Page 161 of The Daughters of Avalon
Oh, but I cherish that day… her flesh shriveled on brittle bones, the scent of death wafting on the breeze like a rancid perfume. Vivid as the memory remains, I inhale deeply, ignoring the dankness of thedonjon, for even now my mother’s burnt flesh is a bouquet I long to inspire...
Ah, yes, even now, I hear wee Elspeth whimpering beside me… I see her tiny fist rising up to wipe her runny nose… and all the while her grandmamau burns.
Burn, witch, burn!
By the cauldron, I will slay her again, and her granddaughters, as well… except for these shackles.
For weeks they have been my burden, leaving me wasted ofmagikand challenged by even the smallest of tasks. And yet… now that I know them… now that I know what power they possess… I will put them to my own good use. One fine day, I will clasp these bracelets on my daughter’s wrist, and I willdevise a retribution, fit for a traitor.
As for that other bitch, Matilda… I do have plans for the woman whose piety was ever the bane of my existence.
It was not enough she turned her nose at me as a willful child, not enough that she begrudged me all I earned… not enough that she accused me of murdering her self-righteous mother, or that she disdained four sisters of her own true blood, only because they were born to me. But even after all this she revealed me asa heretic, and if you must know why I murdered her father when I could… it was for fathering a monster… and then for aligning her to the Holy Church, by whose very dictum I am dispossessed.
All those cold, dark years spent dreaming at the bottom of the sea… all my delight over returning to my holiest of grails—all for naught, because that pinch-nosed bitch deprived me of Blackwood. And yet… though I have been thwarted, Blackwood’s cauldron belongs to me—a relic of my Avalon—and I will restore myself as its keeper.
Morgan Pendragon be damned.
Matilda be damned.
Kings and queens be damned.
All will grovel before me.
“It won’t be long now,” announces the guard, offering a wink and a smile. I wink back, grateful for his succor. Despite that he would not defy his king by removing these accursed shackles, he brings me soft, warm blankets and clean water to drink. Every now and again, he retrieves my philters—else, I’d never have kept myglamourso long.
Beauty is the finest weapon. Rot and curse Seren for wasting hers so ignorantly. She’s been gifted that for which I now must strive, against the laws of nature. For love of beauty men will do anything—anything—and the price for the unlovely is repulsion.
Poor, poor Morfran.
I tried to avenge you, my son.
I longed to give you but a trace of what your sister possessed—Creirwy, who married your Nemesis only to crush me. She was ever your father’s favorite, and to me, whilst I carried you in my womb, he gave naught but grief. He filled me with loathing, and you were my odium manifest. You were the face of envy, bitterness, and jealousy.
Morfran, oh, Morfran.
Tegid, I willsee your blood expunged from this world—vanished, like your hair—plucked painfully from this realm until none remain. I could have loved you, you ungrateful fool; I could have loved my daughters, as well. And I could have taught them so much…
But nay.
I smile now, closing my eyes, satisfied with the dealings of the day. Bran is lost to me, but it was worth it.
One down, four to go.
I will smite you all as you smote Morfran. I will destroy you as you destroyed my Avalon.
After a while, my guard returns, and this time he brandishes a key, his face split with a toothy grin—and of course he should be pleased. I have promised him more than silver and gold. I have promised him immortality… for a price.
He jingles his chain, and asks, “Art ready,mylady?”
I lift my chin to the unnatural glow, for it is not the key to my cell he holds. Iron bars could never contain me, and if not for greed, nodewinewould ever suffer this sorcery. Like these shackles locked about my wrists and the Palatine swords imbued by Taliesin, this key was forged from blooms of steel containing a special consecrated alloy that glows in my presence.
“I was born ready,” I reassure the man, and I rise from the pillow that softens the seat of my chair, crossing the measure of carpet, far quicker than he can unlatch my door. Eagerly, I offer my wrists, only waiting.
He uses one dull key to unlock the cell, and it is all I can do to maintain patience, waiting for him to employ the key to unlock my shackles.
“The King bids you join him in his apartments. But, first, a warm bath has been ordered to your chambers, along with a bit of supper. He wouldst see you refreshed before your meeting, and he begs pardon for the judgment you were wrongly given.”
The ensorcelled key glows brighter as it stretches toward me and I twist my shackled wrists to reveal the small aperture—a perfect fit for the tongue and grooves.
