On cue, the acolytes set up a new chant, this time a line of words in an ancient, guttural language. They stepped aside as the executioner, aided by two of the guards, all but carried Deri to the crucible. He did nothing to resist, dazed by the shock of what was about to happen, unable to resist his fate. The executioner cut the ties on his hands and attached metal cuffs to his wrists. He and his helpers then pulled hard on the chains so that their victim was hoisted up into a kneeling position at the centre of the great metal dish. The guards stepped back to stand with their mistress. The executioner ripped Deri’s shirt open to expose his chest. The chief acolyte moved forwards, lifting a bottle of sacred oil which he used to anoint the skin of the sacrifice. The chanting of his brethren grew louder. The executioner checked that all was secure and then he too went to stand beside Dragana. Now the acolytes moved forwards, each of them taking hold of the rim of the crucible. They leaned backwards, chanting louder, their hoods falling back to reveal their shaven heads. Even now, as they summoned the Shifting, their flesh darkened, their veins bulging, the whites of their eyestaking on a redness as they spat the words of their evil, deadly song.
Dragana held up her hands, light from the guttering candles catching the blue stone and making it flash. She too sang out an incantation now. Words so ancient their exact meaning could no longer be translated into any modern language, but the very sounds of which made the power and wickedness of their magic plain to all who heard them. As she called out these words, in discordant union with the chanting of the increasingly ecstatic acolytes, Deri’s skin changed colour, taking on a dark purple hue. He gasped as heat pulsed through his body. Instinctively he struggled against his bonds, even though there could be no escape. Now his skin began to blister. He cried out. The acolytes’ chant became faster. Dragana kept her hands stretched out towards him, her own fingers blackened as if by the very fire she was now sending to consume him.
‘We offer this man’s body as a material sacrifice!’ she called out. ‘We offer the soul of a guardian of the witch of the White Shadow as a worthy prize for the Shifting! May the cleansing fire deliver him to it, as ash and spirit, to feed the power of the Shifting and move us all to the pinnacle of that power!’
As she spoke small flames began to take hold of Deri’s clothing and his whole body appeared tosmoulder. The room was filled with the smell of singing flesh and hair. The followers bayed at him in their bloodlust, waiting for the final moment which must surely be imminent.
Deri, showing great reserves of fortitude, raised his head and lifted his eyes up. Even as the fire began to take hold of him, he sang out in his native Welsh, calling on his beloved Queen to deliver him from his torment, put an end to his suffering, and save his soul from damnation. Just when it seemed he was abandoned, the smoke swirling around him seemed to be caught up in a vortex. It spun faster and faster until he was at the centre of clear, clean air. He blinked and his eyes focused on a point in front of him as if he was looking directly at something there. At someone, for then, to the astonishment of the onlookers and the fury of Dragana, he smiled and uttered the single word, ‘Rhiannon!’. Instantly, his eyes closed, his head slumped forwards, the life gone from him, a flash of bright, white light, bathing his ruined body for an instant. When the light ceased and the smoke rushed in to cling to the burning figure in the crucible, it was only a corpse that it burned.
As the followers shrank back, afraid of what they had just witnessed, their earlier certainty and courage shaken by seeing the power of the White Shadow comein to their own stronghold and save the soul of their promised sacrifice, their ears were assailed by Dragana’s scream of rage and frustration.
Tretower, Wales 1490
As she climbed the stairs towards the main bed chamber, Rhiannon took a deep breath and forced herself to wear a smile. In doing so, she breathed in the heady scents of the herbs and flowers which filled the basket on her arm. Rosemary for the floor, to keep off fleas and flies; camomile to make a soothing tea, lavender to aid restful sleep. Simple remedies to ease suffering. The fact that even with all her spell craft and all the power of her fellow witches, she could do no more than this for Tudor, was a cruel truth to accept. But accept it she had. Over the years she had prepared herself for this sorrowful time. Had known that grief would be the price she must pay for love. Had understood the bargain she had made with the witches of the White Shadow all those centuries ago. Knowing this, understanding this, accepting this, did not, however, make it any less painful.
At the top of the stairs she found Tudor’s namesake emerging from the chamber. He had grown from a strong willed boy to a handsome, brave man. He had fulfilled his wish to become a knight and earned great respect among his contemporaries. Both she and Tudor had watched him grow with great pride, bestowing upon him all the love and interest a son might warrant, having no children of their own. Many people had remarked upon the likeness he bore to her husband, though all knew - or thought they knew - his ancestry. Of course, the members of her coven understood. It was a comfort to her that such poignant knowledge was shared with the few people on earth that could understand it. Now, standing before this fine man who had no idea that he shared blood with the knight he idolised, she acknowledged to herself that there would be more comfort than pain in having him close.
‘How is he?’ she asked, pausing with her hand against the warm, worn wood of the door.
‘Weaker. I… do not believe he has much longer.’
She nodded and went inside.
The room was lit by sunlight falling through the three tall windows on the south wall. They were open, so that the summer breeze could air the room. The great four poster bed was the main feature in the space, draped with fine muslin in place of the wintertapestries that would be used for warmth. Tudor lay peacefully, his eyes flickering open as he heard the door open.
‘Rhiannon?’ he asked, reaching out a hand.
She placed the basket on the floor and went to sit on the bed, taking his hand in both of hers, raising it to her lips for a kiss.
‘I am here,’ she said simply.
Tudor closed his eyes again, a small smile brightening his face. She had watched him age slowly, so that the sight of him as a man in his later years did not shock her. It was only his frailty, knowing as she did that it was borne of an illness that would claim him, that moved her so. What troubled her, in the quiet, still water moments of the night when she was alone with her thoughts, was that his being with her had somehow hastened his end. That by living his life with her, helping her fight her battles, he had been brought close to the Shifting and its darkness, so that his health had been damaged, his time shortened.
As if reading her mind, he found the strength to squeeze her hand and speak.
‘What a blessing you are,’ he said. ‘Could any man have asked for a better wife? For a richer life?’
‘I could not give you children.’
‘This house…’ he said slowly, his voice breaking, ‘is filled with our children. It has been a joy to watch them grow. And I know,’ he said, his words faint so that she had to lean close to hear them, ‘…they will care for you now…when I cannot.’
He opened his eyes then and saw through the brave face she presented him. She saw her own reflection in his soulful eyes.
‘I have a gift for you,’ she said, blinking away the tears she had been so determined not to shed in his presence. She began reciting ancient words. Words she had practiced so that she would not stumble when this moment came. As she spoke, she placed a hand on his brow. His skin was hot, damp, the temperature of a man unwell. A man fighting a battle he could not win. She steadied herself and continued, saying the words a little louder now, with as much confidence, as much commitment as she could muster. And all the while he watched her face, listening, curious, calm, unafraid. At last, the incantation complete, she addressed him in English again.
‘With these words, with this blessing, and with all my heart, I give you the gift of remembrance,’ she said.
For a few seconds he looked puzzled but then his expression began to change. Now she watched him, as the spell took hold. It revealed to him that memory, thatknowledge of his first life with her, that had been hidden all this long time. She saw on his face the wonder and the joy as he recalled their very first meeting, their first kiss, their first lovemaking. She saw in his eyes that he experienced again their time together on the wild mountain. Saw him remember their fresh young love and how it had never died.
He was too weak to answer, the light already dimming in his eyes.
Rhiannon leaned forwards and kissed him one more time, her tears falling onto his cheek even as his skin began to cool.
‘Safe journey, my brave knight. Until we meet again, as one day, I promise you, we will,’ she said. And she knew it to be true. She would find him again, however many years it took. But now, and for who knew how long to come, she must go on without him, alone.
London, 2019
It was only when Emily reached the door of the apartment that she remembered her key card was still in her bag, sitting on a lounger, by the pool.
