Page 208 of The Daughters of Avalon
“Hic est Draco, ex undis,” she whispered.
Here be the dragon from beneath the waves.
Indeed, these shackles must have been fashioned to keep her. But, if so, who could possibly have known she would return from her exile, and who had forged these manacles to bind her?
Bound in silver, from head to toe, silent and still,read the remainder of the inscription. Surely, this must be some sort of a binding spell. Written by whom?
Her grandmamau? Her father? Could Emrys have learned who Morwen was before she’d chanced to poison him? Was that why she killed him?
Or mayhap the engraving was inscribed by yet another hand? Someone who represented the Holy Church? Inexplicably—because these symbols were not used in the Craft—the inscription was bracketed by crosses.
Rhiannon pondered this mystery a while—a possible collaboration between the Goddess and the Church?
Was that even possible?
According to their grandmamau all gods were as one god, born of the same Great Mother. Their priestesses were not unlike Christian priests, who in their hearts and minds were merely closer to God. The tenets of the Holy Church were not so different from the teachings of the Mother Goddess, none so profound as this: Do good, harm none.
Dewineswere not typically against the Holy Church, even though huntsmen had slaughtered their people for ages. When Taliesin became the Merlin of Britain—Myrddin in her own Welsh tongue—the Holy Church had reviled him. Loathing his influence over the Emperor, and longing to besmirch his name—or worse, they began hunting his people in secret, using his own bard’s tales to find and behead them or burn them at the stake.
These were thefaekindanddewinefolkof legend—those who made their homes in the Summer Isles, even after the drowning of Avalon.
Deep in thought, considering possibilities, Rhiannon was scarcely aware that her gaoler had returned. Hers was typically the first and last cell he visited, and then he wouldn’t comeagain till morning. To arrive here, it was a long climb from the courtyard.
Shivering, she scooted into the waning sunlight, lifting her face to the sun’s last rays, as though, by sheer will alone, she could absorb its warmth. When the guard thrust his key into her lock, she opened her eyes, willing him without words to rekindle the fire in her brazier.
The man stared back at her, looking for an instant bemused, and she knew her exercise had proven futile.
“’Tis cold,” she complained.
He ignored her, peering over at her untouched plate and shaking his head in disgust. He jerked the key back out of her lock, jiggling the bars to be sure they remained firm.
“My mum had blue eyes, too,” he said conversationally. “But ye won’t live to see her age if ye refuse to eat. And if’n ye cost me my job, as ye did Berwyn’s, I’ll see ye regret it, witch!”
Rhiannon simply wasn’t hungry. She felt hopeless and lost. But suddenly it occurred to her what he’d said, and she cocked her head in surprise.
Blue?
But nay, she was born with amber eyes, and later, when she’d come to an age, one eye turned lazy. She’d suffered taunts for it most of her life. It wasn’t until she’d learned precisely what her eyes meant that she’d found peace with the imperfection. From that day forward she’d devoted herself to studying the Craft, day and night, even defying her eldest sister when Elspeth forbade her. The guard turned to leave, still shaking his head. “Wait!” Rhiannon said, bounding up from the bed, though not to retrieve her plate. “Wait!” she demanded, and again, when it seemed he would leave. “Wait! Wait!”
“Quit your prattling,” the man said, but he refused to turn around.
“Please! Look at me,” Rhiannon demanded. She shook the bars. “What color are my eyes?” Mayhap he simply hadn’t looked closely enough the first time. Hemustbe mistaken.
The guard turned with a frown. “Blue, I said!” And to confuse matters even more, he didn’t bother to cross himself at the sight of her, as most people were wont to do—even Berwyn.
“Wait,” she said when he made to leave again. “May I have that?” She pointed to the empty, metal plate in his hand. If she could polish it, she could glimpse her reflection.
“Nay,” he said, his patience clearly at an end. “Ye got your own. Finish your supping then do what ye will with the plate.” And then he left, abandoning Rhiannon to a quiet so pervasive that she could hear the scurrying of rats in the hall.
But it couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be.
She bounded over to the plate he’d left on her table, picking it up, wincing over the pain that stung her wrists, and flinging off the food, even knowing the consequences. She would go without supping tonight, and despite that, she was undeterred, rubbing the grease from her plate onto her dress, wiping it clean in hopes that she might spy something on the rust-covered surface. Once the plate was scrubbed enough, she rushed over to the waning rays of sunlight, peering into the makeshift mirror.
Blue, she saw. Blue eyes peering back at her.Not amber.Not crossed.Blue.
Sweet, sweet Goddess, it was true; she had blue eyes!
