and chain.
Something in his gut told him that those crystals were profoundly important. Without them, the compartments they were attached to would be nothing but empty metal. They needed each other, and they needed to remain whole. The way he’d laid them across the floor… one good strike would destroy them both… and then come what may.
Lifting up the sword, he fell to his knees, praying for the second time in as many days.
Making the sign of the cross, he kissed his thumb, then raised the sword aloft, taking it firmly with both hands as he continued to pray—not for his own soul, though he knew it to be in peril, but for Rhiannon and her sisters.
He prayed for England.
He prayed for forgiveness.
Most of all, he prayed for good aim.
And then he lowered the sword with a thunderous crack that resounded throughout the castle, smashing both crystals into smidirín.
36
The battle commenced without pomp or ceremony, signaling itself with a new influx of birds. More, and more, and more arrived, till the entire field before Amdel Castle appeared black with their numbers. Squawking noisily, crows and ravens quarreled amidst themselves, pecking and diving at one another as though vying for territory. And even as their numbers grew, so too did the cacophony, until the sound was maddening and the air held a note of menace.
Down in the yard, the wolfhound began to howl.
Presently, dark clouds rolled in, bearing with them the silent menace of lightning. Heavy with mist, the air held a wintry chill uncommon for the kalends of August.
Trying not to think about Cael, or his forced confession, Rhiannon shivered over the sight that greeted her as she arrived on the ramparts with her sisters. After the first inrush of birds, Warkworth’s seneschal had come to retrieve them from the solar. At once, they’d equipped themselves for war and reconvened on the parapet, dressed in mail.
Morwen would strike at the most opportune time. For a dewine, this would be the Golden Hour—those delicate moments during which the Veil between worlds was at its thinnest and the hud was at its strongest. These twilight moments came twice every day with the gloaming. Some folks called the half-light a witchlight, because it was during this time when otherworldly creatures drifted into the Realm of the Living: The faefolk danced through their sacred groves, changelings came to trade for babes, shapeshifters changed their forms, will-o’-the-wisps revealed themselves and banshees howled into the wind.
By now, both the inner and outer baileys had been warded, but it was difficult to say how effective those outer wards would be without walls to protect the circlet and spell.
At the moment, those birds were well outside their periphery, but wards like these were easy to breach, and not even Elspeth knew for certain how to keep Morwen’s ravens outside their proximity without help from the Goddess.
Like a pentagram, a circlet was only intended to harness magik into a specific area. It wasn’t a deterrent to physical forms. In fact, it was quite easy to disarm a warding spell simply by stumbling over its lines.
Mercifully, Morwen herself could not enter the premises unbidden. But, in order to ban a person from entry, one must speak their name, and Morwen’s soldiers were all nameless.
Warkworth’s warriors came prepared; under the seneschal’s direction, archers now formed a defensive line on the ramparts. Another defensive line two-men deep defended the inner bailey. Barrels of pitch were being boiled, poised to defend the gate. The postern door had also been warded and barred, and a handful of soldiers had been assigned to the gate.