Gwen glanced back at the surface of the water, still a muddy red-brown, though the currents were quickly erasing all sign that a battle had taken place. Her sword would be at the bottom of the sea now, embedded in the throat of the dead monster. The sword she’d made after her mother died, the sword she’d made with her own hands as she first began dreaming of masquerading as a knight. The sword that Isobelle had recognised when Gwen rode out as Gawain – that had started them both down this path together.
What kind of knight had no sword?
Gwen swallowed and pushed down the flare of fear at that thought, and with it the grief of loss. ‘I can make another,’ she murmured.
Isobelle hesitated, too sensitive to Gwen’s moods to miss that dodge. But then she gave her a little shake and hugged her again. ‘You’re remarkable, Gwen. I wish you could’ve seen it from my vantage point. I knew you would do it.’
Gwen bit her tongue, surrendering to the comfort of Isobelle’s tight embrace, not so different from the way she used to squeeze her after a nightmare. And she let Isobelle distract her, take her thoughts from her lost sword.
And how it had somehow fallen straight down the monster’s throat.
It was an accident, her mind was screaming.I didn’t do this – it was luck. Beyond luck, it was a damned miracle.
Henry emerged hesitantly from behind the ship’s wheel, his curly hair standing up, his face a sickly shade of brown, but his eyes as wide and glowing as Isobelle’s. He spoke, but Gwen’s ears were ringing and she couldn’t make out his words. Isobelle replied, laughing, her own tension fading. Gwen made no effort to understand them, her mind going back to that moment when the beast’s eye had frozen her.
The sea monster had not possessed the same power as the dragon – it was her own mind that had believed it could carve out her soul the way the dragon’s gaze had. It was Gwen’s failing courage that had rendered her helpless.
Her cowardice.
But that realisation wasn’t what made her replay the scene in her mind, as Henry turned the ship back towards port.
When she had let go of the sword, Gwen could have sworn she wasn’t directly over the monster’s gaping mouth – indeed, when it let her go, she’d been over thedeck of the ship. She’d watched the sword fall, like an arrow … and she could’ve sworn, as it fell, that it hadmovedin mid-air to deliver the killing blow.
11
A mastery over liminal spaces
The welcome banquet, which had turned into a victory celebration, was held out in the town square. The space was dominated by a large, brand-new statue of a generic man in armour, sword held aloft – one of the paladins from the story, no doubt. Isobelle was not a fan of it –he reminds me of my father when he’s displeased with me, she’d said. And Gwen had to agree that the statue’s noble countenance had a coldness that fell short of inspiring.
The square was fully decked out for a party. Boards had been balanced precariously on top of barrels and carts, laden with food, and the entire town had gathered there. At first, folks seemed rather stiff and ill at ease; no doubt, Lord Bingleton had commanded their presence. But as the ale flowed and platters of food continued to arrive, the atmosphere loosened up. By the time a group of musicians with more enthusiasm than skill began to play, the whole affair had relaxed into a delightful party.
A young man in brightly dyed clothes that proclaimed his profession as a crier strolled through the square, shouting over the music the headlines of the day. He’d begun with ‘Lady Dragonslayer Bests Monster in Jaw-Dropping Battle!’ By now, that news had spread, and he’d graduated to shouting things like, ‘Yes, the Lady Dragonslayer Does Like Our Punch!’ and ‘She Seems to Be Quite Nice Once You Get to Know Her!’
Gwen stood by the statue, trying to ignore the crier, nursing said cup of punch and watching Isobelle and Hilde doing their level best to turn the square into a dance floor. Jane stood with Sylvie at a large wooden sign not far from the statue, which bore a map of the town, its shops and large-printed text by the square declaring ‘THOU ART HERE’.
Jane gazed at it thoughtfully, murmuring, ‘But how does it know where we are?’
Sylvie shot her an incredulous look, made a strangled noise in her throat, and moved away. Orson sulked in the shadows at the edge of the torchlight, and Sylvie came to a halt nearby, arms crossed over her chest, a faint frown on her face as she studied the much-changed darling of Darkhaven knighthood.
Orson had offered to help Gwen fight the sea monster when she and Isobelle had made their plans the previous night. In hindsight, she ought to have accepted his assistance – but in the moment, she’d felt only the dimecho of her helpless anger when he’d exposed her at the Darkhaven tournament months before. ‘I’ve no need of anything from you,’ Gwen had snapped as she brushed past him. The worst part was that he hadn’t even snapped back, and now he sat glumly at the fringes of the party looking like a puppy abandoned by the side of the road.
Nor did Gwen feel any better knowing Sylvie was with him. She was hard to read, that one – she was as likely to harangue Orson for his part in Gwen’s arrest in Darkhaven as she was to cheer him up. More likely she simply sought out his company because he had no interest in her, unlike most men – Orson, who didn’t feel that way about anyone, was not about to look at Sylvie like her late, unlamented husband had.
Maybe if Gwen had simply let Sir Orson help her, the fight would’ve gone differently. Maybe she wouldn’t have looked into the monster’s eye, maybe she wouldn’t have been seized by that strange, unbearable surge of terror. She wouldn’t have lost her sword. Or her courage.
The terror had made no sense, coming from nowhere. Gwen was as much unsettled by the feeling of bewilderment as by the fear itself. How could she be so baffled by the workings of her own heart? Even now, an uneasiness coiled deep inside her that threatened to burst into outright panic at any moment.
Isobelle was convinced the town was under a curse, some sort of spell – was that what she was feeling? Gwenhad never quite made up her mind about magic to begin with, and it seemed impossible for it to besoobjectively real and tangible that it could affect a whole town.
Or move a sword in mid-air?
‘Gwen, dance with me!’ Isobelle appeared at her side, sliding her arm through Gwen’s and leaning against her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes gleamed, and all thoughts of that strange sight fled. Isobelle must have seen some sign of distress, for her face grew more sombre and she scanned Gwen’s countenance. ‘Is something wrong? Are you thinking about your beautiful sword?’
Gwen’s heart ached, dully, but she pushed that away. ‘Sort of,’ she replied, pausing to choose her words carefully. ‘Did you notice anything strange about that?’
‘Only how absolutelybrilliantit was,’ Isobelle replied with a little smile. ‘I never would’ve thought of throwing the sword like that.’
Gwen led Isobelle a little way from the statue and the dancing, which was now in full swing. She halted by one of the shops, closed for the party, whose windows displayed all manner of clothing embroidered with various emblems and scenes from the town’s history.
