Chapter 45

45

TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER

G wendolyn's face was only beginning to show lines at the corners of her eyes and her mouth, but age was nevertheless making its claim. The wide-eyed wonder of her youth had long-since faded, replaced with a more thoughtful gaze. But, today, as she stood on the palace steps, watching the pair sparring against a horizon bathed in hues of orange and lavender, she thought she felt the slightest hint of magic in the air—in the bold hues of a perfect sunset that crept so beautifully over the distant seas. As she stood watching, her heart filled with a soft ache—not of sadness or regret but of remembrance. She couldn't help but recall her own years spent in such camaraderie—the thrill of swordplay, and the companionship that came from so many years of training side by side. For a moment, her fingers longed for the weight of a sword, and the rough caw of her sparring partner's voice as he called out her next maneuver. The wind lifted, whipping her loose hair about her shoulders, and she shivered against the brisk evening air, lifting the old cloak she still wore. Arachne's weave was soft and comforting as ever—like Gwendolyn, it withstood the test of time. Gwendolyn had only had two sparring partners in all her life, and one was down there tonight, sparring with Habren, and the other… well, she hadn't seen in too many years.

A feeling like butterflies tickled her belly when the messenger came to deposit the vellum in her hands. Carefully, excitedly, eager to read the letter, she untied the letter's bindings, placing the ribbons in her pocket, and then slowly unrolled the parchment, reading every word with a sparkle in her blue eyes, and she smiled.

Today was as good as any day.

When Taryn came to stand by her side, quietly watching the pair in the Mester's Pavilion, Gwendolyn felt a burgeoning sense of peace. She rolled up the parchment, placing it beneath her armpit. "They are still at it," she said to Taryn.

Watching her son spar with such vigor gave her a sense of pride and she could see him as the King he would become—emerging from the boy she had raised.

There was still work to be done, but he had a strong Konsel to guide him and surrogate parents in Bryn and Taryn.

Throughout these twenty-two years, she had watched life unfold in its myriad forms—loss and laughter, tears and triumphs. She had by now buried Demelza and wept for losing dear friends. Her hands, once smooth and supple as fresh cream, now bore the marks of decades spent in labor for the care of the child she had groomed to take her place. Habren was now twenty and five—a handsome young lad with a sharp mind and a heart as vast as the Endless Sea.

Whilst he had his mother's bright blue eyes, in his own eyes shone that same fiery determination Gwendolyn's once held. He was not a boy any longer, but now a man grown, tried and tested by time and circumstance. Like hers, his childhood had been filled with dreams of adventure, nurtured by tales of magic spun by those who most adored him. But as he grew older, those dreams gradually transformed into a deep-rooted purpose—to protect what he held dear. In him, the people of Trevena saw a future king who would defend and keep them.

Tonight, sparring with Bryn in the Mester's Pavilion, every swipe of his blade was fluid and purposeful, his moves strong, his parries swift. On his birthday, she had presented him with that sword. Kingslayer was his now and with it, he was poised to inherit the weight of the myrtle crown. Even now, the blade cast a brilliant gleam against the fading light and his instinct was remarkable.

The persistent clang of swords echoed across the courtyard, the sound punctuated by Bryn's approving grunts. A sheen of sweat dampened Habren's brow, sparkling against the twilight sun as his silver hair clung to his forehead. Fatigue was far from him and his eyes—those brilliant blue spheres—burned with resolve. Bryn would find him no easy match tonight, or any other.

"Fine form!" Bryn called between lunges and counterstrikes. He was an old bear now, but still strong. He would have many more years remaining, and though he and Taryn had never born children together, Habren was as much theirs as he was Gwendolyn's.

She let loose a soft sigh as she watched Habren disarm Bryn with a final triumphant strike, and her heart swelled with pride. She clapped with glee.

He was ready.

Today was the day.

The echoes of swords clashed only once more as Habren raised his blade high, his victory echoing through the Mester's Pavilion and beyond.

Beside Gwendolyn, Taryn laughed. "He'll never live that one down," she said, and Gwendolyn nodded, emotion catching in her throat.

"Bryn will live," she said, and suddenly, she had no more banter to give. She had waited long enough, and her heart could not spend another day without Málik's love.

She waited with Taryn another moment, and when Bryn and Habren climbed the steps to greet them, she instructed Habren to fetch her Sword—the one they'd placed in the treasury for safekeeping. " The sword?" he asked, his brows lifting. Gwendolyn nodded but didn't tell him why, and then she waited for Habren to return, carrying the Sword of Light with quiet reverence, its blade shimmering against the twilight, the waning sun reflecting within the runes etched into its metal. But though he held it with bare hands, it wasn't burning.

But he was not her blood.

She took the sword gently from his hands, careful not to allow her flesh to touch the metal, adjusting the cloth under which it had lain so long so she could carry it by its hilt without inspiring the flame.

With this sword, Gwendolyn would pass her legacy, and in doing so, relinquish her time here as queen. Habren would lead, but she must go.

She had been considering this for some time, and as she'd dressed this morning, anticipating another messenger, she'd chosen her mother's Prydein gown—symbolic, considering that the last time she'd donned this gown was during her flight from Loegria, and not a moment since.

She beckoned Bryn, Taryn, and Habren to the alcove above Dragon's Bay, where she and Bryn used to hide together, and there, against the seascape that had borne witness to all her mortal years, she said, "Tonight, I intend to go. It is time for you to lead, Habren."

He stood there quietly, tears welling in his eyes, but did not let them fall. If he would be king, he could not afford the weakness of tears. He gazed at Gwendolyn, the only mother he remembered, his mentor, his guide, with an understanding beyond his years, and for a moment, Gwendolyn wavered.

Goodbyes were difficult, so she would not say them—not to him, nor to Bryn. Not to her mother, nor to Lady Ruan, nor to Ely. All this time she had prepared Habren for this day, and now the time was here, and she must leave.

"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 Solais shall 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 was Sguaba 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, Manannán had 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…