Fire Song Read online

  Fire Song

  Tanya Anne Crosby

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 Tanya Anne Crosby

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

  © 2019 Cover Art by Cora Graphics

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Series Bibliography

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Connected Series

  Also by Tanya Anne Crosby

  About the Author

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  Series Bibliography

  A brand-new series

  Daughters of Avalon

  The King’s Favorite

  The Holly & the Ivy

  A Winter’s Rose

  Fire Song

  Rhiannon

  Elemental Magik

  I have been a multitude of shapes before I assumed this form: I was a drop of rain in the air; I was the brightest of stars…

  Taliesin

  Prologue

  Darkwood Inn, July 1148

  Moonlight shone off the oily contents of an ornately carved tub, making the substance darker under its silvery light.

  From a dark corner of the foul-smelling room came a persistent rap, tap, tap. This was Bran—Morwen’s familiar—though it was impossible to say what the filthy bird could be doing. There were no lamps lit to chase away the shadows, nor even a stingy taper, and it was perhaps to her mother’s delight that her three youngest daughters sat shivering on a dirty bed in the darkness.

  What in the name of the Goddess did she expect they would do? Burn down the inn?

  For certes, any one of them could do so without a candle. But even as frightened as they were, they would never, ever endanger innocent lives. There were others in residence here at Darkwood.

  Rap, tap. Rap, tap, rap. Rap. Tap.

  Instinctively, the three sisters huddled closer. Soiled and greasy as the sheets must be, they daren’t leave its sanctuary. Not only was the room cold and dark, but the scent of something pungent and disturbingly familiar filled Seren with a terrible foreboding. It was a feeling she couldn’t ignore, for in itself, intuition was a form of magik, ancient as the world was old. According to their grandmamau all men, no matter their blood, had a sense for such things. At the moment, her own sense of intuition was like a mantle of gloom, dark and oppressive.

  How wrong she had been about their mother—how very wrong. For so long Seren had convinced herself that, deep down, their mother must love them—as any mother should. She had convinced herself that once Morwen found herself a proper benefactor she would send for her daughters, and then, they would all live happily ever after. Only now she realized… that was a fool’s dream… a child’s desperate fantasy. Morwen’s disdain for her children couldn’t be more apparent. It was tangible, evidenced by the curl of her lip whenever she deigned to acknowledge them. And yet, the truth was difficult to bear: Their mother loathed them, and whatever plans she had for them now, they would suit Morwen and no other.

  Rap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap…. tap.

  Silence met Bran’s application—a silence so complete Seren couldn’t even hear her sisters breathing.

  Even if they were brave enough to attempt an escape, it would be impossible with those two burly guards posted outside their door. In the overwhelming gloom of this room, she couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her face, much less a means for escape.

  And… no matter that they were alone, save for that dreary old bird, Seren couldn’t shake the awful feeling they were being watched…

  Rap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap.

  “It’s just a bird,” she said aloud.

  For her sisters’ sakes, she refused to be cowed. They were Pendragons, descended of Welsh kings. But more, she and her sisters were the last living dewines born of the blood of Taliesin, the great Merlin of Britain. They were true daughters of Avalon, children of the Earth Mother and maidens pledged to the hud. And despite that their mother believed them without wit or will, they had skills, thanks to dear, defiant Rhiannon, who was led from their cottage last night with hands bound and a length of rope about her neck, like a bloody hound.

  Much to their dismay, they hadn’t seen her since. The very instant she was wheeled away, their mother ushered them into one of Ersinius’ wagons and spirited them here, to this decrepit little inn surrounded by dark, twisty woods. And then, immediately upon arrival, their mother’s sycophant, Mordecai, led them up the stairs, leaving Morwen downstairs to barter with the innkeeper.

  Hours later, the shock of their ordeal was slowly subsiding, but uncertainty bridled their tongues, until finally, Arwyn dared to breach the silence. “Where do you think they will take her?”

  There was no need to ask of whom she spoke… even without mindspeaking, they were thinking the same thing. “I know not,” answered Rosalynde.

  Seren rubbed her left arm, at the very spot where Mordecai’s fingers had gripped her flesh so meanly. “I heard tell Blackwood.”

  “Blackwood?” asked both her sisters in unison.

  Equally confused by the disclosure, Seren shrugged. Only Elspeth had ever seen their familial estate, built high in the Black Mountains. It was served now by a new lord—one of King Stephen’s known assassins—but it was Elspeth, not Rhiannon, who had been promised to that lord.

  Like Avalon, the castle and its lands were now lost to them forevermore because of their mother’s greed, but evidently, Morwen had a plan to retrieve it.

  “What kind of beast would accept a bride delivered by tumbril?” asked Rosalynde.

  Arwyn retorted. “What kind of mother delivered her so?”

  “A mean, greedy witch,” answered Seren.

  And, aye, she’d meant to use that word with all the disgust most commoners felt for it. Witch.

  It was a very good thing Elspeth fled the priory when she did, else she might ne
ver have gone, and even now if she learned of Rhiannon’s fate, Seren had little doubt her eldest sister would return. After all, Ellie had been more a mother to them than Morwen ever was, and she would never have left them if she had known what travesty would befall them.

  On the other hand, Rhiannon must have known something. She had been so insistent that Elspeth leave, and once Elspeth was gone… everything changed.

  As life happened, her sister claimed, nothing occurred without consequence. There was a price to be paid for every decision made. Seren’s only consolation was that Rhiannon must have understood her fate. She must have known that she would be expected to take Ellie’s place… but to what end?

  It was only after the rap, tap, tapping began again that she realized they’d been blessed with an interval of silence—silence enough to allow her to think clearly.

  But now the bird pecked more ardently at some unseen morsel, giving Seren a shiver as she listened.

  It was a long, long time before Morwen returned, and when she did, she wore a smile as black as her heart.

  Carrying a torch, Morwen waltzed into the room like a cat who’d swallowed a mouse, and it was only then, by the light of her flickering torch, that Seren saw what it was that Bran was pecking at… bits of raw flesh. Blood stained the floor where he pranced. Her stomach roiled, but she daren’t look at her sisters for fear that one of them might sob.

  For the moment, ignoring her daughters, Morwen gazed fondly at her hideous bird. “Has my sweet pet been entertaining you with his supper?” she crooned, more to the bird than to any one of her daughters. “My beautiful boy.”

  As the girls watched, she placed her torch into a cresset, and then, still smiling, she flicked open a small compartment on her ancient ring, then moved toward the tub, turning the contents into the dark liquid. Only then, once this was done, she met Seren’s gaze, and like a lover tempting a man, she removed her gown. Convulsively, Seren swallowed, desperate to look away, only self-preservation kept her eyes affixed on her mother. Once bared, she slid her nubile body into the tub, wading into the glistening liquid, and then, sat, like a seductress bathing in oils.

  But it was not oil, Seren realized belatedly.

  It was blood.

  Dark as a plum.

  Horrified, she watched as Morwen painted her lips with the oily substance, then, thoroughly amused by Seren’s expression, she giggled, and giggled… and giggled… and then she began to sing:

  When thy father went a-hunting,

  A spear on his shoulder, a club in his hand,

  He called the nimble hounds,

  ‘Giff, Gaff; catch, catch, fetch, fetch!’

  1

  Dover, June 1, 1149

  The skies were blue again, streaked with wispy, white clouds that were moving too fast to cluster.

  With plenty of wind to fill the sails, the harbor was bustling with last-minute preparations—supplies being hauled onto ships, deckhands inquiring after work.

  Adding to the mayhem, the Maritime Market was teeming, drawing merchants and customers to the Saturday Feria after more than a sennight of storms.

  Considering his best course of action, Wilhelm Fitz Richard stood chewing on a length of straw. Tall as he was—six-feet-five and weighing more than sixteen stone—it had been teasing the pate of his head, and rather than move aside, he’d wrenched the offending tuft from the awning and slid it between his lips, hoping to deceive his brain into forgetting about his complaining belly.

  By now he was ravenous, and to make matters worse, the scent of fowl roasting somewhere nearby was making his mouth water and his thoughts go astray. Truth to tell, he hadn’t enjoyed a good repast since leaving Warkworth, but so much as he craved a fat, juicy bird leg, he wasn’t about to leave his post… not yet. He had a feeling in his gut that time was growing as thin as those clouds.

  Two months ago, Arwyn and Seren Pendragon fled the palace in London. Best as anyone could surmise, they’d slipped away during the wee hours, very likely on the day their sister Rosalynde stole his brother’s horse.

  Fate was such a trickster, twisting circumstances every which way and that. Inexplicably, they’d abandoned one Pendragon in London only to escort another one north. And then, after all was said and done, his brother forsook his intended, only to lose his heart to her sister.

  Wilhelm couldn’t blame Giles, not really. Somehow, despite his bitter loathing for their mother, Wilhelm himself had developed a soft spot for Rosalynde. That was why he was here, now, searching for her bloody sisters.

  Thinking it only naturally the direction they would go, he’d wasted weeks searching north. Stephen controlled nearly every port save Bristol, and so it had surprised him to learn their trail wended south instead, ending here, then going as cold as a witch’s tatty thereafter.

  So, it seemed, the sisters were slippery as wet eels, and knowing Rosalynde so well as he did, he suspected Arwyn and Seren must be using magik to avoid capture—magik he didn’t particularly comprehend, though he’d witnessed firsthand what it could do. God’s truth, if aught plagued him more than the memory of his decimated kinsmen, it was the memory of the Shadow Beast they’d encountered a few months ago in the woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey. To this very day he hadn’t any clue how they’d defeated the hideous creature, and no matter how many times Rosalynde explained it, he couldn’t wrap his brain about the doing of it—something about binding and transmutation, things he might never have dreamt of in his worst night terrors… leastways not before seeing it. Strange as it might seem, he owed his life to a slip of a girl, and God save him if he should ever encounter another.

  Nipping at the straw, considering all the ships in the harbor, his best guess was this: If he were in their shoes, he might seek sanctuary with the Empress in Rouen. And, if this be the case, as a matter of conjecture, they must be aboard one of those larger cogs—the Whitshed perhaps.

  Today, there were only three ships large enough to navigate the open sea—the Whitshed, the Achéron and the Cassiopé. The largest of these, the Whitshed, was owned by a known conspirator—a man who, though he remained suspect to the crown, was well protected by the Church, else his lands would have long been forfeit by now.

  On the other hand, the captains of the other two vessels—the Achéron and Cassiopé—were fiercely loyal to the Crown. Even now, the Achéron harbored an emissary en route to St. Omer to bargain with Canterbury’s exiled archbishop, Theobald of Bec. Perforce, Stephen would have Theobald crown his son though he still lived, though evidently, Theobald would rather keep his exile than put Eustace on England’s throne. That was a good thing, because Wilhelm was like to commit treason if that fool was ever confirmed. As it was, it was all he could do not to take a torch to the royal palace and burn it to the ground.

  Wasn’t that what scripture ordained—an eye for an eye?

  Aye, well… one day he still might.

  One day he’d like to see every man and woman responsible for the slaughter of his kinsmen pay for their sins, and, aye, that included Rosalynde’s wretched mother, Morwen Pendragon.

  He bloody well wasn’t afraid of her—or at least that’s what he told himself every night before closing his eyes.

  I’ll see your skin turn black till it slips off your bones.

  As it was with his loved ones.

  All these months later, the memory threatened to purge his belly and ruin his appetite. God’s truth, no matter how many years he lived, he would never forget… that stench… seared flesh. The eye-stinging smoke and ash that turned the landscape gray. Wilhelm had been the youngest of his father’s sons, except for Giles, and in one fell swoop, he’d become the eldest, with two half-sisters gone, and an older brother as well. Only Wilhelm and Giles had survived, and only because neither were present at the time.

  Pulling the straw between his teeth, he studied the Whitshed… he couldn’t very well force his way aboard. If he tried, or even if he approached the situation with candor, and he was wrong about
the captain’s allegiance, it could very well alert the Crown of his intentions. Not only would he give away the sisters’ location, it could bring undue attention to Warkworth—attention they could ill afford whilst Giles was busy conspiring with Matilda.

  This was delicate business, but come what may, he’d sworn to find Rosalynde’s sisters and see them safely returned to Warkworth and that’s what he meant to do. Only he would need their trust. It would serve no one for him to go barging aboard that vessel to drag them away perforce.

  Watching the deckhands trek from ship to ship, he thought perhaps he could inquire about work, perhaps ask to inspect the sleeping quarters… but, nay, that wouldn’t do. There were more than enough willing and able bodies who didn’t give a bloody damn about sleeping arrangements, so long as they had a belly full of victuals and a pocket full of coin. They were far more likely to turn him away.

  But perhaps he could feign business with the captain…

  He knew enough about Airard’s history to know how to begin: As it so happened, his namesake and grandsire was the captain of the Mora, the flagship of The Conqueror’s invading fleet, and judging by the simple fact that he’d followed in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps (even despite that his own father also found his fate at the bottom of a salt-sea), meant that he was sure to be vain about his legacy. He could find a way to flatter the man, and then perhaps determine if the Pendragon sisters were aboard his ship. Alas, Wilhelm wasn’t as sophisticated as Giles; lies tasted bitter to his tongue.