Ruins of Camelot

Chapter 12

When it was over, she could not bear to be near the villain's body. The realisation of what she had done overwhelmed her. She struggled to her feet, began to walk away from the body, then broke into a shambling run, lunging for the stairs.

It simply could not be. Her son could not be dead. Everything else paled in comparison to that sudden, unbearable truth. She no longer cared that her castle home had been attacked and was in flames, or that Camelot, her kingdom, was under siege and effectively overthrown. She did not even care that Merodach, the architect of it all, was dead by her own hand. The moment the life had flickered from his eyes, he had ceased to matter.

All that mattered was the fate of her child.

She refused to believe that he could be no more. It was too huge a tragedy for her to comprehend. Her beautiful son, her only remaining hope...

She made her way to the lower landing and the entrance to the citadel's grand hall. Near the descending stairs, Darrick's dark candle sat. Gabriella stopped, dazed, and stared at it.

You must return to him, her dead husband's voice had said. Make him the man he is meant to be. Only you can do that now...

How could he not have known? Was that even possible? Then she recalled something else he had told her, something characteristically teasing but with a ring of truth to it: No one ever said trust was easy. But it is always better than the alternative...

Perhaps Merodach had been wrong. Or even lying. Perhaps there was a chance...

A tiny flicker of hope alit inside her chest. It was not much, but it was enough to keep her moving, to keep her from simply falling to the rotten, red carpet, bereft and hopeless. She walked into the bar of light that led into the grand hall and peered inside.

The enchanted musical instruments had stopped playing. The fiddle and flute lay on the little stage as if dropped. Fire still roared in the hearth, flickering over the ruins of the enormous chandelier. Beyond all of it stood the horrible, dark sculpture, the eight-fingered skeletal claw embracing its cursed prize. Eerily lithe shadows surrounded the black candle, protecting and hiding it. The flame burnt like an eye of midnight.

She had to put it out. But how? If others had died simply by moving into its black glow, cursed to ashy bones, then how could she?

"No human can touch it," she mused aloud, frowning. "Only those of magical blood may approach it and live..."

Magical blood. That meant witches and wizards. Those like Helena and Goodrik...

Gabriella's eyes suddenly widened. Her mouth opened in amazement. How could she have forgotten? Quickly, she turned back towards the outer landing, darted to where Darrick's candle still sat on the floor near the stairs. Her pack lay there as well, flat and empty. And yet, as she had suddenly remembered, it was not completely empty. She snatched it up, buried her arm inside its depths, and found a long, narrow object in the bottom. Her heart leapt. Slowly, she withdrew the object and peered at it. It looked no different than the first time she had seen it. It was merely a length of wooden stick, slightly tapered to a dull point.

Goodrik had not known how she could use it, but he had said that it might be of use at some point. It might, he suggested, focus the magic of her falcon sigil, make it more potent and useful if the need arose.

The need, Gabriella felt quite sure, had finally arisen.

She dropped her pack and stood slowly, fingering the wand. It was probably an insane errand. Likely, she would die in the attempt. But she had to try. Resolutely, she turned back towards the entrance of the grand hall and paced into its flickering light.