Page 168 of The Daughters of Avalon
Achill fog drifted along the woodlands, eddying so high that cool air tickled Seren’s feet. It reminded her of that mist they’d conjured on the night Elspeth had fled the priory. It was the first time she and her sisters had ever dared perform a rite of such magnitude. To aid Elspeth’s escape, they’d conjured a mist that climbed out from their cauldron and stole out the door. Elspeth used the cloak of mist to elude the dogs and guards Ersinius sent to retrieve her. But words like those were never to be uttered lightly; they could never be evoked without consequence. And yet, it was an impressive feat. And later, after their mother arrived, Seren couldn’t help but note a certain gleam in Morwen’s eyes. No doubt she’d been furious with them, but she was proud as well. That was the first time in Seren’s entire life she’d ever experienced the warm glow of a mother’s pride, short-lived though it was. Immediately thereafter, Morwen had tossed Rhiannon into a tumbril to be carted away, like some animal, bound and leashed. Even now, Seren could feel her sister’s warning gaze.Be silent, be still. Be silent, be still.But the look in her eyes as they’d dragged Rhi away had broken Seren’s heart, and she had never imaginedshe could be more broken-hearted than she was that day… until now.
Grief was a fourth companion, ever with them, pursuing them like the shadow of a hound. But so long as Jack held back his tears, Seren felt duty-bound to hold back her own. Together, they would endure—with or without Wilhelm’s help. But truth be told, it wasn’t only Seren and Jack grieving; Wilhelm wore his own grief like a mantle of sorrow. She could feel it as surely as she felt her own.
“E’s not too friendly, eh?”
“Surly, to be sure,” she said, her gaze boring into Wilhelm Fitz Richard’s back. His entire demeanor had changed the instant they’d retrieved Jack. Before then, he’d practically begged to serve her, and now, he appeared for all the world to be a man ruing his circumstances.
“I ain’t ne’er seen so big a fellow,” said Jack, with an unmistakable note of appreciation in his voice—and, of course, he would note such a thing. He was at an age when his own virility must be foremost in his thoughts. Even struggling with his own grief, she couldn’t help but note the solicitous way he remained by her side, like a self-appointed guardian angel.
“Aye,” she said. “He is.”
And it was true. It wasn’t very likely that anyone could overlook the man, no matter how quiet or unassuming he appeared to be. And yet Seren had a sense that there was more to Wilhelm Fitz Richard than met the eye. His aura was bold and unmistakable, but confusing.
Much like the glow of a flame, all creatures radiated shades of color that revealed more than words alone could say. Like her sister Elspeth, so long as Seren remained within proximity, she could read them. In fact, she was quite proficient at determining the nature of a person’s temperament based on emanations. After a year at court she had good practice, and it was rare thatshe was ever wrong, even though the truth disappointed her. She wanted desperately to think better of people, but so often they failed to live up to their potentials.
Wilhelm’s colors were perplexing, to be sure…
His most predominant shade was a vivid, angry orange, mixed with intense coils of red. More oft than not this combination revealed a kindly, honest disposition, even if betimes he might be quick to raise a temper—already, they’d suffered glimpses of that. But, these colors also implied immense loyalty; whatever this man set his heart to, that’s where it would remain unto his dying breath.
Alas, these shades were interwoven with shades of brown and grey, and those were the colors that thoroughly bemused her, because his demeanor belied what they implied. You see, brown was the color of uncertainty, or it could mean he somehow lacked confidence. But there was naught in Wilhelm Fitz Richard’s demeanor that gave truth to this interpretation. What was more, he had darker shades of brown and grey that indicated selfish tendencies, negativity, or a predilection toward deception. Even more alarming, betimes these threads bordered on black, which was a far, far worse implication. Black, you see, was the color of hatred, and she knew this only too well, because Morwen drifted through Westminster’s halls enshrouded in a blue-black aura, much like a bruise on theaether.
Fortunately, Wilhelm’s aura was nothing like Morwen’s.
Day to day, her mother’s essence remained predominately black, with coils of blue and furls of red; this was perhaps the most dangerous aura to be encountered. The red bespoke her passion—and she was, indeed, very passionate. She was rabidly so, and there was little that could dissuade Morwen Pendragon from her schemes. The blue, on the other hand, was an indication of supreme intelligence and a given ability to influence the masses. To Seren’s horror, her mother couldcharm folks with a bat of her lashes, and lest you understood what it was she was doing to you, you might be fooled until it was too late to extricate yourself from her dangerous web.
Inevitably, all her mother’s minions ended up with a similar aura, sans the blue, and Seren could sense these creatures from leagues away.
But though Wilhelm’s was not like that at all, he was nevertheless no man to be trifled with, and neither was it the least bit likely anyone would consider him easy prey. For certes, they would be safe traveling with this man, but she had yet to determine… were they safefromhim?
Seren thought, perhaps, the answer to that question must be yes, though she couldn’t be certain—and yet, somehow, she was driven to vex him. Why, she hadn’t any clue.
Or perhaps she did suspect why and didn’t wish to acknowledge the truth, because Wilhelm had the dubious misfortune of appearing in her life at the most inopportune time. He’d kept her from going after Arwyn, and despite the fact that, in retrospect, she knew there was naught she could have done to save her sister, some small part of her begged the question: What if she had responded sooner? What if she had cast away her fear and gone after Arwyn?
What if… what if… what if…
The endless questions bedeviled her. Wilhelm was an easy target for her fury—an emotion she had never in her life dared to nurture. What must her own aura be now?
It simply wasn’t possible to see it for herself, but, according to Elspeth, it used to be a shimmering shade of silver—the mark of the serenely gifted, but with the palest hint of blue, which was also a distinction for peacekeepers. Elspeth had often likened her aura to the wintry color of her eyes, and Seren had taken much pride in Elspeth’s interpretation, because there were far worse things in this world than to be apeacemonger. Onlynow… she must be awash in deepest reds. What was worse, she felt shades of black coiling up from the depths of her soul, tendrils of loathing sprouting from the silvery ash of her grief.
Arwyn’s death was transformative.
Whereas previously Seren had only feared Morwen, now she despised her with every fiber of her being. Given the opportunity—like Wilhelm—she would snuff her mother’s Heart Flame as easily as she would snuff a candle, and she would do that to the woman who gave her life.
True hatred was all consuming, she feared, because she could feel it growing, intensifying, wending its way through her veins, black as the wings of her mother’s treacherous birds.
It was all so perplexing—nearly as much so as the man she’d now pursued throughout the night, mile after mile, hour after hour, into woodlands and out. Glaring at his back again, she wished he would turn and face her…only why?
So, she could complain about how long they’d traveled? Goddess knew, he was like to be as weary as they were and still, he persevered. And, forsooth, it wasn’t as though he was doing this for his own pleasure. He was ushering them back to safety… so why, oh why, did she long so much to smack him upside the head?
Perhaps because he wore that perpetual frown on his face, putting her in mind to those hideous stonegargouillesinstalled at the palace, with their immense twisted, grotesque mouths. In the foulest of weathers they were terrifying, with rain lashing down and bolts of lightning silhouetting their forms. One day, a few weeks before Rosalynde stole thegrimoire, she and Seren were caught in a downpour out in the castle yard. Together, they’d witnessed thegargouillesat their intended purpose. Built to gutter rainwater, they’d spewed a torrent at their feet, muddying their dresses. They’d returned to the apartment, sopping wet, and filthy besides. Arwyn was worried, even thoughthey were gone little more than an hour. That was all the time they’d dared to spare to scout the area and make plans… plans for Rosalynde to steal theBook of Secrets.
The memory enveloped Seren in a cloud of misery, because Arwyn hadn’t gone with them that day for the same reason Seren had left her aboard the Whitshed… because hermagikwas weak, because she didn’t know how to lie, because she couldn’t conceal her presence or her purpose from Morwen. They had coddled her to save her life, and, in the end, their coddling was Arwyn’s ruin.
White-hot fury bubbled up from the depths of her, and her silvery gaze returned to Wilhelm Fitz Richard. She focused her anger on him in the absence of her mother.
“Do you… think… it ’urt?” Jack asked, intruding on her reverie.
Seren blinked back tears, knowing instinctively what he was asking by the unhappy look on his face. Sweet fates, she needn’t read his mind or his aura to know he was fretting over his father. So far as Seren was concerned, she couldn’t imagine a worse way to die, but she didn’t wish to say so. She could scarcely bear to consider Arwyn’s final moments, but she did so now perforce… suffering anguish anew over how much she may have suffered. And yet, judging by the swiftness of Arwyn’s departure—the rending of her soul from this plane of existence—she thought perhaps that wasn’t true. “I don’t know,” she confessed.
