by Morgan Rice
Gwen sighed, pained by his story, overwhelmed with compassion for him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You did not deserve that. You, of all people. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to shield you from that. Gareth and Luanda were cruel as children.”
“As they were as adults,” he added. “You become more of what you are as you age.”
Gwendolyn thought about that, and realized there was some truth to it.
Kendrick sighed.
“I don’t need sympathy,” he said. “That is not why I tell you this story. It was the worst day of my life; I had been told news from which I was certain I would never recover. And yet here I am. I have recovered. Life is incredibly resilient.”
Gwen thought about that in the silence, the crackling flames.
Life is incredibly resilient.
“You’re stronger than you think,” he added, clasping her hand. “You have overcome tremendous things. And you can overcome anything. Even this. Even whatever has happened to Thorgrin and Guwayne.”
Gwen looked back at him, tears falling down her cheeks.
“You are a true brother,” she said, and turned away, too choked up to say any more. She squeezed his hand, and in silence, she sent him her gratitude.
“There is the irony,” she finally said. “You would have been the greatest ruler of them all. A greater ruler than I have been.”
Kendrick shook his head.
“I could not lead in the way you have done,” he said. “I could not have survived what you have survived. I might be a great warrior. But you are a great leader. That is something else entirely. Look over there, at the fruit of your labors.”
Gwen turned and followed his gaze, and saw the baby girl in Illepra’s arms close by, the girl she had rescued on the Upper Isles.
“You snatched that girl from the dragons’ breath,” Kendrick said. “I’ll never forget how brave you were. You, the only one of all of us willing to leave our hiding spot from underneath the earth, to run out there all alone and save that child. She is alive because of you. Because of your valor.”
“I was not in my right mind,” Gwen said.
“Oh yes you were,” he said. “It is precisely moments of crisis that bring out who we are. And that is you.”
Gwen, touched by Kendrick’s words, looked at the sleeping infant, and she wondered.
“Who do you think her parents were?” she asked.
Kendrick shook her head.
“You are her parents now,” he said. “You are her whole world. If nothing else, you have saved this child. You have saved this one life. That is more than most people do in a lifetime.”
Gwen stared into the flames, pondering. Maybe he was right. Maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on herself. After all, another queen might have given in a long time ago. She, at least, had managed to rescue some of her people, had managed to go on. To survive.
Gwen thought of her father, of what he would have done, what he would have wanted. He was a hard man to know. Would he be proud of her? Would he have done things differently?
It made Gwen think of her ancestors, and she reached down, hoisted the ancient, heavy, leather-bound book sitting by her side and placed it on her lap. It was as thick as ten books, and three times the size, and the weight of it was disarming. She was surprised Aberthol had managed to salvage it from the House of Scholars, to bring it all this way. She loved him for it. She remembered it fondly from her years of study, and having it here now with her was like reuniting with an old friend.
“What is it?” Kendrick asked, looking over.
She reached over, struggling with the weight of it, and placed it in his lap. He looked down in wonder.
“The History of the Empire, in Seven Parts,” she said. “It is one of the few books we salvaged, one of the few precious artifacts that remains of our homeland.”
He looked at her in awe.
“Have you read it all?” he asked.
“Not all of it,” she admitted. “And it was when I was younger.”
Gwen turned and called out: “Aberthol!”
Aberthol, dozing, opened his eyes, his back against the cave wall.
“Come here,” she said.
He got up lazily, groaning, and made his way over to the fire, sitting down between them, joining them.
“Yes, my lady?” he asked.
“Tell us,” she said. “All that talk of a second Ring—is it true?”
His eyes followed hers and they lit up as they focused on the volume in Kendrick’s lap.
He sighed.
“It is alluded to many times, for certain,” he said slowly, clearing his throat, his voice hoarse. “Whether it’s true or not is another thing entire. To understand it, one must put it into context. It was a different time, before our father’s time. A time when the Ring and the Empire were one. Before even the Canyon. Such a place might exist; it has certainly been hinted at for centuries. If so, it would certainly be well hidden, deep within the Empire. And who knows if it ever existed, if it still survives this day? It might be just a ruin, a ghost of the past.”
Aberthol’s arrival brought the attention of the others, all of whom, Gwen realized now, had been awake, like she, unable to sleep. They all seemed to welcome a distraction, and they all rose and ambled over—Steffen, Brandt, Atme, and Godfrey—who seemed a bit drunk. They all joined them beside the fire, Godfrey with a sack of spirits in hand, taking a long swig.
“We cannot go chasing ghosts of the past, my lady,” Aberthol said. “We must find a way to return to our homeland, to the Ring.”
“The Ring is no more, old man,” Brandt said.
“To return there is to return to death,” Atme said. “Even if we could rebuild, even if we could start again, have you forgotten Romulus’s million men?”
“If we remain here, they will find us,” Steffen said. “We cannot stay here in this cave forever. This is no home.”
“No,” Gwendolyn said. “But we can recover here. Look around: our people are still weak, some still sick. They need time to mourn. Time to eat and drink and sleep. This cave will suit us just fine for now.”
“And then what, my lady?” Godfrey asked.
Gwen stared into the flames, that very same question swimming in her head. And then what? She saw all their eyes looking to her hopefully, as if she were their god, some long-lost messiah leading a people to salvation. She desperately wanted to give them the right answer, a definitive, confident answer that would set them all at ease.
But she did not know it herself. All she knew was that she desperately wanted Thorgrin and Guwayne back by her side. She wanted to return home, to the Ring. She wanted her father back, here with her, as he was in days of old.
But all that, she knew, was gone. That was her old life. And she needed to imagine a new one.
“I don’t know,” she finally answered, honestly. “Time, and only time, will tell.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thor sat in the small vessel with his Legion brothers, as the man in the cloak and hood silently rowed them across the phosphorus waters, the only sound that of the dripping water echoing off the cave walls. Down below, Thor watched the murky waters change colors, from a glowing green to an aqua blue, and saw something swirling beneath the surface, he was not sure what, teeming as if it were alive with creatures. Before them, the air swirled with mist, scarlet, thick, drifting in and out. With each gentle splash of the water, their boat glided deeper and deeper into the cave, toward the blackness on the other side. Thor felt a finality with each row, felt as if he were entering another realm, never to turn back. As long as Guwayne was up ahead, he would venture anywhere.
Thor could feel the anxiety and tension amongst all his brothers, all of them silent, one hand clutching the edge of the boat, the other on their weapons. They had ventured to the ends of the earth together, but never into a realm like this. He could sense their fear. They could battle anything—but could they battle death?
The rowing
finally stopped, and their boat continued to glide, all of them silent, until it came to a stop on the far shore with a gentle bump. Thor looked out and saw a small strip of black rock, perhaps twenty feet wide, and beyond that, a narrow footbridge, leading across a great divide, inside of which swirled the mist, even thicker here.
Thor turned and looked at the man, who kept his head down, his cloak covering his face. Thor could not see his face, and wondered what sort of creature lurked behind it.
“The path to death lies before you,” the man said, his voice dark, ancient. “Cross the Canyon of Blood, and if you dare to enter, knock three times on the Gates of Death. They will open for you—once. And they will never open for you again.”
Thor felt a sense of apprehension, all of his friends looking to him, all pale. He knew it was now or never.
Thor took the step off the vessel and onto the black rock, and his friends followed.
The boat pushed off, the riverkeeper returning from where he’d come, and as he did, he called out for the last time: “If you pass through those gates, beware: our sense of time here is not as yours. A few steps can last many moons.”
With that, the man rowed one last time, and disappeared into the blackness.
Thor and his brothers exchanged a worried look.
Thor looked out and could see a footbridge in the mist. It looked precarious, a narrow bridge of rotting wooden planks, leading across a great abyss, perhaps fifty feet. All around it hung a swirling red mist, reflecting some light source far below. Thor did not want to know what lay at the bottom.
Conven stepped forward to go first, but Thor held out a hand.
“You are brave,” Thorgrin said, “but I will go first. The bridge might give. And if it does, I shall go down alone.”
“I do not fear death,” Conven said, looking at him with hollowed eyes.
“Nor do I,” Thor said, meaning it.
Conven nodded, seeing the seriousness on Thor’s face, and as the others watched, Thor took the first step onto the narrow footbridge, only a few feet wide, with no handrails. It would be a balancing act.
Thor hesitated, as he could feel the wood wobbling beneath his feet. He took another step, then another, trying to keep his eyes fixed before him, and not on the drop below.
He felt the wood shake and he knew that, one by one, his Legion brothers were following behind him.
As he crossed the bridge, the hairs rose on Thor’s neck as he began to hear the awful sound of planks cracking.
He turned and saw that the last person, O’Connor, was walking quickly, and with every step he took, the planks, one at a time, fell behind him, hurling down into the abyss. With each step they took more planks fell. It was a one-way bridge, a bridge that would never appear again. Somehow, the bridge magically stayed stable, and they were continue to cross, each step erasing another plank forever.
Thor knew there was no turning back. Ever.
Thor stepped onto the black rock on the far side of the canyon, and he looked up to see himself standing before a massive arched entrance, carved out of black rock: the entrance rose a hundred feet high, and it was blocked by huge gates, the largest iron gates Thor had ever seen, putting even the other ones to shame.
Before it stood two creatures, trolls, perhaps, twice the size of Thor, wearing black hoods and cloaks, scowling back, their faces disfigured. Each held a long, scarlet trident, with black shafts and short silver spikes, pointing straight up to the sky.
Thor looked up and saw the iron knocker, as large as he, in the center of the gates, and he knew what he had to do.
He stepped forward and grabbed the knocker.
The trolls stood there silently, staring out, as if Thor and his brothers were not even there.
With all his might, Thor pulled on the knocker. As he struggled, his brothers rushed forward and grabbed it, helping him. Together, with all their might, they all managed to pull it back, this knocker on the gates of death.
Finally, they could pull it back no longer, and they all let go and sent it flying forward. It crashed into the metal, and the reverberation nearly knocked them all off their feet.
They all did it again.
And again.
The ground trembled beneath them, Thor’s ears ringing with the noise, his hands shaking from the vibration. But he had knocked three times, as instructed, and now all he had to do was wait.
Slowly, there came a tremendous groaning noise, and the massive gates began to open inward, a few inches at a time, until finally, they opened the entire way.
Thor saw, lying before them, a massive cave lit by sporadic torches, filled with the sound of a million screeching bats. The entrance to the land of death. A threshold beyond which he could never return.
Thinking only of Guwayne, Thor took a fateful step forward, across the threshold.
Then another.
He stood inside, and beside him, his brothers appeared, one by one, until he heard a great groan and the massive doors slowly, definitively, slammed shut behind them.
As it echoed and echoed, and as he looked before him at the endless tunnel leading into the earth, he knew he would never return to the land of the living again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alistair stood beside Erec, holding his hand, the two of them standing on the highest plateau of the Southern Isles, looking out together at the dazzling vista, at the morning sun spreading out over the isles. Alistair was elated to have Erec back, on the road to healing, and to be standing by his side again. Erec was finally like his old self, clutching her hand with the strength of the warrior she once knew.
As Alistair stood there, greeting another day with him, all the chaos and bloodshed behind them, she felt her own life being restored to her again, and felt so grateful to God for answering her prayers.
The two of them stood there, looking out, and as Alistair surveyed the landscape of her new home, this home she had already come to love, she could already see all the rebuilding taking place, up and down the isles. Like she and Erec, this entire nation was picking up the pieces, getting ready to rebuild, to start again. In the distance, Alistair could hear the soft, soothing noise of distant chisels, hammering away, rebuilding.
“The hammers and chisels never cease,” Erec said, “and yet there remains much to do.”
The land was in ruins, destroyed from the civil war. But with the men finally united again under Erec’s rule, there was now a joy, a purpose in the air, and they all set about rebuilding with alacrity, as one. Houses were already beginning to rise again, as bodies were dragged from the streets, buried in the hills, and bells were tolled to commemorate the losses. Alistair could hear them even now, distant, ringing from one village to the next.
It was a peaceful air, a calm after the storm.
“You saved my life,” Erec said. “Don’t think I don’t know that. It is a very sacred thing. Our lives are bound. Mine to yours, and yours to mine. Until the day I die, I shall owe you.”
Alistair smiled and squeezed his hand.
“You are back to life,” she replied. “That’s payment enough.”
He draped an arm around her shoulder and Alistair leaned into him. She looked out, overwhelmed with the beauty of this place, the sun shining off of everything, the beauty of her future before her. She and Erec would wed soon. They would have a child. She would rule this magnificent place with him.
Her dreams were finally coming true. It was time to start again.
ONE MOON LATER
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gwen, slumped against the wall of the cave near its entrance, heard the exotic birds tweeting, and she opened her eyes to look out at the breaking dawn of yet another day here in the Empire. She had been awake most of the night, unable to sleep yet again, staring most of the night into the flames of a dying fire, beset with grief. Another day on this earth without Thorgrin. Without Guwayne.
Gwen looked out on yet another day here in this Empire, the arid landscape desert landscape
spread out below, and she could hardly believe an entire moon had passed. And still no sign of Thorgrin, of Guwayne. Each day she had woken up expecting them to arrive here, knowing with all her heart that they would. After all, how could they not? Thorgrin was her husband. Guwayne her child. There was no way they could stay away from her for long. It was all just one long nightmare waiting to be over.
And yet each day she had awoken, and they had never arrived, and no news had arrived. Now that an entire moon cycle had passed, the reality of it was starting to sink in. Gwen was finally beginning to realize that they might not ever come back to her.
The realization made her feel crushed, hollowed out, lower than she’d ever had in her life. Perhaps that seer had been right: perhaps Thorgrin had truly gone into the land of the dead. And perhaps her baby would never return.
Gwen had tried desperately to rouse Argon during the past moon cycle, and the few times that she had, he had spoken weakly, barely conscious, and had been unable to give her any insight into their whereabouts. It all felt increasingly foreboding to her.
Gwen had sat inside this cave day after day, depressed, frozen with immobility, with indecision. She was a Queen, she knew, but now she found herself unable to make choices even for the smallest things. Each day, Kendrick and Aberthol and Steffen and Godfrey had come to her with the myriad of small things her people in exile needed—and she been unable to make even the smallest decision. She was a Queen, she knew, frozen by grief. Frozen in depression.
Gwendolyn looked around and saw her people lying about, scattered by the embers, most asleep, and the few who were awake, staring hopelessly into the flames. Most had wine sacks in their hands, empty from another long night of drinking. She could see in their eyes what they were thinking. They were thinking of home. Of the Ring. Possibly of family and friends lost or killed along the way. They were thinking of how much they had given up, how much they had lost. Of how they were all living like moles here, hiding, wasting away in this cave, not really living at all.
