Page 279 of The Daughters of Avalon
“I felt a thorn,” he said, though it couldn’t be true. His face would have been pocked and marked if that were the case, and it was still smooth as a baby’s bottom—not even marred by chin hairs.
To that, Marcella shot back without compunction, “Simply watch where you are going, Jack. I’ve seen you nodding. Now is no time to sleep.”
Jack grumbled beneath his breath—something about stopping to rest—as Rhiannon popped the last of her filberts into her mouth, then shoved the sack back into her bag.
Marcella was right, of course. Now, when it seemed they should be out of danger; this was when they were most at peril. They couldn’t afford to let down their guard. Morwen was ruthless and persistent. Still, Marcella’s imperious nature was infuriating. Young as she must be, the woman behaved as though she kneweverything. It grated on Rhiannon’s nerves—and evidently, on Jack’s nerves as well, even despite that he’d confessed affection for her.
Marcella was also right about the ravens. Having lost so many birds already, her mother wouldn’t risk even one unnecessarily. Insomuch as birds loved trees, and trees loved birds, they were, indeed, far less useful in the confines of these dense woods. And because they weren’t particularly tiny, the odds were quite high they would spy a raven before it ever spied them. Quick as they were, they weren’t faster than an arrow, and if either of these two were worth their salt, Rhiannon wouldn’t have to wield hermagik, and yet… she could. Even now she itched to flick a flame into Marcella’s beautiful black mane.
How, in the name of the Goddess, could a woman look so stunning without any feminine accouterments. The deep brown stained—almost black—cowl had slipped down to puddle abouther shoulders, catching a waterfall of shining tresses into the back of her hood. Even tired, her skin was tawny, and her facial features so dark they appeared to be painted. In fact, in all her life, she’d never seen lashes or brows so thick and black.
To the contrary, Rhiannon felt smelly, dirty, itchy, and only thanks to the braids she’d worn last eve, she didn’t have a rat’s nest for hair. Her skin was pasty from lack of sun—years of lack, in fact. Next to Marcella, she felt like a faded scrap of cloth—and yet, alas, not so washed out that she would be invisible to Morwen’s ravens. At least, not until she could perform a proper protection spell.
“Seems to me, she’d be willing to lose a few, if only for the sake of expediency,” Jack grumbled, as he unsheathed his sword again to hack at another tangle of limbs.
“She will not.”
“How can you know?”
“Because,” Marcella replied. “I heard she’s having trouble breeding them. Those ravens are meant to mate for life, and so many of the mates have been slain. Whatever else they are to her, they are integral to her plan. I promise you she will not risk even one.”
Rhiannon listened quietly, loathe to take the witch-paladin’s side, despite that she was right. “Command the birds, command the nation,” her mother used to say.
And, of course, it was true, because whosoever commanded the realm’s mode of communication, commanded the barons as well. Morwen’s affinity with those birds had made her indispensable to Henry, and then to Stephen as well. Ultimately, this was how a penurious young Welsh maiden was able to gain the notice of a King. Consequently, it was also how she’d kept it long after her wiles had failed her. Eventually, both kings had their fill of the witch, and when they did, she moved on to Stephen’s son…
Eustace.
Scourge of England.
Bane of his father.
Puppet to Morwen.
“Is it true she can change them?”
“Aye,” said Marcella and Rhiannon, both at once.
Marcella peered back at Rhiannon, giving her an annoyed glance, though Rhiannon ignored her. Rhiannon asked Jack, “Did you never meet Bran?”
“Nay.”
“I wish I had not,” she said, though thankfully, she’d heard naught more from her mother’s manservant since the day she saw him on theWhitshed.
Alas, she wished she could say the same about Mordecai. Now and again, that abomination had come to perch himself on her windowsill, in the guise of a bird. Only once had he ever ascended the stairs as a man, and Rhiannon had made Cael aware of it and he promised to never allow him to come again.
As for Bran, Rhiannon prayed to the Goddess that those flames had taken him as well—and surely, they must have, else, like Arwyn, Seren would never have lived to see the end of the day.
Poor, poor Arwyn.
Her people held a strong belief that all things were one, living and dead. If, indeed, the tenets of their faith were to be believed, nothing ever truly ceased to be. If she was lucky, mayhap one day she would see Arwyn again, though if she did, what would she say?
I’m sorry for asking you to sacrifice yourself.
I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to save you.
I’m sorry it wasn’t me.
Anger blazed through her—a righteous anger so intense that it threatened to make her combust right there in her saddle. She had allowed Arwyn to sacrifice herself, just as she’d let Morien…
