Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (9 page)

Gawain was unaccustomed to the luxury of sleeping past daybreak. It had been many years since he basked in the warmth of the bed clothes while the sun’s gentle light filtered into his quarters. His training as a warrior began when he was barely strong enough to hold the blunt sword. He woke before dawn and trained until the sun hung low in the sky, just as his forebears had for generations past.

Gweliwch was born of the bloody war waged between the Humes and Gethin in the last age. Once the war had concluded, they carved their outpost in the snow-covered mountains. Rather than traverse the entirety of Dweömer to Cærwyn, only to be forced to return to the north upon the break of another invasion, the warriors were ordered to stay at the outpost by the high king, who granted the military general, Gawain’s grandfather Kedigor, the title of Duke. It was not until High King Alric II took the throne that Gweliwch was established as a formal province and dukedom in its own right.

Under the rule of his father, Gweliwch had garnered much respect for itself as it excelled at trading furs from the colder climates of the north, as well as rare minerals and gems from the eastern mines. The treasures traveled in a fleet of merchant boats from the capital of Gweliwch southward down the Āstellan River to Niseport, the swarthy town of brigands and whores, but also the trading hub of Helygen, at the mouth of the river.

As the son of the Duke, and grandson of the great Kedigor, Gawain was expected to be a prolific swordsman. Unfortunately, he was not particularly fond of swordplay as a child. Despite his lukewarm sentiment, he surpassed all expectations, including his own, and became a master in its arts before he was twenty. His excellence granted unto him the privilege to perfect his technique in a multitude of areas. His original inclination had been for archery.

“Never has there been a hero of old known for his skills with a bow,” Rhodric reminded him. “All carried a sword at their side and would sooner give up their cock than have their sword taken from them.”

Unable to sway his father’s opinion, Gawain relented. He should be thankful he allowed him to first train with a cruciform and not a broadsword. Never could he have borne the weight at such an age.

He remembered the cold, harsh mornings of winter when he would wake before the sun crept over the eastern mountains. Dark gray skies loomed overhead as he slowly walked to the training grounds. Arms burned and muscles cried out in pain as he spent the many hours of the day striking straw effigies with his blade. Only after he could strike with precision did his teacher allow him to partake in duels.

“One cannot simply swing his sword and pray for contact, master Gawain.” Ivor snatched the blade from his hand. “He must know where the blade will strike before he swings.” With a single, short motion, Ivor swung the blade within a breath of Gawain’s cheek.

Eyes wide, Gawain flinched.

Ivor gave him a swift swat on the head. “And the son of the duke does not cower like a maiden when his enemy attacks him!”

“Yes, Ivor.”

Father so respected Ivor for his skills with a blade, it was no shock when he appointed Ivor his second.

Now nearing his twenty-sixth year, Gawain was the most well-known swordsman in Gweliwch. His aptitude for swordsmanship, in addition to his skills as a leader, granted him a large regiment of his father’s men. It had been quite a struggle to garner such respect, however. The blood of his mother’s people kept his features far younger than his age. Gawain stroked his chin‌—‌the down on his cheeks had barely grown, the cause of much petty ridicule among his comrades growing up. Of course, they did not know the reason behind it. Where the populace of Gweliwch was concerned, he was a full-blooded Hume and had been raised as such.

It was not until he was in his tenth year that he discovered the truth about his mother. During the plague that affected the southern provinces, he became terrified that he would contract the illness, and he went to his father with his concerns. Rodric assured his son that there was no need to worry, but it was not until Gawain pressed the matter that his father finally told him why.

When Gawain was first born, Rodric was overjoyed with the arrival of a son. However, it was with sheer terror that he looked upon his son’s features. He was born with the unmistakable marks of Meïnir. In a fit of rage, he took his knife and carved the marks from the boy’s temples. It was purely out of good fortune the Meïnir blood that coursed through his veins protected him from the fatality of infection, but despite its regenerative capabilities, it was not strong enough to inhibit the scarring of his flesh.

It was through his apologetic story to his son that Rodric informed Gawain of his Meïnir heritage. He was quick to inform his son of the reasons for his secrecy. While they were significantly more tolerant of the Meïnir in the far south, the people of Gweliwch were not so open to outsiders amongst them. If he were ever to be found out, Rodric was not sure he could protect his son from the wolves. It had been easier to hide his heritage when he was younger, but now that he had grown to manhood, it was becoming more noticeable that Gawain did not age as others.

Gawain closed his eyes once more. He remembered the anger he felt toward his father as freshly as if it had happened only the day before. It had been fifteen years since, and Gawain, while never doubting his father’s love, had never thought of his father in the same way again. The ideas and fascination he had with his mother’s world compounded the problems in the difficult relationship. He was frequently torn between the duties he had to his father and his men, whose well-being he cared for after the years, and his constant yearning to explore his background further. He was able to push his curiosity to the farthest corners of his mind for some time, but seeing Ceridwen the day prior had brought all of those feelings rushing back.

Dáire, she called him. It had been years since he heard the name. When he was born, his mother bestowed upon him the name Dáire Máthramail‌—‌like his mother in the language of her people. It was the only name he knew until his father cast her out of Gweliwch and renamed him. It had not been since then that he had been referred to as such.

Gawain yawned as he pulled at one of the blankets which he had thrown onto the floor during the night. He had not slept well after his father’s visit. Unsettling images haunted his dreams. Even more troubling was that he had no way of knowing whether they were ordinary dreams or some form of visions of things yet to come. He knew his mother’s people were sometimes gifted with visions, but he doubted if he possessed such a gift, his bloodline thinned by his father’s Hume lineage.

Of what he could recall, he was speaking to his mother, and he found himself to look like a child once more. The conversation had been pleasant enough, but the sound of her voice had quickly been drowned out by the sound of thunder. After a time had passed, he realized it was not thunder, but the sound of a battle in the distance. As the rumble grew louder, his mother faded away. He found himself standing in the field, watching the battle unfold. Faceless men carried the banners of his father as they marched against an unseen foe. Though it was not his father’s name they chanted, it was his own.

Gawain shuddered in an attempt to shake the dream from his mind. It was then that he recalled the last few moments of the dream before he woke. As he stood amidst the battle, he heard the cries of men and clashes of steel. The stench of blood filled his nostrils, and he tried to cover his nose with his arm to block out the odor. It was then that he saw the blood on his hands and on his fallen sword in the dirt. The sounds of the battle dimmed, and he felt he was alone. However, another one appeared and knelt before him to pick up his sword. When the figure straightened, offering the sword to him, the face became clearer. It was Connor.

He took the sword from Connor, but grasped it only momentarily before he hurled it into the distance. As the sword flew through the air, Gawain smiled. Connor did not return his smile, but instead motioned into the distance. The ground was red with the blood of soldiers, but there were no corpses to be found.

Gawain had woken with a jolt, drenched in a cold sweat, unable to return to sleep for quite some time. It was for this reason that he was glad to have been able to sleep in this morning, past first light. Had he seen in his dreams what had actually occurred during the night? Perhaps he inherited some of his mother’s gifts after all. In the dream, Connor was not injured, so it could very well be mere coincidence.

After he was dressed, he walked out into the hall. He heard Ceridwen singing softly. He tiptoed toward her voice and, finding the door ajar, peered into the room where she sat by Connor’s bedside.

“Come in, Dáire,” Ceridwen said, her back to him.

Gawain squeezed in, leaving the door as it was. “What happened to him?”

Ceridwen set a book on the bedside table. “He grew ill during the tournament yesterday. He barely made it back into the castle before he lost consciousness.”

Gawain sat on the stool at the foot of Connor’s bed. “I thought he was getting better.”

Ceridwen wiped Connor’s forehead with a cool cloth from the basin of water at the bedside.

Gawain looked at Connor. His hair was plastered to his face from sweat. The life that he had witnessed in the drying house was gone. His face was pallid and sallow, almost the whiteness of parchment.

Ceridwen pulled the blankets back to check his wound.

Gawain let out a gasp when she peeled back the linen from Connor’s skin. He had seen many battles, but never had he seen such an injury.

“His wound still weeps?”

She nodded, dabbing the blood from around the cleaved skin. “I do not know that it will stop.”

Gawain looked at the deep gash. “Lady Ceridwen, I have never seen a wound from an arrow which looks as such.” A large bruise had formed, and thin, red lines similar to a spider’s web spread from the edges of the laceration. “It was no ordinary arrow…‌was it?”

Ceridwen paused for a moment, as if debating whether she should answer him truthfully. “No, Dáire. Connor was not struck with an ordinary arrow, but one of the felltithe.”

“Felltithe?”

“It does not surprise me that you have not heard the term before. It is my understanding your father keeps most knowledge concerning the Meïnir and Féinmhuinín far from Gweliwch.” Ceridwen frowned as she slathered more of the ointment onto Connor’s wound. “The felltithe are poisoned arrows of the Féinmhuinín.”

“What has he been poisoned with?”

“In truth? No one but the Féinmhuinín could answer.” Her speech was halted and Gawain felt she was keeping something from him, but he did not press the matter.

Gawain looked back to Connor. “He will recover, will he not?”

“He has made it through the night, which is promising.”

“That is good to hear.”

“You are to attend the wedding ceremony, yes?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“I will stay with Connor. I do not think I would attend even if Connor was well. I do not care for this Bronwen.”

“It would seem that is the general opinion on the matter.”

“Is it?”

“Only Annwyd and Cærwyn benefit from this union. Gweliwch and Arlais, as well as the rest of Dweömer, gain nothing.” Gawain felt his anger bubble to the surface with sudden realization. “And what is to become of Arlais?”

“You ask a question for which only the Goddess knows the answer.”

“Your halted answer signifies that it is as I fear, I take it?”

“You are perceptive, Dáire. But yes, I worry too that Arlais will be caught in the middle of it all.”

“Alric loves Connor as a son, does he not?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Then he will wage war with the Féinmhuinín.”

“It is not Alric whom I worry about. King Denorheim will demand war, but I suspect he has ulterior motives. I fear the best of outcomes is that his soldiers shall march toward Glyndwr to battle the Féinmhuinín, and to reach Glyndwr, he will march over Arlais.”

“That is the best of outcomes?”

“The Féinmhuinín could choose to cut them off at the pass and not lie in wait for the battle to come to them; instead the battlefield will be the Hwerydh forest.”

“Then Arlais‌—”

“Will be obliterated.”

“You spoke of ulterior motives?”

“Annwyd has wanted to mine the Brynlands since the first of their warriors came to this land. Arlais stands in their way though. So war would give them the ability to clear the obstacles in their way.”

After a long silence, Gawain took his gaze from Connor and looked to Ceridwen. “May I ask you something, Lady?”

“Of course.”

“You call me the name my mother gave me. No one has called me ‘Dáire’ since my mother left Gweliwch. I do not think we have ever met, yet I somehow remember you from childhood. Why?”

“You do not remember me?”

“So then, we have met before?”

Before Ceridwen could answer, Rodric opened the door. “Gawain, I need to speak with you.”

Ceridwen covered Connor’s wound with the blanket and stood from his bedside. “Rodric, you do not enter into a room in this castle without announcing your presence.”

“And you do not speak to me in such a manner. I am Duke of Gweliwch. What are you? You are a servant.”

“I may be a servant, but I have no Hume master. I serve She and She alone. Leave this room now before I have the guards escort you.”

“You do not have such authority,” Rodric scoffed.

“You have no comprehension of my authority.”

“Come, Father.” Gawain stood between them. “We are needed in the main hall for the ceremony.”

“Yes, let us take our leave.”

As Gawain and his father walked, he could not help but feel angry. He wanted to hear Ceridwen’s answer, and if his father had not burst into the room, he would have received it. He only vaguely remembered her, but he had assumed that it was a false memory. Ceridwen’s response dictated otherwise.