Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy by Ethan Risso Page B
Authors: Ethan Risso
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hide his heritage when he was younger, but now that he had grown to manhood, it was becoming more noticeable that Gawain did not age as others.
Gawain closed his eyes once more. He remembered the anger he felt toward his father as freshly as if it had happened only the day before. It had been fifteen years since, and Gawain, while never doubting his father’s love, had never thought of his father in the same way again. The ideas and fascination he had with his mother’s world compounded the problems in the difficult relationship. He was frequently torn between the duties he had to his father and his men, whose well-being he cared for after the years, and his constant yearning to explore his background further. He was able to push his curiosity to the farthest corners of his mind for some time, but seeing Ceridwen the day prior had brought all of those feelings rushing back.
Dáire, she called him. It had been years since he heard the name. When he was born, his mother bestowed upon him the name Dáire Máthramail—like his mother in the language of her people. It was the only name he knew until his father cast her out of Gweliwch and renamed him. It had not been since then that he had been referred to as such.
Gawain yawned as he pulled at one of the blankets which he had thrown onto the floor during the night. He had not slept well after his father’s visit. Unsettling images haunted his dreams. Even more troubling was that he had no way of knowing whether they were ordinary dreams or some form of visions of things yet to come. He knew his mother’s people were sometimes gifted with visions, but he doubted if he possessed such a gift, his bloodline thinned by his father’s Hume lineage.
Of what he could recall, he was speaking to his mother, and he found himself to look like a child once more. The conversation had been pleasant enough, but the sound of her voice had quickly been drowned out by the sound of thunder. After a time had passed, he realized it was not thunder, but the sound of a battle in the distance. As the rumble grew louder, his mother faded away. He found himself standing in the field, watching the battle unfold. Faceless men carried the banners of his father as they marched against an unseen foe. Though it was not his father’s name they chanted, it was his own.
Gawain shuddered in an attempt to shake the dream from his mind. It was then that he recalled the last few moments of the dream before he woke. As he stood amidst the battle, he heard the cries of men and clashes of steel. The stench of blood filled his nostrils, and he tried to cover his nose with his arm to block out the odor. It was then that he saw the blood on his hands and on his fallen sword in the dirt. The sounds of the battle dimmed, and he felt he was alone. However, another one appeared and knelt before him to pick up his sword. When the figure straightened, offering the sword to him, the face became clearer. It was Connor.
He took the sword from Connor, but grasped it only momentarily before he hurled it into the distance. As the sword flew through the air, Gawain smiled. Connor did not return his smile, but instead motioned into the distance. The ground was red with the blood of soldiers, but there were no corpses to be found.
Gawain had woken with a jolt, drenched in a cold sweat, unable to return to sleep for quite some time. It was for this reason that he was glad to have been able to sleep in this morning, past first light. Had he seen in his dreams what had actually occurred during the night? Perhaps he inherited some of his mother’s gifts after all. In the dream, Connor was not injured, so it could very well be mere coincidence.
After he was dressed, he walked out into the hall. He heard Ceridwen singing softly. He tiptoed toward her voice and, finding the door ajar, peered into the room where she sat by Connor’s bedside.
“Come in, Dáire,” Ceridwen said, her back to him.
Gawain squeezed in, leaving
Gawain closed his eyes once more. He remembered the anger he felt toward his father as freshly as if it had happened only the day before. It had been fifteen years since, and Gawain, while never doubting his father’s love, had never thought of his father in the same way again. The ideas and fascination he had with his mother’s world compounded the problems in the difficult relationship. He was frequently torn between the duties he had to his father and his men, whose well-being he cared for after the years, and his constant yearning to explore his background further. He was able to push his curiosity to the farthest corners of his mind for some time, but seeing Ceridwen the day prior had brought all of those feelings rushing back.
Dáire, she called him. It had been years since he heard the name. When he was born, his mother bestowed upon him the name Dáire Máthramail—like his mother in the language of her people. It was the only name he knew until his father cast her out of Gweliwch and renamed him. It had not been since then that he had been referred to as such.
Gawain yawned as he pulled at one of the blankets which he had thrown onto the floor during the night. He had not slept well after his father’s visit. Unsettling images haunted his dreams. Even more troubling was that he had no way of knowing whether they were ordinary dreams or some form of visions of things yet to come. He knew his mother’s people were sometimes gifted with visions, but he doubted if he possessed such a gift, his bloodline thinned by his father’s Hume lineage.
Of what he could recall, he was speaking to his mother, and he found himself to look like a child once more. The conversation had been pleasant enough, but the sound of her voice had quickly been drowned out by the sound of thunder. After a time had passed, he realized it was not thunder, but the sound of a battle in the distance. As the rumble grew louder, his mother faded away. He found himself standing in the field, watching the battle unfold. Faceless men carried the banners of his father as they marched against an unseen foe. Though it was not his father’s name they chanted, it was his own.
Gawain shuddered in an attempt to shake the dream from his mind. It was then that he recalled the last few moments of the dream before he woke. As he stood amidst the battle, he heard the cries of men and clashes of steel. The stench of blood filled his nostrils, and he tried to cover his nose with his arm to block out the odor. It was then that he saw the blood on his hands and on his fallen sword in the dirt. The sounds of the battle dimmed, and he felt he was alone. However, another one appeared and knelt before him to pick up his sword. When the figure straightened, offering the sword to him, the face became clearer. It was Connor.
He took the sword from Connor, but grasped it only momentarily before he hurled it into the distance. As the sword flew through the air, Gawain smiled. Connor did not return his smile, but instead motioned into the distance. The ground was red with the blood of soldiers, but there were no corpses to be found.
Gawain had woken with a jolt, drenched in a cold sweat, unable to return to sleep for quite some time. It was for this reason that he was glad to have been able to sleep in this morning, past first light. Had he seen in his dreams what had actually occurred during the night? Perhaps he inherited some of his mother’s gifts after all. In the dream, Connor was not injured, so it could very well be mere coincidence.
After he was dressed, he walked out into the hall. He heard Ceridwen singing softly. He tiptoed toward her voice and, finding the door ajar, peered into the room where she sat by Connor’s bedside.
“Come in, Dáire,” Ceridwen said, her back to him.
Gawain squeezed in, leaving
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