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and just one other person. He was a kind, old man who looked down at her with worry. She almost recognized him, but had a hard time placing it. She felt so tired, too tired, as if she hadn’t slept in years.
    “ My lady?” the old man said, leaning over. He held something large in both hands, and she looked down and realized it was a leather-bound book.
    “ It is Aberthol,” he said. “Your old teacher. Can you hear me?”
    Gwen swallowed and slowly nodded, opening her eyes just a bit.
    “ I have been waiting hours to see you,” he said. “I saw you stirring.”
    Gwen nodded slowly, remembering, grateful for his presence.
    Aberthol leaned over and opened his large book, and she could feel the weight of it on her lap. She heard the crackling of its heavy pages as he flipped them back.
    “ It is one of the few books that I salvaged,” he said, “before the burning of the House of Scholars. It is the fourth annal of the MacGils. You have read it. Hidden inside are stories of conquest and triumphs and defeats, of course—yet there are also other stories. Stories of great leaders wounded. Of wounds to the body, and wounds of the spirit. There all sorts of injuries imaginable, my lady. And this is what I came to tell you: even the best of men and women have suffered the most unimaginable treatment, injuries and torture. You are not alone. You are but a speck in the wheel of time. There are countless others who suffered far worse than you—and many who survived and who went on to become great leaders.
    “ Do not feel ashamed,” he said, grasping her wrist. “That is what I want to tell you. Never be ashamed. There should be no shame in you—only honor and courage for what you have done. You are as great a leader as the Ring has ever seen. And this does not diminish it in any way.”
    Gwen, touched by his words, felt a tear fell roll down her cheek. His words were just what she needed to hear, and she felt so grateful for them. Logically, she knew and understood he was correct.
    Yet emotionally, she was still having a hard time feeling it. A part of her could not help but feel as if somehow she had been damaged forever. She knew it was not true, but that was how she felt.
    Aberthol smiled, as he held out a smaller book.
    “ Remember this one?” he asked, turning back its red leather-bound cover. “It was your favorite, all through childhood. The legends of our fathers. There’s a particular story in here I thought I would read to you, to help you idle away the time.”
    Gwen was touched by the gesture, but she could take no more. Sadly, she shook her head.
    “ Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse, another tear rolling down her cheek. “But I can’t hear it right now.”
    His face fell in disappointment, then he nodded, understanding.
    “ Another time,” she said, feeling despondent. “I need to be alone. If you would, please, leave me. All of you,” she said, turning and looking at Steffen and Gwen.
    They all rose to their feet and bowed their heads, then turned and hurried from the room.
    Gwen felt guilty, but she couldn’t stop it; she wanted to crumple into a ball and die. She listened to their steps cross the room, heard the door close behind them, and looked up to make sure the room was empty.
    But she was surprised to see that it was not: there stood a lone figure, standing inside the doorway, erect, with her posture perfect, as always. She walked slowly and stately towards Gwen, stopping a few feet from her bedside, staring down at her, expressionless.
    Her mother.
    Gwen was surprised to see her standing there, the former Queen, as stately and proud as ever, looking down at her with an expression as cool as ever. There was no compassion behind her eyes, as there were behind the eyes of other visitors.
    “ Why are you here?” Gwen asked.
    “ I’ve come to see you.”
    “ But I don’t want to see you,” Gwen said. “I don’t want to see anyone.”
    “ I don’t care what you want,”