by Morgan Rice
Gwendolyn patted her hand.
“Mother, do not trouble yourself with this now. This is no time for affairs of state.”
Her mother shook her head.
“It is always time for affairs of state. And now most of all. Funerals, do not forget, are affairs of state. They are not family events; they are political ones.”
Her mother coughed for a long time, then breathed deep.
“I haven’t much time, so listen to my words,” she said, her voice weaker. “Take them to heart. Even if you do not wish to hear them.”
Gwen leaned in closer and nodded solemnly.
“Anything, Mother.”
“Do not trust Tirus. He will betray you. Do not trust his people. Those MacGils, they are not us. They are us in name only. Do not forget this.”
Her mother wheezed, trying to catch her breath.
“Do not trust the McClouds, either. Do not imagine you can make peace.”
Her mother wheezed, and Gwen thought about that, trying to grasp its deeper meaning.
“Keep your army strong and your defenses stronger. The more you realize that peace is an illusion, the more peace you will secure.”
Her mother wheezed again, for a long time, closing her eyes, and it broke Gwen’s heart to see what an effort this was for her.
On the one hand, Gwen thought that perhaps these were just the words of a dying Queen who had been jaded too long; yet on the other hand, she could not help but admit that there was some wisdom in them, perhaps wisdom that she herself did not want to acknowledge.
Her mother opened her eyes again.
“Your sister, Luanda,” she whispered. “I want her at my funeral. She is my daughter. My firstborn.”
Gwendolyn breathed, surprised.
“She has done terrible things, deserving of exile. But allow her this grace, just once. When they put me in the earth, I want her there. Do not refuse the request of a dying mother.”
Gwendolyn sighed, torn. She wanted to please her mother. Yet she did not want to allow Luanda back, not after what she had done.
“Promise me,” her mother said, clutching Gwen’s hand firmly. “Promise me.”
Finally, Gwendolyn nodded, realizing she could not say no.
“I promise you, Mother.”
Her mother sighed and nodded, satisfied, then leaned back in her pillow.
“Mother,” Gwen said, clearing her throat. “I want you to give my child a blessing.”
Her mother opened her eyes weakly and looked at her, then closed them and slowly shook her head.
“That baby already has every blessing a child could want. He has my blessing—but he does not need it. You will come to see, my daughter, that your child is far more powerful than you or Thorgrin or anyone who has come before, or will come since. It was all prophesied, years ago.”
Her mother wheezed for a long time, and just when Gwen thought she was done, just when she was preparing to leave, her mother opened her eyes one last time.
“Do not forget what your father taught you,” she said, her voice so weak she could barely talk. “Sometimes a kingdom is most at peace when it is at war.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Steffen galloped down the dusty road, heading east from King’s Court, as he had been for days, trailed by a dozen members of the Queen’s guard. Honored that the Queen had endowed him with this mission and determined to fulfill it, Steffen had been riding from town to town, accompanied by a caravan of royal carriages, each laden with gold and silver, royal coin, building supplies, corn, grain, wheat, and various provisions and building materials of every sort. The Queen was determined to bring aid to all the small villages of the Ring, to help them rebuild, too, and in Steffen, she had found a determined missionary.
Steffen had already visited many villages, had dispersed wagons full of supplies on the Queen’s behalf, carefully and precisely allocating them to the villages and families most in need. He had taken pride in seeing the joy in their faces as he’d doled out supplies and allocated manpower to help rebuild the villages outlying King’s Court. One village at a time, on Gwendolyn’s behalf, Steffen was helping to restore faith in the power of the Queen, the power of the rebuilding of the Ring. For the first time in his life, people looked past his appearance, people treated him with respect, like a regular person. He loved the feeling. The people were starting to realize that they, too, were not forgotten under this Queen, and Steffen was thrilled to be a part of helping to spread their love and devotion to her. There was nothing he wanted more.
As fate would have it, the route the Queen had set him on was leading Steffen, after many villages, to his very own village, to the place he was raised. Steffen felt a sense of dread, a pit in his stomach, as he realized his own village was next on the list. He wanted to turn away, to do anything to avoid it.
But he knew he could not. He had vowed to Gwendolyn to fulfill his duty, and his honor was at stake—even if it entailed his going back to the very same place that occupied his nightmares. It was the place holding all the people he had known while he was raised, the people who had taken great pleasure in tormenting him, in mocking the way he was shaped. The people who had made him feel deeply ashamed of himself. Once he’d left, he’d vowed to never return, to never set eyes on his family again. Now, ironically, his mission led him here, requiring him to allocate for them whatever resources they might need on behalf of the Queen. The fates had been too cruel.
Steffen crested a hill and caught his first glimpse of his town. His stomach dropped. Just seeing it, he already thought less of himself. He was beginning to diminish, to crawl up inside, and it was a feeling he hated. He had been feeling so good, better than he ever had in his life, especially given his new position, his entourage, his answering to the Queen herself. But now, seeing this place, there came rushing back the way people used to perceive him. He hated the feeling.
Were these people still here? he wondered. Were they as cruel as they had always been? He hoped not.
If Steffen ran into his family here, what would he say to them? What would they say to him? When they saw the station he had achieved, would they be proud? He had achieved a station and rank higher than anyone in his family, or village, had ever achieved. He was one of the Queen’s highest advisors, a member of the inner royal council. They would be flabbergasted to hear what he had achieved. Finally, they would have to admit they had been wrong all along about him. That he was not worthless after all.
Steffen hoped that maybe, that was how this would go. Maybe, finally, his family would admire him, and he would achieve some vindication amongst his people.
Steffen and his royal caravan pulled up to the gates to the small town, and Steffen directed them all to come to a stop.
Steffen turned and faced his men, a dozen of the Queen’s royals guards, who all looked to him for direction.
“You will await me here,” Steffen called out. “Outside the town gates. I don’t want my people to see you yet. I want to face them alone.”
“Yes, our Commander,” they replied.
Steffen dismounted, wanting to walk the rest of the way, to enter the town on foot. He did not want his family to see his royal horse, or any of his royal entourage. He wanted to see how they’d react to him as he was, without seeing his station or rank. He even took off the royal markings on his new clothing, stripping them and leaving them in the saddle.
Steffen walked past the gates and into the small, ugly village he remembered, smelling of wild dogs, chickens running loose in the streets, old ladies and children chasing them. He walked past rows and rows of cottages, a few made of stone but most made of straw. The streets here were in poor shape, littered with holes and animal waste.
Nothing had changed. After all these years, nothing had changed at all.
Steffen finally reached the end of the street, turned left, and his stomach clenched as he saw his father’s house. It looked the same as it always had, a small wood cottage with a sloped roof and a crooked
door. The shed in the back was where Steffen had been made to sleep. The sight of it made him want to raze it.
Steffen walked up to the front door, which was open, stood at the entrance, and looked inside.
His breath was taken away as he saw his whole family there: his father and mother, all of his brothers and sisters, all of them crammed into that small cottage, as they had always been. All of them gathered around the table, as always, fighting over scraps, laughing with each other. They had never laughed with Steffen, though. Only at him.
They all looked older, but otherwise, just the same. He watched them all in wonder. Had he really hailed from these people?
Steffen’s mother was the first to spot him. She turned, and at the sight of him she gasped, dropped her plate, smashing it on the floor.
His father turned next, then all the others, all staring back, in shock to see him again. They each wore an unpleasant expression, as if an unwelcome guest had arrived.
“So,” his father said slowly, scowling, coming around the table toward him, wiping grease from his hands with a napkin in a threatening way, “you have returned after all.”
Steffen remembered his father used to tie that napkin of his into a knot, wet it, and whip him with it.
“What’s the matter?” his father added, a sinister smile on his face. “You couldn’t make it in the big city?”
“He thought he was too good for us. And now he has to come running back to his home like a dog!” one of his brothers yelled out.
“Like a dog!” echoed one of his sisters.
Steffen was seething, breathing hard—but he forced himself to hold his tongue, to not stoop to their level. After all, these people were provincial, riddled with prejudice, the result of a life spent locked in a small town; he, though, had seen the world, and had come to know better.
His siblings—indeed, everyone in the room—laughed at him in the small cottage.
The only one not laughing, staring at him, wide-eyed, was his mother. He wondered if maybe she was the only redeemable one. He wondered if perhaps she would be happy to see him.
But she just slowly shook her head.
“Oh, Steffen,” she said, “you should not have come back here. You are not a part of this family.”
Her words, delivered so calmly, without malice, hurt Steffen most of all.
“He never was,” his father said. “He’s a beast. What are you doing here, boy? Come back for more scraps?”
Steffen did not answer. He did not have the gift of speech, of witty, quick-thinking retorts, and certainly not in an emotional situation like this. He was so flustered, he could hardly form words. There were so many things he wished to say to them all. But no words came to him.
So instead he just stood there, seething, silent.
“Cat got your tongue?” his father mocked. “Then out of my way. You’re wasting my time. This is our big day, and you’re not going to ruin it for us.”
His father shoved Steffen out of the way as he rushed past him, stepping outside the doorway, looking both ways. The whole family waited and watched, until his father came back in, grunting, disappointed.
“Did they come yet?” his mother asked hopefully.
He shook his head.
“Don’t know where they could be,” his father said.
Then he turned to Steffen, angry, turning bright red.
“You get out of the door,” he barked. “We’re waiting for a very important man, and you’re blocking the way. You’re going to ruin it, aren’t you, as you always ruined everything? What timing you have, to show up at a moment like this. The Queen’s own commander will be arriving here any moment, to distribute food and supplies to our village. This is our moment to petition him. And look at you,” his father sneered, “standing there, blocking our door. One sight of you, and he will pass our house over. He’d think we’re a house of freaks.”
His brothers and sisters broke into laughter.
“A house of freaks!” one of them echoed.
Steffen stood there, turning bright red himself, staring back at his father, who faced him, scowling.
Steffen, too flustered to reply, slowly turned his back, shook his head, and walked out the door.
Steffen walked out into the street, and as he did, he signaled for his men.
Suddenly, dozens of gleaming royal carriages appeared, racing through the village.
“They’re coming!” screamed Steffen’s father.
Steffen’s entire family rushed out, running past Steffen, standing there, lining up, gaping at the wagons, at the royal guard.
The royal guard all turned and looked to Steffen.
“My lord,” one of them said, “shall we distribute here or shall we carry on?”
Steffen stood there, hands on his hips, and stared back at his family.
As one, his entire family turned and, shocked beyond words, stared at Steffen. They kept looking back and forth between Steffen and the royal guard, completely flabbergasted, as if unable to comprehend what they were seeing.
Steffen walked slowly, mounted his royal horse, and sat before all the others, sitting in his gold and silver saddle, looking down on his family
“My lord?” his father echoed. “Is this some sort of sick joke? You? The royal commander?”
Steffen merely sat there, looking down his father, and shook his head.
“That is right, Father,” Steffen replied. “I am the royal commander.”
“It can’t be,” his father said. “It can’t be. How could a beast be chosen to the Queen’s guard?”
Suddenly, two royal guardsmen dismounted, drew their swords, and rushed for his father. They held the tips of their swords at his throat firmly, pressing hard enough that his father opened his eyes wide in fear.
“To insult the Queen’s man is to insult the Queen herself,” one of the men snarled at Steffen’s father.
His father gulped, terrified.
“My lord, shall we have this man imprisoned?” the other asked Steffen.
Steffen surveyed his family, saw the shock in all their faces, and debated.
“Steffen!” His mom came rushing forward, clasping his legs, pleading. “Please! Do not imprison your father! And please—give us provisions. We need them!”
“You owe us!” his father snapped. “For all that I gave you, your whole life. You owe us.”
“Please!” his mom pleaded. “We had no idea. We had no idea who you had become! Please don’t harm your father!”
She dropped to her knees and started to weep.
Steffen merely shook his head down at these lying, deceitful, honorless people, people who had been nothing but cruel to him his entire life. Now that they realized he was somebody, they wanted something from him.
Steffen decided they did not even deserve a response from him.
He realized something else, too: his whole life he had held his family up on a pedestal. As if they were the great ones, they were the perfect ones, the successful ones, the ones he wanted to become. But now he realized the opposite was true. It had all, his entire upbringing, been a grand delusion. These were just pathetic people. Despite his shape, he was above them all. For the first time, he realized that.
He looked down at his father, at sword-point, and a part of him wanted to hurt him. But another part of him realized one final thing: they did not deserve his vengeance, either. They would have to be somebody to deserve that. And they were nobody.
He turned to his men.
“I think this village will do just fine on their own,” he said.
He kicked his horse, and in a great cloud of dust they all rode out of town, Steffen determined to never return to this place again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The attendants threw open the ancient oak doors, and Reece hurried out of the nasty weather, wet from the driving wind and rain of the Upper Isles, and into the dry refuge of Srog’s fort. He was immediately relieved to be dry as the doors slammed behind him, wiping water f
rom his hair and face, and he looked up to see Srog hurrying over to give him a hug.
Reece embraced him back. He had always had a warm spot for this great warrior and leader, this man who had led Silesia so well, who had been loyal to Reece’s father, and even more loyal to his sister. Seeing Srog, with his stiff beard, broad shoulders, and friendly smile, brought back memories of his father, of the old guard.
Srog leaned back and clasped a beefy hand on Reece’s shoulder.
“You resemble your father too much as you grow older,” he said warmly.
Reece smiled.
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
“It is indeed,” Srog replied. “There was no finer man. I would have walked through fire for him.”
Srog turned and led Reece through the hall, all of his men falling in behind them as they wound their way through the fort.
“You are a most welcome face to see here in this miserable place,” Srog said. “I am grateful to your sister for sending you.”
“It seems I have chosen a bad day to visit,” Reece said as they passed an open-air window, rain lashing a few feet away.
Srog smirked.
“Every day is a bad day here,” he answered. “Yet it can also change on a dime. They say the Upper Islands experience all four seasons in a single day—and I have come to see that it is true.”
Reece looked outside at a small, empty castle courtyard, populated with a handful of ancient stone buildings, gray, ancient, which looked like they blended into the rain. Few people were outside, and those that were lowered their heads against the wind and hurried from one place to the next. This island seemed to be a lonely and desolate place.
“Where are all the people?” Reece asked.
Srog sighed.
“The Upper Islanders stay indoors. They keep to themselves. They are spread out. This place is not like Silesia, or King’s Court. Here, they live all over the island. They do not congregate in cities. They are an odd, reclusive people. Stubborn and hardened—like the weather.”
