by Carol Browne
The hawk flapped his damaged wings, took off from Joskin’s shoulder, and in an instant, his wings became whole—strong, full-feathered, and sleek. In ecstasy, he soared above the crowd’s astonished faces, swooping and climbing joyfully, and then he returned to the towering Saxon.
Shredwing’s squawks of gratitude were drowned by a tumult of cheers, and Joskin gazed at Elgiva, clearly too overcome to speak.
“To Captain Merrill is granted the title of Justice General to the Crown,” continued Elgiva, “for he’s a fair-minded, honest elf. Merrill, I trust you to be the final arbiter in any dispute, if you will accept the position.”
In the crowd, Captain Merrill made a low bow. “I will be honoured, Elwardain.”
“Now, Grimalkin, what would you ask of me?”
Grimalkin stood at the rear of the crowd, sniffing a plate of honey cakes. She pricked up her ears and looked at Elgiva. “Cabbage hearts!” she snorted. “Haven’t had time to think about that, but you can make this hat disappear and get someone to fetch me some more of these buns. I’ll have oats for breakfast, too. Apart from that, I’ll let you know.”
Elgiva smiled and then turned to face Godwin. “My friend, you far surpass any gifts I could give you.”
Godwin squirmed as all eyes turned towards him.
“You have many choices ahead,” said Elgiva, “but I think you may want to begin afresh, so I will provide you with gold and gems to purchase your freedom from Othere, and the freedom of your family, if that is what he demands. Build a settlement of your own. You have the courage to do so. But wherever you decide to live, you and your descendants will be under the elf-ward of Elindel. You made a vow to protect me once. Now it’s my turn, I think. I trust that Faine will help me keep my vow as well as you kept yours. Take your pick of my armoury, Godwin, my horses, too, and anything else you may require for your journey. I wish you to ride home in splendour, so the Saxons will see, as I do, a most fearless and constant warrior—Godwin Gildason.”
Godwin raised his eyebrows, and then he smiled. “Thank you, Elwardain,” he said in a formal tone.
“And,” continued Elgiva, “a certain gift I gave you in the past is yours to keep forever, though it’s not in accordance with elven law, but to take back a gift that was given in love would violate the teachings of Faine.”
Godwin frowned up at her. “A certain gift?”
Elgiva pressed on, ignoring his puzzled expression. “Also, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve removed the enchantment that lies over Angwen’s village. Her people have started rebuilding their lives. Messengers have been sent to assure them of our help and protection. And I’ll be sending food and other provisions and whatever else I can.” She turned to the crowd. “I dare say you’ve heard enough talk for one night. Minstrels, your merriest tunes! Enough of the past and the future. The now is all that matters. I think we should enjoy it!”
***
Shortly before sunrise, Godwin found himself part of a procession as it wound its way through the mist-wrapped forest. Trystin was at his side, while around them, the other guests and the inhabitants of Elindel walked along, chattering to each other in an atmosphere of barely suppressed excitement.
Elgiva led them all to a clearing near the edge of the forest. She stood in the centre, where a tumble of stones of various sizes and colours lay scattered. These had been gathered together by servants the previous day. Everyone formed a circle around her and stood in respectful silence.
Elgiva lifted her arms, and a mist rose up from the ground at her feet, and as it rose, it carried the stones and piled them on top of each other. Where the stones met, they welded together. When the mist evaporated, the new shrine was complete. Three solid walls and an arched doorway now stood beneath a roof of polished rock, and along the walls were granite benches, plain and unadorned. Elgiva stepped onto the threshold, a smile of accomplishment on her face.
As the rising sun skimmed the treetops and touched the clean stone of the shrine, a gasp of approval broke from the crowd. The sunlight made every facet as vivid as a chunk of glass, and all of the ores and crystals trapped in the stones glinted with many colours. It was an inspiring sight, as the simple, granite building became a thing of beauty.
“I dedicate this shrine to Faine, First-Father of Elvendom,” said Elgiva, turning to face the crowd. “Like him, it’s strong and beautiful. It’s humble, yet proud with hidden splendour. It’s plain and ornate, a thing of both light and shade, created out of the tangible bones of the Earth by the Earth’s intangible magic. Let it stand as a reminder of the power of good magic and the balance that sustains the universe. Its separate parts combine into a single, harmonious unity. Thus, it stands as a symbol of all Elvendom. It’s a place to be apart and a place to be a part of everything. May it and the Eldrakin endure forever.”
The elves applauded Elgiva’s words with great enthusiasm. Godwin, however, was only half listening. There was something he had to do.
Ignoring the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, he walked towards the shrine and entered. Halting on the smooth stone floor, he turned to face Elgiva. “There’s no altar,” he remarked.
She shook her head, a puzzled expression on her face.
“It needs something. A focal point.”
Slowly, he unsheathed his sword and walked to the rear of the shrine. “Tomorrow, Faine,” he said, “I won’t be a part of your world anymore, but tomorrow is another day. This elf-blade has taught me many things. My heart and mind have been opened. In thanks for that, I offer it to you. Let it stay here as a reminder that, when good is threatened by evil, we need to fight on its behalf.”
He selected a central point on the stone floor, and then he lifted the sword in both hands and whispered its name so that no one should hear. He plunged the weapon into the floor. It pierced the thick stone easily and buried two-thirds of its length in the granite.
“Farewell, old friend,” said Godwin. “Remain here in my stead where my heart is. But remember, though we’re parted, we’ll always be together.” He paused, and in the silent glade, it seemed even the birds were listening. “And by my express command, you will stay here always and never be removed, save by my hand alone.”
He finished the last sentence hurriedly, not knowing what motives had prompted it. Perhaps he needed to leave behind a permanent reminder of his existence, something that would live on long after he lay forgotten in some lonely grave. Or perhaps he hoped that leaving the sword would ensure he would one day return.
Elgiva stepped forwards and put both hands around the hilt of the sword. She pulled, but the weapon refused to move. She smiled and looked up at her friend. “To wield such a sword requires courage,” she said, “but far greater courage to give it up.”
They gazed at each other and then, linking arms, they walked out into the sunlight.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Godwin caught sight of the village, and a broad smile stretched his lips. Smoke curled cheerily from the huts, and he could see people busy in the fields. He slewed himself round on the back of his horse. Elgiva and her retinue were making their way towards him, and while he waited for them to catch up, he wandered back in his memory to his sad departure from Elindel.
Leaving Trystin had been the worst moment; Godwin had almost come to regard the elfling as a son. Trystin had clung to Godwin’s tunic, his large eyes brimming with tears, and Godwin had done his best to sound stern as he pushed the elfling away from him and held him by the shoulders.
“Is this any way for a king to behave?”
“Kings don’t cry,” said Grimalkin. “They make cruel laws to make others weep.”
“Not me,” sniffed Trystin. He started to chew his fingernails, but then he thought better of it. “I’ll be a good king, and brave, just like Master Godwin, and I’ll never hate wilthkin or be scared of magic or anything!”
“Care for Misterell, Trystin,” said Godwin. “A place of such beauty must be preserved.”
“Yes, I will,” pr
omised Trystin. “I’ll care for it, Master Godwin, and if I falter, I’ll think of you and follow your example. That way, I’ll never go wrong.”
“Be yourself, lad, and be it well. That’s all that’s ever required of us,” said Godwin, and then his pretence at fortitude crumbled, and clasping Trystin to his breast, he hugged him so hard, he almost feared the elfling’s bones would snap.
“Do you wish to visit Angwen?”
Elgiva was now beside him, her black hair braided with golden ribbons and her green gown draped across Alsiann’s back. Her question caught him off guard.
“What . . . ? Er . . . no. Let’s move on,” he said.
“Are you sure, Godwin? I thought you wanted to make amends.”
He shrugged. One day, he would. “Can we skirt round the village? Surely there’s some ford or bridge downstream where we can cross?”
“If not, I’ll make you one,” she said, smiling.
“Yes. Let’s move on.”
“Move on?” snickered a voice from the rear. “Move on, he says, and here’s me thinking I might be in for a rest. I’ve had enough. Ages since anyone fed me, you know. As for these stones, my poor old hooves are split and buckled and scuffed so badly, I’ll wager I’m crippled for life—what little there’s left in my ill-used body.”
Godwin sighed with exasperation at the sight of Grimalkin plodding towards them, but Elgiva grinned. “I’m sorry, Godwin,” she said, “but it was her wish to return with you. I couldn’t really stop her.”
Godwin nodded. At least some things would never change.
He turned his horse’s head southwards.
***
“From here, you must travel due east,” said Elgiva.
They were standing on a small hill, one Elgiva remembered well as the place where everything had started for her. The darkening landscape spread out below, and on the other side of the hillock, her retinue waited to turn back for home.
“You have plenty of food for your journey. It shouldn’t take you long to get home,” she said.
Sighing, Elgiva urged Alsiann down the grassy slope. Godwin followed. The horses were left at the foot of the hillock, and Godwin stacked wood for a fire.
“Do you like the horse?” asked Elgiva, forcing herself to sound casual. “You didn’t really say, but I chose him because he’s gentle and not of the royal herd. He should give the Saxons no reason to comment.”
Godwin stepped back from the firewood and looked at the placid, grey horse. “Saxons don’t need a reason,” he said. “By Frigg, what’ll they think of me? Bags of gold and dressed like a lord!”
He smiled at her, and she knew he was trying to sound light-hearted for her benefit.
“What can they think, but that you surpass them?” she said. She snapped her fingers, releasing her pent-up emotion with a dart of magic, and the firewood blossomed into flame. Folding her arms, she looked at her friend, and she hoped her gaze held a hint of reproach. “You didn’t select a sword,” she said. “You left your scabbard behind.”
He lowered his eyes.
“A warrior can’t go abroad unarmed.” She cocked an eyebrow at him and then walked to Alsiann’s saddlebag and drew out an object wrapped in gold cloth. Returning to the campfire, she handed the bundle to Godwin. “My parting gift to you.”
Inside the cloth was Godwin’s elven scabbard, but it had a new occupant: an elf-sword with a leaf pattern on the blade and elvish runes on the hilt.
“That’s my mark,” she said.
Godwin looked up, clearly both surprised and delighted. “You made this for me?” he asked. “Is it . . . is it magic?”
“That rather depends on how you use it,” Elgiva replied, giving him an arch grin.
He fitted the scabbard to his belt, and when he looked up again, their gazes locked. As if sharing the same compulsion, each made a movement towards the other, as though they meant to embrace.
But then the spell was broken as something heavy slid down the bank towards them.
Elgiva cleared her throat. “Why, here’s Grimalkin, laden with treasure!”
Godwin looked torn between anger and relief. He drew a shuddering breath.
“And what a weight it is, to be sure, by all that’s green and edible!” Grimalkin snorted.
Godwin turned towards her and folded his arms across his chest in an attitude of stern amusement. “So, you old nag,” he said. “Looks like I’m stuck with you forever.”
“Gall and wormwood, Brit! I’m not immortal, you know!”
Laughing, Elgiva sat by the fire. Godwin sat beside her and for a while, they watched the flames dance as dusk fell all around them. It was time to say farewell, but Elgiva didn’t want to bring to an end their last precious moments together. And she knew Godwin felt the same.
“You need a story to tell the Saxons,” Elgiva said. “They’ll want to know what happened to you and why you have all this gold.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve plenty of time to think of a tale on the way home. I won’t mention elves, of course. And I’m not going back as Godwin the slave, but as Aidan, son of Gwion, a chief of the Gododdin. My status will dictate my treatment.”
“It will?” she asked.
“No matter what you think of Othere, he’s still an honourable man.”
“I dare say you’re right.”
“But I’ll tell Rowena the truth. My children, too, when they’re older. I want them to know who they are.” He paused and looked at Elgiva with his honest, artless eyes. “Knowing you has taught me many things about myself. About everything.”
“And in you, I met my greatest tutor,” she said.
From Elgiva’s waiting retinue somewhere behind the hillock, there rose a burst of laughter that seemed to profane their intimacy, and they both fell silent again. From the darkness of a distant wood, a fox screamed for its mate, and its cry was an ache of loneliness.
Elgiva sighed. Now I begin a new life, although I’m still an exile. But this time, I’m exiled by power, not weakness. This time, being an exile doesn’t mean I can run away, and where in all this great, wide world will I find a friend such as you?
On an impulse, she leaned towards him, threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him tenderly. It was time for them to say goodbye, but her lips refused to frame the word. She pulled away from him, tormented by longing.
“Oh, Godwin,” she said, and tears began to flow freely down her cheeks, “we should have been—we ought to be—together!”
He gripped her upper arms, and his eyes were moist with affection. “We are. We always were. We always will be.”
They looked at each other in silent anguish, and then they embraced again, and in some other dimension where they were and yet were not, their souls touched briefly in an act of love.
Then Elgiva broke away, rose to her feet. “Well, Godwin Gildason, this is where we must part,” she said. “May Faine always guard you, my friend.”
No, I won’t say goodbye. My heart is too full for such finality.
***
Though Godwin sat close to the campfire, a cold and empty feeling was seeping into his heart. He watched as Elgiva turned and stepped lightly towards her horse; watched as she seized the golden bridle; watched her lead the animal to the crest of the hillock; watched as though Elgiva embodied his happiness and it was leaving him forever.
But then, suddenly, Elgiva stopped and looked back at him. Firelight caught the dampness of her eyes, but a slight smile chased the sadness from her face. It was a smile of defiance, full of mischief and affection—a conspiratorial smile. Her voice carried clearly when she spoke.
“I love you, wilthkin.”
Then she was gone, Alsiann beside her, and the drapes of darkness closed behind them, leaving Godwin all alone.
Alone and bereft in a world devoid of magic.
***
Godwin stirred beneath the blankets. It had rained during the night, and his coverings were wet. He cast them aside and crawled t
o his feet. The sun lay on the horizon like a polished ball of gold, and the dawn was filled with the singing of birds.
After breakfast, he gathered up his blankets and tied them to Grimalkin’s back. “We’ve some way to go,” he said. “I don’t want to lose any time. I’ve been away from home too long.”
Home. Was Othere’s settlement really home, or was home an unknown quantity, somewhere in the future? Whatever it was, the thought of it filled him with excitement.
He had lost Elgiva and his right to lead his tribe, but he could accept that now. He was going back to the Saxons, but he could accept that, too. No matter what life held in store for him, he would accept it all. The road from the past had been long and hard, the road to the future was uncertain, but he faced it all now with his mind uncluttered. At least he knew who he was. And more importantly, what he was. And he knew where his duty lay; he was going back to his family.
“Have you gone into a trance, Brit? Thought we were in a hurry?” snickered Grimalkin.
Godwin stared at the pony. “I was just thinking.”
“Wondering if it was worth it, eh?”
“Worth it?” asked Godwin.
For some reason, the image of Shredwing being healed appeared in his mind. All of their struggles seemed to centre on this single act of good magic. Shredwing had gained his inheritance, the precious gift of flight, and Godwin was proud to have played his part in it. He pictured the once earthbound creature now soaring among the clouds, and he felt a lump in his throat.
“Of course it was worth it,” he said, hating the hitch in his voice. He shook his head at Grimalkin and walked towards his horse.
“Well,” persisted Grimalkin, “you got lots of gold for your trouble. What reward could be better than that?”
“Myself,” he stated.
“Don’t go all philosophical. Too early in the morning,” she snorted.
He stood with his hand on his horse’s withers and thought of Taranuil, the bridge between his world and that of his elven friends. That bridge would always be there.
