Page 97 of Arise the Queen
“Where will you go?” Habren asked, his voice steady.
Gwendolyn replied simply, her voice soft. “To heal my heart,” she said.
Bryn and Taryn looked at one another, then at Gwendolyn. They, more than anyone, understood her love for Málik.
“Gwen…” Bryn began, but she threw up a hand to hush him.
“I am decided,” she said, her tone gentle but firm—leaving no room for argument. Habren gulped another breath. And, as though on cue, he drew Kingslayer from its scabbard and held out the sword to her.
“Then we shall bid farewells with honor,” he said, his voice echoing through the cavern, and even as he spoke, the sun descended, and the alcove’s flame burst to life.
Gwendolyn would not be here to see him crowned, and she had already presented the sword with ceremony. She knew this was for him, and so she nodded, stepping forward, placing her hands over Habren’s on the hilt of his Kingslayer. A torch symbolically passed. Behind her, the Dragon’s flame flickered impatiently, casting long dancing shadows across the cavern walls.
The flame, too, would fade through the years. Already, it had dimmed, and Gwendolyn, in the beginning, had believed it her responsibility to remain in the city to keep it burning, but Habren was Málik’s blood, and therefore the fire in Dragon’s Lair should not extinguish during his lifetime.
If, perhaps, he found a bride, and sired children, those children would be keepers as well.
“Remember all I have taught you,” she whispered lovingly to him. “Remember, you must lead with fairness and humility. Our kingdom needs a powerful leader—and you have strength within.”
Habren nodded, his blue eyes shimmering. He peered at Bryn and then Taryn, seeking their reassurances. They nodded back, quietly offering him their unwavering support. “We will serve him as we served you,” said Bryn. “If art certain…”
Gwendolyn looked long and hard at her dear old friend, grateful for everything he had done for her—grateful for his love and his service. “I have never been more certain,” Gwendolyn reassured.
And there, under a veil of lowering night and against the pounding of waves below, she bestowed the kiss of peace upon Habren’s brow—no longer merely her son, but the rightful King of Cornwall.
But she wasn’t through.
She now took the sword that remained in her free hand—the Sword of Light bequeathed to the mortal kings by the Sons of Míl—and pulled away the cloth before turning and lifting the sword high. At once, it burst into flame, but taking her queue from Aengus, she struck the sword down into the altar with the Dragon’s flame, embedding the ancient steel so deeply into the slab of granite that gooseflesh erupted on her flesh at the sound of metal grating against stone.
And here it would remain…
“Someday a new prince will come who will be king. Until that day,Claímh Solaisshall rest here,” she said, and even as they stood watching, the sword changed, the runic inscriptions flickering, remaking themselves, the letters shaping and reshaping until they settled with a new runic inscription in a familiar tongue…
Caledfwlch.
Cut steel.
Gwendolyn smiled, gazing at them one last time before making her way out of the cave and down to the beach, feeling as spry as she had on the day she’d first climbed to the alcove. With sure steps, she found her way down to the rocks, from where she could make her way through the tunnel where she’d first realized her mistake in promising herself to Locrinus. Emerging on the other side of the cliff on the beach below the alcove, she hurried towards the tide line where an old boat waited, and the name etched on that boat wasSguaba Tuinne—The Wave Sweeper.
She smiled at the old man seated within, then turned to Bryn, Taryn, and Habren and waved, before climbing aboard, wondering how in the name of the Ancients this tiny skiff would survive the tumultuous sea, and yet certain that it would—even more so that she was leaving Cornwall in capable hands.
The portals were all closed, but there was still one place that could see her to her destination, and after many months of missives between them, Manannánhad come.
The old man sat, his grin like the sharp curve of a crescent moon, his long, white beard cascading down to his chest in thick, unruly waves. He sat like a wise, old sage, his gaze deep and unfathomable as the sea. But his eyes twinkled with mischief as he grinned, revealing a gleaming set of porbeagle teeth and on the seat beside him sat the cat-sidhe, who lifted one eyelid, fixed Gwendolyn with it, and said, “I told you she’d come about.” To Gwendolyn, he offered a loud, bored yawn, then he closed his eyes as she took her seat, adding with a note of sleepy sarcasm. “She is not such a stupid girl.”
The boat rocked gently as the waves swept beneath it, and with a quick wink to Gwendolyn, the old man set his gnarled, old hands on the oars, pushing off from the shore.
And in that moment, the winds stirred, filling their sails, and a warm gust propelled the boat to sea.
To her destiny…
To Málik…
