The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterThirty-Six

The torch in her father’s hand gasped for air in the darkness, the sound of its struggle like a dying man’s breath. Peering back at the crack of daylight at their backs, she tried not to allow her recent ordeal to keep her from following deeper.

Every muscle in her body begged her to flee, but she took comfort in her father’s presence in front of her, and her Shadow’s defense at her back.

Once they reached the darkest heart of the cave, her father thrust his torchlight over an altar made of stone, and the breath left Gwendolyn’s lungs as she saw what treasure it held—not precious ingots as she’d once believed, nor gold…

It was an ancient sword, resting atop a crude table of stone.

With a tremor in his hand, her father handed Gwendolyn the torch, moving closer to the altar to reach for the sword. Sliding it out of its granite bed, he lifted it up, taking the hilt with both his hands and straightening it so the tip faced the ceiling.

With his wasting body, he could scarcely hold it upright, but once he steadied it, he whispered some indiscernible word, and the sword glowed until it became a white glaive of light.

He sighed then, as his gaze slipped past Gwendolyn’s to meet Málik’s pale eyes—brighter now, against the reflection of the sword. Her father gave Málik a sober nod, and the two shared a look, before he spoke, his voice weaker now for the effort.

“You spoke true, Málik de Danann. I can no longer trust this sword to my keeping. This sacred talisman must be kept safe till my heir has need of it.”

Gwendolyn blinked, confused. Why should he give the sword to Málik if she was his rightful heir? “Father?” she protested.

In Málik’s hand, the flame extinguished, and the silver returned to its resting state—a dull, aged metal. But Gwendolyn suddenly understood what this was…

Claímh Solais, the Sword of Light, the sword with which Núada conquered Ériu. The greatest of the four talismans once belonging to the Tuatha Dé Danann. Like the crying stone, Lia Fáil, it would not burn for any but the rightful heir. And just as surely as she knew this, she suddenly understood why Málik had come.

He’d come for that sword.

The treasure in her father’s vault.

All those questions he’d asked about the Royal Treasury, and the aldermen… he’d only wished to know if they knew what lay hidden within the vault. And yet he had surely known. She could see the truth in his eyes, and in the way he now avoided her gaze.

“Forswear your father’s crown,” he had said. But if she had done so, would her right to bear this sword also be forsaken?

Without a word, he took the sword her father offered—the prize he’d coveted all along—and then turned from her ailing father, giving Gwendolyn only the briefest of glances and a single nod as he passed her by, the look on his face perhaps one of regret, though not so much regret that he would refuse the damnable sword. He walked past Gwendolyn without a word, and then he was gone.

Gone.

Simply gone.

Not to the antechamber she had so hatefully longed to deny him—nor to the barracks where he’d spent so much of his time after his arrival. Neither to the courtyard, where he’d trained her father’s men.

Gone.

And just as surely as Gwendolyn now understood his intent, she knew he’d lied. He’d told her he’d never leave her, and now he would.

Something like vines with thorns twined about her heart, like the arms of that blue orb of flame in the fogous, twisting, twisting, turning.

Gwendolyn’s mood was foul.Upon returning to her chamber, battle weary, her clothes threadbare, and her wounds aching, she wanted to rush about screaming through the antechamber, kicking at beds, doors, and coffers.

She did not, however. She was a woman grown, or so she’d claimed so many times, and now she must behave like one, facing all her trials with her head high and shoulders straight.

Naturally, Málik had brought nothing into these chambers, so he took nothing, except the sword on his back, and the one her father gave him.

That’s all he’d ever wanted, she thought bitterly.

That bloody sword.

“You aren’t alone,” he’d said, but it wasn’t true.

She was alone—far more alone than she’d ever felt in all her life.

Much subdued from her former self, Ely arrived soon after Gwendolyn found her chambers. Sullen and perhaps still angry, she went about her duties, tidying Gwendolyn’s room, ordering a bath for her new mistress, and laying out a clean, new dress for Gwendolyn to wear.

Demelza didn’t come at all, and neither did she so much as pass to wave.

Apologies seemed in order, though Gwendolyn didn’t know what to apologize for—for giving her heart to a tricksy fae? At least now it wouldn’t be Ely shuffling about these halls, with downcast lips and eyes. Gwendolyn would take her place.

Some things returned to normal—at least normal before Málik de Danann. Reassured that he had learned his lessons, her father reinstated Bryn as her Shadow.

Mercifully, her mother also assured Gwendolyn that she meant to keep her word and allow Ely to travel with her to Loegria. Lady Ruan would be compensated for the absence of both her beloved children. Now that Málik was gone, and after everything that Gwendolyn had endured, Queen Eseld wouldn’t think of allowing her to travel without both.

Ely and Bryn were changed as well—Ely by whatever trust Gwendolyn had failed to live up to, and Bryn by his punishment for allowing his heart to rule his head. Alas, though, Gwendolyn had truly believed she was doing him a favor, just as she’d believed she was doing her father a favor by unveiling the treachery in his court.

After everything, she still couldn’t regret having exposed the traitors, but she regretted the way she went about it. Only because of her, Cunedda was dead. Her cousins were dead. Lowenna was dead. At least one of their loyal guards was dead.

And the other?Like Málik, he, too, had vanished. Though at least Ia and her family were safe. Her father’s men traveled south to see to Cunedda’s affairs, but not even to bury his brother could the King suffer a moment in the saddle. His condition worsened more every day.

By the evening before Prince Loc’s return, the King was lying abed, with only Gwendolyn and her mother allowed to attend him, aside from the two Shadows he trusted most.

Gwendolyn was beside herself with grief, because how could she leave? How could anyone expect her to wed Prince Loc now, and leave her dear, sweet father to waste away and die with no one to defend him?

Gwendolyn was the one who’d spent her entire life training to take his place. She was the one who would rule in his absence, yet she would give up everything with only the assurance that her father would survive. And here, once again, she found herself outside the palace gates, accompanied by Bryn, asking him to escort her to the glen.

“I will not say no, Highness,” he said tersely, his chin lifting defiantly. “Yet I will not say, yes. You must command me.”

Some part of Gwendolyn burned over his words, though she understood why he insisted. This time, if he must be castigated simply for doing his duty, it would not be because he was equally culpable. As his sovereign, Gwendolyn must demand his participation.

“It’s not what you think, Bryn,” she said. “I only wish to see the glen. My father,” she said, and then she hushed abruptly, because Bryn was not among those who needed to know her father’s condition. “I merely wish to see the glen.”

He nodded. “As always, I am yours to command,” he said stiffly, and Gwendolyn found herself torn between sending him back to the palace, and leaving him here, to watch her go.

“Very well, then. I command you to accompany me,” she said through clenched teeth. And then she felt like weeping—for all that she’d lost.

Her youth.

Her innocence.

Her friends.

Her throat constricted.

Her father all too soon.

And Málik…

Gwendolyn could scarcely bear it, knowing her pain was in her eyes for everyone to see—especially Bryn. Though he was clearly furious with her, he knew her better than anyone, and she knew… he would know.

Without further ado, she led the way into the woods, thinking about that piskie light Málik had produced. Yet even now, her tongue would not form the words to share what she’d learned. He had done this to her! As surely as she knew he’d lied, she also knew he’d cast a spell on her to keep the things she’d learned from ever being spoken aloud.

Once again, fury seized her, and she spurred her mare to ride ahead of Bryn because she couldn’t bear for him to see her cry.

She dismounted, tied her mare to her favorite oak—a stranger to her, because now her faithful horse was lost. And, even before Gwendolyn emerged into the glen, she saw the wasted trees, and fell to her knees, a knot forming in her throat.

The leaves… they were blighted.

The fruit flowers were wilted.

Worse yet, so much worse… the pool itself had grown stagnant, murky, and green, with black algae growing in pockets. Dark lichen crept up the shore to the base of the trees, scaling the oaks and hawthorns. The oak leaves bore ugly blisters, and the hawthorn leaves were stained with black, the yellowing foliage scarcely clinging to their withered boughs. A bed of ravaged leaves lay puddled at her feet.

Whatever part of Gwendolyn that entertained any notion of staying in Trevena, and refusing her groom… this, too, withered… and died, like the ravaged leaves that floated downward from a once-green canopy, into a bubbling, corrupted pool.

How could she leave her father alone?

Yet how could she not?

As surely as she knelt here, her fingers catching the cold, damp, corrupt soil, marrying Prince Locrinus was the only way to save the land, and ultimately bring it peace.

“Father,” she said, brokenly. “Oh, my dear, sweet Papa!” She had not called him Papa since she was young—small enough to bounce on his knee.

Bryn stood behind her now, and whatever steel he’d set in his spine seemed to soften at the sight of her, kneeling with her hands splayed over the dark lichen, fingers clawing the perverted earth.

“The land is struggling,” Málik had said.

And then he’d abandoned her to this fate.

Bryn came to one knee beside her, placing a steady hand atop her shoulder, and he said, “I am sorry, Gwen.” But he couldn’t possibly understand it, even though he understood, as all understood, the king’s ties to this land.

“I know,” she said brokenly. “I am… sorry, too—for everything, Bryn. Truly, I am. I shall never again place you at odds with your duties. I give you my word.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and said, “You are not alone, my dearest friend.” And then, when Gwendolyn choked on a sob, he said once more, “You were never alone.”

But that wasn’t true.

She.

Was.

Entirely.

Alone.

With the burden of saving her father and the land, weighing upon her as heavy as stone.

Resolved now, Gwendolyn struck Málik from her thoughts, if not her heart, and stood, dropping the clump of stinking soil from her hand.

No more tears.

No more uncertainty.

She understood what she must do.