Page 102 of The Thornwyck Rose

Seren laughed softly, brushing Vala’s cheek with her thumb. The orchard light crowned her daughters in gold—more precious than any dowry.

She looked at each of them—Aveline, quiet and thoughtful; Vala, bold and wild; Elen, ever the joy-bringer; and Cari, the bright adventurer.

She committed them to memory. Their giggles. Their muddy hems. The way the sun threaded rubies through their dark hair.

If this was the last spring she had with them, she would remember this moment and hoped they did too. She hoped that whatever future they had, if it was likely to be hard like hers, they could remember this time as she remembered the Marches, giving her soul light in the darkness. It was the most challenging part of being a mother to daughters, knowing their lives would end up the same, or worse, than her own, and knowing she was powerless to change it.

She reached out, gathering all four girls into her arms and pulling David and Ragnar in, too.

“Never forget this day,” she whispered to all six children. “No matter what comes.”

XXXVI

THE FADING VALKYRIE

THE WELSH MARCHES, OCTOBER 1099

The sky was ash.

Seren stood over Erik, dressed in armor, her long raven hair swept back, blown by the wind, but her garments remained still. She wiped the sweat from his brow with a hand that shook from love restrained too long.

"Rise, warrior," she whispered, her voice deep yet ethereal. “I choose you.”

Erik murmured her name.

“Seren.”

She bent low, cupped his face in her hands. Their lips brushed, the memory of a kiss stolen by time—and then she faded.

"Seren," he rasped, reaching for her.

But his hand found only shadow.

A man’s voice cut through the haze. “This one calls for Seren.”

He couldn’t swallow. He tried to say her name again. His arm trembled as he reached for the place she had disappeared.

“Head wound,” someone said gruffly.

“Valkyrie,” he mumbled. “Come back, Seren.”

A voice again. “Take him to camp.”

Hands grabbed his wrists and dragged him through the dirt. His vision blurred. A shadow ripped his helmet from his head.

Was he standing, kneeling, or lying down? The world was black and blurred and upside down.

“Seren,” he whispered again—the only name his lips could form.

A shadow slammed into his gut. “Stop saying her name.”

He doubled over from the rush of pain.

“Take his weapons, strip him to his trousers, leave him in the keep’s dungeon till he wakes from his wandering.”

The urge to vomit rose to the top of his throat. Shadows stripped him to his trousers. The October cold bit his skin.

“Pagan marks!” The rough voice ripped through his ears.