Page 339 of The Daughters of Avalon
His life had been prolonged by bloodmagik. And though she didn’t know precisely how that was done, she knew enough to know that to return to this realm, he must have been cauldron born, and bound to his summoner…
Morwen.
No wonder he did not kill her when he had the chance.
No wonder he did not turn away from her villainy.
No wonder he’d kept Rhiannon imprisoned far too long.
A shadow beast…
Bound to her mother.
Time and again, he had said quite plainly that his aim was Morwen’s aim. Well, now she understood why. Only what, precisely, did it mean? Was he compelled by her mother? Did he possess free will? Was his life bound only to the Witch Queen? And now, if they killed Morwen, what did that mean for Cael?
All these questions formed a melee in her mind, though she found answers for not a one.
But worse! He was a sworn enemy to her family—a foe of the man who had, according to Marcella, slain Maelgwn ap Cadwallon so long ago—six hundred years, to be precise.
Six hundred years!
And still… somehow, he was young and vibrant, with the vitality and passion of a flesh and blood man!
Sweet fates.She’d lain with him, and even so, she must confess: She did not regret it. Not for a moment. Even now, her heart ached for him, and some tender part of her soul mourned for the man he had been.
All those years ago, he had faced his own mortality, lost everything that was good and true in his life—his kingdom, his wife, his children and heirs…
The notion was too much to bear.
Marcella had warned her. In her own way, the paladin had revealed so many pieces of the puzzle—pieces Rhiannon hadn’t had the wherewithal to comprehend.
And now she truly knew how arrogant she had been—to think she was so wise. Well, she was not.
Commiserating, she and her sisters ensconced themselves into what Elspeth claimed to be a women’s solar, although the room was neither pleasant, nor comfortable, nor even well furnished. Spartan as it was, it was as barren as the womb of a crone. Verily, it appeared to Rhiannon that no woman had ever turned her hand to the chamber’s good use, except for a broken-down, old loom. And yet, according to her sister, this was once the refuge of Dominique Beauchamp, the beautiful sister of Amdel’s now dead lord, who was bride to Blaec d’Lucy.
Rhiannon wondered if the lord of Drakewich would bother to come. It would serve Cael right if he turned his nose at the request, and even so, they needed all the help they could get. She prayed to the gods that Jack would manage to persuade him. And then she wondered why she bothered to pray, because, in truth, her mother was a child of the Sylph, made by gods. How much good would it do?
Like Lucifer, she was cast down from the heavens. And therefore, it must be true: witches were angels, and demons were born by their whimsy—Cael himself was proof.
Her sisters gave her a long moment to grasp the import of her discoveries. And meanwhile, Rosalynde brushed a hand along her back, the gentility of her sister’s sweet touch a comforting balm. It had been so long since she’d reveled in a sisterly touch, and it took every ounce of Rhiannon’s strength not to cast herself into Rosalynde’s loving arms and weep like a disconsolate child.
“So, I’m told, he swore to eradicate our blood from this realm,” said Elspeth, with a note of bitterness. “Art certain you still trust him?”
Rhiannon shook her head, then nodded, and said with tears forming in her eyes, “He is my husband.”
And yet, she feared; it was entirely possible they harbored an enemy in their midst, and hadn’t Cael said so?
Hadn’t he warned her endlessly over these past five years?
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
We are not aligned.
And still, he did leave Morwen at Blackwood, perhaps to die, and he came after Rhiannon to help defend her.
Or had he really?
