Page 268 of The Daughters of Avalon
Alas, with the gargantuan bed so painfully empty beside her, she was finding it more and more difficult to rest.
Rising with a breathy sigh, she swung her feet over the edge, searching for her slippers. She didn’t intend to remain here in this bed—not tonight, with her mind scattering all her thoughts to the winds.
No one had heard from Morwen, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t out there, somewhere, scheming. Now, more than ever, Seren felt time slipping away, like sand through a glass. Over and over, Isolde’s warnings kept ringing in her ears:You will be the Regnant—you and only you, and if not you, no other in this day and age. Earn your laurels. Find your true self. Only then will you find your answers.
The problem was… Seren didn’t know how to find her true self. Neither did Rosalynde or Elspeth. And neither did Isolde, for all her cryptic words.
Sometimes it seemed to her that only Arwyn, for all her lack of affinity, had ever truly understood her true purpose in life.Once the occasion had presented itself, her sister had done what she’d known she must, without hesitation.
To the contrary, she, Rose and Ellie were all like blind women leading the blind.
And Rhiannon—where was she? For all her promises, Rhiannon was silent as the grave.
Muttering crossly, she found and donned her slippers, sliding her toes inside, before making her way across to the dressing table to find a taper.
Not bothering with a fire steel, she lit the wick with her will and sighed again—at least her fire affinity was growing stronger.
The wick flamed to life with a deep, amber glow, startling the crow. It took flight from her windowsill and vanished into the night, and Seren took the taper and shoved it into a pricket. “Good riddance,” she said, though she knew she should be grateful for any sort of champion at all, even a puny little crow.
This bird had appeared weeks ago, around the same time Isolde came to call, with all her cryptic stories and all her mysterious divinations. As it happened, the old woman and that crow were never in the same place at the same time, and every time Isolde went away, that damnable bird returned. Even so, Seren had never actually witnessed a transformation, so for all she knew, it was only a stupid little bird taken to loitering in her window—night after night after night.
It was a good thing Wilhelm was gone, because he’d already threatened to take a sling to the bird.
Shaking her head, she made her way down the hall, holding a hand beneath her pricket, lest the wax mar her husband’s perfectly polished floor.
Indeed, shapeshifting was a rare talent, one most practitioners of thehuddid not know how to perform. It was, in fact, a form ofhud du. Her grandmother had said that all knowledge of those dark arts—if ever they’d existed—passedaway with the fall of Avalon. But this was not precisely true. Morwen was a practitioner of the dark arts, and if, in truth, Isolde was a shapeshifter, as well, then she too was a student ofhud du.Alas, the old woman was nearly as mysterious and elusive as their mother, arriving without announcement, then taking her leave without good-byes.
Whenever she was about, she rambled on and on about prophecies, giving more than enough warnings, but answering all their questions with riddles that left Seren scratching her head. Without thegrimoire, how was she supposed to learn if Isolde wouldn’t teach her?
By now, Seren had all but given up asking that woman for help, because it seemed she was disinclined—or else she’d forgotten everything she’d ever known. How fortunate for Morwen if that be the case.
At least Elspeth and Rosalynde had had the opportunity to skim thegrimoireat their leisure. That was how they’d learned to concoct a form ofwitchwaterfor the motte—a strange brew for transmutation that was made mostly from spoilt mushrooms. It was that very concoction that was responsible for turning a visiting merchant into a thief, and several small stones into fish. By now, the poor motte was filled to capacity, and the fishes were jumping about for air, though at least the villagers had their fill of smelt.
Looking back on it now, the simple fact that they’d managed to thwart their mother at the Widow’s Tower seemed more of a miracle than it was any sort of achievement. To their good fortune, fate had intervened that day, bringing all three sisters together by chance. Seren had discovered her true destiny only because of happenstance. In the end, they’d won the day simply by virtue of the fact that they’d survived—no small thing to be sure, but they’d lost so much that day, most notablyThe Book of Secrets.
Alas, that tome harbored centuries’ worth ofdewinehistories and receipts—summoning spells, banishing spells, transmutation spells and more.
Ages and ages of trial and error and painstaking documentation by all herdewinesisters. Sadly, all those histories were a loss beyond telling.
No doubt, she and her sisters could craft all new spells, but those histories were another matter entirely.
For her part, Isolde had only snippets to share, and Seren had a terrible, terrible suspicion that the key to defeating her mother lay hidden in their past.
One way or another, even without the help of thegrimoireor evenIsolde, Seren must persevere. Shemustfind her “true self” so she could imbue the sword—butwhatdid that mean?
Did it mean that simply knowing oneself as Regnant wasn’t enough? Did it mean she must come to know herself experientially? Or rather, should she pray to the Goddess for bestowal of her gifts? Or perhaps it was so simple as discovering some way to remove theglamourspell that had been cast upon her as a child?
The answers to these questions eluded her, and Isolde was no help at all. Instead of offering clues, she came to pester Seren whilst she slept, cocking her silly little bird head and stealing her sleep like a mean old hag.
Carefully now, so as not to drip candle wax, she made her way down the darkened hall.
At this late hour, the entire castle was abed, but since Seren hadn’t any babies to wake and feed, she found herself drawn to the workshop she shared with Rose. Elspeth was here as well, to witness the birth of Rosalynde’s firstborn child.
Removing the chain from around her neck, she unlocked the heavy banded door, then pushed it open, entering cautiously, half anticipating pixies.
Not a soul stirred.
In the dead of night, the workshop was eerily silent. The ancient sword remained precisely where she’d left it on the herb-littered bench.
