Page 96 of Arise the Queen
“Do you know who I am?”
The child nodded shyly. “My papa’s wife. Mynainsays you will be my new mama, and I should listen to all you say because you know best.”
The boy’s eyes, too, sparkled with unshed tears, and he peered up at hisnain, and said innocently, “Did I say it right,nain?” Laying a hand on the child’s shoulder in comfort, Gwendolyn turned her attention back to Innogen and Innogen’s smile trembled as tears fell unchecked down her cheeks. But before she could embarrass herself further, or give Gwendolyn the chance to refuse her, she slapped a hand to her breast and turned and ran out the door, leaving the child in Gwendolyn’s care.
45
TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER
Gwendolyn’s face was only beginning to show lines at the corners of her eyes and her mouth, but age was nevertheless making its claim. The wide-eyed wonder of her youth had long-since faded, replaced with a more thoughtful gaze. But, today, as she stood on the palace steps, watching the pair sparring against a horizon bathed in hues of orange and lavender, she thought she felt the slightest hint of magic in the air—in the bold hues of a perfect sunset that crept so beautifully over the distant seas. As she stood watching, her heart filled with a soft ache—not of sadness or regret but of remembrance. She couldn’t help but recall her own years spent in such camaraderie—the thrill of swordplay, and the companionship that came from so many years of training side by side. For a moment, her fingers longed for the weight of a sword, and the rough caw of her sparring partner’s voice as he called out her next maneuver. The wind lifted, whipping her loose hair about her shoulders, and she shivered against the brisk evening air, lifting the old cloak she still wore. Arachne’s weave was soft and comforting as ever—like Gwendolyn, it withstood the test of time. Gwendolyn hadonly had two sparring partners in all her life, and one was down there tonight, sparring with Habren, and the other… well, she hadn’t seen in too many years.
A feeling like butterflies tickled her belly when the messenger came to deposit the vellum in her hands. Carefully, excitedly, eager to read the letter, she untied the letter’s bindings, placing the ribbons in her pocket, and then slowly unrolled the parchment, reading every word with a sparkle in her blue eyes, and she smiled.
Today was as good as any day.
When Taryn came to stand by her side, quietly watching the pair in the Mester’s Pavilion, Gwendolyn felt a burgeoning sense of peace. She rolled up the parchment, placing it beneath her armpit. “They are still at it,” she said to Taryn.
Watching her son spar with such vigor gave her a sense of pride and she could see him as the King he would become—emerging from the boy she had raised.
There was still work to be done, but he had a strong Konsel to guide him and surrogate parents in Bryn and Taryn.
Throughout these twenty-two years, she had watched life unfold in its myriad forms—loss and laughter, tears and triumphs. She had by now buried Demelza and wept for losing dear friends. Her hands, once smooth and supple as fresh cream, now bore the marks of decades spent in labor for the care of the child she had groomed to take her place. Habren was now twenty and five—a handsome young lad with a sharp mind and a heart as vast as the Endless Sea.
Whilst he had his mother’s bright blue eyes, in his own eyes shone that same fiery determination Gwendolyn’s once held. He was not a boy any longer, but now a man grown, tried and tested by time and circumstance. Like hers, his childhood had been filled with dreams of adventure, nurtured by tales of magic spun by those who most adored him. But as he grew older, thosedreams gradually transformed into a deep-rooted purpose—to protect what he held dear. In him, the people of Trevena saw a future king who would defend and keep them.
Tonight, sparring with Bryn in the Mester’s Pavilion, every swipe of his blade was fluid and purposeful, his moves strong, his parries swift. On his birthday, she had presented him with that sword. Kingslayer was his now and with it, he was poised to inherit the weight of the myrtle crown. Even now, the blade cast a brilliant gleam against the fading light and his instinct was remarkable.
The persistent clang of swords echoed across the courtyard, the sound punctuated by Bryn’s approving grunts. A sheen of sweat dampened Habren’s brow, sparkling against the twilight sun as his silver hair clung to his forehead. Fatigue was far from him and his eyes—those brilliant blue spheres—burned with resolve. Bryn would find him no easy match tonight, or any other.
“Fine form!” Bryn called between lunges and counterstrikes. He was an old bear now, but still strong. He would have many more years remaining, and though he and Taryn had never born children together, Habren was as much theirs as he was Gwendolyn’s.
She let loose a soft sigh as she watched Habren disarm Bryn with a final triumphant strike, and her heart swelled with pride. She clapped with glee.
He was ready.
Today was the day.
The echoes of swords clashed only once more as Habren raised his blade high, his victory echoing through the Mester’s Pavilion and beyond.
Beside Gwendolyn, Taryn laughed. “He’ll never live that one down,” she said, and Gwendolyn nodded, emotion catching in her throat.
“Bryn will live,” she said, and suddenly, she had no more banter to give. She had waited long enough, and her heart could not spend another day without Málik’s love.
She waited with Taryn another moment, and when Bryn and Habren climbed the steps to greet them, she instructed Habren to fetch her Sword—the one they’d placed in the treasury for safekeeping. “Thesword?” he asked, his brows lifting. Gwendolyn nodded but didn’t tell him why, and then she waited for Habren to return, carrying the Sword of Light with quiet reverence, its blade shimmering against the twilight, the waning sun reflecting within the runes etched into its metal. But though he held it with bare hands, it wasn’t burning.
But he was notherblood.
She took the sword gently from his hands, careful not to allow her flesh to touch the metal, adjusting the cloth under which it had lain so long so she could carry it by its hilt without inspiring the flame.
With this sword, Gwendolyn would pass her legacy, and in doing so, relinquish her time here as queen. Habren would lead, but she must go.
She had been considering this for some time, and as she’d dressed this morning, anticipating another messenger, she’d chosen her mother’s Prydein gown—symbolic, considering that the last time she’d donned this gown was during her flight from Loegria, and not a moment since.
She beckoned Bryn, Taryn, and Habren to the alcove above Dragon’s Bay, where she and Bryn used to hide together, and there, against the seascape that had borne witness to all her mortal years, she said, “Tonight, I intend to go. It is time for you to lead, Habren.”
He stood there quietly, tears welling in his eyes, but did not let them fall. If he would be king, he could not afford the weakness of tears. He gazed at Gwendolyn, the only motherhe remembered, his mentor, his guide, with an understanding beyond his years, and for a moment, Gwendolyn wavered.
Goodbyes were difficult, so she would not say them—not to him, nor to Bryn. Not to her mother, nor to Lady Ruan, nor to Ely. All this time she had prepared Habren for this day, and now the time was here, and she must leave.
