“Go to hell!” hissed Marcella, blood seeping from the corners of her mouth.
It happened so quickly. Morwen tossed her away, hard, so easily. The witch-paladin’s body landed with a sickening thud yards from where they stood. She didn’t rise again.
Morwen turned to Rhiannon then, her smile cool as the mist now roiling about them. The wolfhound whimpered as she thrust a hand out and tossed him away, as well, then with a slam of her hand, she compelled Rhiannon to her knees.
Too late, Rhiannon heard her sisters’ voices, searching.
Seren.
Rosalynde.
Elspeth.
Ignoring everyone, Morwen kept her attention on her second-eldest daughter. She raised a hand to her as though to strike, but she couldn’t do so without gloating. “You thought you would be Regnant; look at you now—piteous and powerless!”
“Mercy for my husband!” Rhiannon begged, haplessly. “Mercy for my sisters!”
Morwen scoffed, until she heard Seren’s voice.
“She might not be Regnant, but I am,” said her sister, and Morwen turned to find Seren holding back her soldiers, her hand lifted so no one could pass.
“You?”
“Aye,” said Seren, with a smirk. “Me.”
“I’ll deal with you in a moment,” she said, her countenance darkening. She returned her attention to Rhiannon, stabbing a finger into the air, and Rhiannon shrieked in pain.
Behind Morwen, the Shadow Beast lost its head. Finally, it crumpled to the ground, its body withering where it lay. As it had once before, the wisp of Mordecai’s soul returned to the grisial hud hanging around his neck. Even as they watched, it was all that remained—a tangle of silver with a darkened crystal, and Rhiannon gave her husband a tremulous smile.
“Leave her!” said Cael.
Morwen turned to him slowly, and said, “Lest you forget, she is mine, Dragon Lord! Born of my blood!” Without even looking her way, she spun a hand at Seren, and Seren found herself cocooned by a fine web of mist, and then Rhiannon as well, fine tendrils of mist coiling about her neck and tightening very slowly, leaving Rhiannon struggling to breathe.
Sweet fates, she couldn’t even lift a hand to her throat to clear the way for a breath. Her face felt hot and engorged, her lips swollen and inflamed.
Air!
She needed air!
“You’ll have to kill me first!” said Cael, as Rhiannon gasped for breath.
Her mother laughed, delighted. “So be it, Dragon Lord,” she said like a cat, stretching her terrible silver wings.
Without warning, both dragon beasts erupted from the ground in a flurry of feathers, rising above the mist now grown so thick that Rhiannon could scarcely see. She tried to move, but couldn’t. She could only watch helplessly as Seren struggled to free herself, and then suddenly there was Elspeth.
“Rhiannon!”
Hands tugged at the bindings of her throat, loosening them so she could breathe again. More hands joined the struggle, but Rhiannon could only stare haplessly into the heavens as cold rain pelted her face, a downpour so violent it stung her cheeks.
“Cael,” she whispered hoarsely, brokenly, but there was nothing she could do. Nothing she could say. No spell she could weave. No sword she could wield. The one she’d born in her hand now lay in the mud. Overhead, both dragon beasts vanished into the storm, and Rhiannon could see little as twilight turned to dusk, and the sound of thunder reverberated throughout.
Now they appeared, then disappeared, their tussling forms visible only in glimpses. Over and over the winged creatures spun and turned—one black, one silver—whirling about through the lowering skies, like a maelstrom.
Feigning, then advancing and parrying, they were half man, half beast, entirely mortal now without the crystals. At last, Morwen tumbled down, then surged up, lifting her sword with the speed of lightning, stabbing Cael with it as he fell into her, straight through his heart.
Roaring in pain, mortally injured, Cael nevertheless managed to raise his own sword and slashed it down across Morwen’s throat, severing her head in one fell swoop.
Like Mordecai’s, her soul withdrew from her body like smoke, then dissipated into the storm, and all at once, Cael’s body plummeted to the ground.
The sound of fury died in that moment, and a rush of black wings darkened the sky as Morwen’s birds took flight.
38
Rhiannon was the first to reach Cael.
Desperately, she knelt by his side, tears streaming down her cheeks as she scooped his bloodied head into her lap. “My sweet love,” she said. “My dearest, sweet love.”
He smiled weakly. “It’s only a flesh wound,” he said, and she nearly wept with joy, because, indeed, the spot on his tunic where Morwen had stabbed him was free of blood. His cheeks were still full of life, high with color. Retracting into his body, his wings had vanished by the time everyone else arrived. With Morwen’s death, her soldiers fled. All her Welsh kings retreated into the woods. The mist vanished as well, and once the field was visible again in the waning daylight, only a few dozen bodies remained—mostly Welsh, though a number were allies. Their bodies lay twisted amidst a veritable sea of dead birds.
Later, they found Jack, trampled and dead.
Marcella was alive, though barely.
Rhiannon’s sisters rushed the paladin into the castle, prepared to do what they must to save her life. Thankfully, everyone else was unharmed.
Giles, unharmed.
Wilhelm, unharmed.
Edmund, unharmed.
And Rhiannon… only her heart ached… ached with love for the man who lay resting in her arms, his face so painfully lovely that it made her heart hurt only to see it. “You are not a Shadow Beast,” she said, a hard lump forming in her throat.
His answering smile was as beauteously radiant as his face.
He was Sylphkind, pure and true.
A terrible, beautiful, fallen angel… like her mother.
Only better, kinder, stronger.
Epilogue
Winchester Cathedral, November 1153
Eustace of Blois died of mysterious circumstances. Some claimed the King’s son was poisoned. Others said his heart had failed him, crushed by his father’s betrayal. Still others claimed they’d caught a glimpse of the man as he was readied for interment, and his body was riddled with wormy holes. With concern for a plague, the Church remanded his body for burial, and not even his own father could see him in death. There was, however, a public funeral, open to the many, attended only by a few. Now, with the death of the King’s eldest son and heir, Wallingford’s treaty was ratified at last. Signed before witnesses by both the King and Duke Henry, it was agreed that, as his adopted son and successor, Henry Fitz Empress would assume England’s throne on Stephen’s death. In the meantime, though he would retain his royal authority, Stephen promised to heed all of Duke Henry’s advice. Moreover, in exchange for promises of security for his lands, his youngest son, William, now Count of Boulogne and Earl of Surrey, agreed to do homage to Henry and renounce all claims to the throne.
A number of strategic strongholds were held by guarantors on the Duke’s behalf. All taxes were to be paid as usual, and all foreign mercenaries were demobilized and dispatched. Those who were exiled, including the Archbishop of Canterbury, returned with the King’s blessings.