A Rule of Queens (Book #13 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (9 page)

Dray lunged forward and bit the bamboo, playing
along with Darius’s imagination, snarling and tearing at in imaginary enemy, as
if it were a true foe coming for Darius. Darius often wondered what would
happen if he faced an enemy with Dray at his side. Like Darius, Dray was not
the biggest of the bunch, or the strongest, or the most loved. But he had a
great heart, and he was the most loyal animal in the universe. Over the last
few moons, he had even taken to sleeping curled up before Darius’s door,
snarling if Darius’s grandfather even dared to approach.

“Are you tired of swinging at sticks?” came a
voice.

Darius looked over to see Raj and Desmond standing
there, each holding long wooden swords, looking back with a mischievous grin.

Darius stopped, breathing hard, wondering; they
lived on the other side of the village and had never come by his cottage
before.

“It’s time you sparred with
men
,” Desmond
said, his voice dark, serious. “If you strive to become a warrior, you are
going to need to hit targets that hit back.”

Darius was surprised and grateful that they had
stopped by. They were several classes older than him, much bigger and stronger,
and well respected amongst the boys. They had many older, stronger boys to spar
with.

“Why would you waste your time on me?” Darius
asked.

“Because my sword needs sharpening,” Desmond said.
“And you look like a good target.”

Desmond charged for Darius, and Darius held up
his wooden sword and at the last minute, blocked the blow. It was a mighty
blow, strong enough to shake his hands and arms, and to send him stumbling back
several feet.

Darius, caught off guard, saw Desmond standing
there, waiting for him.

Darius raised his sword and lunged forward,
slashing down. Desmond blocked it easily. Darius kept swinging, slashing left
and right, again and again, and the click-clacks of their wooden swords filled
the air. He was thrilled to have a real, moving target, even if he could not
overpower the bigger and stronger Desmond.

Dray snarled and barked at Raj and Desmond,
running alongside Darius, snapping at Desmond’s heels.

“You’re quick,” Desmond said, between blows. “I
will give you that. But you don’t use it to your advantage. You’re not half as
strong as I—and yet you fight as if you’re trying to cut through me. You cannot
fight a man my size. Fight as if you’re
your
size. Be quick and nimble.
Not strong and direct.”

Darius swung with all his might and Desmond stepped
back, and Darius went circling through the air, stumbling forward, landing on
the ground.

Darius looked up and saw Desmond standing over
him, reaching out, giving him a hand, pulling him up.

“You fight for the kill,” Desmond said.
“Sometimes you just need to fight to survive. Let your opponent fight for the
kill. If you are patient, if you avoid him, and watch him, he will overreach;
he will expose himself.”

“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to kill a
man,” said Raj, coming over. “You don’t need a strong blow—just a precise one.
I believe it’s my turn.”

Raj raised his sword high, aiming for Darius’s
head, and Darius spun, raised his sword sideways, and barely blocked the blow.
Then Raj leaned back, put his foot in Darius’s chest, and shoved him, and
Darius stumbled backwards.

Dray barked and barked, snarling at Raj.

“That’s not fair,” Darius said, indignant.
“This is a swordfight!”

“Fair!?” Raj yelled out with derisive laughter.
“Tell that to your enemy after he has stabbed you between the legs and you lay
dying. This is combat—and in combat all is fair!”

Raj swung his sword again, before Darius was
ready, and he knocked the sword from Darius’s hands. Raj then dropped to the
ground, swung his legs, and kicked out Darius’s knees from under him.

Darius, not expecting it, landed hard on his
back in a cloud of dust, winded; Raj then pulled a wooden dagger out of
nowhere, dropped down, and held it to Darius’s throat.

Darius conceded, raising his hands, pinned to
the ground.

“Again, unfair!” Darius complained. “You
cheated. You pulled a hidden dagger. These are not honorable actions.”

Dray rushed forward, snarling, and leaned in
close to Raj’s face, showing his teeth, close enough to make Raj drop his
dagger, raise his hands, and slowly get up.

Raj roared with laughter as he jumped to his
feet, grabbed Darius, and pulled him up.

“What is honor?” Raj said. “Honor is what we,
the victors, name it to be. When you are dead, there is no honor.”

“What is battle without honor?” Darius said.

“He who speaks of honor is he who never lost,” Desmond
said. “Lose once, lose a leg, an arm, a loved one—and you will think twice of
honor next time you face your foe on the field. Surely, he is not thinking of
honor. He is thinking of winning. Of life. Whatever the cost.”

“You’d be surprised how much a man is willing
to throw away—including honor—when he is staring death in the face,” Desmond said.

“I would rather die with honor,” Darius
countered, defiant, “than live in dishonor.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Desmond said. “Yet what you
think and what you do in a moment of life and death do not always match.”

Raj stepped forward and shook his head.

“You are young yet,” Raj said. “Naïve. What you
still don’t see is that honor comes in victory. And victory comes in expecting
everything. Even dishonorable actions. You can fight with honor if you choose.
If you are able. But don’t expect your enemy to.”

Darius thought about that—when suddenly a
strident voice cut through the air, interrupting him.

“DARIUS!” yelled the harsh voice.

Darius turned to see his grandfather standing
at the door of his cottage, scowling down at him. “I don’t want you with these
boys!” he snapped. “Get inside now!”

Darius scowled back.

“These are my friends,” Darius said.

“They’re trouble,” Darius’s grandfather replied.
“Inside now!”

Darius turned to Raj and Desmond apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” Darius said. He felt bad, as he’d
truly enjoyed fighting with them. He already felt his skills sharpened from
just their small bout, and he wanted to fight again.

“Tomorrow,” Raj said, “after training.”

“And every day after that,” Desmond said. “We
are going to make a warrior out of you.”

They turned to go, and Darius realized he’d
made two close friends in the group for the first time. Older friends, great
fighters. He wondered again why they’d taken an interest in him. Was it because
of what he’d done for Loti? Or was it something else?

“Darius!” snapped his grandfather.

Darius, Dray at his heels, turned and walked to
his grandfather, who stood at the door, scowling. Darius knew he’d face his
grandfather’s wrath; his grandfather never wanted him sparring at all.

“You should not have been rude,” Darius said as
he walked through the door. “Those are my friends.”

“Those are boys who do not know the cost of
war,” he retorted. “Boys who embolden each other to revolt. Have you any idea
what happens in a revolt? The Empire would kill us. All of us would die. Every
last one of us.”

Today, Darius, emboldened, was in no mood for
his grandfather’s fear.

“And what of it?” Darius asked. “What is so
wrong with death, when it is from fighting for our lives? Would you call what
we have now life? Slaving away all day? Cringing at the hand of the Empire?”

Darius’s grandfather smacked him hard across
the face.

Darius, shocked, stood there, feeling the
sting. It was the first time he had ever struck him.

“Life is sacred,” his grandfather said harshly.
“That is what you and your boy friends have yet to learn. Your grandparents and
mine sacrificed so that we should have life. They put up with slavery so that
their children, and their children’s children, could have a life of safety. And
all of the reckless actions of you teenage boys will undo generations of their
work.”

Darius glowered, ready to argue, not agreeing
with anything he’d said, but his grandfather turned his back and snatched a
cauldron of soup and crossed the cottage with it, preparing it before a flame.
Something Darius’s grandfather said made him think. Something clicked within
him, and for some reason he had a sudden burning desire to know.

“My father,” Darius said coldly, standing his
ground. “Tell me about him.”

His grandfather froze, his back to him, holding
the pot where he stood.

“You know all there is to know,” he said.

“I know nothing,” Darius replied firmly. “What
happened to him? Why did he leave us?”

Darius’s grandfather stood there, his back to
him, and remained silent. Darius knew he was on to something.

“Where did he go?” Darius pressed, stepping
forward. “Why did he leave?” he asked again.

His grandfather shook his head slowly, as he
turned. He looked a thousand years older as he did, saddened.

“Like you, he was rebellious,” he said, his
voice broken. “He could stand it no more. One day, he made a run for it. And he
was never seen again.”

Darius stared at his grandfather, and for the
first time in his life, he felt certain he was lying.

“I don’t believe you,” Darius said. “You are
hiding something. Was my father a warrior? Did he defy the Empire?”

His grandfather stared into space, as if
staring into lost years.

“Speak no more of your father.”

Darius frowned.

“He is my father and I will speak of him as
much as I wish.”

Now it was his grandfather’s turn to scowl.

“Then you shall not be welcome in my house.”

Darius glowered.

“It was my father’s house before you.”

“And your father is here no longer here, is
he?”

Darius studied his grandfather’s face, seeing
it in a different light for the first time. He could see how different of a man
he was from him. They were cut from different cloths, and they would never
understand each other.

“My father wouldn’t run,” Darius insisted. “He
wouldn’t leave me. He would
never
leave me. He loved me.”

As he spoke them, Darius for the first time
sensed the truth of his words. He sensed also that there was some great secret
that was being hidden from him, that had been hidden from him his whole life.

“He would not abandon me,” Darius insisted,
desperate for the truth.

His grandfather stepped forward, seething with
anger.

“And who are you to think you are so great as
to not be abandoned?” Darius’s grandfather said sharply. “You are just a boy.
Just another boy. Just another slave in a village of slaves. There is nothing
special about you. You fancy yourself to be a great warrior. You play with
sticks. Your friends play with sticks. The Empire, they play with steel. Real
steel. You cannot rise up against them. You never can. You will end up dead
like the rest of them. And then where have your precious sticks gotten you?”

Darius frowned, hating his grandfather for the
first time, hating everything he was and everything he stood for.

“I might end up dead,” Darius said back, his
voice steel, “but I’ll never end up like you. You are already dead.”

Darius turned and began to storm from the
cottage—but he stopped at the door, turned, and faced his grandfather one last
time.

“I am special,” Darius said, wanting his
grandfather to hear the words. “I am the son of a great warrior. I am a warrior
myself. And one day, you, and the entire world, should know it.”

Darius, fed up, unable to withstand another
moment, turned and stormed from the cottage.

Darius burst outside into the late afternoon
light, no longer wanting to see his grandfather’s face, to face his lies. He
walked quickly out through the back fields, and looked out at the horizon, at
all the slaves still filtering back from a day’s work. He studied the horizon,
the endless sky, lit up in pinks and purples. His father, he knew, was out
there somewhere. He was a great warrior. He had risen above all this.

One day, somehow, he would find him.

Gwendolyn sat in the cave with the others,
before a fire, staring at the flames here in her new home, and feeling hollowed
out. It was late at night, most of the others fast asleep, the cave walls
punctuated by their snoring and by the crackle of flames. Nearby sat her
brothers Kendrick and Godfrey, their backs to the wall, along with Steffen, his
newlywed wife, Arliss, Brandt, Atme, Aberthol, Illepra—still holding the
rescued baby—and a half a dozen others. At Gwen’s feet lay Krohn, his head
curled in her lap, fast asleep. She had fed him well all night, all throughout
the festivities, and he looked as if he could sleep a million years. Even he
was snoring.

Throughout the rest of the endless cave, going
so deeply into the mountainside, were hundreds of people, what remained of the
Ring, all spread out, all finally sated from the food and wine. They had all
come here, led by the village elders, after the long night of festivities, and
had been shown their new home. It was a far cry from what she was used to at
King’s Court, and yet still, Gwendolyn was grateful. At least they were alive,
had a place to stay, to rest and recover.

And yet hanging over her like a dark cloud were
those words from the seer at the night’s festivities, ringing in her ears.
Thorgrin, in the land of the dead. If the seer was true, then that meant he was
dead. How? she wondered. Somewhere in his search for Guwayne? Eaten by a sea
monster? Blown off course? Caught in a storm? Dying of starvation, as she
almost had?

The possibilities were endless, and each
anguished her to no end as she contemplated them. Each made her want to curl up
and die. And with Thor dead and gone, that meant Guwayne was gone to her
forever, too.

Gwen stared into the flames and wondered what
she had left to live for. Without Thorgrin, without Guwayne, she had nothing.
She hated herself for letting Guwayne go on that fateful day on the Upper
Isles; she hated herself for the decisions she had made that had led her people
to this place. Deep down, she knew she was not to blame. She had done the best
she could to defend and save her people from the million attacks on her
troubled kingdom that had been left to her by her father. And yet still, she
blamed herself. It was hard to feel anything but grief.

“My sister,” came a voice.

Gwen looked over to see Kendrick sitting beside
her, arms crossed over his knees, face reflected by the flames, somber, tired.
His eyes were filled with compassion and respect, and he wore the look that he
always wore when he wanted to console her.

“Not all seers see clearly,” he said. “Perhaps
Thorgrin returns for you as we speak. And your child with him.”

Gwendolyn wanted to believe his words, but she
knew he was just trying to console her. The seer’s words still rang in her head
with more authority.

She shook her head.

“I wish I could believe it was so,” she said.
“But this is the night of the dead. The night when the spirits speak the
truth.”

Gwendolyn sighed as she stared into the flames.
She wanted his words to be true. She really did. But she sensed they were just
the words of a kind brother trying to console her.

Krohn shifted in her lap, whining softly, as if
he sensed her sadness. Gwen reached out and stroked his head and offered him
another strip of beef. But Krohn would not take it. Instead, he lay in her lap
and whined again.

Kendrick sighed. He spoke again, softly, his
voice cracked with exhaustion:

“I had always taken such pride in my lineage,”
he said. “I had always known myself to be father’s firstborn son. The King’s
first son. The next in line to rule. Not that I cared to rule. Yet I took pride
in knowing who I was in the family. I looked at all of you as my little
brothers and sisters, as I still do today. Everyone always said how I looked
exactly like Father, and indeed I did. I thought I knew my place in the world.”

Kendrick took a deep breath.

“We were young, just kids, maybe ten or eleven,
and one day I came home from sparring with the Legion. I encountered Gareth,
younger than me, but already looking for trouble wherever he could find it. He
was standing there with Luanda, and the two of them faced me, and Gareth
uttered the words that would change my life forever: ‘You are not our mother’s
son.’

“I could not comprehend what he was talking
about. I thought it was just another one of his schemes, his imagination run
wild, another cruel trick. He enjoyed meanness, after all. But Luanda, who never lied, nodded along with him. ‘You don’t belong in our family,’ she said.
‘You are not mother’s.’ ‘You are the son of a whore,’ Gareth said. ‘You are
just a bastard.’

“Luanda had stared at me disapprovingly. I can
still see that look in her eyes today. ‘I do not wish to see you anymore,’ she
said. Then she turned and walked off. I do not know who had hurt me more,
Gareth or Luanda.”

Kendrick sighed, and Gwen could see the pain on
his face as he stared into the flames, reliving the scene.

“I confronted Father, and he admitted the
truth. At that moment, my world spun. It all fell into place: Father’s never
speaking of my being King after him. Others being distant from me; the way the
staff looked at me. I never really fit in, and from that day onward, I noticed
it everywhere. It was as if I were a visitor in my own home. But not family.
Not true family. As if I didn’t really belong. Do you know what it feels like?
To feel like a stranger in your own home?”

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.”