“My lady?” the old man said, leaning over. He held something large in both hands, and she looked down and realized it was a leather-bound book.
“It is Aberthol,” he said. “Your old teacher. Can you hear me?”
Gwen swallowed and slowly nodded, opening her eyes just a bit.
“I have been waiting hours to see you,” he said. “I saw you stirring.”
Gwen nodded slowly, remembering, grateful for his presence.
Aberthol leaned over and opened his large book, and she could feel the weight of it on her lap. She heard the crackling of its heavy pages as he flipped them back.
“It is one of the few books that I salvaged,” he said, “before the burning of the House of Scholars. It is the fourth annal of the MacGils. You have read it. Hidden inside are stories of conquest and triumphs and defeats, of course—yet there are also other stories. Stories of great leaders wounded. Of wounds to the body, and wounds of the spirit. There all sorts of injuries imaginable, my lady. And this is what I came to tell you: even the best of men and women have suffered the most unimaginable treatment, injuries and torture. You are not alone. You are but a speck in the wheel of time. There are countless others who suffered far worse than you—and many who survived and who went on to become great leaders.
“Do not feel ashamed,” he said, grasping her wrist. “That is what I want to tell you. Never be ashamed. There should be no shame in you—only honor and courage for what you have done. You are as great a leader as the Ring has ever seen. And this does not diminish it in any way.”
Gwen, touched by his words, felt a tear fell roll down her cheek. His words were just what she needed to hear, and she felt so grateful for them. Logically, she knew and understood he was correct.
Yet emotionally, she was still having a hard time feeling it. A part of her could not help but feel as if somehow she had been damaged forever. She knew it was not true, but that was how she felt.
Aberthol smiled, as he held out a smaller book.
“Remember this one?” he asked, turning back its red leather-bound cover. “It was your favorite, all through childhood. The legends of our fathers. There’s a particular story in here I thought I would read to you, to help you idle away the time.”
Gwen was touched by the gesture, but she could take no more. Sadly, she shook her head.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse, another tear rolling down her cheek. “But I can’t hear it right now.”
His face fell in disappointment, then he nodded, understanding.
“Another time,” she said, feeling despondent. “I need to be alone. If you would, please, leave me. All of you,” she said, turning and looking at Steffen and Gwen.
They all rose to their feet and bowed their heads, then turned and hurried from the room.
Gwen felt guilty, but she couldn’t stop it; she wanted to crumple into a ball and die. She listened to their steps cross the room, heard the door close behind them, and looked up to make sure the room was empty.
But she was surprised to see that it was not: there stood a lone figure, standing inside the doorway, erect, with her posture perfect, as always. She walked slowly and stately towards Gwen, stopping a few feet from her bedside, staring down at her, expressionless.
Her mother.
Gwen was surprised to see her standing there, the former Queen, as stately and proud as ever, looking down at her with an expression as cool as ever. There was no compassion behind her eyes, as there were behind the eyes of other visitors.
“Why are you here?” Gwen asked.
“I’ve come to see you.”
“But I don’t want to see you,” Gwen said. “I don’t want to see anyone.”
“I don’t care what you want,” her mother said, cool and confident. “I am your mother, and I have a right to see you when I wish.”
Gwen felt her old anger towards her mother flare up; she was the last person she wanted to see at this moment. But she knew her mother and knew that she would not leave until she had spoken her mind.
“So speak then,” Gwendolyn said. “Speak and leave and be done with me.”
Her mother sighed.
“You don’t know this,” her mother said. “But when I was young, your age, I was attacked in the same way as you.”
Gwen stared back, shocked; she’d had no idea.
“Your father knew of it,” her mother continued. “And he did not care. He married me just the same. At the time, it felt as if my world had ended. But it had not.”
Gwen closed her eyes, feeling another tear roll down her cheek, trying to block the topic out. She did not want to hear her mother’s story. It was too little too late for her mother to give her any real compassion. Did she just expect she could waltz in here, after so many years of harsh treatment, and offer a sympathetic story and expect all to be mended in return?
“Are you done now?” Gwendolyn asked.
Her mother stepped forward, “No, I’m not done,” she said firmly. “You are Queen now—it is time for you to act like one,” her mother said, her voice as hard as steel. She heard a strength in it she had never heard before. “You pity yourself. But women every day, everywhere, suffer far worse fates than you. What has happened to you is nothing in the scheme of life. Do you understand me? It is nothing.”
Her mother sighed.
“If you want to survive and be at home in this world, you have to be strong. Stronger than the men. Men will get you, one way or another. It is not about what happens to you—it is about how you perceive it. How you react to it. That is what you have control over. You can crumple up and die. Or you can be strong. That is what separates girls from women.”
Gwen knew her mother was trying to help, but she resented the lack of compassion in her approach. And she hated being lectured to.
“I hate you,” Gwendolyn said to her. “I always have.”
“I know you do,” her mother said. “And I hate you, too. But that does not mean we cannot understand each other. I don’t want your love—what I want is for you to be strong. This world isn’t ruled by people who are weak and scared—it is ruled by those who shake their heads at adversity as if it were nothing. You can collapse and die if you like. There is plenty of time for that. But that is boring. Be strong and live. Truly live. Be an example for others. Because one day, I assure you, you will die anyway. And while you’re alive, you might as well live.”
“Leave me be!” Gwendolyn screamed, unable to hear another word.
Her mother stared down at her coldly, then finally, after an interminable silence, she turned and strutted from the room, like a peacock, and slammed the door behind her.
In the empty silence, Gwen began to cry, and she cried and cried. More than ever, she wished all of this would just go away.
CHAPTER SIX
Kendrick stood on the wide landing at the Canyon’s edge, looking out over the swirling mist. As he looked out, his heart was breaking inside. It tore him up to see his sister like that, and he felt gutted, as if he himself had been the one attacked. He could see in the faces of all the Silesians that they viewed Gwen as more than just a leader—they all viewed her as family. They were despondent, too. It was as if Andronicus had hurt them all.
Kendrick felt as if he were to blame. He should have known his younger sister would do something like that, knowing how brave, how proud she was. He should have anticipated that she would try to surrender herself before any of them had a chance to stop her, and he should have found a way to prevent her from doing so. He knew her nature, knew how trusting she was, knew her good heart—and he also, as a warrior, knew, better than she, the brutality of certain leaders. He was older and wiser than she, and he felt he let her down.