by Morgan Rice
Gwendolyn’s heart flooded with relief, and she burst into tears. She started crying hysterically, weeping at the sight of him. She was so relieved, tears of joy washed over her. The baby was alive. She was alive. They had survived. Somehow, they had made it through this terrible nightmare.
She had never felt more grateful in her life.
Illepra leaned forward and placed the baby on Gwen’s chest.
Gwendolyn sat up and looked down, examining him. She felt reborn at the touch of him, the weight of him in her arms, his smell, the way he looked. She rocked him and held him tight, all swaddled up in blankets. Gwendolyn felt herself filled with waves of love for him, with gratitude. She could hardly believe it; she had a baby.
As he was placed her arms, the baby suddenly stopped crying. He became very still, and he turned, opened his eyes, and looked right at her.
Gwen felt a jolt of shock race through her body as their eyes locked. The baby had Thor’s eyes—gray, sparkling eyes that seemed to come from another dimension. They stared right through her. As she stared back, Gwendolyn felt as if she had known him from another time. For all time.
In that instant, Gwen felt a stronger bond to him than she had to anyone or anything in her life. She clasped him tight, and vowed to never let him go. She would walk through fire for him.
“He has your features, my lady,” Thor said to her, smiling as he leaned over and looked with her.
Gwen smiled back, crying, overwhelmed with emotion. She had never been so happy in her life. This was all she ever wanted, to be here with Thorgrin and their child.
“He has your eyes,” Gwen replied.
“All that he doesn’t yet have is a name,” Thor said.
“Perhaps we should name him after you,” Gwendolyn said to Thor.
Thor shook his head, adamant.
“No. He is his mother’s child. He bears your features. A true warrior should carry the spirit of his mother, and the skills of his father. He needs both to serve him well. He will have my skills. And he should be named after you.”
“Then what do you propose?” she asked.
Thor thought.
“His name should sound like yours. The son of Gwendolyn should be named…Guwayne.”
Gwen smiled. She instantly loved the ring of it.
“Guwayne,” she said. “I like that.”
Gwen smiled wide as she held the baby tight.
“Guwayne,” she said down to the child.
Guwayne turned and opened his eyes again, and as he looked right through her, she could have sworn she saw him smile. She knew he was too young for that, but she did see a flicker of something, and she felt certain that he approved of the name.
Selese leaned forward and applied a salve to Gwen’s lips, and gave her something to drink, a thick, dark liquid. Gwen immediately perked up. She felt she was slowly coming back to herself.
“How long have I been here?” Gwen asked.
“You have been asleep for nearly two days, my lady,” Illepra said. “Ever since the great eclipse.”
Gwen closed her eyes, and she remembered. It all came rushing back to her. She remembered the eclipse, the hail, the earthquake. . . She had never seen anything like it.
“Our baby portends great omens,” Thor said. “The entire kingdom witnessed the events. His birth is already spoken of, far and wide.”
As Gwen clutched the boy tight, she felt a warmth spread through her, and she sensed herself how special he was. Her entire body tingled as she held him, and she knew this was no ordinary child. She wondered what sort of powers ran in his blood.
She looked over at Thor, wondering. Was this boy a druid, too?
“Have you been here all this time?” she asked Thor, realizing he had been by her side all this time and overwhelmed with gratitude toward him.
“I have, my lady. I came as soon as I heard. Aside from last night. I spent the night at the Lake of Sorrows. Praying for your recovery.”
Gwen burst into tears again, unable to control her emotions. She had never felt more content in her life; holding this child made her feel complete in a way she had not thought possible.
Despite herself, Gwen flashed back to that fateful moment in the Netherworld, to the choice she had been forced to make. She squeezed Thor’s hand and held the baby tight, wanting both of them close to her, wanting both of them to be with her forever.
Yet she knew that one of them would have to die. She cried and cried.
“What is wrong, my love?” Thor finally asked.
Gwen shook her head, unable to tell him.
“Do not worry,” he said. “Your mother still lives. If that’s why you are crying.”
Gwen suddenly remembered.
“She is gravely ill,” Thor added. “But there is still time yet to see her.”
Gwen knew that she had to.
“I must see her,” she said. “Take me to her now.”
“Are you sure, my lady?” Selese asked.
“In your condition, you should not be moved,” Illepra added. “Your delivery was most abnormal, and you must recover. You are lucky to be alive.”
Gwen shook her head, adamant.
“I will see my mother before she dies. Take me to her. Now.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Godfrey sat in the center of the long wooden table in the drinking hall, a mug of ale in each fist, singing with the large group of MacGils and McClouds, slamming his mugs on the table with the rest of them. They were all swaying back and forth, slamming their mugs to punctuate each phrase, ale spilling over the back of their hands and onto the table. But Godfrey did not care. He was deep into drink, as he had been every night this week, and he was feeling good.
On either side of him sat Akorth and Fulton, and as he looked side to side, he took satisfaction in seeing dozens of MacGils and McClouds around the table, former enemies all assembling for this drinking event he had put together. It had taken Godfrey several days of combing the Highlands to reach this point. At first, the men had been wary; but when Godfrey had rolled out the casks of ale, then the women, they started coming.
It had begun with just a few men, wary of each other, keeping to their own sides of the hall. But as Godfrey managed to pack the drinking hall, perched here on this peak of the Highlands, men began to loosen up, to interact. There was nothing, Godfrey knew, like the lure of free ale to bring men together.
What had pushed them over the edge, had made them like brothers, was when Godfrey had introduced the women. Godfrey had called upon all of his connections on both sides of the Highlands to clear out the brothels, and had paid all the women liberally. They now packed the hall with the soldiers, most sitting on a soldier’s lap, and all the men were content. The well-paid women were happy, the men were happy, and the entire hall rang with joy and cheer as the men stopped focusing on each other and instead focused on the drink and the women.
As the night went on, Godfrey began to overhear talk between certain MacGils and McClouds of their becoming friends, making plans to go on patrol together. It was exactly the sort of bonding that his sister had sent him here to achieve, and Godfrey felt proud of himself that he had done it. He had also enjoyed himself along the way, his cheeks rosy with too much ale. There was something, he realized, to this McCloud ale; it was stronger on this side of the Highlands, and went straight to one’s head.
Godfrey knew there were many ways to strengthen an army, to bring people together, and to govern. Politics were one; government was another; enforcement of law was another. But none of these reached men’s hearts. Godfrey, for all his faults, knew how to reach the common man. He was the common man. While he might have the nobility of the royal family, his heart had always been with the masses. He had a certain wisdom, born of the streets, that all of those knights in shining silver would never have. They were above it all. And Godfrey admired them for that. But, Godfrey realized, there was a certain advantage to being below it all, too. It gave him a different perspective on humanit
y—and sometimes one needed both perspectives to fully understand the people. After all, the greatest mistakes the Kings had made had always come from their being out of touch with the people.
“These McClouds know how to drink,” Akorth said.
“They do not disappoint,” Fulton added, as two more mugs were slid down the table before them.
“This drink is too strong,” Akorth said, letting out a large belch.
“I don’t miss our hometown at all,” Fulton added.
Godfrey got shoved in the ribs, and he looked over and saw some McCloud men, swaying too hard, laughing too loud, drunk as they coddled women. These McClouds, Godfrey realized, were rougher around the edges than the MacGils. The MacGils were tough, but the McClouds—there was something to them, something a bit uncivilized. As he surveyed the room with his expert eye, Godfrey saw the McClouds holding their women a bit too tight, slamming their mugs a bit too hard, elbowing each other roughly. There was something about these men that kept Godfrey on edge, despite all the days he had spent with them. Somehow, he did not fully trust these people. And the more time he spent with them, the more he was beginning to understand why the two clans were apart. He wondered if they could ever truly be one.
The drinking reached its peak, and more mugs were being passed around, twice as many as before, and the McClouds were not slowing, as soldiers usually did at this point. Instead, they were drinking even more, way too much. Godfrey, despite himself, began to feel a bit nervous.
“Do you think men can ever drink too much?” Godfrey asked Akorth.
Akorth scoffed.
“A sacrilegious question!” he blurted.
“What’s gotten into you?” Fulton asked.
But Godfrey watched closely as a McCloud, so drunk he could barely see, stumbled into a group of fellow soldiers, knocking them down with a crash.
For a second there was a pause, as the room turned to look at the group of soldiers on the floor.
But then the soldiers bounced back up, screaming and laughing and cheering, and to Godfrey’s relief, the festivities continued.
“Would you say they’ve had enough?” Godfrey asked, beginning to wonder if this was all a bad idea.
Akorth looked at him blankly.
“Enough?” he asked. “Is there such a thing?”
Godfrey noticed that he himself was slurring his words, and his mind was not as sharp as he would have liked. Still, he was beginning to sense something turn in the room, as if something was not quite as it should be. It was all a bit too much, as if the room had lost all sense of self-restraint.
“Don’t touch her!” someone suddenly screamed out. “She’s mine!”
The tone of the voice was dark, dangerous, cutting through the air and making Godfrey turn.
On the far side of the hall a MacGil soldier stood, chest out, arguing with a McCloud; the McCloud reached out and snatched a woman off of the MacGil’s lap, wrapping one arm around her waist and yanking her backwards.
“She was yours. She’s mine now! Go find another!”
The MacGil’s expression darkened, and he drew his sword. The distinctive sound cut through the room, making every head turn.
“I said she’s mine!” he screamed.
His face was bright red, hair matted with sweat, and the entire room watched, riveted by the deadly tone.
Everything stopped abruptly and the room grew quiet, as both sides of the room watched, frozen. The McCloud, a large, beefy man, grimaced, took the woman, and threw her roughly to the side. She went flying into the crowd, stumbling and falling.
The McCloud clearly didn’t care about the woman; it was now obvious to all that bloodshed was what he really wanted, not the woman.
The McCloud drew his own sword, and faced off.
“It will be your life for hers!” the McCloud said.
Soldiers backed away on all sides, allowing a small clearing for them to fight, and Godfrey saw everyone tensing up. He knew he had to stop this before it turned into a full-fledged war.
Godfrey jumped over the table, slipping on mugs of beer, scurried across the hall, and ran into the midst of the clearing, between the two men, holding out his palms to keep them at bay.
“Men!” he cried, slurring his words. He tried to stay focused, to make his mind think clearly, and he sincerely regretted having drunk as much as he had now.
“We’re all men here!” he shouted. “We are all one people! One army! There’s no need for a fight! There are plenty of women to go around! Neither of you meant it!”
Godfrey turned to MacGil, and MacGil stood there, frowning, holding his sword.
“If he apologizes, I will accept it,” MacGil said.
The McCloud stood there, confused, then suddenly his expression softened, and he broke into a smile.
“Then I apologize!” the McCloud called out, holding out his left hand.
Godfrey stepped aside, and the MacGil took it warily, the two of them shaking hands.
As they did, though, suddenly the McCloud clasped the MacGil’s hand, yanked him in close, raised his sword, and stabbed him right in the chest.
“I apologize,” he added, “for not killing you sooner! MacGil scum!”
The MacGil fell to the ground, limp, blood pouring onto the floor.
Dead.
Godfrey stood there in shock. He was just a foot away from the soldiers, and he could not help but feel as if somehow this were all his fault. He had encouraged the MacGil to drop his guard; he was the one who had tried to broker the truce. He had been betrayed by this McCloud, made a fool of in front of all his men.
Godfrey was not thinking clearly, and fueled by drink, something inside him snapped.
In one quick motion, Godfrey bent down, snatched the dead MacGil’s sword, stepped up, and stabbed the McCloud through the heart.
The McCloud stared back, eyes wide in shock, then slumped down to the ground, dead, the sword still embedded in his chest.
Godfrey looked down at his own bloody hand, and he could not believe what he had just done. It was the first time he had ever killed a man hand to hand. He never knew he had it in him.
Godfrey had not been planning to kill him; he had not even thought it through carefully. It was some deep part of himself that overcame him, some part that demanded vengeance for the injustice.
The room suddenly broke into chaos. From all sides, men screamed and attacked each other, enraged. Sounds of swords being drawn filled the room, and Godfrey felt himself shoved hard out of the way by Akorth, right before a sword just missed his head.
Another soldier—Godfrey could not remember who or why—grabbed him and threw him across the beer-lined table, and the last thing Godfrey remembered was sliding down the wooden table, his head smashing into every mug of ale, until finally he landed on the floor, banging his head, and wishing he were anywhere but here.
CHAPTER SIX
Gwendolyn, in the wheelchair, Guwayne in her arms, braced herself as the attendants opened the doors and Thor rolled her in to her mother’s sick chamber. The Queen’s guard bowed their heads and stepped aside, Gwen clutching the baby tighter as they entered the darkened chamber. The room was silent, stifling, airless. Torches flickered dimly on either wall. She could sense death in the air.
Guwayne, she thought. Guwayne. Guwayne.
She said the name silently in her head, over and over to herself, trying to focus on anything but her dying mother. As she thought it, the name brought her comfort, filled her with warmth. Guwayne. The miracle child. She loved this baby more than she could say.
Gwen wanted her mother to see him before she died. She wanted her mother to be proud of her, and she wanted her mother’s blessing. She had to admit it. Despite their troubled past, Gwen wanted peace and resolution in their relationship before she died. She was in a fragile state right now, and the fact that she had become closer to her mother these past moons only made Gwen feel even more distraught.
Gwen felt her heart clench as the do
ors closed behind her. She looked about the room and saw a dozen attendants standing near her mother, people from the old guard whom she recognized, who used to watch over her father. The room was filled with people. It was a deathwatch. At her mother’s side, of course, was Hafold, her dutiful servant to the end, standing guard over her, not letting anyone close, as she had all throughout her life.
As Thor wheeled Gwendolyn close to her mother’s bedside, Gwen wanted to get up, to lean over her mother, to give her a hug. But her body still ached with pain, and in her condition, she was unable.
Instead, she reached out with one hand and held her mother’s wrist. It was cold to the touch.
As she did, her mother, lying there unconscious, slowly opened one eye. Her mother looked surprised and pleased at the sight of Gwen, and she slowly opened both eyes, and opened her mouth to speak.
She mouthed words, but they came out as a gasp. Gwen could not understand her.
Her mother cleared her throat and waved her hand for Hafold.
Hafold immediately bent over, leaning her ear close to the Queen’s mouth.
“Yes, my lady?” Hafold asked.
“Send everyone out. I want to be alone with my daughter and Thorgrin.”
Hafold looked briefly at Gwen, resentfully, then replied, “As you wish, my lady.”
Hafold immediately rounded everyone up and ushered them out the door; then she came back and took her position again at the Queen’s side.
“Alone,” the Queen repeated to Hafold, with a knowing look.
Hafold looked down, surprised, then gave Gwen a jealous look and stormed out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Gwen sat there with Thor, relieved they were all gone. A heavy blanket of death hung in the air. Gwendolyn felt it—her mother would not be with her much longer.
Her mother clasped Gwen’s hand, and Gwen squeezed hers. Her mother smiled, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
“I am pleased to see you,” her mother said. It came out as a whisper, just audible.
Gwen felt like crying again, and she tried her hardest to be strong, to hold back her tears for her mother’s sake. Yet she could not help herself; tears suddenly came pouring out, and she cried and cried.
