The Promise
The summer came golden and warm.
The garden was vast now — stretching from the castle walls to the river, from the river to the hills, from the hills to the horizon. The vegetables were heavy and ripe, their colors bright, their stems thick. The people worked from dawn to dusk, their hands in the soil, their faces to the sun.
The hunger was over.
The winter was over.
The Withering was sleeping.
Rhaena walked through the rows of green, her boots dusty, her dress stained, her hair tangled. The crown of branches was on her head, light and soft, fragrant with the scent of flowers. She had forgotten its weight. She was too busy. Too tired. Too hopeful.
Corin walked beside her.
“Your Grace, the lords are asking for a tour of the northern provinces.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Why?”
“They want to see the progress. They want to assess the damage. They want to plan for the future.”
“The future?”
“The spring. The planting. The hope.”
“Let them go.”
“Alone?”
“They are lords. They can travel without me.”
“Your Grace—”
“I am needed here.”
Theron approached.
His burned hands were wrapped in fresh bandages, his scarred face hidden beneath his hood, his good eye bright.
“Your Grace, the Withering is still quiet.”
“The Withering is still sleeping.”
“The hunger is still.”
“The hunger is still waiting.”
“How long?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“I do not know. But we will be ready.”
“Will we?”
She looked at the garden. At the vegetables. At the people.
“We will.”
Elara approached.
Her red hair was bright, her green eyes were clear, her hands were warm.
“The children are asking for you.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“What do they want?”
“The same thing they always want. A story. A song. A promise.”
“Then give them a story. Give them a song. Give them a promise.”
“They want them from you.”
Rhaena walked to the great hall.
The hall was crowded with people, their faces bright, their eyes hopeful. They had survived the winter. They had survived the hunger. They had survived the Withering.
They had survived.
The children gathered at her feet.
Their faces were no longer pale. Their eyes were no longer hollow. Their hands were no longer cold.
“Tell us a story,” they said.
“Tell us about the future.”
“Tell us about the hope.”
“Tell us about the promise.”
She knelt.
She touched their faces.
“The future is not written,” she said. “The hope is not certain. The promise is not guaranteed. But we will write it. We will hope it. We will promise it. Together.”
“Together?”
She looked at the crown on her head.
“Together.”