—Claire de Murrow, Queen of Legault, Protector of Ceredigion
Glosstyr Keep
EPILOGUE
The Gradalis
The grove was hauntingly beautiful. Claire felt a strangeness about it, the same kind of feeling she experienced when visiting her ancestors’ barrow mounds. The earth was damp and spongy, and the light, which shone overhead from the noonday sun, could barely penetrate the thicket of branches of the massive trees.
Lady Constance and her husband, Lord Montfort, stood hand in hand, looking at her with smiling eyes. There was a massive stone slab on the ground and a little trickle of water by it. Mistletoe hung from the boughs of the trees. But her gaze was instantly drawn to a silver bowl engraved with ancient characters, chained to the slab of rock. Ransom had been the sacred protector of this wood. She knew the truth now, of how the bowl had been taken from the Kerjean castle during the age of King Andrew. Of how its magic provided a bridge to other worlds.
Her heart raced with giddiness. It was nearly time. The sun was almost directly overhead, it was the summer solstice—the longest day of the year.
“And Ransom fought in this grove?” Claire asked, turning to look at Constance.
“Many times,” the duchess replied. “He guarded its secret to prevent the Gradalis from being stolen by Alix and her minions. They almost managed it, but he stopped them.”
“No one could defeat Ransom,” Claire said proudly.
The Aos Sí were just a myth, she’d concluded. An explanation for knowledge whose source had been lost to time. Ransom had begun to convince her before his death, and Constance had continued to help her understand and had shared meaningful revelations with her that had put an end to any lingering doubt. Claire knew about the true purpose of the seering stones now. Constance had seen Claire in this very grove, tipping over the silver dish during that one day, each year, when a rift could be opened between the mortal world and the Deep Fathoms.
“It is time,” Lord Montfort said, coming forward. He tugged on his finger, and the invisible ring materialized in his palm. It was the guardian’s ring, the one Ransom had worn for years. She was amazed she’d never felt it on his finger.
Constance took the ring from her husband and approached Claire. Her throat tightened, too thick for her to speak. Constance put the ring on her finger and uttered a word in the old speech. The ring fit snugly.
“What if I don’t want to be summoned back,” Claire said with a smile, choking a little on her words as she laughed.
“You won’t,” said Constance seriously. “After you visit there, you will desire to stay. The longer you stay, the more unbearable returning will be. Even your love of your children won’t be strong enough to lure you back.”
Claire bit her lips. “That is powerful magic indeed. I love my children.”
“After we summon you, the magic here in the grove will dim some of your memory of the Deep Fathoms. So that the longing won’t drive you mad. But remember, if you take off the ring while you are there, you will not be able to return at all. The desire to stay will be overwhelming.”
Claire nodded, taking Constance’s hands in her own and squeezing them. They’d visited several times since Claire had traveled to Ploemeur in answer to the duchess’s summons. It was Constance who’d taught her the ways of the Fountain. She believed in it now. The traditional beliefs of her people, in Legault, were not wholly wrong. There were just some pieces missing.
“You are a treasure to me for doing this,” Claire said. “It hasn’t even been a year since Ransom died. I’m . . . nervous seeing him again. There’s so much I want to tell him. Only one day a year. But I can accept that. Until it is my turn to join him.”
Constance smiled with tenderness and warmth. “Fill the Gradalis and pour it out on the slab. Normally there is a storm that comes when the magic is invoked, but that won’t happen this time, because of the solstice. We will summon you back at this time tomorrow.”
“Give Ransom my highest regard,” said Lord Montfort.
Claire looked at Constance. “And I will tell your son, when I see him, how much you love him still.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Tell him of his little brother too. I hope they will meet someday.”
“You have been so good to me,” Claire said, kissing Constance’s hand.
Then she went to the silver dish—the Gradalis—and carried it awkwardly to the little stream flowing from the boulders. She filled it to the brim and then carefully brought it back to the plinth and let out a sigh as she poured it over the stone. The water splashed her feet, the hem of her dress.
And a lightning shaft of magic swept her away.
She found herself standing on a beach, the dish no longer in her hands. Huge jutting rocks emerged from the waters, their square tops forming a wall that was open in the middle. A vast ocean crashed against the wall of rocks, but only a portion could get through and come gliding up the wet sand to touch her feet.
“Claire.” It was Ransom’s voice, thick with love.
She turned around and beheld a city brighter and larger than anything she’d ever imagined. She cupped her hands over her mouth when she saw Ransom striding across the sand to her, his arm outstretched to take her hand.
It had all been worth it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I first learned about the knight William Marshal in a book by one of my favorite authors, Sharon Kay Penman (the book is When Christ and His Saints Slept), that tells the story of King Stephen I of England (whom I based King Gervase off of). Sharon passed away while I was editing this book. I’ll miss her very much and especially her books. While I knew about William Marshal through Sharon’s work, this series wasn’t inspired until I came across The Greatest Knight by Thomas Asbridge in a Kindle daily deal. I pick up many books that I never actually read, but I’m so glad I eventually found my way to this one. As I read Asbridge’s biography of William Marshal (whom I nicknamed Ransom because of his early experience as a hostage to the king), I was amazed by how much his life reminded me of Owen Kiskaddon’s. By the time I finished the book, I was in tears—especially as he lay on his deathbed, bidding farewell to his beloved wife, Isabel de Clare, his children, and his trusted knights.
When I cry writing certain scenes, I have a feeling that many of my readers will as well. And as my wife finished reading this book, she left the room, and I could hear her sniffling around the corner. She came back, wiping her eyes, and said she loved the ending. I hope you did as well. It’s not a happily-ever-after-type ending. After the year we’ve all had (I’m writing this author’s note on New Year’s Day 2021), we’ve managed to survive some not-so-happily-ever-after moments. I went to the gravesite of a thirteen-year-old boy I mentored, who’d died in a tragic farming accident. My niece lost another baby. A teenager I know got cancer. And my own wife had brain surgery before Christmas, and we have more trips to a research hospital planned in the future. There are a lot of “feels” crammed into this series. Life is a miracle and a gift, but not all heroes have a Tolkien-length story: Joan of Arc, Tony Stark, William Tyndale, Abraham Lincoln, Joseph Smith. All of these examples show that a sacrifice can result in great good for many. As the greatest example of a life cut short said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13 King James Version).