Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [169]
She closed her eyes against the pain in his. “I hope so too, Lancelin. Fare you well.”
She kept them closed for a moment as a single tear forced its way beneath the lid of her right eye and moved down her cheek. If there was still anything, any spark in those ashes, he would see that tear, and he would touch it, or kiss it away, and—
But there was no touch, not of finger nor of lips. And when she opened her eyes again, it was to see his figure riding away, back as straight as a staff, yet head bowed beneath burdens he would not let go. It seemed too cruel that he was haloed by the sunlight of a perfect, peaceful day.
She wiped the tear away herself and walked to the little dock. The mist eddied and billowed over the lake, now showing, now hiding, the farther shore.
“And what will you do now, fair cousin?”
Somehow she was not surprised to find Gwyn standing beside her, though she had heard no one approach.
And that was when she realized what made her feel so hollow and so lost inside, so empty, and so broken. For the first time in her life, she had no direction, no purpose, and no certainty. She was a boat adrift, with no paddle and no tiller. “I don’t know,” she replied, and she closed her eyes on grief. “There seems no place and no need for me now.”
He considered that in silence. “Have your hands lost their skill with blade and bow?” he said, finally.
“I don’t—I don’t think so.” Yes, she did have that. And in the chaos that would come now, there would surely be a use for such skills. “But who would take me? I betrayed Arthur—”
“Those who are well aware you did nothing of the sort?” Gwyn replied. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face inland. “Look there. That peaceful Abbey of the Christ followers. The Saxons too follow that path and will leave them in peace, but there are those who will not, who will hear tales of wealth and think it is the wealth of gold and silver, and not of wisdom. They will need a strong hand to help protect them. And look there.” He turned her a little, aiming her at that hidden place that held the School of the Ladies and the Cauldron Well. “The Old Ways will die unless someone finds a way to hide them among the New. And the old queen, who is now called Sister Blessed, she would do that if she knew it was needed, for it was the Ladies who welcomed her as well as the Abbot. Or—” And now he turned her to face the mist. “—Or you can join my folk in Annwn. You will not be the first to join us, nor the last. And there is use for you there, as well. Or you can go into the wilderness and make a hermitage for yourself. Or return to your father and serve him and your sisters. Many choices are yours, more than most have now.”
He turned her to face him. “You have work, cousin. But you will have to make it for yourself. You no longer serve anyone for the moment; you are your own master.”
So there it was. Be careful what you ask for—it might be what you get. Hadn’t she longed for just that in the days after she had escaped from Medraut? She was her own master.
Her mind stirred, moved again, turning like an old mill wheel too long left idle. Not her father; he had done well enough this long without her, and she could prove a liability, even a danger. There were men, like King March, who would hear of her being there and want to take and conquer her just to be known as the man who “owned” Gwenhwyfar. She would not bring that down on those she loved.
And not a hermitlike existence either. That would drive her mad.
But here . . .
Gwyn had said that he thought there was a purpose for her, past being a mere warrior. The Folk of