Morgan Rice - A Vow of Glory

Gwen was filled with gratitude that Srog had been loyal to her father all these years: if not, she honestly wondered if her father’s men, even the Silver, could take this city. The Silver were the best warriors the world had to offer—yet even so, whether they could breach these walls was another matter entirely.

As Gwen walked through the gates, her heart soared with hope; she felt a surge of optimism, felt that maybe, just maybe, behind these thick walls, perched here on the edge of the Canyon, they could withstand an attack here, even from Andronicus’ army. They might not win; but they might be able to hold off just long enough. Long enough for what, she didn’t know. Deep in her heart, she hoped beyond hope that maybe Thor would return with the Sword and rescue them all.

“My lady,” Srog said graciously, walking beside her through the gates and into the vast courtyard, “my city welcomes you.”

From all corners of the immense square, people dressed in red rushed forward and showered Gwendolyn and her men with red rose petals. The people all wore gracious smiles, approaching Gwen and touching her shoulder, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek, one after the next. She had never been in any place like this; she felt as if she were being embraced by all of them.

“You would think they had no idea that a war is coming to these gates,” Gwen said, in awe of their carefree and fearless ways.

“They know,” Srog said. “But the Silesians are famous for not giving in to fear. My people might feel it—but they never indulge in it. That is their way. They believe that the person who fears death dies many times, while the one who does not dies but once.

“We are a happy people, content with what life has given us. We don’t covet anything that others have. And we are happy with who we are.”

More of the masses spilled out, all smiling at Gwen and her entourage, clasping them on the back, welcoming the huge contingent of soldiers and people as if they had been long-lost brothers. Gwen was shocked. She had expected these people to be resentful of their presence; after all, they were digging in for a siege, and here were tons of people who had come to live within their gates, off of their defenses and their rations. Yet, on the contrary, the Silesians still seemed happy to have them here. They were supremely hospitable people.

“There’s more to it than the fact that your people don’t fear,” Gwen said. “They also seem genuinely happy. Even in the face of looming adversity.”

“We are a happy people,” Srog said. “They say we get it from the canyon air and from the color of our dress,” he smiled. Then he turned serious. “But there is more to it than that. They are also happy to see you .”

“But why?” Gwen asked, baffled.

“King’s Court is a sister city and word travels,” he explained. “No one here was happy with your brother’s reign. They see you as the legitimate heir to the MacGil throne, and they are happy to have a true ruler—not an upstart who has ousted his father. We are a fair and just people, and we want this in our rulers. They want a ruler they deserve, and they see that in you. They do not really care if we all die here, if we are all crushed by the Empire. They only, while they live, want to live justly.”

Gwen felt her heart swell at his words; she felt as if, in her, everyone saw something else. For some she was a savior; for others, a prophet; for others, a young girl in over her head; for others, the extension of her father. She was beginning to feel just how much her being ruler meant to others. It was overwhelming. She could not be everything for everyone. She swelled with pride, but also with humility. She felt overcome by the fact that she was representing her father’s name, his honor and memory. And she felt a burden and responsibility to live up to that memory, to be as good of a ruler as he had been. Her father had been like a god to her. She did not know how to rule; she was determined to learn, to try as hard as she could to be as devoted and kind to them as they had been to her.

As they continued deep into the city, a large contingent of warriors stepped forward, dressed in the red armor, and decorated in various metals. Gwen could tell right away that these were Srog’s elite.

They stopped to greet her, and the one in the center, a tall thin man with a red beard and glowing green eyes, stepped forward, lowered his head, and held out in his palms a beautiful, silk scarlet cloak, folded neatly.

“My lady,” he said softly. “I present this cloak to you on behalf of the Silesian army. It is the mantle of our former lady, and has not been worn in years. It is the sign of the highest respect we can offer. You would honor us to wear it.”

Speechless, Gwen reached out and gingerly accepted the mantle; it was the softest piece of clothing she had ever felt, melting in her hands as she unfolded it. She was taken aback by its intricate design, by its shining gold clasp. She draped it around her shoulders and connected the clasp at the base of her throat, and it felt natural. She felt so regal wearing it.

A noise rose up, like a soft cooing noise, and Gwen looked up, scanning the towering walls, the spires rising hundreds of feet into the air, and saw all among them small windows, people dressed in red sticking their heads out, making the noise. As they did, they raised three fingers to their right temple, then slowly pulled them away.

“What are they doing?” Godfrey asked, beside her.

“The salute of the Silesians,” Srog explained. “It is a gesture of love. And of respect.”

Gwen hardly knew what to say. She’d never felt so loved anywhere in her life. She had also never felt such a sense of responsibility.

There came a slamming of metal, and Gwen turned and saw a dozen soldiers, on both sides of the city gates, close the iron bars as the last of King’s Court filtered in. Gwen shuddered at the sound. There was a finality to it. They were in Silesia now. This was their new home. It felt good to be here. But also ominous. In that clang, she could hear themselves steeling themselves for war.

Gwendolyn sat in the beautiful castle chamber, high up, at the top of Silesia, and reveled in the quiet. It was the first time she had been alone in she did not know how long. Outside, behind the closed door, Srog’s men awaited her bidding. But she wouldn’t summon them just yet. She wanted a few minutes to herself.

It was a beautiful chamber, this room that had belonged to his late lady, and Gwen rose and paced slowly, taking it all in. Carved of a gorgeous red stone, the floor and walls were all smooth, ancient, worn, the ceilings cresting in dramatic arches. Perched at the top of the castle, facing west, the room overlooked the Canyon, expansive views flooding the room through wide and tall, arched windows.

Gwen looked out, and was in awe at the commanding view. She had never had such a view of the Canyon before, being perched literally on its edge; from here it seemed as if the whole world were the Canyon, one massive hole carved out of the earth, inside of which swirled mists of all colors. It was haunting and beautiful and peaceful and ominous all at the same time.

Gwen looked beyond, to the distant horizon, the Wilds, and in the farthest distance beyond that, she caught the slightest hint of the ocean yellow of the Tartuvian. Her thoughts turned to Thor, and her heart broke. She closed her eyes and prayed with all she had for his safety. She wanted him by her side, now more than ever. She wanted him alive. She wanted him to raise their child with her.

Gwen reached down and placed a palm on her stomach, sensing her baby. She knew it was impossible, so early on, yet still she felt fuller, more of herself. She felt the strength of two people within her.