Page 90 of The Daughters of Avalon
Very somberly, the brothers turned to walk into Westminster Palace, where Giles de Vere was prepared to bend his knee to the Usurper…
For Warkworth.
Chapter
Two
Rap. Rap. Rap.
The knock on the door was tentative, perhaps even diffident, but if there was one thing the Ewyas sisters had learned since arriving at court, it was that the king’s household lived in fear of Morwen Pendragon. Such as it was, there was a note of dread in the voice that called to them from behind the door. “My ladies?”
Seren, Arwyn and Rosalynde each exchanged nervous glances, forthiswas the moment they’d been anticipating. Downstairs, Morwen was in attendance with Stephen, interrogating their sister’s intended.
Would he insist upon taking Seren with him?
Regardless, it could be the last time the sisters would be all together. Of the five, Rosalynde and Arwyn were the youngest of their brood—twins born minutes apart. Seren was the middle child, and Elspeth and Rhiannon were the elder, with two good years between them. Rhiannon was still in Wales, imprisoned, or dead, so they feared. Elspeth was far, far to the north, wed to an enemy of the crown, and from what little gossip they had gleaned, she was being held against her will, forced to wed the mendacious traitor Malcom Scott. Of course, Rosalyndesuspected there was more to the story and she believed Elspeth had embraced hermagikin her darkest hour.
“Lady Seren,” the woman called again. “Please, please hurry…”
As luck would have it, this would be the first time since arriving in London that Morwen’s manservant had left them unattended. Certain that her daughters knew better than to defy her, Morwen had sent Mordecai out to run some errand—no doubt she had sent him to murder some unsuspecting soul.
As Seren plucked her cloak from a chair, Arwyn opened the door to reveal a pinched-face matron behind it. The woman peered into the room, searching for Seren, and then seeing her, said with a note of relief in her voice, “The king beckons, Lady Seren. You must hurry.”
“I am ready,” she told the woman, gesturing for Arwyn to open the door a little wider. Then, whilst the woman waited, she went to each of her sisters, kissing them in turn—Rosalynde first, as she was closest. They put their heads together, and Seren whispered. “I love you, dearest sister. Remember this always.” And then, whispering lower, she said, “Get the Book as far away from here as possible. I shall delay her as long as I can.”
Rosalynde swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “Take good care,” she said. “And please, please take heart: Even if he insists you go with him, we are committed to this endeavor—all of us. Itmustbe done. She will be weaker without thegrimoire.”
“My lady,” the woman urged from the hall. “Your betrothed awaits, and… your mother… she’ll be angry.”
“I am coming,” said Seren patiently, realizing the maidservant was not to be blamed. She was merely doing the king’s bidding, nothing more, nothing less.
With trembling knees, Rosalynde stood watching as her sister moved to kiss Arwyn next, and as her sisters embracedfor the last time, she plucked up the small tallow candle on the dresser, preparing herself for the task to come.
By the door, Seren affected an excited tone for the sake of the maid. “Worry not, my sweet sisters. I am pleased with my match, and I pray you, too, will soon find your own champions.” She smiled, but her eyes shone with tears as she met Rosalynde’s gaze across the room, and Rosalynde found her own eyes dampening as Seren blew her a kiss good-bye. The sisters shared one last meaningful glance, and then Rose tore her gaze away.
Arwyn’s voice was tender, but raw with her grief. “Go with our love, Seren. Know that wherever you find yourself, we, too, shall be beneath the same bold stars, loving you from afar.”
Without another word, Seren hurried away, and once she was gone, Rosalynde wanted naught more than to throw herself on the bed and weep, though considering what little time they had remaining before Morwen returned, there wasn’t time for tears, or doubt.
Arwyn shut the door and went after their mother’s spell book while Rosalynde went after the nun’s garb she’d stolen two weeks past. In her pocket, there was enough of her mother’sphilterto cast oneglamourspell, and the rest was hidden in the hem of her gown. Hurrying, she donned the nun’s habit, and Arwyn laid thegrimoiredown on the bed to help her affix the wimple and veil. When they were done, she left the wimple hanging by a pin, and returned to thegrimoireon the bed, withdrawing a small blade from the pocket of her surcoat. “Hurry,” she told Rosalynde, and in the meantime, Rosalynde retrieved her candle, igniting the wick with a fire song and held it over the ancient tome.
By the light of the candle, the face of the spell bookappeared strangely human, with transforming expressions. Embossed upon its surface were endless, ever-changing symbols—naught the human eye could easily perceive, but before adewine’seyes,the symbols rippled and reshaped, emerging and receding into the aged black leather, like hills and dales rising and reforming to a journeyman’s gaze. Much as they’d anticipated, the book lay pliantly before them, like a joyous bride awaiting her lover.
Over the course of these past months, Rosalynde and her sisters had visited every wondrous page and pored over the rites. The recipes were ancient, but knowable only to those who boredewineblood. Unlike thegrimoirethey’d begun to make at Llanthony, this one was bound by bloodmagik, and if anyone were to open the book without right, it would appear to be no more than a ruined book of prayer, faded by age and stained with watermarks. But to adewine, its pages came alive, speaking to their minds and hearts.
And now, without hesitation, Arwyn sliced the blade across the tip of a finger, squeezing a few drops of her life’s blood onto the leather-bound volume.
One. Two. Three.
One by one, the glistening droplets sank into the dark vellum, as though the book itself lay thirsting for the life-giving elixir. And then, she whispered.
A drop of my blood to open or close,
Speak now the song of ancient prose.
Shadows be gone, words reveal
The mysteries of life my book conceals.
