Page 286 of The Daughters of Avalon
“Cerridwen.”
Swallowing with some difficulty, Rhiannon’s lips parted, then closed again, realizing intuitively what it was that Marcella was telling her: Her mother wasn’t a witchalignedtoaether… she wasoftheaether.
“So… you see… this is why there are two Pendragon sisters aligned toaether.”
Rhiannon considered that another moment, before Marcella added, “’Tis also why it was possible to bind Seren and to deceiveyour mother. Even considering what she was, Morwen never suspected there could be two.”
Blinking again in shock, Rhiannon felt as though she might purge the contents of her belly.
“This is also why I agreed to remove you from Blackwood… to keep you safe—not merely for Cael. But rather… because… well, in truth, neither you nor your sisters have any notion what you are capable of… and neither dowe.”
“We?”
“The Guard, of course.”
Rhiannon’s gaze shifted to Jack. His brow was furrowed as though this did surprise him. He stopped chewing and sat ruminating.
“Alas, you above all are an anomaly, Rhiannon. Born oftwotrue-blooddewines, and bearing thehudof three…”
Rhiannon recognized truth in her words…
She and her sisters were each born withdewineblood, but her mother was in fact the essence from which they drew. They were demigods, like the cauldron-bornfae… but Morwen… she was a Goddess, in truth.
“You share her blood,” Marcella reasoned. “And yet, despite that your sister is to be Regnant, you are, indeed, an aberration. It could well be that, after five years, those manacles have weakened your affinities, but I cannot rest easy until I know your heart. As Jack here has said… you might, indeed, be England’s salvation… but it could be that you will be its doom.”
The look she gave Rhiannon was unmistakable, and the knife hilt at her boot glinted ominously against the firelight. “You, Lady Blackwood, are the reason I hunt my own kind.”
Silence permeated the forest about them—a silence so complete that the flame in the pit sounded like a roar.
“And, by the by, before you think to judge me,” Marcella added, “consider that before we are done, one of you—either youor your sisters—will put a blade through your mother’s heart. Therefore, you are no better than a huntsman. Either youwillspill Morwen’s blood, else she’ll spill yours, and for the good of the realm… I am prepared to slay you all.”
Chapter
Nineteen
WARKWORTH CASTLE
Exhausted from having awakened this morn to the ear-splitting sound of a babe’s wails, Seren retired early, leaving her sisters to compare notes about their insatiable newborns—Elspeth’s scarcely older than Rosalynde’s.
Troubled by Isolde’s words, she retrieved the sword from their workshop and took it into her chamber, laying it down gingerly upon the bed she normally shared with her husband. No doubt, the sword was a poor substitute for Wilhelm, though she needed its presence tonight to work through the growing turmoil in her heart.
Unlike Rhiannon, she had not spent her entire life preparing for the life of a priestess. She did not know what that should entail, nor did she comprehend what should be done to entreat the Goddess for her prophesied gifts.
She, more than any of her sisters, had been dutiful to Elspeth’s mandates to refrain from practicing the Craft. Although Rhiannon had seemed to enjoy defying Elspeth at every turn—Rosalynde, as well—she and Arwyn had been less inclined to put their eldest sister into a fit of apoplexy. For Seren,it had never been worth the argument or distress, particularly when she’d thought her affinities so weak.
Only now that she understoodwhythat was the case, she wished she had practiced more oft, although despite that she could do so freely now, she still didn’t experience the joy Rhiannon did when she manipulated theaether.
Perhaps because of the binding spell,magiksimply didn’t come naturally to Seren, unless her emotions were heightened, and then, she couldn’t control it. It rushed over her like a torrent and dissipated like the wind.
Practice, practice, practice, Elspeth now demanded—quite the change from the old days when she’d wagged a finger at them any time the Craft was employed.
So here she was.
Again.
Butat least she didn’t have to feel guilty over slipping away. Even her duties had been appropriated. So much as she had enjoyed helping Rosalynde with her chatelaine’s duties, her sister’s newborn babe was well cared for by a wet-nurse, and Rosalynde had insisted upon returning to her household duties so that Seren might “find herself in prayer.”
But that was yet another thing Seren didn’t particularly enjoy—prayer—perhaps, because, while at Llanthony, the priests had used it as a form of punishment, and never once guided them to do it properly.
