Celtic Moon (21 page)

“Yes, Mother,” Sulwen added. “It is . . . but we still love you.” Biting her bottom lip, she turned to Sophie; her voice sheepish. “I would ask one more favor of you, and understand if you’re not willing . . .”

“Why don’t you ask me and find out,” Sophie said.

Sulwen nodded as if gaining courage, sneaking a glance toward her mother. “I enjoy living in town. Our cottage is beautiful . . .” She sighed. “But our mum misses Rhuddin Hall.”

“Sulwen,
hush
,” Enid implored.

“Will you speak with Dylan?” she continued with determination. “He may be more . . .
willing
to forgive her punishment if the request comes from you.”

“What about you and Lydia?” Sophie wasn’t sure she wanted to persuade Dylan to change his original decision, especially when it concerned internal matters of his home. Nonetheless, it was the first time any person from his household had asked her for help. “Do you wish to return?”

Encouraged, Enid nodded. “Yes.”

“No,” both daughters replied in unison.

“What?”
Enid turned on them, clearly astonished. “What are you talking about? Of course you want to return.”

Sulwen placed a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. “It’s not like we’ll be living across the country. And we’ll be working together
every
day.”

“It’s time, Mum,” Lydia said softly. “We want to stay in the village.”

“But the Guardians—”

“Have reason to fear us.” Lydia turned lavender eyes on Sophie. “Because your Goddess has chosen to favor our leader.”

 * * * 

R
HUDDIN
H
ALL LACKED THE USUAL BUZZ OF VOICES SINCE
many of the villagers kept to their homes. Dylan led his son through the kitchen, noting Sulwen’s shy smiles when Joshua inquired about dinner.

Enid greeted him with a nod, her expression humble. Well, perhaps not
entirely
humble, but maybe at peace with her situation. For the time being, at least.

“Sophie accepted my apology,” she volunteered before he asked. “She is upstairs with her mother.” A pause. “I was thinking of asking Francine if she would like to help in the kitchen, but didn’t want to offend. Do you have an opinion on the matter?”

Dylan’s eyebrows rose in surprise, anxious to hear Sophie’s version of events if it had prompted Enid to entertain a human working alongside her. “I think the gesture would be welcomed,” he said.

“Then I will ask.”

“Good.” He turned to the sound of feminine laughter, and found Sulwen, with her adoring gaze filled with mischief and promise, hand-spooning cookie dough into his son’s mouth. Lydia glared at her sister with open disgust.

Dylan cleared his throat. “Joshua, follow me, if you would. I have a gift for you.”

Ignoring his son’s guilty flush, Dylan motioned for him to continue down the hallway, and away from treats of more than one variety. Silently, he made a mental note to make time for a certain conversation. Every unmated female in Rhuddin Village may well vie for Joshua’s attention, simply for being his son. But once he shifted . . .

Dylan shook his head, unprepared for this aspect of parenthood.

The pungent scent of lemon oil and vinegar, Enid’s staple cleaners, lingered in the great hall. He paused under the carved entry, holding out his arm for Joshua to enter. Enthusiasm brightened his son’s features, and yet a feeling of impending disaster lingered.

He had more to lose, Dylan realized, with his wife and son back home and the approaching gathering hovering around his family like a poisonous fog of uncertainty.

Not to mention the Guardians. Their silence was at odds with their normal behavior. Shouldn’t they have contacted him by now? Made demands?

The meeting of the guards had gone well this morning. Their defense was as sound as their limited numbers could provide. Dylan had faith in their skill, trusted their honor without question. Unfortunately, their numbers, or lack of, were just cause for concern. The weak, the people who needed protection, outnumbered the strong. His territory was massive, blessedly abundant, and consisted of far more terrain than sixty-two men and women could cover at one time, regardless if they ran as a wolf. Nonetheless, they had planned well, plotted the most vulnerable areas that needed protection. And, Goddess willing, the gathering would prove productive.

But was it enough?

“I don’t need a gift,” Joshua said, interrupting his father’s troubled thoughts.

“You will receive one regardless.” Dylan walked over to the mantel on the far wall where his father’s sword was displayed; copper, iron and glass forged together in unrivaled craftsmanship. “This belonged to your grandfather,
my
father.” He lifted the weapon off its mount along with the iron chain that would secure it around his son’s waist.

“
That’s
for me?” Surprise mingled with awe.

“This weapon is for your protection. I want you to wear it at all times when not in my presence.”

“You’re really giving that to me? It’s mine, like, to keep . . .
forever
?”

Dylan repressed a smile at his eagerness, remembering his own at a younger age of thirteen, a few months before his father was killed—a few months before Merin, heavy with her third child, had lost her sanity along with her mate. “It’s yours until your first born comes of age, then it is my wish, as it was my father’s, that it goes to him.
Or
her.”

“Wow. Yeah. Of course, I’ll do that.” His voice lowered, turned serious. “I promise.”

“It’s Celt-forged, not Roman,” Dylan explained. “Made by our kind. It’s also several inches longer than other weaponry of my father’s time.” He pointed to the curved end, another anomaly. “It was designed with a distinct purpose, to separate your enemy’s head from his or her body. As you know, if you listened to your uncle this afternoon, staking a shifter is pointless.”

He nodded emphatically. “I listened.”

Dylan gently handed the sword over. “It must never fall into human hands. The differences will be noted and questioned.”

“I understand.” He stared down at the sword as if searching for an appropriate reply. “Thanks, Dad.”

Such a modern phrase, but given with heartfelt sincerity. Dylan felt his throat thicken and repeated the same direction his father had given him. “Wear it well, my son. Use this weapon to protect your family . . . Use this weapon to protect the innocent who cannot protect themselves.”

“I will,” Joshua vowed.

A
BERDOVEY
, W
ALES

S
TANDING ON THE NORTH SHORE OF HIS HOMELAND
, Taliesin looked out upon the moon-kissed ocean. His flight had been long and depleting, since he had been confined within a body of metal for over eight hours. Angry winds whipped his long coat around his legs; even the gods were displeased with his mortal choice of travel, when they had given him the power to live beyond human entrapments, to soar in
any
form.

Not that he gave two fucks what
they
thought about his fondness for humanity.

As if in divine answer to his blasphemy, he tasted salt on his tongue and the coppery hint of blood-soaked earth, powerful elements that clung to the back of his throat like an overdone birthday cake. Tempting?

Oh, yes . . .
the power was always tempting, and just as sickening in the aftermath. His so-called “gift” had its own set of fucked-up consequences; it was those he loved most who paid the price for his unnatural existence.

An image of Francine weaved through his mind, fiery and full of life, laughing with the pure joy of the untainted. Heart-burdened, he buried that image away, unable to stomach her fate—a fate rearranged by his own actions, because
he
had chosen to help Sophie.

And Siân, poor Siân . . . May her next life be filled with an armful of healthy children. A mere sixteen years had passed since Siân had scarred Sophie in a stupid act of madness and jealousy. Despite her actions, Siân’s life did not deserve to end under Math’s cruel hand, an unjust fate for misunderstood wrongs.

A turbulent wave crashed upon the shore, pushing an approaching figure closer to the dunes. Thankful for the distraction, he watched the cloaked woman weave her way toward him. She paused by his side, hesitant, an unusual behavior for this formidable ally.

“Merin,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, knowing she would not speak until he did.

“Sin,” she returned with a low curtsy.

“Get up,” he snapped, annoyed. “Humility doesn’t suit you.”

A flash of long golden hair escaped her hood as she rose to his side. She was the mature image of her daughter, though more confident . . .
sensual
. Merin understood the power of her allure, whereas Elen didn’t care.

“When you stand just so,” Merin said, tucking the fallen strand back under her hood, “I wonder if you are contemplating our future . . . or our demise.”

“I fear they may be one and the same.”

She stilled. “So then it is done?”

“Your banner was planted,” he confirmed. “
And
found. Your warning was successful.”

Merin exhaled slowly, her breath a whisper on the wind wrought with possibilities. “Have you seen them?”

It was a common question whenever they met, one he answered freely. “Yes.”

“How are my children?”

“Powerful.”

A satisfied smile turned her lips, reminding him of a mother cat watching her kittens devour their first rodent. Merin had been ruthless in her quest to make her offspring strong, so ruthless that even they did not know her true heart.

“Do they suspect it was I who left the banner?” she asked.

“They assume that it’s a warning from the Guardians, just as they assume that you are one of them.”

“I
am
a Guardian,” Merin professed bitterly. “And must remain one until the timing is right.”

Taliesin snorted. “I would not do your bidding if you were one of
them
.”

She laughed outright, a musical sound that resonated across the beach, skittering on the waves like a fleeting caress. “As if you have ever done my bidding. You listen when it suits you.”

“Did I not kill Madron for you?” He would have done so without Merin’s request, having no stomach for a man who raped children. However, it was in her best interest for him to appear aloof, persuaded on occasion by boredom or fancy, rather than affection. Those he cared about had a tendency to live short lives. Consequently, Madron’s death had been the last time he had wielded the Serpent against a Guardian. He had allowed Elen to watch the execution; innocence was a virtue she could not afford, even as a child.

“Madron needed to die.” Merin shrugged without remorse. “He had tired of Leri and wanted my Elen.”

“Stupid man,” he mused openly, knowing he had granted her too many leniencies over the years. But it was easy to do, if one knew the sacrifices she had made, if one knew the secrets she had kept. “How have the Guardians never suspected the truth about you, Merin?” He shook his head. “How have they not realized that everything you’ve done has been to protect your children?”

“The Guardians are too distracted with their own needs,” she pointed out. “Whereas you see too much.”

“You’ll get no argument from me there,” he said dryly.

Hugging her cloak around her chest, Merin stared into the distance. “Will you tell me about my grandson?”

“If you wish.” His thoughts roamed an ocean away. In his mind’s eye he saw Dylan and Joshua, walking toward the Great Oak on Katahdin. The others followed a short distance away, with hundreds more in the forest, waiting, hopeful. A slight ache tugged at his heart, for Sophie looked none too pleased. He missed them still.

Not allowing Merin to know his dangerous attachment to her offspring, he schooled his voice and guarded his words. “Sophie has returned to Dylan by her own choosing. Your son and grandson have been reunited.” He paused, dropping his voice to a mere whisper, fearing the wind would carry his news to unwelcomed ears. “Joshua is going to run as a wolf tonight.”

Merin closed her eyes briefly in a rare show of emotion. As if called by her tempestuous spirit, a gust of wind thrashed her hood, revealing the prominent features of a Celt, fierce and proud. Laughing, she lifted her chin and spread her arms wide; she absorbed the power of the ocean, letting the salt air wash over her. Her hood fell back and long golden strands flew around her face, a wild beauty magnificent to behold.

“The Council meets tonight,” she said, composed once again with a plotting light in her silver-blue gaze. “When the others learn Dylan has sired a shifter, they will demand control of his territory. I suspect they will go to Castell Avon in the White Mountains, with Math and Rosa Alban’s cooperation. Until now, they’d assumed Rosa was the last shifter born.”

“Don’t concern yourself with Math and Rosa.”

“I will concern myself with whoever brings danger near my children! Math is
Gwarchodwyr Unfed
, loyal to the Council, as is Rosa’s aunt. Not to mention,” she continued on a familiar rant, “the White Mountains of New Hampshire are close to Dylan’s territory.” Agitated by worry, she began to pace. “Rosa is weak. She agreed to marry Math with no resistance.” She turned abruptly to glare at Taliesin. “Do you know what the Council has planned for her this coming Beltane,
with
Math’s approval I might add?”

“I know what they have planned,” he reminded her.

She made a disgusted sound low in her throat. “Three hundred years married to that vile creature is more misery than any woman should endure in silence, even one as meek as Rosa.”

Inwardly, Taliesin shared her sentiment of Math, but not of his young wife. “You of all women should never misinterpret silence as meekness. Rosa is strong enough to endure what is to come.” He purposely veered the conversation back to Dylan, the only topic that would distract her sharp mind. “And you’ve warned your children, Merin. Because of the banner, they now know the Guardians are coming. You have given them time to prepare.”

“Yes, but is it enough?”

“Dylan has organized a gathering with all the leaders not loyal to the Council.” Taliesin wanted to offer more reassurance but feared changing the course of events even further than he already had.

“This is good news.” Merin calmed, turned thoughtful. “Let’s hope the others listen. Or the Council will destroy us all in their quest for power. They think this is about land, about ownership of the earth that belongs to no one. They’ve forgotten that our gift is given—
not
taken.”

Taliesin reached down and enclosed her small hands within his. Her skin was cold with fear, provoking him to share a private assumption, an idea conceived by a simple question from her son. “Dylan asked me why I thought Joshua was chosen over all the others.”

She pulled her hands from his grasp and tucked them into her cloak. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing of significance,” Taliesin said, keeping his real response to himself out of respect. “But I’ve come to realize Ceridwen may have a personal bias toward women who are ruthless when it comes to protecting their children.”

Like the goddess Herself,
he thought bitterly,
my mother.
His story was not much different from Dylan’s, the very reason, he supposed, he felt compelled to help this family.

“I hate it when you talk in riddles,” she said, sounding much like her son. “What are you insinuating?”

He spoke plainly. “I believe your children are powerful because of you. I believe Joshua will shift tonight because of Sophie.” He shrugged. “I believe Ceridwen favors mothers who make wrong decisions but with a pure heart.”

Merin’s brow furrowed with annoyance. “How have my decisions been wrong when my children still live?”

“Exactly,” he said, knowing Sophie had the very same mind-set; two different women with the same tenacious objective. Was it a coincidence that their children were rewarded?

He thought not. “I know your heart weeps for them, Merin. One day your children will know the truth.”

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, “but will they ever forgive me for what I have done?”