A Feast of Dragons - By Morgan Rice Page 0,48

her father, or for the lost chance of a relationship between her and her mother, or for all the pent-up grief she had felt since she and had her mother had fought. Whatever it was, it all came out now, and Gwen cried and cried.

After what felt like forever, nothing but her crying to fill the silence of the vast, empty chamber, to Gwen’s surprise, her mother turned and looked at her. Her face was expressionless, her icy blue eyes wide open, but Gwen saw a quiver of something, thought she could see some part of her coming back to life.

“Your father is dead,” her mother said.

The words came out like a grim proclamation, and even though she knew they were true, they were painful for Gwen to hear.

Gwen nodded slowly back.

“Yes he is,” she responded.

“And nothing can bring him back,” her mother added.

“Nothing,” Gwen agreed.

Her mother turned back to the window. She sighed.

“I never thought it would end like this,” she said.

And then she fell silent again, staring out at a distant cloud passing by.

After it went on for too long, after Gwen feared she might be losing her again, Gwen reached up and squeezed her wrist.

“Mother,” she urged, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “I need your help. Your son, Kendrick, lies wallowing in the dungeon. He was put there by your other son, Gareth. He’s been accused of father’s murder. You know that Kendrick would not commit this murder. Kendrick is set to be executed. You must not let this happen.”

Gwen knelt there, squeezing her mother’s hand, waiting urgently for a response.

She waited what felt like forever. She was about to give up hope, when suddenly her mother’s eyes flickered.

“Kendrick is not my son,” she said, matter-of-factly, still watching the sky. “He is your father’s boy. Of another woman.”

“That is true,” Gwen said, nervous. “But you raised him as your own. Your husband loved him as a son. You know that. And, whether he was true or not, Kendrick always viewed you as a mother. He has no one else. As you said, our father is dead. It is left to you to defend him. If you do nothing, if you do not act, on the morrow, he will be dead—for a murder he did not commit. The murder of your husband. His execution would stain your husband’s memory.”

Gwen felt proud of herself for laying it all out, and she felt that her mother heard every word of it. There followed a long silence.

“I do not rule this land,” her mother said. “I am just another former Queen. Powerless, as the rest. The men rule in this kingdom.”

“You are not powerless,” Gwen insisted. “You are the mother of the current King. You are a former queen to the former King, who died but days ago—and who are country still loves and mourns. All of his counselors and advisers still listen to you. They trust you. They love you, if for no other reason than they loved him. A command from you would hold much weight. It would prevent Kendrick’s death.”

Her mother sat there, staring out, her expression barely changing. Gwen watched her eyes, but could not tell how much she was truly processing, how much she was capable of taking in. She seemed as sharp as ever, but clearly, something had happened within her.

“Wouldn’t you like to find your husband’s murderer?” Gwen asked.

Her mother shrugged.

“It is not for me to intervene in my son’s rule. He is King now. The fates must play out as they must.”

“So will you just sit there, then, and do nothing as your innocent son dies?”

Slowly, the former queen shook her head.

“Gareth was always a willful boy. My firstborn son,” the queen said. “I believe that he carried all of my sins. His nature could never be corrected. Perhaps he killed your father. Perhaps not. But kings are meant to be killed. They’re meant to be deposed. Your father knew that. It is the risk one takes when assuming the throne.

“Of course I mourn for my husband,” she added. “But that is the dance of crowns.”

Gwen fumed. She stared at her mother, saw her resolve, and felt a newfound hatred for her.

Gwen stood and scowled down at her, preparing this time to never see her again. She took one long last look at her, to ingrain her face in her memory. It was a face she never wanted to forget—a face she never wanted to become.

“Our father looks down