55

I ran to my waiting horse, the scabbard gripped tight under my arm and the shouts of men far behind me, amidst the roar of thunder in my blood.

By the grace of his fine nature and keen training, Accolon’s horse was swift and willing as I dove at a gallop into the forest. Sounds of pursuit echoed from behind us; for Arthur, the abbey knights had armed and mounted themselves with terrifying speed. Their horses were fresh but larger, less responsive, accustomed to a sedate Camelot life. Not a soul saw us cut into the trees, my mount putting distance between me and royal punishment with sure-footed bravery.

Birds scattered shrieking from the bushes, but the horse held firm, sensitive to my urging hands. A fallen tree trunk loomed across our path and there was no time to slow, but Phénix pulled his legs up and flew over, like the mythical bird he was named for, rising from ashes.

We made several misleading serpentines, throwing our tracks into disarray, then I slowed our pace to a walk and listened to the air. No deep shouts, no gaining hoofbeats, no rustle of leaves from creeping capture: I had evaded Arthur’s men for now.

I rode the horse into the stream and let his head down to drink, surveying where we stood. Golden sunlight filtered through the trees where the forest began to thin, giving way to open skies and meadow grass dense with wildflowers.

We pushed towards the light, stream sloshing under the horse’s hooves. I let my awareness attune to its sparkling song, following its trail until the high chimes faded behind something far greater, a music low and deep, and a sensation of an all-encompassing calm. Drawn to the forest’s edge, we found ourselves on the prow of a meadow valley encircled by trees, swaths of green sloping down to the edge of a huge lake.

It was almost perfectly round, and shone dark as night even under the bright-blue sky, speaking of infinite depths. These impossible places existed, Ninianne had told me: the faraway lake where she was born and spent her true youth, until death came for her loved ones and Merlin came for her; and another, hidden in a charm-veiled forest, where she had given Excalibur to Arthur in a cascade of mist. Lakes so endless no man could reach the bottom; secret fairy abysses, forbidding and sublime.

This was one of them, I was sure; a deep, ancient presence I hadn’t been seeking but seemed to find me, an irresistible natural force drawing me out of the trees into a still and soundless peace. No one would find me here, the water assured me as I approached its bulrush edges; I was safe and could take my time.

I dismounted and took my boots off, pacing forth until I felt the lake’s crystal stillness lap across my toes. The water was chill but revitalizing, and I was reminded of the healing Cornish spring I had once found with Accolon, how we had run in separately and emerged together.

I looked down at the scabbard, still looped around my wrist, and held it to my chest, its power reaching through my skin, making my entire body quiver with light. Every ill I felt—the aches of hard riding, the jaw-clenching headache of fear, the burning poison of despair and horror churning in my gut since hearing of Accolon’s death—dissipated until there was only a quiet but soaring euphoria, as if I could sprout wings from my shoulder blades and fly away on the wind.

Was this how Accolon had felt when he wore the scabbard? Did he know why he felt transcendent as he rode, free of care or human pains, so assured he would solve everything and ride back to me in triumph? Or did he just believe himself happy and whole as he left Fair Guard, riding on a trail of light, not knowing that death sat mounted beside him?

Did the scabbard’s great power calm him as the king he loved and respected pushed hard to cleave him in two? Did he wonder why he did not bleed? And when the scabbard was taken from him and all the agony and exhaustion descended at once—did he know then that it was a senseless waste, and wish he had not left me, only to die at the hands of the man to whom he had sworn to keep his oath? At what dreadful, devastating moment had Accolon realized he was never coming home?

A hot, furious tear ran down my face, marking the scabbard’s blue leather like ink, and another, joining the lake with my anger, my hopelessness, my grief. With great effort, I prised the miraculous object from my body and held it at arm’s length, trying to shake free of its coursing brilliance, its power, my covetous desire to secrete it away and use it for my own selfish ends forever.

Yet with great magic came an inevitable cost. With the scabbard in my possession there would always be a bargain to be made, a way back into Camelot and Arthur’s glittering web. I was stubborn as the tides, but days would come when I would feel weak, tempted; when the seductions of stability, familial recognition and cheap power would feel easier than the life of loss I was now facing. Never again did I want to consider the possibility of return. I had chosen exile, and there I would stay.

What’s more, if I kept the scabbard for myself, then was I any better than the men who waged war and stole and killed in their endless quest to live forever? Even Arthur’s virtues had succumbed to its fantastical gifts, so desperate was he to win his duel with death. No one had questioned if this wondrous object should be owned by any one man, or if such supreme authority could be rightfully bestowed upon a single chosen soul. To carry immortality at your hip was too much power for any individual to possess.

I knew, as the lake had known from the first moment, what I must do.

I moved forwards, bare feet sinking into the yielding ground. My skirts rapidly soaked up beyond the knees, but they didn’t float or drag me down, the water’s embrace holding me steady. Trailing my free hand along the tranquil surface, I closed my eyes, asking the lake to show me its depth, its endlessness, to speak its ability to carry the secrets of time and keep them close.

To my request, swift and certain, came the answer: what I gave to the lake, she would keep for all eternity, for no mortal hand to ever touch again.

Waist deep, I stopped and pulled the scabbard from my wrist, savouring its thrill of prowess for the last time. Then, in the sight of the lake, the trees, the skies, everything, I held it aloft.

“No one should have this!” I declared. “Not man, not knight, not king, nor I. The scabbard belongs to the lake, and there it will remain.”

Around me, the water began to shift, rippling outwards in steady circles until it was blood-warm against my legs. The whirlpool split wide, waiting patiently as I drew my arm back and threw the scabbard with all the force it had imbued in my body. It sailed through the air like an arrow, falling point-down into the swirling chasm, blue-and-white leather vanishing forever, lost to me and all others who did not deserve it.

Immediately, the water stilled and turned cool, but I kept my hand beneath the surface, feeling the lake seeping into the enchanted hide, pulling the scabbard into its fathomless caress, where its wonders and dangers would be kept safe.

I looked up and screamed—to the heavens, to Merlin, to the brother I once knew. “It’s GONE. Do you hear me? GONE FOR ALL TIME.”

A flock of crows took flight from the treetops, sky filling with hard rasps and black feathers. Guided by their darkness, I emerged from the lake’s embrace, water raining from my sleeves, my skirts and the ends of my hair: a deluge in the shape of a woman.