Chapter Twenty #2
“You did,” he agreed. “And I won’t lie and pretend that’s an easy thing for me to know. But I also know the conquest that killed my family happened long before you were . . .” What could he possibly call the way she had come into this world? Nothing so simple as birth.
Gwynira huffed. “Pulled from the Dream by a megalomaniac?”
He could not dispute that.
Gwynira climbed in silence for a few moments before glancing at him. “It was odd to meet her, you know. Dianthe. He created me to fill the space she had left in his life, to complete his twisted parody of the family he had lost.”
Sorin’s entire court had been like that.
Broken reflections of the High Court, warped by the way Sorin had seen them—or had never truly seen them.
Einar knew well how cold the Siren could be when she deemed it necessary, but even when she wrapped herself in the chill stillness of the depths, one need only look into her eyes to know that her heart burned with fire.
Gwynira continued quietly, “When I looked at her, I saw parts of myself I recognized. But mostly I saw the things about her that he hated. I was made from spite and loneliness. We all were. It’s no wonder we all came out twisted. We darken everything we touch.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Einar said. “This island is the only place in Sorin’s Empire not overrun by chaos. And it’s because you protected the people under your care from the spells he used to bind the dreams of his subjects. There was no violent awakening for them. You saved them that pain.”
Gwynira’s laughter held little mirth. “Yes, but that was spite, as well. I knew that every soul he bound to himself only strengthened him. Discovering a way to subvert his magic without him noticing was another small way to hurt him. To take from him.”
“You took from him, and gave to the people of Rahvekya.”
“I suppose you could see it that way.” She shrugged, as if she could shake off even that mild praise.
“I confess, I did not mind letting them have their religion and their customs. Sometimes I rather envied them, if I’m honest. I never had anything like that—stories that promised better times would come, or the belief that power could be kind, instead of endlessly cruel. ”
“I’m sorry,” he said—and meant it. “Petya raised me on those stories, and they gave me comfort during the hardest years.”
“Petya,” she murmured, with a wry smile.
“I am pleased to have one mystery answered, at least. I always wondered how those stories flourished for so long, never changing. You must know that isn’t how it usually happens.
Legends drift. The parts people care most about change.
But not on Rahvekya. Century after century, every tale was always the same.
Now I know . . . Your Petya’s wife was here, training each generation to carry the stories to the people. ”
The top of the hill loomed in front of them.
The wind teased at the final few lanterns, dancing with their flames.
“I never had the same connection to the Dream that the High Court seems to,” Gwynira continued.
“It may be where I came from, but I was formed from it against my will. The whispers of the world that others claim to hear? For me, it has always been silence.”
The breeze stirred more strongly, unusually warm, and carrying with it that teasing scent of flowers in bloom. They crested the hill, and the reply Einar intended to make died on his lips.
Before them stood the temple, glimmering in the late morning sun. And in front of it, the dead tree, the one whose bare branches had twisted tiredly toward the sky for thousands of years . . .
Was dead no longer.
Hearty branches spread wide in every direction, laden down with enormous flowers in the goddess’s favorite teal. The wind danced through the branches, carrying their intoxicating scent to where Einar stood, too stunned to move, too stunned to even speak.
“I may not hear the world’s whispers,” Gwynira said dryly, “but even I can understand the message when it is this obvious. So only one question remains. When would you like to hold your coronation?”
Finally, he found words. Only two of them, spilling free unbidden. “My what?”
“Your coronation,” Gwynira repeated, waving one hand in a gesture that took in the tree and the temple and the island beyond.
“I never wanted any of this. All I ever wanted was Isa, and now that I have her back, I do not intend to waste my days sitting on a throne thrust upon me by the man who killed her.”
Einar managed to tear his gaze from the tree and meet her steady gaze. “You’re leaving the island?”
“Well, not this very moment.” Her chilly smile whispered of violence.
“I have plenty of scores to settle with Sorin. So does Isa. We won’t be leaving until we have resolved the current situation, one way or another.
But unless you plan to turn me out of the castle the moment they set a crown upon your head, I see no reason to delay the inevitable. ”
This was moving uncomfortably fast in a direction Einar was unprepared to grapple with—especially alone. “I can’t just . . . become a king.”
“You’re already a king,” Gwynira replied with steely resolve. “This crown is your birthright. The island has made its position clear.” She pointed to the tree. “What do you expect will happen when word of this spreads? Best to give in with grace, Your Majesty.”
Most of the servants in the castle and a fair number of the villagers had stood on this very hilltop and listened to Agata pronounce that the tree had bloomed as an omen that their crown-prince would return to them. That he would reclaim the island and throw the Empire from its shores.
Gwynira was right. He’d seen the speed with which whispers traveled. Once it had become common knowledge that the prince’s sacred tree had bloomed once again, the people of Rahvekya would carry him bodily to the throne to place him upon it.
It was likely a total abdication of duty and a complete betrayal of his family that the thought filled him with more panic than pleasure.
Gwynira was still watching him as if she was waiting for him to provide a time of day for the ceremony. “I have to speak to Aleksi and Naia first,” he told her firmly. “As I expect you would want to speak to Isa in similar circumstances.”
For the first time since they’d left her palace, she let a genuine smile form. “Of course. And I’m sure that the people who have already witnessed this latest omen will understand that you wish to seek the goddess’s blessing before you proceed.” She paused. “For a few days, at least.”
The goddess’s blessing was the least of his concerns. If he told Naia he wished to reclaim his parents’ throne and rule over the people of her island, he had no doubt she would encourage him. But Aleksi . . .
Aleksi might not have a throne, but he had his own palace-like villa. His own court. His own people, who had done without him for weeks already. The time would come when he would need to return to his home and resume his duties, would it not?
But even if Einar walked away from his birthright .
. . what of Naia? She wasn’t just the goddess of this island.
In a very real sense she was the island, and it was her.
Now that she had regained her memories, how could she want to leave?
This was her ancient home, the place she had ruled over for years beyond counting.
Maybe it would not be so bad to rule this island at her side. To be her protector again. Maybe time would even let him regain his memories, to be a worthy partner as he had been so many centuries before.
A sweet picture, but it shattered when Einar tried to imagine Aleksi leaving his home and people behind. Was that the only future available to them? One where they were pulled apart again and again by conflicting duties?
The questions piled up in the silence as Gwynira and Einar began their descent, but no answers joined them.