Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

“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.