If you knew how to sense them, souls were as tangible as any part of a sanguine being—all the more so, for it was the essence of life itself, bound to the aether. But there was nothing remaining of her sister’s life force… only how could she have passed so swiftly, so completely without Seren ever knowing—all the while her attention had been on tarts and treats? Sick to her belly and sick to her heart, she stood, wide eyed and frightened. “Arwyn,” she cried softly.
“Come with me,” demanded a stranger, his hand closing about her arm.
Seren resisted as he tried to drag her away. “Nay,” she refused. “Nay!” Ducking under a man’s arm, she freed herself and bounded toward the wreckage, shouting for Jack.
God’s bones.
Wilhelm couldn’t linger to see to that whelp.
Seren was his only concern at the moment, and if her sister was aboard that vessel, not even God could save her.
The conflagration was luring onlookers from the market and nearby streets. If he didn’t get Seren away from this place, it would only be a matter of moments before the Guards swarmed the area and spotted her. All her months of eluding the king’s guards would come to naught.
“Lady Seren,” Wilhelm pleaded. “Please! Come!”
“Nay,” she screamed. “Nay! I have to find my sister—Jack!”
Instinctively, Wilhelm tightened his grip on her arm, holding her steady as a black haze bracketed his vision and a wave of bile surged into his throat. Much as he wished to believe he was immune to it, the fire was taking a toll on him, body and soul. The burning at Warkworth was still too fresh in his memory, and the back of his knees and palms began to sweat.
Battling nausea, he held Seren’s arm as a flash of memory assaulted him—fat and flesh sliding off bones. God have mercy, he remembered his terror as he’d stood counting Warkworth’s dead—primal and alien to a man who’d spent his entire life training to look death in the face.
But this was something new—it wasn’t only fear for himself. He was terrified for Seren, and he couldn’t think while she was fighting him. Reacting instinctively, he battled through his nausea, lifting her up and hoisting her over his shoulder to carry her away.
Rudely, and without warning, the stranger cast Seren over his shoulder like a worthless sack of grain. Screaming, struggling against his hold, she craned her head up, fixing her gaze on the burning ship, all the while pummeling his back and shouting for him to release her.
Not for an instant did she consider that she too might be in peril. Her only worry was for Arwyn. And when he did not release her, she screamed louder, though she knew it was done in vain; Arwyn was gone. She felt the loss acutely, like a limb ripped from her body, and she let out a low, keening sob, wilting in despair over her captor’s back. And even as they fled the scene, she heard the thundering of iron-clad hooves and the shouts of men.
“Make way,” they shouted. “Make way for the king’s guard!”
3
Discouraged, Rosalynde thrust after her husband, missing again, striking the wooden post they’d erected only this morning—a pillar to mark the foundation of the new armory. With a clatter, the sword smacked the wood—so hard she felt the crack clear to the small bones of her hand. The impact left her hands aching, but the pillar scarcely trembled.
“Be damned,” she exclaimed.
“Don’t lunge,” her husband said equably.
It was only one of a thousand rules he’d been boring into her skull—assess your surroundings, grip the sword properly, hold it steady, avoid stabbing, step away from the blade. Goddess only knew, there were too many moves and countermoves; she despaired to get any right. As it was, it had taken Rosalynde weeks and weeks of practice only to lift her new sword, and she still had a long way to go before she could wield it well enough to use it—not for lack of trying.
“Pay attention,” her husband persisted.
“Goddess take your tongue, Giles! I am paying attention,” she said plaintively—and she was. Alas, it was all she could do to swing the heavy steel, much less guide it properly to any given target. It wasn’t nearly as easy as it appeared to be whilst watching her husband at his swordplay.
It didn’t help matters overmuch that she didn’t actually wish to strike Giles, not even with the flat of her blade. Now that it was her sword, not his, she feared the power it wielded, and she wished with all her heart that he would allow her to practice with someone else—someone more at her level and preferably, someone who wouldn’t bleed.
Unfortunately, not his brother because Wilhelm had been gone now for weeks. Glancing up into clear blue sky, she longed for a messenger, thinking that surely, by now, Wilhelm must have learned something.
“Remember,” said Giles. “I was ten before I could hold a blade upright.”
Rosalynde scowled at him. “Do tell; is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked. “Lest you forget I am twenty today, not ten.” And that was another thing to sour her mood: Of the precisely twenty birthdays she’d celebrated in this mad world, she’d spent every last one with her twin. This was the first time in all her life she’d spent a birth anniversary apart from any of her sisters, much less Arwyn—and, by the by, what sort of celebration was this anyway? Prancing about a courtyard in leathers with a length of steel in her hand that she couldn’t possibly control?
“Be damned,” she said again.
Her husband grinned. “Shall we end for the day?”
“Nay,” said Rosalynde, repositioning her sword as he’d taught her to do, then sidling about so she could once again swing the blade at him.
With scarcely any effort, Giles lifted his sword, but this time she heard the clash of steel and felt the impact—no less painful than her crack against the post.
Perhaps sensing her eagerness to advance, Giles swung harder than usual. The impact sent Rosalynde scuttling backward, only to land on her rump.
“That was a good try,” he said. “But you must anticipate my movements as I do yours. If you swing where I was, you will cut thin air, and your opponent will slice you in two.”
Rosalynde’s brows collided. Her tailbone felt as though it could be crushed. Her hands and both wrists felt trembly and numb. Her ears were ringing as well. And nevertheless, with as much dignity as she could muster, she found her feet, rising and thrusting the tip of Caledfwlch into the soil at her feet.
The bloody sword was nearly as tall as she was. “Why must you leave?” she asked petulantly. “I don’t want you to go.”
But even as she said it, she understood why. There was too much at stake for Giles to remain here at Warkworth. The king had yet to learn of their marriage, and the day was coming soon when he was meant to return to London to claim his betrothed—not that he would, mind you. His intent was to repudiate Seren, but there was other business to be dealt with at large. She simply must learn to wield this sword. Her husband didn’t say anything, but his sympathetic look said everything. He held out his arms and she flung herself into his embrace, squeezing hard.
What would Seren do when she learned that Rosalynde had married her betrothed? Surely, her sister would understand—nor could she possibly care, but there was a wee part of Rose that felt guilty, nevertheless.