by Morgan Rice
“Andronicus,” she said, her voice hoarse, coming out more like a whisper. She cleared her throat. “I tried…to surrender myself…in return for the city…I trusted him. Stupid….”
She shook her head again and again, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“No, you are noble,” Kendrick corrected, clasping her hand. “You are the most courageous of us all.”
“You did what any great leader would have done,” Godfrey said, stepping forward.
Gwen shook her head.
“He tricked us…” Gwendolyn said, “…and he attacked me. He had McCloud attack me.”
Gwen couldn’t help it: she began to cry as she spoke the words, unable to hold it back. She knew it was not leader-like to do so, but she could not help herself.
Kendrick clasped her hand tighter.
“They were going to kill me…” she said. “…but Steffen saved me…”
The men all looked to Steffen with a new respect, who stood loyally by her side, bowing his head.
“What I did was too little and too late,” he replied humbly. “I was one man against many.”
“Even so, you saved our sister, and for that we shall always be in your debt,” Kendrick said.
Steffen shook his head.
“I owe her a far greater debt,” he responded.
Gwen teared up.
“Argon saved us both,” she concluded.
Kendrick’s face darkened.
“We will avenge you,” he said.
“It is not myself I’m worried about,” she said. “It is the city … our people … Silesia … Andronicus … he will attack.…”
Godfrey patted her hand.
“Don’t you worry about that now,” he said, stepping forward. “Rest. Let us discuss these things. You are safe now, here.”
Gwen felt her eyes closing on her. She didn’t know if she was awake or dreaming.
“She needs to sleep,” Illepra said, stepping forward, protective.
Gwendolyn dimly heard all of this as she felt herself growing heavier and heavier, drifting in and out of consciousness. In her mind flashed images of Thor, and then, of her father. She was having a hard time discerning what was real and what was a dream, and she heard only snippets of the conversation above her head.
“How serious are her wounds?” came a voice, maybe Kendrick’s.
She felt Illepra run her palm across her forehead. And then the last words she heard, before her eyes closed on her, were Illepra’s:
“The wounds to the body are light, my Lord. It is the wounds to her spirit that run deep.”
* * *
When Gwen woke again, it was to the sound of a crackling fire. She could not tell how much time had passed. She blinked several times as she looked around the dim room, and saw the crowd had dispersed. The only people who remained were Steffen, sitting in a chair by her bedside, Illepra, who stood over her, applying a salve to her wrist, and just one other person. He was a kind, old man who looked down at her with worry. She almost recognized him, but had a hard time placing it. She felt so tired, too tired, as if she hadn’t slept in years.
“My lady?” the old man said, leaning over. He held something large in both hands, and she looked down and realized it was a leather-bound book.
“It is Aberthol,” he said. “Your old teacher. Can you hear me?”
Gwen swallowed and slowly nodded, opening her eyes just a bit.
“I have been waiting hours to see you,” he said. “I saw you stirring.”
Gwen nodded slowly, remembering, grateful for his presence.
Aberthol leaned over and opened his large book, and she could feel the weight of it on her lap. She heard the crackling of its heavy pages as he flipped them back.
“It is one of the few books that I salvaged,” he said, “before the burning of the House of Scholars. It is the fourth annal of the MacGils. You have read it. Hidden inside are stories of conquest and triumphs and defeats, of course—yet there are also other stories. Stories of great leaders wounded. Of wounds to the body, and wounds of the spirit. There all sorts of injuries imaginable, my lady. And this is what I came to tell you: even the best of men and women have suffered the most unimaginable treatment, injuries and torture. You are not alone. You are but a speck in the wheel of time. There are countless others who suffered far worse than you—and many who survived and who went on to become great leaders.
“Do not feel ashamed,” he said, grasping her wrist. “That is what I want to tell you. Never be ashamed. There should be no shame in you—only honor and courage for what you have done. You are as great a leader as the Ring has ever seen. And this does not diminish it in any way.”
Gwen, touched by his words, felt a tear fell roll down her cheek. His words were just what she needed to hear, and she felt so grateful for them. Logically, she knew and understood he was correct.
Yet emotionally, she was still having a hard time feeling it. A part of her could not help but feel as if somehow she had been damaged forever. She knew it was not true, but that was how she felt.
Aberthol smiled, as he held out a smaller book.
“Remember this one?” he asked, turning back its red leather-bound cover. “It was your favorite, all through childhood. The legends of our fathers. There’s a particular story in here I thought I would read to you, to help you idle away the time.”
Gwen was touched by the gesture, but she could take no more. Sadly, she shook her head.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse, another tear rolling down her cheek. “But I can’t hear it right now.”
His face fell in disappointment, then he nodded, understanding.
“Another time,” she said, feeling despondent. “I need to be alone. If you would, please, leave me. All of you,” she said, turning and looking at Steffen and Gwen.
They all rose to their feet and bowed their heads, then turned and hurried from the room.
Gwen felt guilty, but she couldn’t stop it; she wanted to crumple into a ball and die. She listened to their steps cross the room, heard the door close behind them, and looked up to make sure the room was empty.
But she was surprised to see that it was not: there stood a lone figure, standing inside the doorway, erect, with her posture perfect, as always. She walked slowly and stately towards Gwen, stopping a few feet from her bedside, staring down at her, expressionless.
Her mother.
Gwen was surprised to see her standing there, the former Queen, as stately and proud as ever, looking down at her with an expression as cool as ever. There was no compassion behind her eyes, as there were behind the eyes of other visitors.
“Why are you here?” Gwen asked.
“I’ve come to see you.”
“But I don’t want to see you,” Gwen said. “I don’t want to see anyone.”
“I don’t care what you want,” her mother said, cool and confident. “I am your mother, and I have a right to see you when I wish.”
Gwen felt her old anger towards her mother flare up; she was the last person she wanted to see at this moment. But she knew her mother and knew that she would not leave until she had spoken her mind.
“So speak then,” Gwendolyn said. “Speak and leave and be done with me.”
Her mother sighed.
“You don’t know this,” her mother said. “But when I was young, your age, I was attacked in the same way as you.”
Gwen stared back, shocked; she’d had no idea.
“Your father knew of it,” her mother continued. “And he did not care. He married me just the same. At the time, it felt as if my world had ended. But it had not.”
Gwen closed her eyes, feeling another tear roll down her cheek, trying to block the topic out. She did not want to hear her mother’s story. It was too little too late for her mother to give her any real compassion. Did she just expect she could waltz in here, after so many years of harsh treatment, and offer a sympathetic story and expect all to be mended in return?
&n
bsp; “Are you done now?” Gwendolyn asked.
Her mother stepped forward, “No, I’m not done,” she said firmly. “You are Queen now—it is time for you to act like one,” her mother said, her voice as hard as steel. She heard a strength in it she had never heard before. “You pity yourself. But women every day, everywhere, suffer far worse fates than you. What has happened to you is nothing in the scheme of life. Do you understand me? It is nothing.”
Her mother sighed.
“If you want to survive and be at home in this world, you have to be strong. Stronger than the men. Men will get you, one way or another. It is not about what happens to you—it is about how you perceive it. How you react to it. That is what you have control over. You can crumple up and die. Or you can be strong. That is what separates girls from women.”
Gwen knew her mother was trying to help, but she resented the lack of compassion in her approach. And she hated being lectured to.
“I hate you,” Gwendolyn said to her. “I always have.”
“I know you do,” her mother said. “And I hate you, too. But that does not mean we cannot understand each other. I don’t want your love—what I want is for you to be strong. This world isn’t ruled by people who are weak and scared—it is ruled by those who shake their heads at adversity as if it were nothing. You can collapse and die if you like. There is plenty of time for that. But that is boring. Be strong and live. Truly live. Be an example for others. Because one day, I assure you, you will die anyway. And while you’re alive, you might as well live.”
“Leave me be!” Gwendolyn screamed, unable to hear another word.
Her mother stared down at her coldly, then finally, after an interminable silence, she turned and strutted from the room, like a peacock, and slammed the door behind her.
In the empty silence, Gwen began to cry, and she cried and cried. More than ever, she wished all of this would just go away.
CHAPTER SIX
Kendrick stood on the wide landing at the Canyon’s edge, looking out over the swirling mist. As he looked out, his heart was breaking inside. It tore him up to see his sister like that, and he felt gutted, as if he himself had been the one attacked. He could see in the faces of all the Silesians that they viewed Gwen as more than just a leader—they all viewed her as family. They were despondent, too. It was as if Andronicus had hurt them all.
Kendrick felt as if he were to blame. He should have known his younger sister would do something like that, knowing how brave, how proud she was. He should have anticipated that she would try to surrender herself before any of them had a chance to stop her, and he should have found a way to prevent her from doing so. He knew her nature, knew how trusting she was, knew her good heart—and he also, as a warrior, knew, better than she, the brutality of certain leaders. He was older and wiser than she, and he felt he let her down.
Kendrick also felt to blame because all of this, this dire situation, was too much to put on the head of a single person, a newly crowned ruler, a 16-year-old girl. She shouldn’t have had to bear the brunt of it alone. Such a weighty decision would have been hard even on his own head—even on his father’s head. Gwendolyn did the best she could do in the circumstances, and perhaps better than any of them would have. Kendrick had had no ideas for how to deal with Andronicus himself. None of them had.
Kendrick thought of Andronicus, and his face reddened with anger. He was a leader with no morals, no principles, no humanity. It was clear to Kendrick that if they all surrendered now, they would all meet the same fate: Andronicus would kill or enslave each and every one of them.
Something had shifted in the air. Kendrick could see it in the eyes of all the men, and he could feel it in himself. Silesians were now no longer intent on just surviving, just defending. Now they wanted vengeance.
“SILESIANS!” bellowed a voice.
The crowd quieted and looked up. In the upper city, at the edge of the Canyon, looking down at them, there stood Andronicus, surrounded by his henchmen.
“I give you a choice!” he thundered. “Turn over Gwendolyn, and I will let you live! If not, I will rain down fire on you, starting at sunset, a fire so intense that not one of you will live.”
He paused, smiling.
“It is a very generous offer. Do not ponder it long.”
With that, Andronicus turned and stormed off.
The Silesians all gradually turned and looked back at each other.
Srog stepped forward.
“Fellow Silesians!” boomed Srog, to a huge crowd of growing warriors, looking more serious than Kendrick had ever seen him. “Andronicus has attacked our very finest, our most cherished leader. The daughter of our beloved king MacGil, and a great Queen in her own right. He has attacked each and every one of us. He has tried to put a stain on our honor—but he has only stained his own!”
“AYE!” screamed the crowd, the men stirring, each grasping the hilts of their swords, fire in their eyes.
“Kendrick,” Srog said, turning to him. “What do you propose?”
Kendrick slowly looked into the eyes of all the men before them.
“WE ATTACK!” Kendrick screamed, fire in his veins.
The crowd screamed back in approval, a thicker and thicker crowd, fearlessness in their eyes. Each and every one of these people, he saw, was ready to fight to the death.
“WE DIE LIKE MEN, AND NOT LIKE DOGS!” Kendrick screamed again.
“AYE!” screamed back the crowd.
“WE WILL FIGHT FOR GWENDOLYN! FOR ALL OF OUR MOTHERS AND SISTERS AND WIVES!”
“AYE!”
“FOR GWENDOLYN!” Kendrick screamed.
“FOR GWENDOLYN!” the crowd screamed back.
The crowd roared in ecstasy, growing thicker with each passing moment.
With one final shout, they followed Kendrick and Srog as they led the way up the narrow landing, higher and higher, for Upper Silesia. The time had come to show Andronicus what the Silver was made of.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thor stood with Reece, O’Connor, Elden, Conven, Indra and Krohn at the mouth of the river, all of them looking down at Conval’s corpse. The mood in the air was somber. Thor felt it himself, the weight of it on his chest, pulling him down, as he stared down at his Legion brother. Conval. Dead. It did not seem possible. There had been six of them, together, on this journey, for as long as Thor could remember. He had never imagined there would be five. It made him feel his mortality.
Thor thought of all the times that Conval had been there for him, remembered how he had always been there, every step of his journey, from the first day Thor had joined the Legion. He was like a brother to him. Conval had always stuck up for Thor, had always had a good word for him; unlike some of the others, he had accepted Thor as a friend from the very first day. To see him lying there dead—and especially as a result of Thor’s mistakes—made Thor feel sick to his stomach. If he had never trusted those three brothers, perhaps Conval would be standing alive today.
Thor could not think of Conval without Conven, the two identical twins, inseparable, always completing each other’s thoughts. He could not imagine the pain Conven was feeling. Conven looked as if he was not in his right mind anymore; the happy, carefree Conven he once knew seemed to have departed in a single stroke.
They all still stood at the edge of the battlefield where it had taken place, the Empire corpses piled up around them. They stood there, rooted, looking down at Conval, none of them willing to move on until they had given him a proper burial. They had found some choice furs on some Empire officers, had stripped them, and had wrapped Conval’s corpse in them. They had placed him on a small boat, the one they had used to get here, and his body lay in it, long, stiff, facing the sky. A warrior’s burial. Conval already seemed so frozen, his body stiff and blue, as if he had never lived.
They had been standing there for Thor did not know how long, each of them lost in their own sorrows, none wanting to see his body go. Indra moved her palm over Conval’s head in small
circles, chanting something in a language that Thor did not understand, her eyes closed. He could tell how much she cared for him as she conducted the solemn funeral service, and Thor felt a sense of peace at the sound. None of the boys knew what to say, and they all stood there glumly, silent, letting Indra lead the service.
Finally, Indra finished and took a step back. Conven stepped forward, tears running down his cheeks, and knelt down beside his brother. He reached out and lay a hand on his, bowing his head.
Conven reached out and gave the boat a shove. It bobbed out into the still waters of the river, and then, as if the tides understood, they suddenly picked up, pulling the boat away, slowly, gently. It drifted farther and farther away from the group, Krohn whining as it went. Out of nowhere there arose a mist, and it consumed the boat. It disappeared.
Thor felt as if his body, too, had been sucked into the underworld.
Slowly, the boys turned to each other and looked out, past the battlefield, and to the terrains beyond it. Behind them was the underworld from which they came; to one side was a vast plain of grass; and to the other side was an empty wasteland, a hard-baked desert. They stood at a crossroads.
Thor turned to Indra.
“To reach Neversink, we must cross that desert?” Thor asked.
She nodded.
“Is there no other way?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“There are other ways, but less direct. You would lose weeks. If you hope to beat the thieves, it is your only way.”
The others stared long and hard at it, the sun baking off it, rippling in waves.
“It looks unforgiving,” Reece said, coming up beside Thor.
“I know of no one who has ever crossed it and lived,” Indra said. “It is vast, filled with hostile creatures.”
“We don’t have enough provisions,” O’Connor said. “We wouldn’t make it.”
“Yet it is the way to the Sword,” Thor said.
“Assuming the Sword still exists,” Elden said.
“If the thieves have reached Neversink,” Indra said, “then your precious Sword is lost forever. You would risk your lives for a dream. The best thing you can do now is turn back to the Ring.”
