Page 209 of The Daughters of Avalon
With a bewildered shake of her head, Rhiannon dropped her hands, realizing that this wasonlypossible if someone had put aglamouron her as a child—aglamourso powerful she couldn’t even see through it herself.But why?
Crossed, amber eyes were the Mark of the Mother. It was a dominant trait for a Regnant priestess, but it alone didn’t assure ascension; it must be a judgment by the Goddess. And yet, noRegnant so far as Rhiannon knew ever presided over a coven without the birthmark.
Moreover, only one priestess could preside at once, and only one gifteddewinewas born to every generation. The Gift could not be passed along until the living Regnant died, or else she was renounced by the Goddess herself. Her father, Emrys, not her mother, had been the Promised One before her, but her father’s gifts were never conferred, because he’d died many years before their grandmother. Therefore, Morgan Pendragon was the last Regnant to preside over a coven, and the Gift skipped a generation, as it sometimes did, because it was Goddess-granted. But though Rhiannon’s ascension wasn’t pre-ordained, she had prepared herself for the Mother’s Gift for most of her life. She had been led to believe it was her destiny—only naturally, since Emrys was her father. But, if she was not born to be the Regnant… who was?
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
During the day, with the sun shining so brightly, and Wilhelm by her side, it was easier to forget her travails.
Now, in the wee hours of the morn, with Wilhelm fast asleep, Seren couldn’t seem to slow the errant beating of her heart. Eyes open or closed, her traitorous thoughts flitted from one worry to the next. Her ears tuned into every sound in the forest: deer traipsing about, squirrels scrambling up trees, the uncanny bark of a fox in the middle of the night—all these things, though they’d seemed only natural before, now held a timbre of menace.
Somewhere out there, her mother was scheming.
Somewhere out there, Mordecai was lurking.
Somewhere out there, the King’s soldiers were gathering for war…
Where are you, Rhiannon?
How she longed for her sister’s counsel.
Rhiannon was the wisestdewineSeren knew. Even when they hadn’t had access to agrimoireof their own, she had created one, filling it with experiments and illustrating it so beautifully. It never once mattered to her that Elspeth refused to convey their grandmamau’s teachings; somehow, Rhiannonwas born with theknowing, as though, with her dying breath, Morgan Pendragon had imbued her—and certainly, that must be true, because even before Rhi could talk, she’d understood things the rest of them did not. Betimes she even recalled things that transpired whilst she was in the womb.
For one, she vividly remembered the death of her twin…Morien.In her native tongue it meant ‘born of the sea’ and Seren often wondered what a sixth sister might have been like. One thing was certain: To this day, Rhiannon loathed Morwen for ingesting that potion to rid herself of her babes. Somehow, Rhiannon survived, much to Morwen’s dismay.And perhaps to their father’s dismay, as well, for no one ever quite knew how to deal with Rhiannon. For so long, no one understood why she’d seemed so possessed, betimes smacking her head fitfully against walls and wailing inconsolably. Only now, Seren understood… she understood, because the only thing keeping her from doing the same was the quiet strength of the man sleeping beside her.
So much as she envied Wilhelm’s restful slumber, his smooth, easy breathing was a comfort to her, because it gave her reason to believe all would be well.
Certainly, if he’d sensed any danger, he would be as wide awake as she, and this was the first night since beginning their travels that he’d dared to rest so easily—now that they were in familiar territory.
Poor Rosalynde,she thought—poor, Rose.Her sister must be suffering as Rhiannon suffered—and perhaps more so, for while Rhiannon never had the chance to truly know her twin, Rosalynde and Arwyn had been inseparable. Arwyn had been her shadow, and though Rosalynde so oft lifted her into the light, Arwyn seemed perfectly content to bask in Rosalynde’s glory. Sighing deeply, squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to remember Arwyn’s face and tears pricked at her eyes because the image was already fading.
They’d spent nearly every waking day together for the majority of their lives, and with only weeks gone since Arwyn’s death, already the finer details of her beautiful face were beginning to dim. It was this, perhaps, that bothered Seren most as the days marched quietly on, but she was equally troubled by the fact that, although her sisters must surely know Arwyn was gone, thehowof it would be left up to her to explain. But there was nothing Seren could say to enlighten anyone, not even herself.
She’d failed Arwyn, that much was clear.
She’d left her alone, and somehow, the Whitshed burned. Later today, or mayhap tomorrow, she would face Rosalynde… and what should she say?
The answer to that continued to bedevil her, and whilst there was a short time in Wilhelm’s company that she’d been able to block the tragedy of the Whitshed from her thoughts, now that she was closer to Warkworth, it was impossible to put aside all her questions. Goddess grant her peace, for she could find none on her own.
And then there was this: Despite that she longed to embrace Rose, the thought of arriving now left her feeling bereft, even as it filled her with elation. In the short time since she’d come to know Wilhelm, he’d become her strength as much as any of her sisters were. And yet, the instant they arrived, she would no longer be his concern. His job would be complete, and whatever bond they were forming… it would quickly unravel… fly away, like the windswept silk of a spider’s web.
Shivering again, despondent over the thought, she huffed a weary sigh, pulling the covers higher over her ears and staring at Wilhelm’s sleeping form across the fire.
His aura was dim at the moment, bordering on umber. Together with the soft glow from the fire, their immediate surroundings were awash with a coppery light. She watchedintently as his chest rose and fell with his slumber, and reasoned that the past weeks must have taken a toll. Now, closer to home, he was bound to feel more relaxed. To the contrary, she was anxious, confused, happy, sad, frightened, exhilarated—so many conflicting feelings.
If only her situation weren’t so dire, and the realm itself were not in peril… if only she didn’t long so desperately to see her sisters… she would, indeed, find a way to delay their arrival. Dismayed, she turned onto her back, frustrated with the evening’s course. If it wasn’t one thing rattling about her brain, it was yet another—Goddess have mercy.
It was cold, she decided—thankfully not colder than it was in the Black Mountains. In fact, it was far colder there, and she wondered how her sister fared. They took her away that night without even a cloak to warm her. Doubtless their mother would not trouble herself to see to Rhiannon’s welfare. Why would she now when she never had before?
Rhiannon, she called again. And was not surprised when the aether remained silent.
Are you there in that tower… like Yissachar?
Built on the edge of a steep cliff in theBannau Brycheiniog—the Black Mountains of Wales, Blackwood’s tower was said to rise so high as to be able to glimpse the duchies of Deheubarth, Powys and Morgannwg altogether—so high, in fact, that betimes the Tower of the White Witch was dusted with snow, even whilst the ivy-tangled courtyard below was in full bloom. There was an old song about it. She hummed it softly, trying to remember the words…
Blackwood, Blackwood, there she stays,
