It did not alight on the ramparts. Rather, it flew over their heads, straight toward Morwen, landing at the Witch Queen’s feet, standing tall amidst a fury of ringing swords.
Rhiannon blinked, then screamed, realizing who it was…
It was Cael.
37
Nothing else fazed her—not the dead lying at her feet, nor the battle engaged. Only now, her face twisted with fury at the sight of Cael, changed in form. “You fool!” she spat. “You’ve no idea what you have done!”
“Oh, I think I do,” said Cael, stretching his feathered wings. Black as a raven’s, they extended twice the length of his body—a dark angel in the flesh.
So, it appeared, destroying the crystals did not destroy the souls they were bound to.
Cael had been wrong: The grisial hud was not his sepulcher; it was a key. But simply destroying the crystal did not sprout him wings. Rather, it was a result of destroying the binding spell that Morwen had placed upon his grisial hud. Indeed, she had summoned him back to this world, but she had cast yet another spell with blood magik to ensure that he could not make use of the gifts he’d been given by virtue of Nesta’s sacrifice. Rage unfurled his wings.
“Without it, your soul is bound to this realm,” she said furiously. “Return me mine!” she demanded, thrusting out her hand.
Cael smiled coldly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, and the two stood facing each other, one dark angel, one light. His key was to the dominion of the Horned God of Donn, the Dark One from the House of the Dead. She was a daughter of the Goddess, banished for her sins against man. Her body might now be consigned to this world, but her spirit had no refuge. At least he had his sanctuary with the Horned God. Truth was his guiding light now, banishing uncertainty from his heart and his brow. All things were revealed in the destruction of his grisial hud.
Morwen raged.
The sky exploded.
Thunder cracked.
Lightning forked.
The Witch Queen stood facing her equal and opposite, her fury so intense that it produced silvered wings. They unfurled to the breadth of his own. Beautiful and terrifying—as he must also be. Morwen’s golden eyes radiated the light of ten suns. Her hair and brows silvered the shade of her wings… the color of Seren’s hair.
She was Sylphkind, as was he. But though she was born with Sylph blood in her veins, Cael was made through grace. Nesta had given her life with love, paying his toll to the House of the Dead. Only this time, when he returned, he would remain forevermore, serving the Horned God beneath the Hill of Truth.
A dark figure emerged from the battlefield, rising to the aid of his mistress. Mordecai descended upon them, his face twisting and morphing, his features ebbing and flowing like smoke.
Slogging through the muck, Rhiannon rushed from the castle, Cael’s wolfhound running behind her, and Morwen smiled gleefully.
“Here she comes,” said the Witch Queen. “At long last she will see you for what you truly are—a servitor of death. How appropriate it was for you to serve as the King’s executioner.”
Breathless, terrified, Rhiannon stumbled after Marcella.
Waylaid by soldiers, the paladin paused only to fight.
Driven to reach Cael, Rhiannon fought her way past soldier after soldier, her limbs heavy with metal as rain seeped past the rings of her suit. Burdensome as it was, the sword in her hand threatened to slip from her grasp. When she stumbled into a puddle, she rose again to face one of Morwen’s black-clad soldiers. Crying out in desperation, she responded with a swing of her sword. The clash of metal left her ears ringing and her hand numb. Dropping the sword, she bent to reach for it, slicing her hand in the process. If it weren’t for Marcella coming to her rescue, Morwen’s soldier would have taken her head where she knelt.
“Go!” said Marcella, reaching down to grasp the muddied sword and handing it back to Rhiannon. “Go,” she said again, her stark green eyes commanding Rhiannon to rise.
Now is not the time for weakness.
Now is not the time to falter.
“Go!”
Summoning all her might and the last of her will, Rhiannon rose again, and ran, her sides aching now. Somehow, she managed to evade more crossing swords, and made it past stumbling horses, men crawling from the muck, soldiers in the midst of combat…
“Spirit of vision, Spirit of night. Cast me a shadow to shield me from sight,” she whispered desperately.
Do not see me!
Do not see me!
Do not see me!
Behind her, she was well aware that Marcella defended her back, but Rhiannon daren’t look now to see how close. She could scarcely lift her own sword, dragging it after her, determined to reach Cael. Once more when she stumbled, she felt the wolfhound beside her, nudging her up, snarling and snapping at anyone who came near. Somehow, thanks to the hound, she discovered her feet again, and ran again, breathless and anguished.
How could they possibly defeat Morwen?
Here in the midst of so many clashing swords, she felt outnumbered and hopeless.
This time when she stopped, the wolfhound stopped again by her side, snarling at the Shadow Beast.
Mordecai.
“Cael,” she cried, stunned by the sight of him.
Crouched, preparing to pounce, the wolfhound growled.
Sweet fates! Cael was exactly as her mother was—both avenging angels. Larger than life, they stood facing one another, wings outstretched to catch silvery droplets of rain. The Goddess herself wept to see her children enraged.
Morwen turned to face her and the light from her eyes made Rhiannon shield her face. Her beauty was startling, her aura shining as brightly as the metal of the sword Cael had tucked behind his back…
Caledfwlch.
The Sword of Ages.
And her husband… his aura dark as a storm-ridden sky… dark as the specter of death… beautiful as well, though even more terrifying for the visage he wore.
What would he do?
Would he join Morwen?
What would he do?
There is one among us who could be swayed, Marcella had said…
It was Cael.
Alas, there was no time to consider her folly or faith.
In his Shadow Beast form, part serpent, part dragon, part raven, Mordecai faced Cael, his thick tail rising up behind him, like a viper preparing to strike…
“Evil, conniving bitch!” screamed Marcella, reaching them at last, distracting everyone for the briefest instant—long enough for Rhiannon to leap at the Shadow Beast, taking him by the chain he wore about his neck.
The wolfhound pounced as well, sinking its teeth into Mordecai’s leg but failing to find purchase. In the meantime, Marcella swung her sword, and Rhiannon summoned those words she remembered her sister speaking in the woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey…
I call the fifth to me!
Goddess, hear my plea!
Of smoke and mist you may be born.
But now I bind you here in mortal form.
“Now!” she screamed. “Do it now!” she demanded, and Cael wasted no time.
Advancing on Mordecai, he drew the ancient sword from its scabbard.
“I love you,” she cried, releasing the shadow beast perforce and raising her own sword, preparing to join Marcella. But it was too late for the paladin. Even as they watched, Morwen grew a speared tail, whipping Marcella with it. The wolfhound snarled and leapt once more into the fray, but Morwen wrapped Marcella up, wresting her close. Then, with a cruel smile, she said, “Shall I say I once loved you, as well?”