Throwback Thursday: ‘Gwannyn’s Song’ by JM Landels

Love vs Duty

After the publication of the Allaigna’s Song: Chorale, the third book in her high fantasy trilogy, author JM Landels found that some of the peripheral characters wouldn’t leave her be. ‘Gwannyn’s Song’ is the first of series of related stories, featuring the second wife of Allaigna’s grandfather.  When asked why she chose to write this piece, Jen told us, “Gwannyn was cast in the role of wicked stepmother against her will. She wanted me to tell her true story.”

Originally published in Pulp Literature Issue 35, Summer 2022, this tale will be part of a new collection of Ilmar tales, due out late this year.

In the meantime, you can get a taste of it in the excerpt below, or pick up Issue 35 at the throwback price of $8 till the end of February!

Gwannyn’s Song

JM Landels

It has been a colder than usual winter, and the late Bera wind that blows up the river Krone chills Gwannyn Doristi’s reddened nose and cheeks, bringing stinging tears to her eyes.

She should have no more tears left in her. She thought she had wept them all in the two clearmoons since her mother, the Kingfisher Queen, and her red-eyed father, the Royal Consort, accepted the formal offer of Chanist Brandis’s hand. Her sister Cyrnan, twelve years her senior, stroked her hair as Gwannyn cried onto her shoulder.

“He is a good man, Gwannyn, kind and handsome.”

“And he loves another.”

Cyrnan nodded. “And he has set her aside for the good of the nations. Do you think it was easy for him? I’ve seen the looks those two share across the dinner table. He was foolish to marry a Leisanmira, but he has taken the brave step to correct his folly.”

Cyrnan pulled away and held her little sister at arm’s length. “You must be as brave as he. Did you think that because you are not Mother’s heir you could marry as you please? Naz is a commoner — Mother would never approve. Be thankful you’ve made a match with a handsome prince — of Brandishear, no less — rather than with one of our dreadful dukes.”

Gwannyn has made the most of her time since then.

The wind lessens as she descends into the shelter of Caella’s lower streets, and she pats her face dry, warming already as Nazzedh’s workshop at the bottom of Rose Alley comes into view.

 

Gwannyn rolls over, resting her head in the hollow of Naz’s shoulder. Her fingers trace the damp line of curly hair that points towards his navel, drawing patterns in the wet semen on his belly. The two of them are careful, as always. But how she wishes they didn’t have to be. If for once they could remain joined. Not just for once, she amends. Forever. 

She brings her leg across his hips and buries her face in his armpit, biting her lip to stop from crying. The smell of his sweat is intoxicating and only makes her sadder. Her tears refuse to be held back any longer.

“Gwannyn, love.” Naz rolls to face her and strokes hair out of her eyes. “Was it as bad as that?” He smiles, kissing her nose.

So she tells him. She didn’t mean to. She wanted to spare him this pain and keep their last few weeks together unchanged. But, of course, she is not unchanged.

He runs through, in swift order, all the thoughts and feelings she has already experienced. Shock, protest, anger, grief, and scheming.

“Let us flee,” he suggests, as if she hadn’t thought of it.

“And live how? Your clients, your loom, are here.” Naz was the finest weaver in all of Caella — perhaps all of Elalantar.

“I have clients across the Ilmar. I can set up a loom anywhere there’s a port.”

“And your work is instantly recognizable. As am I. There is nowhere we could go and not be found.”

The afternoon sun coming through the high windlet of his back room is almost flat, which means the dinner hour is near and she will be missed soon.

“I would work forever as a farmer,” he persists. “Or a woodcutter, or delve the mines. I don’t need to be a weaver.” He pulls his breeks on. “But I could never force you to live that life.”

She gives a humourless laugh. “What do I care for this comfortable life if it is without love?” She wipes her face on the hem of her shift before slipping it over her head. “But I cannot deprive my country of the alliance it needs. I will sail to Rheran and wed this Prince, and when he kisses me to seal our vows, I’ll close my eyes and think of you.” As she says it, her chin trembles, and tears threaten again. “Duty is the price I owe for the privilege I’ve been born to.”

Naz gathers her into his arms. “There must be another choice.” 

“If there was, don’t you think I’d take it?” She has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss his beautiful mouth. “But I will enjoy every last moment I can with you until then.”

Find out what happens next in Pulp Literature Issue 35, Summer 2022 …