Chapter 6
Six
On the journey down the mountain, my gait took on a new rhythm. Each step felt like the deliberate act of the new person—the adult—I’d suddenly become.
I had seen my father’s sacrifice, felt my mother’s stampeding love as she pushed me into existence. I could never return to being the nameless boy.
I thought of King Claudas, the man who took her from me. I silently vowed that my parents’ deaths would not be in vain.
The boy was nothing. But Lancelot could be a brave knight. Lancelot could be a king.
This is what I told myself as I made my descent down the mountain. I had been born from love, born from greatness, and now I felt emboldened to walk towards a life of my choosing.
This newfound confidence lasted the length of my journey home.
It was not my name that would transform me, but what awaited me at our cottage when I returned.
Through the open temple door, I spotted Viviana. She was praying to Danu.
I padded in. The scent of burning tallow mixed with aromas of juniper, rosemary and other votive herbs.
“My prince!”
She wrapped me in a desperate embrace. Then she pulled back, regarding my transformation.
“You’ve been gone for weeks,” she said. “You look older.”
“Weeks? No, it was just a night.”
Time had always been slippery for me. Hours could last days, and days sometimes lasted minutes. I never grew accustomed to these jarring compressions.
“To you it likely was,” she said. “But to us, to the sisterhood, it was an eternity.”
“The sisterhood.” My eyes shot to the empty plinth. I pushed down gathering tears. “I am so sorry.”
Viviana drew a sharp breath. “They were quite upset. The harp was irreplaceable.”
“You don’t have to worry about more destruction,” I said. “I will pack my things and set sail on the next departing boat.”
Viviana flung her arm out, and the temple door blasted shut. A rare use of her magic. “You will do nothing of the sort.”
“But what I’ve done is unforgivable.”
She grabbed my hands, and in a soft voice she said, “Very few things in life are unforgivable.”
I took in the thin lines of her forehead, the subtle crinkle of her crow’s-feet. I wondered if I’d aged her with worry.
“I don’t know what overcame me.”
She nodded. “And that is part of the problem. We have not equipped you with the proper tools. But that is about to change.” She inspected the deep gash on my forearm. “This looks painful.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll fetch an ointment.”
“Viviana, please—”
“Some honey and mint—”
“I found the lake,” I cut in. “And I know my name.”
Her mouth widened. I explained the sword and the memories that traveled through it. I knew she had saved my life. I knew I was still her son.
“It’s Lancelot,” I said.
I had expected her to share my elation, but she was quiet for a long while. Perhaps a part of her was mourning the unnamed boy.
Finally she spoke, as if lifting out a memory. “Lancelot was Elaine’s father’s name. You must be his namesake. I believe they called him Lancelot of the White Earth. He was a great knight. Elaine was wise to give you such a name.”
I stared into the flame of the melting votive candle, thinking back on my namelessness.
I used to beg Viviana to name me. Urged the sisterhood to call me all sorts of names.
I’d interpreted their refusal as a sign of my own unworthiness.
But now I saw it differently. They had left the honor to Elaine.
“You knew her. My birth mother.”
Viviana’s eyes went heavy. “I knew her well. She was lovely. Gentle. She possessed a quiet humor that I sorely miss.”
As she spoke, a deep and abiding affection flowed through me. How lucky I was, to have two mothers.
“She was here before. I saw it. She was here on the Isle of Women.”
“Yes. This is where we met. That is how I knew to rescue you.”
“She was your kin?”
“No, she was not.”
“Then she came here under dire circumstances?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“A descendant then? Is my mother related to one of the sisterhood?”
Viviana wavered, her lips tightened.
“Who?” I asked. “Who is she related to?”
Just then Elinor appeared in the doorway. The way Viviana looked at her told me everything I needed to know.
“Praise Danu! My dear one, you are back.”
“He knows,” Viviana said, slicing through Elinor’s excitement.
“What’s that?”
“He knows he is Elaine’s son. Your daughter’s son. And you should know his name. This is Lancelot.”
The revelation changed everything and nothing.
Elinor was, to some extent, always my grandmother, and I would have time later to sort through the meaning of our connection.
But hearing my name spoken out loud, the melodic cadence of the letters, the way it bounced off Viviana’s tongue, took me aback.
I could feel her speaking my identity, my destiny, into existence.
When Elinor—my grandmother—repeated it, I felt my heart crack open.
“Well, your timing is perfect, Lancelot,” Elinor said. “They’re here.”