Chapter 15

15

G wendolyn's eyes fluttered open to discover a beloved face peering down at her, a soft smile playing upon familiar lips…

Bryn.

A little hairier, his dark hair longer and scruffier, but he was a sight to behold, and Gwendolyn couldn't help herself—tears of relief slid through her lashes, crept down her cheeks, salting her lips.

Words failed her.

"Oh, nay," said Bryn quickly, his tone full of affection, and Gwendolyn swallowed convulsively. She could not fail to note that it was always Bryn who'd caught her when she fell—Bryn who patted her head and told her all would be well.

The first time her father ever placed her upon a horse, slapping its rear to run free with Gwendolyn in the saddle… she'd tumbled headlong into a ravine. It was Bryn who'd hurled himself after her, whilst her father had stood waiting to greet them with smiles upon their return. No one but Bryn ever saw her tears.

He was the brother she'd never had.

Reaching out, he gently swiped the pad of his thumb beneath her eye, dragging it across her cheek, wiping her tears. "Do not cry," he said. "All is well, Gwendolyn." And then he seized her hand, squeezing gently.

Gwendolyn squeezed back. "Where am I?" she dared ask, fearing the worst. She tried to sit, groaning against the stiffness in her limbs, and it was then she had the chance to note her surroundings—the soft muted light, the thinning of the air that gave one a sense of height. The Druid village, but how?

"We found you near the cairn," he said. "We brought you here to tend to, but I swear, we found nothing amiss. Still, you gave us a scare."

Nothing broken? Gwendolyn furrowed her brows. That was difficult to believe when she felt as though she'd been shoved into a meal sack and pounded by clubs. "How long…"

"Last night," said Lir, making his presence known as he, too, approached the bed, clearing his throat. "He speaks true. I inspected you myself. No broken bones, no injuries at all."

"And Málik?"

Gwendolyn couldn't help it; it was the first thing that leapt to her mind, but Lir shook his head, his smile fading.

"He… is… gone," said Bryn, glancing down at their joined hands. "Esme, as well." The look on his face was sorrowful, and Gwendolyn's face fell, too.

Instead of shoving her through the portal, had Málik but intended to drive her to her death? Complete the task he'd been given by his king? Leave her for dead in the weeds below the village? "Gone?" she whispered, and Bryn nodded, reaching up to tug a wisp of golden hair from between her dry lips.

"Have I accomplished nothing? Was it only a fevered dream?"

The question appeared to take Bryn aback. His head cocked backward, like a chicken. "Dream?" he asked, blinking. He stared a moment before shaking his head.

"No dream," reassured Emrys as he came forth now, bearing the proof of Gwendolyn's quest—a shining, runic-inscribed sword that was polished till it gleamed. He bore it atop a pelt of clean, white fur, holding it before him as he grinned. "Of course, we could not return it in the condition we found it."

Gwendolyn gaped at the sword, blinking, her mind slow to clear, confusion and sorrow twisting like vines through her heart as she remembered the horror of the moment she'd wielded it against Aengus…

Emrys cackled happily. "I have never seen its like!" he said giddily, gazing down at the sword. But he could not know what that weapon had cost her. In the end, she might be victorious, but Aengus' death had come at the cost of a piece of her soul—she'd lost in the win.

Glancing down at the foot of her bed, she spied the cloak Arachne made for her, and tears pricked at her eyes.

It was all true?

Arachne and the Púca?

The trolls—Yavo and Razi?

Her visage in the pond?

The Fae king?

Manannán…

"You did it," said Bryn joyfully, tugging at his fledgling beard—weeks' worth of growth, though it seemed to Gwendolyn that she had only just left him. "You well and truly did it, Gwendolyn. Gone two moons! We thought you'd never return."

His expression sobered a moment, and his tone was no longer so exuberant. "And then, when Málik and Esme left us as well, without a by your leave, we were quite certain this foreshadowed the worst."

Gwendolyn nodded. Yes, of course, they were together… Málik and Esme. Because she saw them at the Fae court, hands joined. And even if they had been pretending, that kiss Málik bestowed upon her cheek, that caress… it bespoke more than friendship. That kind of enmity only sprang from the deepest of love—lovers spurned or betrayed.

For a moment, Gwendolyn didn't know what to say. If, indeed, she had sacrificed Málik's love for that sword… that price was too much to bear. She had dared so much to hope that his betrayal was only spurred by his love for her.

"We kept the faith," assured Emrys as he laid the sword across her lap, but Gwendolyn recoiled from it, not daring to touch it for fear that it might burn—or not. Which case would be worse she didn't know!

Blood and bones. Would she still be worthy of the sword after taking the Fae king's life? "So it's true?" she whispered brokenly. "All of it?"

Bryn shrugged. "All we know is that we found you holding that bloodied sword. Whose blood it bore, I cannot say, but I may guess. Alas, more than that, I do not know. I cannot say what is true or what is not…"

Gwendolyn nodded jerkily, more tears forming—some perhaps tears of joy, and some relief, with much regret—all threatening to choke her breath.

Later, she would tell them everything—later, not now. At the moment, she could scarcely bear to even think of the truth, much less speak it aloud.

She slew the Fae king.

She did.

And now, what of Esme and Málik? Did they no longer have need of her? Had Gwendolyn served her purpose—to end Aengus' reign? And now they would disdain her? After all, Aengus was Esme's father, and no matter what they might have felt for each other, they shared the same blood. And Málik was his ward. Gwendolyn's head swam with everything she had learned… every bit true.

"Please… do not weep," begged Bryn. "You have the sword," he cajoled. "This is what you wished for, after all. Now, you can take it north, wield it before your grandfather—proof you were born to lead!"

Gwendolyn nodded, finding it too difficult to speak for the lump in her throat—so much heartache, so much fury, so much death. But Bryn spoke true. That sword had been her one true desire for so long—above everything, and everyone… including Málik . And now that he was gone, she must take that sword north— alone .

With an entourage of… two ?

Now that they no longer had Esme or Málik, she could not imagine risking Lir, and so… it should be her and Bryn. But, yes, it was true that the sword was their salvation, and she found a glimmer of hope amid her despair.

Smiling through her tears, Gwendolyn couldn't help but feel an immense sense of gratitude towards Bryn—for his undying loyalty and his love that never faltered.

"Máistir Emrys! Máistir Emrys!" came a frantic shout, and Gwendolyn's gaze lifted to the doorway, along with everyone else's in the room.

Harri stood, with his cheeks bright red, his eyes alight with excitement, and for a moment, Gwendolyn was surprised that Emrys had changed his mind about relinquishing his position in her absence, and then Harri said, "You must come!" And then, noticing Gwendolyn was awake, he said once more, peering in her direction. "All of you!"