4
It was done.
An old crow sat perched in the window, peering within.
Only moments ago, the sun had shone brightly. Now there was a pall cast over the day… a long shadow of gloom. It was impossible to say whether it could be storms… or whether Rhiannon herself summoned the brume.
For the first time since finding herself behind bars, she wept openly, daring her captor to speak a word to her. By the blessed cauldron, if he had come here to gloat or to hound her again, she would not be held responsible for the things she would do.
Hot tears burned her pale cheeks.
To his credit, Cael d’Lucy stood quietly, listening to her sobs from afar. Regardless that her gaol had only one small window, and there were none in the hall, she knew it was him because she recognized his boots, illumined by the golden light spilling out from her cell.
Choking on her grief, she couldn’t speak to demand her tormentor leave, but she needn’t say a thing because, after a moment, Cael d’Lucy turned about and walked away, the sound of his footfalls ebbing as he retreated—clearly more intimidated by her grief than he ever was by her threats. Perhaps he understood her better now: Rhiannon would never act imprudently. No matter what she liked to believe, no matter what her threats might be, she was ultimately responsible for everything she did. Every decision brought consequences, and if she needed more proof that she was naught more than a pawn in life’s cruel game, today she had confirmation.
Arwyn. Sweet Arwyn…
Her sister had never once spoken an unkind word to anyone. Elder born by only minutes, she had lived contentedly in Rosalynde’s shadow, never regretting her lot for a single moment. If it pleased her sisters, Arwyn would be happy, and her sacrifice came as no surprise to Rhiannon.
She was gone… on her birthday, no less.
None of them would ever again have the chance to embrace her or tell her how much they loved her. How mean the fates could be—how cruel.
Anger surged through her veins, bursting forth from her lungs with a terrifying shriek that she hoped would cut fear into the hearts of d’Lucy’s minions.
Just as her own heart was shattering, her sisters’ hearts must be crushed as well. But, unlike Elspeth, Seren and Rosalynde, Rhiannon had always known this would happen, and there was naught she could have done to divert the hand of fate. She had lived every day of this past year knowing what end would come of her decisions, and any other choice made would have led to something worse—and regardless, Rhiannon was only master of her own fate. All she could do was make suggestions, and no one must heed them perforce. Free will was a gift from the gods and she was not her sisters’ keeper. No matter what encouragement she ever gave them, their choices must remain their own.
If Elspeth hadn’t fled Llanthony with Malcom, she would have found herself wed to Cael d’Lucy instead, and worse, Malcom would have betrothed himself to Dominique Beauchamp. More importantly, if Elspeth hadn’t escaped to Aldergh, she would never become an ally for Matilda. Rosalynde herself would never have found sanctuary after leaving with the grimoire, and Rosalynde’s affiliation with Giles now gave her possession of Caledfwlch, the only weapon of consequence that could return Cerridwen to her watery grave. All was as it should be, and no matter that Rhiannon wished she could take her sister’s place; that was simply not an option. To arrive at this place and time there was no other path to be taken, and if dearest Arwyn had not sacrificed her life to destroy Bran… Seren would not live to see another day. Somehow, though she didn’t know why, she sensed Seren’s life was more important than hers, but unfortunately, there was no way to be certain Arwyn had responded quickly enough. She was gone, truly, but there was no way to know for certain if Bran had survived her fiery retribution. Gods only knew, her sister might have died in vain. Glimpsing now at the fire burning in her brazier, tears blurred Rhiannon’s vision, and though she sought confirmation from the Goddess in the dancing flame, nothing was revealed to her.
“Sweet Goddess,” she whispered brokenly, sliding from her bed to her knees, then clasping her fingers in prayer—but not a prayer meant to be heard by the Goddess alone. Rhiannon would appeal to any who would listen.
“Mary, mother of Christ; mother of Light, Oh, Wise One, for whom I am named… intervene if you please… please, please… lend my sisters strength—lend me your strength.”
There was still so much to be done… the way would be long and perilous for Seren, and there were obstacles to overcome…
“Please,” she begged.
I will wed the fool if it be your will.
I will do what must be done.
“Anything,” she swore.
I will do anything.
“Please. I mean you no harm,” said the stranger. In an impossibly fluid maneuver for a man his size, he slid down from his saddle, swung the horse about, then dragged Seren down onto her own two feet, releasing her at once. “I am Wilhelm Fitz Richard,” he explained.
Heartsore, confused, Seren stumbled backward.
Fire. The Whitshed was on fire!
Even now she could taste the smoke clinging to her lips. She felt a sting in her eyes—though it could be tears. They were safely away from the harbor, perhaps, but grief clogged her throat, stealing her breath as surely as did the viscid, black smoke.
“M’lady,” the man entreated. And then, when she would not respond, he said more softly, “Lady Seren…”
“I must go back,” she said.
He shook his head very sadly. “Your sister is gone,” he said, and in the heat of that moment, Seren’s tears evaporated. Her baby sister, her sweet darling, who’d never once inflicted her will upon others… gone?
Sweet fates! If only she had said yes when Arwyn asked to accompany her to the courier—if only!
If only.
If only.
If only!
But nay. She’d left her alone on that ship, and now she was dead. The realization made her long to empty her belly. Tears scalded the rims of her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Nay,” she spat, lunging at him and clutching his sherte. “Take me back! You must take me back!”
“She is gone,” he said again, and every time he spoke those grotesque little words so calmly, Seren longed to scratch out his eyes. For every day of her past twenty-one years, she had been the gracious one, always reasonable, always serene, the peacekeeper in all things. At the instant, nothing Seren was feeling was vaguely familiar. She was a glowing ball of rage, burning as hot as the firestorm she’d left in the harbor, growing stronger with every word this man spoke.
He caught her wrists and held them away, as though he meant to cast her away, but he did not. His dark eyes were a mirror to her anguish, and he said very firmly, but calmly. “I cannot allow it.”
“You cannot allow it?” Seren raged. “Who are you to allow aught? I will go back. With, or without you.”
She needed to see that ship again—needed to be sure her sister wasn’t out there, frightened and alone, seeking help. “Arwyn,” she sobbed, because she knew in her heart it wasn’t true. She could sense her sister’s absence down to her marrow. Once more, she probed the aether, and knew beyond a doubt. Arwyn was gone.