Page 264 of The Daughters of Avalon
Rhiannon swallowed convulsively.
Her mother would see her dead.
Only now, it wasn’t only Rhiannon who would suffer Morwen’s wrath if she woke to find them lingering.
Swallowing again, Rhiannon conceded, though she gave the portal one final beleaguered glance, her hand begging to test its weight. Some part of her longed to shove the door and run after Cael… beg him to understand: Her mother would kill him if she suspected.
“Do. Not. Test. Him,” Marcella warned. “You stupid, stupid girl. Count yourself fortunate that he loves you enough to betray himself… if only this once.”
Already, Rhiannon’smagikwas strengthening. She was free—free, at last! All she had to do was turn and walk away. Accept the gift her husband had offered her.
I lied,he’d said.I’ve loved you from the moment you opened your mouth, Rhiannon Pendragon…
Goddess only knew, there wasonereason to stay… and too many to flee… Three very, very important reasons awaited her in England.
Resolved to do what she must, knowing in her heart that it was the right thing to do, Rhiannon turned her back onBlackwood’s portal, making her way down the narrow path after Marcella. “Take these,” Marcella said, turning to hand Rhiannon a pile of clothing. “Tunic and breeches,” she explained. “Leave your gown.” Then, before Rhiannon could object, Marcella’s hands were disrobing her in the woods.
“Won’t they find it?” Rhiannon protested, feeling oddly sentimental about her wedding gown. It was the loveliest dress she’d ever possessed—a bride’s gift from Cael, though not nearly as precious as the other gift he’d laid in her hand early this afternoon: the key to her shackles. If she lingered now, that gift would be squandered and England itself might be doomed…
The sound of her gown renting made Rhiannon wince. “That is precisely the point,” said Marcella. “They’ll send out the dogs first and they’ll find the gown with your true scent. The tunic I gave you has been treated with another.”
Tears scalded Rhiannon’s eyes as she stepped out of her ruined gown, faltering in her step. She was only vaguely aware that Marcella produced a vial and sprinkled the substance over her discarded gown.
Benumbed, and breeze kissed, Rhiannon donned the sour-smelling tunic, and once it fell over her hips, she stopped to tug on the leather chausses, lacing them quickly, never bothering to step out of her slippers.
She was dressed none too soon. As they reached a promontory, they found horses waiting, and Rhiannon noted a second companion, presumably her guide. The lad waited with the reins to their horses in his hands. He handed one to Rhiannon, and said, “I am Jack.”
Marcella wasted no time. She placed Rhiannon’s shackles into her own saddlebag—perhaps realizing that even within proximity the bracelets would siphon hermagik. “There are boots, as well,” she said, pointing to a dark spot in the grass. “Put them on, toss your slippers into your bag.”
As soon as that was done, they were away, on foot, leading the horses down a narrow path by a sliver of moon. Only for good measure, Rhiannon whispered a prayer, but it wasn’t for freedom she prayed—she prayed with all her heart that Morwen wouldn’t wake to harm Cael.
Chapter
Eleven
In slumber, her face was… serene.
The frown lines about her mouth, eased, the creases between her brows, softened. A thousand years may have been erased from her countenance by the curative power of sleep, and in the truest sense, she was, indeed, a sleeping beauty.
And yet, Cael was very aware that, like a viper, she was equally as dangerous. One wrong move and she would sink her fangs into his flesh, and never let go until her venom sucked the life from his veins.
Very, very gingerly, he eased the witch goddess’s limp form from her chair, to the floor. Somehow, her position in the chair had prevented her fall.
Once on the floor, he rolled her over to inspect her more thoroughly.
Clearly, Marcella’s potion was more powerful than she’d anticipated. He had his own vial ready in the palm of his hand, but he paused to assess her face.
It was true; Morwen did resemble her daughter. As with Taliesin, they had the same almond-shaped eyes, the same full lips. The only differences between them were the coloring of their hair, and the contents of their hearts.
And still… here and now… it was so easy to see her as the woman she had once been: Nay, not his master, nor his mistress, but his emancipator, and… at one time… she’d been a friend. As shocking as that might be to some, he hadn’t any outrage in his heart for Morwen… only a burgeoning sense of unease for the cancer in her heart—that hatred that consumed her day by day. But she wasn’t always this way…
In the beginning, there had been moments of reason between her bouts of fury. She’d sat with him on many occasions, baring her heart and woes. Like Cael, she’d returned to this world with a heart full of grief and a drive for vengeance… and, very much like him, she’d also faltered in her mission, every now and again regretting the path that drove her to this end.
In fact, he remembered when she’d first met Henry—the longing in her heart for a love of her own. Contrary to the belief of some, she did not scheme to rule in those days. She’d only wished to be his lover, and she’d tried to befriend Matilda and William, as well, but to no avail.
Alas, she might be a goddess, in truth, but she had a woman’s heart, and the fury of a woman scorned—not once, but thrice.
In fact, in the beginning, she’d been so different that Cael had doubted the rumors he’d heard—most notably, the sinking of the White Ship to murder the King’s heir. But now… he knew her well enough to believe it. And no matter that he felt conflicted, he knew in his heart that he shouldn’t be. His decision should be clear: He should remove theathamefrom around her neck—slowly, circumspectly, he reached for it now, slipping it from beneath her gown.
