Page 215 of The Daughters of Avalon
Old wood burns the same as new. I should rouse a fire they’ll spy so far as York. Wouldn’t that be delightful? I shall have an audience of thousands!
After all this time, the belfry is gone, but the roof is sturdy. Once I arrive, I lay down the child atop a small platform, weary of my burden, then wave a hand to bind him.
“Sweet boy,” I purr. “It simply won’t do if you fall.” Removing a small pouch from my cloak, I set it, too, upon the platform beside the child, before unveiling the reliquary. I grin with pleasure at the sight of it—an intricately carved piece of metalwork, made from an alloy not presently known to mortal men.
“Oh, Mordecai,” I say. “Sweet Mordecai.” And I set the reliquary down on the platform as I remove the necklace bearing my athame. With its beautiful obsidian handle, it is an ancient blade, fashioned long, long before I laid eyes upon Avalon. The earth itself gave birth to this gem, and it was cut from the same alloy used in the creation of Caledfwlch. It glows in my presence, absorbing my soul’s energy and reflecting it back. The Church has it all wrong. Caledfwlch does not glow in the presence of evil, nor does it do so in the presence of adewine. This alloy only burns in the presence of a God.
Caw. Caw.
More ravens settle upon the crenels.
Caw. Caw.
Clearly, my daughters haven’t had the wits to open the reliquary. It remains sealed.
Stupid, stupid girls.
It but needs the same care that must be taken with theBook of Secrets—a drop ofdewineblood and pretty words.
With a disdainful curl of my lip, I slash the blade across my palm, taking pleasure in the pain. And then, again, smiling, I turn my hand over the reliquary and speak sacred words.
A drop of my blood to open or close,
Speak now the song of ancient prose.
Shackles be gone, Goddess reveal,
The bonded soul my reliquary conceals.
An explosion of smoke bursts from the artifact—so much smoke that it seems the vial should not have been able to contain it all. And once the smoke clears, I am faced with a man. “Hello, Mordecai,” I say, greeting my old friend.
Mordecai inhales a life-affirming breath, and even as I admire the power of myshadowmagik, his body reforms into solid flesh.
“Mistress,” he says, finding his voice.
He gives a glance at the child, and I say, “There is work to be done, my friend. You will find a horse in the glade. Take it. Deliver a message to Warkworth for me.” I hand him a slip of parchment. “Tell my daughters to bringmyBook, and if they do, I will return the babe. If they refuse, I will kill him, and then return to destroy his brother.”
“Aye, mistress, I’ll fail you not,” he says.
“See you do not. Next time… I will scatter your essence to the winds so you will never return.”
“Aye, mistress,” he says dutifully, without a trace of fear, and I know he will succeed. With a black-eyed glance toward the babe, he bounds for the stairs.
By now, more of my sweet children have arrived—my beautiful, dutiful children of darkness.
“Dreiglo,” I say, and all about me, my ravens become soldiers, all clad in fine, black leather and bearing the sigil of my house—not Blackwood, Avalon—the twin golden serpents entwined about the stem of a winged chalice, my grail, my cauldron of cauldrons.
The babe is momentarily startled by the booted soldiers as they go, spilling down the stairs, like cockroaches.
Ignoring the child’s wails, I peer over the crenels… at the circle I drew below, waiting for Mordecai to pass with all my soldiers. The instant they are clear of the circle, I whisper, “Llosgi.” The circlet ignites.
No one may trespass now, lest they cross with my book. TheBook of Secretsis the only passage they will have. If anyone steps through that fire, even so much as a toe, they will be consumed. I watch with glee as Mordecai finds my horse, mounting the beast. He puts a heel to the animal’s flank, and I note he still bears a telltale tail, black as the darkest night. Pointed and pliant, like a serpent, it twines about the horse’s tail as I settle to wait… after all, long after mortal flesh has withered to dust… here I will remain.
Chapter
Thirty
Worrying her hands, weeping at intervals, Elspeth paced the marquee all the while Rosalynde stood by, feeling helpless.
