So much death.
So much destruction.
So much deceit.
All about her, the ship creaked like a bag of old bones. Arwyn could hear them trampling over deck with last-minute preparations. It was a continual reminder that she was alone amidst strangers—whether or not they be allies. After all, it would only take one traitor to reveal them, and it would be a terrible travesty if they were discovered so close to escape, when there was hope at last.
Seren is fine, she told herself.
It must be true, else she would know it. If aught should ever happen to any of her sisters, she would know it deep, deep down. They were connected, one to another, and each to the other. As dewines, they shared a very special bond, and she and Rose deeper yet because they were twins.
Somewhere up on deck, there came a dreadful thud, followed by a long interval of silence, and the heavy silence unnerved Arwyn even more than the preceding racket.
Irritated with herself—particularly, because this worrisome behavior was precisely why none of her sisters ever trusted her to comport herself accordingly—she reached into a hidden skirt pocket, and plucked out the shard of crystal she’d stolen from her mother’s chamber.
She and her sister both had a piece of Merlin’s Crystal. It was the last thing they did before leaving Westminster—shatter the scrying stone so Morwen couldn’t seek them.
However, for much of the time since leaving London, Arwyn’s shard had remained dark. At the instant it was flickering softly, and the light pulse managed to calm her nerves as words alone could not.
Fire was Arwyn’s one true affinity, but though she liked to jest that Rosalynde had leached her powers in the womb, her lack of skill could simply be because their bloodline was no longer so pure. Her grandmother was not the first to wed a commoner. Long, long before Morgan Pendragon married a prince of Gwynedd, their great, great, great grandmother, Yissachar—the only daughter of Creirwy and Taliesin—married a Briton. She and her sisters were of a very noble and ancient bloodline, but little by little, their dewine legacy was dying… Like the shard in her hand, her dewinefolk were broken and scattered.
It was heart-wrenching to see what remained of such a venerable heirloom.
Mesmerized by the flickering in her hand, she sat upon the bed, wondering idly if she would ever wed, and if her children would be more inclined to the Craft. Unlike Elspeth, Arwyn had no fear of the hud at all, and though she knew enough to respect it immensely, she desperately longed to wield it like their sister Rhiannon.
And perhaps she still might… they had the Book of Secrets after all. Once she was reunited with Ellie and Rose, she could apply herself to the Craft, study hard, and perhaps someday she would wield magik at least as well as Rose.
“Happy birthday, sweet Rose,” she said fondly. Until this terrible travesty, she and her twin had never spent a day apart, much less a birth anniversary.
How she missed Rose. Rose understood her better than anyone, and though they couldn’t be more different, her twin was everything Arwyn was not, and Arwyn was everything Rose was not. Together they were whole.
Above deck there came another boom, and the shard in her hand glowed a little brighter. Strange but… she was no longer afraid. Comforted by the crystalized flame in her palm, she wondered what the flickering meant. So often it seemed the shard was like the piece of a puzzle, showing bits and bobs. Betimes it was possible to put hers together with Seren’s and more easily recognize a face, or a place. But it was impossible to say what this meant.
Turning the crystal, she studied it intently, in much the same manner she would, as a girl, sit for hours and stare into a hearth fire. No matter that she could never see what Rhiannon saw in those flames, she could still feel things. They’d had a maid called Isolde who’d claimed the world was born of fire and that someday it would be consumed by fire. Nothing about this prophecy frightened Arwyn. To the contrary, it intrigued her. Her soul was akin to fire and, even now, she could feel the intensity of her affinity simmering through her veins.
I am fire, fire becomes me.
Mollified by the glow in her hand, she marveled over what she held… the tiny shard, along with the Book of Secrets… they were all that remained of their dewine legacy. And yet for all that her name meant enlightenment, Arwyn herself was a testament to a dying breed. Sadly, the sons and daughters of Uther and Yissachar would be the last to bear Taliesin’s blood, for it was one thing to be a Pendragon, and another to be a dewine born of the blood of Taliesin. These two things were not one of the other; they were each unto their own. Uther Pendragon was not a dewine, and neither was Taliesin a Pendragon. As a matter of due course, their dewine blood would continue to thin until not one drop remained, and no men or women were left who could conjure a mist, less remember the Promised Land.
Feeling a chill in the cabin, she tore her gaze away from the crystal and returned the shard to her pocket, focusing on the tinder in the brazier. There, ribbons gathered and converged into a point of light. Her dewine eyes could see what other folks might not—the twisting and turning of the aether as sparks ignited in the brazier. Encouraged by the ease of her magik, and only to try it—because she was thirsty—she laid out a palm, attempting to gather water from the aether as Rosalynde could do… Already, there were particles in the air, and her dewine senses could feel them, but unlike Rosalynde, she couldn’t bring them together. It was no more a fantastical feat than to watch a lodestone draw metal, but it seemed that leaves could do a better job than she could, gathering dew by morn, whilst she accomplished naught.
Her palm remained dry as a bone and her tongue parched. She daren’t go above deck without Seren, and she knew the men were all too busy to serve her.
Frowning, disgusted, because she understood very well how it all worked and simply couldn’t perform the magik, she flicked another glance at the brazier.
By now, she had studied the Craft as dutifully as her sisters, and she kept her faith in the Old Ways, but for all that, she could only mindspeak with her twin, and draw a simple fire; that was all. She was a poor excuse for a witch.
Startled by the turn of the doorknob, Arwyn glanced up. The door creaked opened, revealing a black-hooded figure—a man she didn’t recognize. Startled, she bounded up from the bed, her heart hammering over the look on his face.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Is it my sister? Where is Seren?”
The man’s grin slowly unfurled. His dark eyes narrowed, and his canine teeth pressed ruthlessly over his lips. It was only then, as he glared at her, that she realized his black eyes held an unnatural gleam, and fear sidled down her spine. All the calm she’d managed to attain vanished in the blink of his eyes. Not once during the past ten days had she encountered this man aboard ship, neither below deck nor above.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Your sister will return soon,” he said, smirking as he closed the door. He reached up to pull the bolt across to bar it.
Arwyn took a step backward, the tiny hairs on her nape prickling. “Who are you?” she asked again.
In answer, his grin spread wider, the pressure of his canines turning his lips bloodless.
“Who I am is of far less import than who sent me, my dear. Your mother is heartily aggrieved not to be able to celebrate your birth anniversary as she longs to.”