Lending it an even more surreal feel was its backdrop, the Canyon right behind it, the endless stretch of open sky, the swirling mists. The city was perched right on the edge of the Canyon, as if balancing on it, half of the city built above ground, and the other half built below, right into the granite cliffs of the Canyon itself. It was like two cities in one. It had survived for centuries, had always been known to be the one insurmountable city in the Ring—and everything Gwen had ever heard about it still did not do it justice. Seeing it now, as an adult, dwarfed even her childhood memories.
Silesia's stone walls rose a hundred feet, were as thick as ten men, and were replete with arrow slits every ten feet, behind which stood a score of Silesian soldiers, bows at the ready. Up top, in the rows of staggered parapets above, were hundreds more soldiers, armed with spears, small boulders, and manning, every twenty feet, huge iron cauldrons, filled with boiling tar. There were even small catapults on the walls, for firing down flaming balls at attackers. This was a city that had been carefully thought through.
Gwen was filled with gratitude that Srog had been loyal to her father all these years: if not, she honestly wondered if her father’s men, even the Silver, could take this city. The Silver were the best warriors the world had to offer—yet even so, whether they could breach these walls was another matter entirely.
As Gwen walked through the gates, her heart soared with hope; she felt a surge of optimism, felt that maybe, just maybe, behind these thick walls, perched here on the edge of the Canyon, they could withstand an attack here, even from Andronicus’ army. They might not win; but they might be able to hold off just long enough. Long enough for what, she didn't know. Deep in her heart, she hoped beyond hope that maybe Thor would return with the Sword and rescue them all.
"My lady,” Srog said graciously, walking beside her through the gates and into the vast courtyard, “my city welcomes you."
From all corners of the immense square, people dressed in red rushed forward and showered Gwendolyn and her men with red rose petals. The people all wore gracious smiles, approaching Gwen and touching her shoulder, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek, one after the next. She had never been in any place like this; she felt as if she were being embraced by all of them.
"You would think they had no idea that a war is coming to these gates," Gwen said, in awe of their carefree and fearless ways.
"They know," Srog said. "But the Silesians are famous for not giving in to fear. My people might feel it—but they never indulge in it. That is their way. They believe that the person who fears death dies many times, while the one who does not dies but once.
“We are a happy people, content with what life has given us. We don't covet anything that others have. And we are happy with who we are.”
More of the masses spilled out, all smiling at Gwen and her entourage, clasping them on the back, welcoming the huge contingent of soldiers and people as if they had been long-lost brothers. Gwen was shocked. She had expected these people to be resentful of their presence; after all, they were digging in for a siege, and here were tons of people who had come to live within their gates, off of their defenses and their rations. Yet, on the contrary, the Silesians still seemed happy to have them here. They were supremely hospitable people.
“There’s more to it than the fact that your people don’t fear," Gwen said. "They also seem genuinely happy. Even in the face of looming adversity.”
"We are a happy people,” Srog said. “They say we get it from the canyon air and from the color of our dress,” he smiled. Then he turned serious. “But there is more to it than that. They are also happy to see you.”
“But why?” Gwen asked, baffled.
“King’s Court is a sister city and word travels,” he explained. “No one here was happy with your brother's reign. They see you as the legitimate heir to the MacGil throne, and they are happy to have a true ruler—not an upstart who has ousted his father. We are a fair and just people, and we want this in our rulers. They want a ruler they deserve, and they see that in you. They do not really care if we all die here, if we are all crushed by the Empire. They only, while they live, want to live justly.”
Gwen felt her heart swell at his words; she felt as if, in her, everyone saw something else. For some she was a savior; for others, a prophet; for others, a young girl in over her head; for others, the extension of her father. She was beginning to feel just how much her being ruler meant to others. It was overwhelming. She could not be everything for everyone. She swelled with pride, but also with humility. She felt overcome by the fact that she was representing her father's name, his honor and memory. And she felt a burden and responsibility to live up to that memory, to be as good of a ruler as he had been. Her father had been like a god to her. She did not know how to rule; she was determined to learn, to try as hard as she could to be as devoted and kind to them as they had been to her.
As they continued deep into the city, a large contingent of warriors stepped forward, dressed in the red armor, and decorated in various metals. Gwen could tell right away that these were Srog’s elite.
They stopped to greet her, and the one in the center, a tall thin man with a red beard and glowing green eyes, stepped forward, lowered his head, and held out in his palms a beautiful, silk scarlet cloak, folded neatly.
"My lady," he said softly. "I present this cloak to you on behalf of the Silesian army. It is the mantle of our former lady, and has not been worn in years. It is the sign of the highest respect we can offer. You would honor us to wear it.”
Speechless, Gwen reached out and gingerly accepted the mantle; it was the softest piece of clothing she had ever felt, melting in her hands as she unfolded it. She was taken aback by its intricate design, by its shining gold clasp. She draped it around her shoulders and connected the clasp at the base of her throat, and it felt natural. She felt so regal wearing it.
A noise rose up, like a soft cooing noise, and Gwen looked up, scanning the towering walls, the spires rising hundreds of feet into the air, and saw all among them small windows, people dressed in red sticking their heads out, making the noise. As they did, they raised three fingers to their right temple, then slowly pulled them away.
"What are they doing?" Godfrey asked, beside her.
"The salute of the Silesians," Srog explained. "It is a gesture of love. And of respect.”