3MA

3MA | Chapter 20

20
LORNA'S GIFT

I don't even bother trying to fall back to sleep. After my intense conversation with Cinder, it would be like attempting to capture a hummingbird with a pair of chopsticks.

Instead, I frantically pace around the perimeter of the tower chamber for hours; wired, overloaded, and desperate to find a way to process the information Cinder happily seared into the surface of my mind.

My father and Rayna, once upon a time, a forbidden team.

Amaris's older sister, Eleanora, dead as a doornail.

Amaris herself, secretly observing my every step for years.

The King's Spire leeching power from the Hearthstone.

LeMorte possibly behind it all.

And the maddening thread that's perhaps the worst of all, the question Cinder asked me right before leaving: what do you believe in?

A simple enough question. And it wouldn't be so bad, if only I hadn't started to doubt my answer. For years, I've been so focused on the singular responsibility of Mag's safety -- to the point where even my own happiness was a luxury I couldn't afford to consider -- I haven't paused for a second to think of anything or anyone else.

I picture the hands from my dream, groping wildly in the dark. Reaching for me. Reaching for hope.

Is it time to finally start raising my fists for the sake of others? If so, who should I be fighting for and for what reason and to what bloody conclusion? Something tells me, like everything else I've acquired throughout my life, I'll need to fight my way to those answers.

"I'm assuming you slept even less than I did," Lorna calls out across the room, her hair, as usual, a tusseled orange bird's nest.

I rub my eyes. "Not a wink," I groan. "What time is it?"

"Time to do what you're best at," Lorna says.

"Setting dining halls on fire or pissing off your son?"

Lorna smiles. "Time to fight, dear."

I move across the room to the cabinet housing the static stones. I pluck up a potato-sized rock pulsing with sunset-orange energy and stare into its flickering heart. "My Dad used to say that half of a fight is knowing who you're fighting. The other half is knowing who you're fighting for."

"Sounds about right," Lorna says.

I shrug. "But what if I'm not sure any more? About anything?"

"My father had a saying, too: the brain has its own motives, but the heart never lies."

Lorna waddles toward me across the room and presses a wooden jewel box into my chest. On the lid, I run my fingers over a flawless carving of a beautiful woman's porcelain-skinned profile. It looks just like Amaris.

"Queen Guinevere's own," Lorna says, "once upon a time."

I open it and find two long strips of supple black leather coiled inside the velvet-lined box; a pair of sleeping serpents. Lorna plucks a strap between two fingers.

"Give me your hands," she says.

I hesitate for a moment. Dad was the only person I ever allowed to wrap my fists. He had always asserted that the act was a sacred thing, reserved only for trusted friends.

I hold out my fists.

Lorna plucks off the scaled Dragonskyn gloves and tosses them onto the bed. They've been permanently wrapped around my fists for so many days, I'd forgotten the pale, scarred texture of my bare knuckles.

Lorna winds the leather strap around my hand, slow and methodical and tight-as-a-drum.

Dad would approve.

She repeats the same impressive binding process on my left hand. When she's finished, I hold my fists in the air and flex my fingers. The wraps feel light yet impenetrable. I flip over my hand and notice a detail I had overlooked: a pair of cursive 'M's" branded into the leather just above my knuckles.

To call these wraps an upgrade from the moldy cotton rags I'm used to using is an understatement.

This is gear designed for real fighters. For royalty.

"Thanks, Lorna. I don't remember the last time someone gave me a gift," I say, wiggling my fingers and admiring airy feel. "Not like this."

Lorna smiles and places her plump hand on my shoulder. "They're all waiting for you downstairs," she says, waddling across the room to the shadowed doorway. "Whenever you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready?"

Lorna grins when she notices Cinder's hunting dagger sticking out from the doorframe. She tugs, dislodging it from the wood with a metallic twang and slips the weapon into her apron pocket. "My son hasn't learned this yet, but, we all have a part to play in this story. Your part begins tonight in that arena."

"What if it ends there?"

Lorna shrugs. "All things, no matter how big or small, must eventually come to an end."

I recognize that set of words. The opening paragraph of Sir Valem and the Dragon's Heart.

"As for your story," Lorna says with a smile, "I believe you may be just getting started."