The Queen’s Vigil
The winter did not end.
The snow fell day after day, week after week, month after month. The drifts grew higher than the walls of the castle. The roads disappeared. The passes were sealed. The city was isolated, cut off from the rest of the kingdom, trapped in a prison of ice and cold.
The food ran out.
The grain was gone. The meat was gone. The medicine was gone.
The people began to die.
Not in droves — one by one, quietly, in their sleep, in their beds, in their children’s arms. The old went first. Then the sick. Then the young.
Rhaena watched them go.
She stood at the window of her father’s chambers, looking out at the white city, the white sky, the white world. The crown was on her head. The weight was heavy. The cold was deep.
She could feel them dying.
Each death was a crack in her heart. Each death was a whisper of hunger. Each death was a step closer to the Withering.
She held.
She hoped.
She loved.
Corin entered without knocking.
“Your Grace, the refugees are asking for you.”
“I know.”
“The children are crying for you.”
“I know.”
“The old are dying for you.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
She turned from the window.
“Because I am thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“About the throne. About the hunger. About the Withering. About the grandmother. About the first queen. About the last god.”
“What about them?”
“They were all wrong.”
“About what?”
“About hope.”
Theron entered.
His burned hands were wrapped in fur, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace, there is a light in the east.”
“A light?”
“Beyond the mountains. Beyond the snow. Beyond the Withering.”
“What kind of light?”
“The kind that comes from fire.”
Rhaena walked to the window.
The east was dark.
But there was something there. A glow. Faint and distant, like a candle in a storm.
“Who would light a fire in the east?”
“The people who have not forgotten us.”
“The people who have not given up.”
“The people who are still hoping.”
She turned from the window.
“Send riders.”
“Your Grace?”
“Send riders to the east. Find the fire. Find the people. Bring them home.”
“Your Grace, the passes are closed. The roads are buried. The riders will die.”
“The riders will die if they stay. The people will die if they do not.”
Corin bowed his head.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The riders left at dawn.
Ten of them, on the strongest horses, with the warmest cloaks, with the sharpest swords. They rode into the white, into the wind, into the unknown.
Rhaena watched them go.
She did not wave.
She did not weep.
She hoped.