Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (39 page)

“It is not my fault he refused to visit.” Kendric jumped to his own defense, imagining her father’s vicious eyes peer at him from beneath furrowed brow.

“Be kind. It was hard for him to see me marry someone from Annwyd. He did not wish to promise me to you. It is not his fault we fell in love.”

In efforts to hide his flushed face, he scratched his chin, the scruff of several day’s worth of travel catching beneath his fingernails. “True enough, I suppose.”

She rubbed her eyes. “I will leave in the morning.”

Bronwen slipped her finger beneath the stiff, black collar of her mourning dress, scratching her nail along the length of her neck. Though the cold winds of the season were upon them, she felt stifled under the layers of the formal gown and veil.

She had known death all her life. The house of Denorheim had not been settled in Annwyd with the games of courtly wit played in Hēafodstōl. Power and renown were garnered through the killing of men. And, though she only remembered it with the faintest of memories, she could see her mother’s gaunt form on her deathbed.

Nonetheless, no matter what tales were told about the greatness of her father’s house and the conquest of the native peoples during the Blaidd Age, she had only seen her father kill once. As king, he had men do such things for him, but Braith Denorheim took matters of honor into his own hands.

A man, whose name Bronwen never did learn, once sprang upon her from amidst a crowd of nobles. His blade drawn, he rushed toward the child princess with madness in his eyes. Without a breath’s moment of hesitation, her father drew his sword and jumped in front of her.

It did not disturb her, the sight of the man’s death mere steps in front of her.

She had not known that about herself, not until she watched her father bury his sword deep in the man’s gut, until she heard the splash of his entrails hit the stone of the castle floor as her father pushed him from the blade with the heel of his boot. The man’s knees crumpled and he dropped to the floor.

She wondered if it should worry her, her lack of recoil at a sight not fit for a pious woman. In truth, her father’s actions had given her some measure of satisfaction. She knew he loved her, of course, but it was not until then she knew the lengths he would go for her.

Dumped in a pile of nameless corpses, the would-be attacker had been denied a proper burial, but she knew she should still pray for his soul, no matter the circumstances of his death. She also knew she should seek atonement for her feelings of satisfaction for being the cause of her father taking the man’s life, but she had not found the courage within herself to speak her feelings aloud to anyone.

“But Alric…” Bronwen let go of her collar and smoothed the slight wrinkles from the front of her gown.

The courtyard banners of House Gwalchgwyn would not hang once more on the traverse bars until Rhodri’s coronation as the new high king. Until then, she had to look upon the naked castle walls, reminding her all too well of the mood among those within.

The door creaked, and she turned from the window to greet Mara.

“I thought you might wish to sup.” She sat the tray down on the bedside table, steam still rising from the bowl of soup.

“Is it so late?” Bronwen looked back out to see the guards light the torches on the courtyard parapets. “I had not realized.”

“Lost in your thoughts again?” said Mara. “Are you well?”

“Fine, yes.” Bronwen wiped her cheek, surprised to find it moist with tears. “Thank you, Mara, but I am not hungry just yet.”

“Here.” Mara reached for the small spoon on the tray. “Try to eat, if only a little. You will need to keep up your strength for Duke Helygen’s arrival.”

Bronwen ignored the spoon, instead looking past Mara. “What do you think will happen if Rhodri does not wish to marry me? Already, I am no one within this castle.”

“You are still the queen‌—”

“Dowager,” Bronwen corrected.

“Yes, queen dowager. That is hardly a title at which to scoff.”

“But if Rhodri takes another wife, what will happen to me?”

“I suppose you will be given a household and a small stipend, with staff of course.” Mara forced the spoon into her hand.

“But I will be nothing.”

“Listen to me, child. There are those from your father’s kingdom who will support your ascension to the throne. Even the good Reverent Father supports your marriage to the high king.”

“He supported my marriage to Alric‌—”

“Then why should he not support your marriage to Rhodri?”

Bronwen tossed the spoon on the table and headed for the door of her chamber. “I cannot stay within my quarters any longer. I cannot breathe.”

She stepped into the hall, knowing Mara would follow her.

“Where are you going?”

“I just cannot stay here. If I am to be thrown out of the castle upon Rhodri’s marriage to another, I suppose I should enjoy these halls while I can.”

“Wait‌—”

Bronwen grit her teeth. “Yes?”

“I did not only bring your food. Owain asked if you would wish to return to your lessons today. I thought it might help keep your mind from matters, even if only a short lesson.”

“Where is he?”

“In the library, until he sups in his quarters this evening.”

Bronwen nodded before continuing down the corridor.

She should have known Owain would be in his place among the musty old tomes of the library. The old man blended in among the stacks of dust-covered knowledge, his old bones creaking beneath his heavy robes. Though he looked as though his knees would crumple under the mere weight of his wisps of snowy hair, he somehow managed to hold himself with poise under the brocaded fabric afforded to a man of his status.

Her heel skid across the nosing of the step and she stumbled, clinging to the stone baluster. She expected the hand of a guard or servant to steady her, but nobody came to her aid. The realization came only as her knees hit the strewn herbs on the floor and the fragrant scent of hyssop and chamomile surrounded her.

Brushing the dried leaves and petals from her skirts, she stood up and looked around. The entry hall braziers remained unlit in the wake of the high king’s passing. In the distance, beyond the closed main doors, she heard the sound of two guards in conversation. Other than the murmur of their voices, she found herself alone.

So this is how it shall be.
She picked a broken stem from the lining of her outermost gown and tossed it to the floor.

Not having ventured forth from her bower in some time, she had failed to realize how empty the castle had grown. Since she arrived in Cærwyn, she had been surrounded by the bustle of nobles and servants. After the assault on the clansmeet, Alric doted on her every whim in effort to set her at ease.

The clack of boots in the distance turned her stomach on its side. She squinted in an attempt to cut through the darkness of the hall. Illuminated only by the light filtering behind, a dark figure loomed in the doorway, and the heavy footsteps stopped.

“You will announce your presence to your queen!” she shouted, mustering the strongest tone she could manage in hopes the quaking within did not come through.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” With his words, Owain stepped forward, and she realized the light from behind him came from the library at the other end of the corridor.

“Owain, I did not know it was you.”

“I do apologize. Did your ladyship’s maid not relay my inquiry about wishing to continue your lessons today?”

“She did.” Bronwen walked toward him. “Shall we continue to the library?”

Owain nodded, stepping to the side as she passed him.

Compared to the dark entry hall, the library offered a welcome amount of light. On the table, Bronwen spied the books Owain took the liberty of gathering for her lesson.

“I thought it best to let you choose which topic to cover, Your Majesty.” Owain motioned to the books. “Philosophy, history, theol‌—”

“History, please.”

She took her seat and watched as Owain hobbled around to the chair across from her.

“Tell me, what do you know of Cærwyn’s history?”

“In Annwyd, I was only taught about the history of the kingdom, and bits and pieces of Ordanian history and lore by my nursemaid.”

“Ah, I see.” Owain ran his finger across the book spines in the stack closest to him. “Let us speak of earlier times then, before the founding of the kingdoms. As queen, you are expected to know enough of our history to carry on a conversation. Though, no one would expect a woman to be fluent in the entirety of the histories.”