Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (15 page)

Gawain stretched his arms over his head, yawning, before he rubbed the last bit of sleep from his eyes. While he would have embraced the luxury of sleeping longer, his stomach would not allow it. He pressed his abdomen as another quake of hunger pangs struck. The aching grumble had woken him throughout the night after having eaten only spiced walnuts the day prior.

He flinched when his toes touched the cold wooden planks of the floor. He missed the soft fur of the bear skin rug in the citadel. Shoulders slumped, he stood up, placing his hands on his lower back and twisting to either side. Satisfied with two loud cracks elicited by his contortions, he once again stretched his hands upward, linking his fingers together to stretch out his wrists and elbows.

After dressing, he walked into the corridor outside the quarters allotted to guests of the high king. He took a moment to regain his bearings. Looking to the left, and then to the right, he found himself utterly lost. Not wanting to look foolish, he held his shoulders back and his head high as he strode to the right, hoping to find the central staircase to the first floor.

The bustling of servants greeted his ears, and he smiled as he descended the stairs. When he reached the main hall, a woman carrying large pewter platters of freshly baked pastries walked directly in front of him. Gawain’s mouth filled with saliva as the delectable aroma of the pastries, both meat and fruit, met his nostrils.

“You there.” Gawain waved.

The girl stopped in her tracks, her face flushing bright red. “I am sorry, m’lord!” She bowed so low, she almost hit the steaming platter with her forehead.

“Sorry? Why are you sorry?”

She kept her gaze lowered and stumbled, searching for her words.

It was only then Gawain remembered he now wore the silver pin of the Gwelian steward upon his tunic. He softened his tone as much as he could.

“Allay your fears. I only wanted a pastry.”

“Forgive my ignorance, m’lord.” She held out the tray to him.

Rather than continue to assuage his discomfort, and the girl’s obvious shared sentiment, Gawain took a meat pie and thanked her before walking briskly in the opposite direction.

He relished the warmth of the pastry in his chilled hands and used all his willpower to restrain himself from biting into the flaky crust, knowing it would scald his mouth. Finding a bench in a small alcove, Gawain sat, watching the servants go about their daily business as he waited for his delicacy to cool.

There were far fewer servants in Gweliwch.

Finally he bit into the pastry, letting the steam escape as he chewed the buttery crust, sopping with the succulent juices of venison mixed with the earthiness of the roasted potatoes within.

Just as he took a second bite, he noticed a boy servant, no more than twelve, who struggled with a heavy platter of luncheon ingredients. Gawain was amused at the farcical sight until the boy tripped. Then he lunged forward, wrapping one arm around the boy while slipping the other beneath the platter.

“Bollocks!” The boy struggled against Gawain’s grasp, trying to steady the tray in his hands.

“Calm yourself,” said Gawain, holding the tray until the boy took to his feet.

“I spilled it‌—‌the drinking horn.” The boy clamored to sop up the spill with the tails of his tunic.

“Take heart, the bottle of wine did not spill.”

The boy only gave him a somber glance, still furiously wiping off the platter.

“Where are you carrying such a heavy dish?” Gawain turned on his knee to look in the direction to which the boy had come.

“The library, Your Lordship.”

“Why are you taking such a feast to the library?” Gawain stood up.

“High King Alric’s nephew has taken to eating his meals there.” The boy straightened, still struggling with the weight. “Been bringing ‘em for three days.”

“Has he not left in all that time?” Gawain looked toward the doorway. “Could you show me where the library is?”

The boy nodded, shuffling forward.

As Gawain followed, he kept close watch on the boy. Though he might protest, Gawain remained at the ready to catch him should he fall once more.

In the long downstairs corridor, the boy stopped in front of a closed door. Candlelight flickered beneath it. The boy only stood there, refusing to ask for help.

Finally, Gawain reached for the handle. “Oh, please, let me.”

The boy shot him a sideward glare, but kept quiet as he hurried inside. He set the platter on the end of the table and fled.

Gawain spied Connor at the table, his back facing him.

Surrounded by piles of books, with several open and strewn around, he did not seem to notice that anyone had entered. He looked so intense, scribbling away frantically in the margins of the books, haphazardly dipping the quill in the ink pot next to him.

Despite wanting to give his salutation, Gawain could not speak.

“He is frightened of me,” Connor said.

Gawain jumped when he spoke.

“I think he believes I am casting spells or curses.” Connor set the quill in the ink pot and spun around. “Whatever it is they say about me in the servant’s hall.”

“Are you allowed to write in books like that?”

Connor reached for a stack of parchment near the ink pot. “I ran out of vellum.”

“How do you fare?” Gawain walked closer to look at the books. “You certainly look better.”

“You came to call upon me?” Connor set the stack of paper on top of the book.

“Yes, but you were unconscious. I was able to speak with Ceridwen though, for which I was thankful. She kept close watch over you while you slept.” Gawain stepped back from the bench as Connor stood.

“How do you know her, exactly?” Connor motioned for him to follow and led him to the library.

“I am not entirely certain. How we are acquainted is what we spoke of, and she did indicate I should remember her.”

“You do not recall how you know one another?” Connor hoisted a pile of books from the floor in front of the nearest stack.

Gawain immediately took the books from him, seeing the struggle on his face. “I can remember her from my childhood, somewhat, but I do not know why.”

“The night of the clansmeet. I remember her calling you Dáire, but you never mentioned the reason, and I did not ask.”

“It was my name…‌a long time ago.”

Connor stoked the fire, and a burst of warmth filled the room. The fire livening, he returned to the scribe’s workroom and sat back down on the bench in front of his books.

“The name my mother gave me was Dáire Máthramail.” Gawain stretched his leg over the bench and sat at the table, leaning on his elbows. “When she abandoned me and left me at my father’s house, he renamed me Gawain, and I, naturally, took the surname Gweliwch.”

“Here, make yourself useful.” Connor pushed a pile of books in front of him. “Then, Ceridwen knew you before your mother abandoned you in Gweliwch?”

“I believe so, yes.” Gawain paused for a moment. “There would not be a reason for her to know of me, let alone what my name once happened to be, unless that were the case.”

“Unless she knew your mother, of course.” Connor continued to leaf through pages, skimming each.

“What did you say?”

“Ceridwen may have known your mother.” Connor rubbed his shoulder, still scanning the book.

Gawain knew he must have felt the effects of the stress he placed upon it by meddling with the logs in the fire. “I did not think to ask Ceridwen.”

“You did not think to ask?”

“As I said, we were interrupted.”

“By whom?” Connor looked up at him before returning to his book.

“My father.”

“I see.” Connor scratched the back of his neck. “Why is it you continue to keep tidings at the castle when even your father has left? The clansmeet has ended, as has my uncle’s wedding ceremony, so most of the other nobles have already left the province. And yet, you stay.”

“This note here, about herb o’ grace,” Gawain touched the parchement, “did you write it?”

Connor peered at the page. “Yes, yesterday. I have found a few mentions of its benefits. Nothing confirmed though‌—‌but you did not answer.”

“Hmm?”

“You remain in the castle. Why?”

Gawain lowered his voice. “My father does not trust Bronwen’s father, Braith. He fears the marriage will strain the political ties between Gweliwch and Cærwyn now that Bronwen is queen.”

“Why is that?”

“Do you truly have no knowledge of politics?”

“I do not take part in them, thus I pay them no mind.”

“Surely you must realize the distance between Cærwyn and Gweliwch is great.”

“Yes, of course! Do you think me some simpleton?”

“I apologize. The great distance between the two provinces adds to the political tension because my father does not have your uncle’s ear as does King Braith Denorheim. So my father is worried‌—‌rightfully so. Annwyd shall be favored while Gweliwch is forgotten.”

“So you have stayed to, what, observe his actions?”

“Essentially.”

“Is that not too much responsibility to place on one your age?”

“Which age is that?” Gawain smirked.

“I am in my fifteenth year. You look to be of a similar age.”

Gawain laughed.

“Am I wrong?”

“My fifteenth year is a decade past.” Gawain smirked again.

“Ah, yes, your Meïnir heritage must affect your age.”

“Yes, quite a bit, it would seem. As for responsibility, I have been an officer in the Gwelian army for several years. I also have a large regiment of men at my command.”

“So you have seen war?”

“Several battle campaigns, but not war on a large scale, no.”

“I know enough to understand the attack on the castle will not go unpunished. My uncle may not wish it, but he has little choice but to serve a counterattack to the Féinmhuinín. Does it not frighten you to know you will be called to arms?”

“You forget, I am the son of a province of warriors. I do not fear death.”

Connor frowned, and Gawain immediately regretted his words. It was simple to say he was unafraid of death when it did not loom over him.

“It must worry your wife then‌—‌and your father.”

“My father, as well, is the son of a great warrior. He has been prepared for death since he was younger than I. As for a wife, I have not yet wed.”

“You are several years my brother’s elder, and yet you have not taken a wife? I assumed I had simply not yet met your wife at the clansmeet, or she had remained in Gweliwch.”

Gawain shifted his weight to one elbow and eyed the grain in the table.

“Has your father not yet met a woman right for you?” Connor stretched his legs beneath the table and groaned as he rubbed his knees. “I apologize, we have only met a few days ago, and I am asking you such intrusive questions.”

“No, it is of no offense. I was just trying to think of an answer.”

“Have you come up with one?”

“Well, you are fifteen, a proper age to wed, why have you not married?” Gawain retorted.

“Me?” Connor scoffed. “I suppose I ought to start thinking about it, but a large part of me has always wanted to go to Arlais‌—‌to take vows, to become a healer, or maybe a bard. Although, I think the rank of a bard is reserved for those who are Meïnir. There is not much use teaching the history of your people to someone who will die so much sooner than you.”

“So, a healer, then? The garden you keep would suggest it.”

“I suppose, but I have never broached the subject with my uncle. I just feel like I have no place here.”

“Why?” Gawain faced Connor.

“When my parents died in the plague, my brother, being older than I, inherited my father’s title his fourteenth year. I live in the king’s castle, and yet I am no prince. My surname is Helygen, and yet I am no duke. I feel as though I am simply hovering around in the world with no place to cling. Not that I would like the responsibility to be in a seat of power after seeing how much ill it causes my brother and uncle.” Connor faced him. “Do you wish to be duke?”

“I have been molded to fit the role since I was young. My grandfather was Kedigor, after all.”

“And yet, you do not sound pleased. It is so much pressure for someone so young‌—‌even if you are ten years my senior.” Connor coughed, wincing.

“How do you fare? I mean…‌the curse.”

“You know?”

“Ceridwen told me when I came to visit you.”

“I did not know you were aware.”

“I am sorry; I should not have mentioned it.”

“No, it is all right. It is a comfort to know you care, in actuality. What I find so frustrating is that nobody is certain about anything regarding the curse. These books have been of no help. The only vague reference I could find was to some ultimate weapon possessed by the Féinmhuinín, but that could have referred to anything‌—‌even just a superstition.”

“Ceridwen said nothing of the curse?”

“I do not think she knows anything more than any other.”

“And what of Rhiannon?” Gawain asked.

“What of her?”

“She is the Lady of Arlais. If anyone could lift the curse or know of some way to, it would be she, would it not?”

“Ceridwen would have already spoken with her about a cure.”