Page 92 of The Cornish Princess
“Do it,” said the King, pointing to one of his favorite Shadows.
It wasn’t long until the man returned, and as Gwendolyn suspected, there, in Aelwin’s chamber, they discovered irrefutable proof of his treachery—Gwendolyn’s missing torc.
Only this was not the proof she’d expected—rather, she thought they might find some trace of the poison, or evidence of his plot against the Treasury. But not this. Arrogant as he was, the torc lay revealed upon his table—left in plain sight whilst he’d hurried away to comply with a summons from the King. Much to her grief, there was no sign of Borlewen, only the necklace. No sign of the guard, either. Her father’s Shadow revealed the ill-begotten prize in the palm of both hands, nestled within a blood-soaked cloth, and Gwendolyn’s heart seized painfully—not merely over what this meant for her cousin, but for the return of her torc. A tumult of emotions warred within her—both dread and relief at once, only one more so than the other.
Without a word, she retrieved her torc, and then, with her heart as heavy as the torc, she fastened it to her chain, with barely a glance toward Málik, who averted his gaze.
No one caught the exchange, and Gwendolyn straightened, resolved, for she’d spoken the truth last night. Her fate was not her own. By her own words during the Promise Ceremony, she had sealed her own destiny. Last night’s kiss, wrong as it was, must remain in her memory, warming her heart when she was old and grey.
No one must ever learn of her secret, and she must hold it dear—for Málik’s sake and her own.Faeor not, her father would take his head.
Upon his throne, King Corineus sat, his Queen Consort by his side, his expression grim, his cheeks more hollow than his eyes. “Leave us!” he barked to all remaining witnesses, but he motioned for his Shadows to remain. And then he said to Gwendolyn, only with a tip of his head toward Málik, “Come.” With great effort, and the help of his Shadows, the King slid from his throne, and Gwendolyn feared he had grown so much worse since she’d left.
Had she failed him so?
As she’d failed Cunedda and her cousins?
The very first thing, as soon as she could, she must seek theGwyddons,and she was glad the farmer and his son had already requested the Druids as well, because this would save her the trouble of asking.
Gods.
A lump of emotion stuck in Gwendolyn’s throat, and she longed so desperately to seek solace in Málik’s arms, but she followed dutifully where her father led.
To Gwendolyn’s surprise, he took them to the cliff side vault—the Royal Treasury.
Unlike so many other magnificent edifices in their city, which had been designed by the greatest of builders, this cave was merely a cave, like a sepulcher, ancient as the granite from which it was hewn. As a little girl, Gwendolyn had always marveled that so rich a treasure must be kept in such a humble place, with only a heavy stone to place before it.
The guards assigned to the shift moved to one side to shove the stone until there was a man-sized gap between the rocks. Her father reached for the torch beside the entrance and thrust it in before him to light their way into the vault.
When Gwendolyn hesitated, he turned to beckon her within. And Málik, too, much to Gwendolyn’s surprise.
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, theSword 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.
