Page 214 of The Daughters of Avalon
He was older, besides—not that it mattered overmuch betwixt lords and their ladies, but one day, when his beard was grey and eyes were cloudy with age, and she was busy sweeping their crude, little hovel… she would look at him then, and truly, she could rue this day.
“God’s teeth,” he exclaimed. She was mourning her sister besides! What in God’s name made him think this beauteousflower could ever be his to pluck and keep? “We should go,” he said, and rising taking the blanket with him.
Seren’s brows collided, and she hurried to fix her dress, her cheeks blooming as pink as a rose.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Appoint as a penalty life for life…
burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.
—Exodus 21:23-25
Life endures even in stone. Crystals bloom over time. Souls are not affixed only to dying flesh, and there are places, like people, whose allure is as seductive as the glittering silk of a dew dropped spider’s web.
Strangled with brambles, a tower looms before me, sorrow clinging to the edifice like an acrid perfume.
“Come,” it whispers.Wrap yourself in a cocoon of my darkness.
Like a stain of purpled blood oozing from a festering wound, a mantle of bellflowers lies untrampled before it. But these bright, lavender blooms barely conceal the stench of decay that clings to this bog-ridden land.
Cradled within my arms, the child wails pitifully—famished, I must suppose. But I am unmoved. He is but a means to an end—mine or theirs. The simple fact that he bears such a striking resemblance to my brother and my once-born child is withoutmerit, save that I know I cannot kill him with my own bare hands. His smile would stay my hand and his coos would twist my heart…
And yet, remembering another child I spared—a traitor born of my blood—anger spurs me forward. Continuing toward the waiting tower, bellflowers are crushed beneath my horse’s hooves. But that is not enough: Before dismounting, I shrivel the blossoms with a turn of my hand, and in the blink of an eye, that which was alive, is now dead—a carpet of ash florets with smoking heads. Far more beauteous to me. Destruction. Blight. Desolation. Give me these, because they speak truth—not like the lies that pour from a lover’s lips.
Answering my call, a congress of ravens alights atop the tower, familiar voices squawking in greeting.My children, my loves, my ebony-winged champions.Chortling in welcome, I make way to the tower to join them, staining the hem of my gown with ash as I walk.
Someday, I will rebuild my palace so men will be blinded by all that glitters. The land itself will be deluged in a darkness so deep that only my courtyard will brighten the endless night. In a flight of fancy, I envision plucking the sun from the sky, and the moon and the stars as well, swallowing them whole. Oh, yay, vengeance ismine…Ishall repay.
When I am through, the realms of men will be inhabited by winged creatures, even as Avalon harbors lost souls. Thefaewill be no longer. Men will be no longer.
More birds arrive, until every branch of every tree hangs low with the weight of my black-eyed, black-winged children.
Only pausing before I enter, I pluck a pin from my coif, transforming the bejeweled pin into a staff, with golden-eyed serpents. A simple feat. Not all spells require incantations, nor potions, nor brews. Some spells are performed by the will of the mind, no more, no less. To this end, I tap my sacred staff uponthe ground, stirring ash into whispery plumes, then circle the tower, speaking familiar words:
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
By all on high and law of three,
This is my will, so mote it be.
Ye who would harm, ye who would maim,
Proceed and face the same.
By all on high and law of three,
This is my will, so mote it be…
Once the circle is complete, I transmute the staff once more into a coif pin and then return the adornment to my hair, before entering the ruins.
Like the exterior, the interior is decrepit, half walls with partial floors, a crumbling stone stairwell. I can see it was meant to be grand once upon a time—a belfry for a church, perhaps? The design is Roman, with rough and rubble walls and putlog holes to provide for wooden platform floors. There are remnants of the old wood, more than enough to burn. Clearly, someone has attempted to restore this place to no avail, erecting scaffolds to restore the floors.
I climb slowly, passing foyers and empty rooms, determining how best to use the edifice to my greatest advantage.
