Betrayed!
Arwyn opened her mouth to scream, but the instant she did so, her tongue grew fat in her mouth, choking her words as well as her breath. Her fingers flew to her throat as the man jiggled the door to make sure it was locked. Arwyn took another defensive step backward.
“Dear girl… you gave us a time,” he scolded. “No matter how thoroughly we searched, we could simply not find you. We thought for certes you would fly north. But nay… here you are.”
Clawing at her throat, Arwyn tried again to scream, but no sound squeezed through her tightened throat.
Clearly, this was her mother’s servant—one of the many fanatics who bowed to Morwen’s every whim.
Watching her face, smiling cruelly as she attempted to speak again, he said, “I am not so adept as your mother, but she taught me well.” And with that revelation, he shoved back the hood of his cloak. “You see… we have met before,” he said, introducing himself. “My name is Bran.”
Arwyn’s eyes widened with fright. She shook her head. Nay! It couldn’t be. Bran was the name of her mother’s familiar. Bran—the beady-eyed raven Morwen kept by her side.
Shivering with fear, recognizing the unholy light in the man’s eyes, she nevertheless knew it to be true and she made a dash for the door. Bran caught her too easily, flying at her with his cloak unfurled and pushing her back onto the bed like a limp doll. “Where are your manners?” he scolded. “Nay, sweetling. We shall sit and wait for your pretty sister. And once she returns, we will all return to your mother.”
Choking on her fear as much as her tongue, Arwyn scrambled backward on the bed, away from this unholy beast. Her gaze skittered across the room, from the door, over the walls, searching for something—anything, she could use to defend herself. But even as she searched, she knew… she knew… this man had come to her armed with her mother’s magik… Arwyn had no magik at all.
She had but one tool at her disposal…
Only one.
Fire.
His smile stretched over those canines, widening so that his nose curved under like a beak. “I see you understand, my dear girl.” And he cast a hand out. “Truly, there’s naught to be done.” His voice was ever-so calm. “Once your sister returns, my mission is complete. How pleased your mother will be.”
Oh, nay! Nay! Nay!
It cannot end this way.
“More’s the pity for you, she’ll never underestimate you again.”
Hot tears burned Arwyn’s eyes. She wished so desperately to call for help, but even if she could have, she knew instinctively no one would hear. The surrounding silence was devoid of life.
Sweet fates! Had he murdered the captain and crew? Was that the sound she’d heard above deck? He leaned against the door now, his eyes smiling once he realized she understood the futility of her circumstances.
But… there was something she could do.
Until Seren returned, he had only her. Until Seren returned, her sister remained free. And, so long as one of them remained free, she would live to fight another day…
Like her mother, Bran was evil incarnate. Morwen must be stopped. At all cost her mother must be stopped. If no one stopped her she would doom England as surely as Cerridwen had once doomed Avalon. And if this man, in truth, was Bran, shapeshifting was hud du known to only one dewine in all creation: Cerridwen, the destroyer of realms.
Aye, ’tis she. You know what to do, sweet sister.
Rhiannon?
Trust your heart to the flame.
Somehow, it was as though Rhiannon herself came and embraced her, giving her strength in love, and in that instant, beyond all things earthly, Arwyn understood what must be done…
Bran constrained her words, but not her hands; that would be his undoing. One hot tear slid past her lashes, trickling onto her cheek as she reached into her pocket for the shard of Merlin’s crystal, revealing it to Bran.
For an instant, her mother’s minion tilted his face as though mesmerized. The shard ignited blue, and Rhiannon needn’t speak again to say what she must do. Arwyn already knew. She was lost. Now that Bran had her in his grasp, he’d never set her free. He was far too canny to succumb to tricks. But Arwyn had no magik. And worse, she had no guile.
No one would come to rescue her—no one but Seren, and Seren was no match for this servant of darkness.
If they returned to their mother, their lives would be forfeit.
Sadness squeezed her heart, and her pupils reflected the blue firelight in her hand… else the fire in her eyes imbued the crystal…
The most tragic thing in the world for a flame burning bright was to become a harbinger of darkness.
Right now, this instant, Arwyn was the flame. She was born for this instant. No one could save her, but she could save Seren.
It was an instant too long before Bran understood what she held in her hand. The shard transmuted. The blue flame in her hand illumined the entire room. And before Bran could stop her, she hurled the crystal at the door where it burst into bright blue flames.
2
Excitement danced down Seren’s spine.
Come nightfall she and Arwyn would be far, far from this nest of vipers, but at the instant, with the sun shining so brilliantly, she sorely regretted having left her cooped up aboard that ship—on her birthday no less.
After nearly a fortnight of raging storms, today was the Saturday Feria, and the entire affair reminded Seren of the merchant days at Llanthony, when Father Ersinius entertained his artisans. Naturally, that was always a crush, but nothing like this. The market affected an air of celebration, with jugglers and musicians in attendance and balladeers singing at the top of their lungs.
A wistful reed and a bullish lute vied for attention, even as the scent of Frankish perfumes competed with the aroma of smoked meats and the bright, inescapable hues of artisanal crafts.
Excited by the prospect of returning with a treat for Arwyn, she dug a hand into the pocket she’d sewn into her dress, searching for coins, and frowned when she encountered only loose bits of a philter for a glamour spell, and a shard of Merlin’s Crystal—worthless to anyone who didn’t know what it was. “Jack!” she called out, but he was already off around a corner, in a hurry to return to his father.
She quickened her pace.
Her escort this morning was a sweet lad, whose sense of duty was inarguable. Ignoring tarts and mouth-watering pastries, he hurried past fine, wooden boats with beautiful silk sails, but it was inconceivable to her that a boy could turn a blind eye to so many treasures.
There were desirables in every booth they passed, everything from intricate, wooden carvings inlaid with gold and beautiful, soft furs to sweets and strange, fire-colored fruits from faraway lands.
And, ye gods! If her nose spoke true, there must be every sort of bread to be had—biscuits, bloomers and barm cakes, walnut, fig, sourdough and rye. It was enough to make her mouth water and her eyes bulge with desire.
“Care t’ try a boit?” asked a jolly looking fellow holding a morsel of pie. Seren shook her head, though regretfully. Jack was moving so swiftly now it was all she could do to keep up.
Sweet tarts. Oh, my!
“Jack!” she called again, reaching once more into her pocket, as though by sheer will alone she could alter their circumstances—and perhaps Rhiannon could, but Seren could not. Her magik was scarcely more puissant than Arwyn’s, although at least Seren could keep a glamour, and failing that, she wasn’t terrible with concealment spells, although at Jack’s breakneck pace, a concealment spell wasn’t necessary. They must be a blur to everyone’s eyes.