A Sky of Spells (Book #9 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (7 page)

Luanda marched and marched,
exhausted, weak from hunger, freezing, feeling as if her trek would never end. She
couldn’t allow herself to stop. She had to make it back, to her homeland, to Bronson.
She was still reeling as she thought how lucky she had been to escape, what a
close call it had been. She had been looking over her shoulder the entire march
back, still fearing that somehow, maybe, Romulus would find a way to take down
the Shield, to follow her, to grab her and bring her back.

But he was never there. He
was gone now, the Shield was truly up, and Luanda had been safe marching, all
this way, through the wasteland of the Ring, determined to make it home. She was
relieved, yet she also felt a sense of dread. Would her people take her back
in, after all she had done? Would they want to kill her? She could hardly blame
them. She was embarrassed by her own actions.

Yet she had nowhere else to
go. This was the only home she knew. And she loved Bronson, and ached to see
him again, to apologize in person.

Luanda was remorseful for
what she had done, and she wished it could have been otherwise. She wished she
could take it all back, could do it all differently. Looking back on it now,
she didn’t understand what had come over her, how she had allowed her ambition
to overcome her. She had wanted it all. And she had failed.

This time, she had learned
her lesson; she was humbled. She did not yearn for power now. Now, she just
wanted peace. She just wanted to be back with her people, in a place to call
home. She saw firsthand how bad life could be with the Empire, and she wanted
to get as far away from ambition as possible.

Luanda thought of Bronson,
of how much he had cared for her, and she hated herself for letting him down.
She felt that if there was anyone left that might forgive her, might take her back
in again, it was he. She was determined to find him, not matter how far she had
to march. She only prayed he was still alive.

Luanda came upon the rear
camp of the MacGils, all of them marching towards King’s Court on the wide road
leading West, thousands of men, exhausted but jubilant, fresh off their victory.
She was thrilled to catch up with them, to see that they had won, and she
weaved her way through, asking each if they knew where Bronson was. She asked
them all the same thing: if they had seen him, if he was alive.

Most had ignored her with a
grunt, turning away from her, shrugging, ignorant. And those that recognized
her, sent her away with disparaging remarks.

“Aren’t you the MacGil girl?
The one who sold us all out?” asked a soldier, elbowing his friends, who all turned
and examined her with scorn.

I am a member of the MacGil
royal family, the firstborn daughter of King MacGil. You are a commoner. You remember
that and keep your place,
she wanted to say. The old Luanda would have.

But now, humbled, ashamed, she
merely lowered her head. She was no longer the woman she once was.

“Yes, that is I,” she answered.
“I am sorry.”

Luanda turned and
disappeared back into the camp, weaving her way in and out, until finally she
tapped yet another soldier on the shoulder, and as he turned, she prepared to
ask him if he knew were Bronson was.

But as he turned she stopped
cold.

So did he.

All around him the men kept
marching, yet the two of them stood there, frozen, staring at each other.

She could hardly breathe.
There, facing her, was her love.

Bronson.

Bronson stared back at
Luanda in shock. She stood there and, for several seconds, she did not know if
he would hate her, send her away, or embrace her.

But suddenly his eyes welled
with tears and she could see relief flood his face, and he rushed forward and
embraced her. He held her tight, and she embraced him back. It felt so good to
be in his arms again, and she clung to him as she began sobbing, her body
wracked with tears, not realizing how much she’d held in, how upset she was.
She let it all out, crying, ashamed.

“Luanda,” he said, holding
her. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“I love you too,” she said
through her tears, unable to let go, to back away.

She pulled back and, unable
to look into his eyes, lowered her head, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Forgive me,” she said
softly, unable to meet his gaze. “Please. Forgive me.”

He embraced her again,
holding her tight.

“I forgive you for
everything,” he said. “I know it wasn’t the real you.”

She looked up and met his
eyes, and she saw that they did not look at her with scorn. She could see that
he still loved her as much as the day she had met him.

“I knew that you were just caught
up in the grips of something,” he continued. “Ambition. It overwhelmed you. But
it wasn’t you. It wasn’t the Luanda I know.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re
right. It wasn’t me.”

She smiled, breathing deep, collecting
herself as she wiped away her tears.

“And what of the others?”
she asked nervously. “Thorgrin? My sister? Are they alive?”

She knew that if the answer
was no, she would face an angry mob who would blame it on her and want her
dead.

Bronson smiled and nodded
back, and as she saw his face, she was overwhelmed with joy and relief.

“They are indeed,” he
replied. “They have all gone to King’s Court, which is where we head now. I am
sure they will accept you back.”

He took her hand, but she
stopped and pulled it away, shaking her head.

“I am not so sure,” she
said. “How can they ever trust me again?”

“That’s her,” came a dark
voice.

Luanda turned to see several
soldiers approaching, one pointing at her.

“There’s the MacGil girl,”
he added. “The one who betrayed Thor.”

A group of soldiers marched
forward and grabbed Luanda from behind, quickly, before she could react, and began
to bind her wrists with rope.

“What you doing?” Bronson
called out, indignant, approaching them. “That is my wife!”

“She is also a traitor,” the
soldier replied firmly. “The one who sold out our army. She is under arrest. It
is for the queen to decide her fate—not us. And not you.”

“Where are you taking her?”
Bronson pressed, blocking their way. “I demand for her to have an audience with
the Queen!”

“An audience she will indeed
have,” they replied. “But as a prisoner.”

“No!”

Bronson lunged forward to free
her, but a group of soldiers blocked his way and drew their swords.

“Bronson, please!” Luanda
cried out. “Let it go. They are right to take me. Please don’t fight them. They’ve
done nothing wrong.”

Bronson slowly lowered his
sword, realizing they were right. In a just society, justice needed to be
served. There was nothing he could do about it. He loved Luanda; but he also
served the queen.

“Luanda, I will talk to her
for you,” Bronson said. “Do not worry.”

She opened her mouth to
speak, but the soldiers were already taking her away, to the distant horizon, to
King’s Court. It was a city that Luanda had once entered as royalty—and now,
ironically, she would enter as a prisoner. She did not need honors anymore; she
only prayed her sister would allow her to keep her life.

Gwendolyn walked through the
remains of King’s Court, accompanied by Thor, her brothers Kendrick, Reece and Godfrey,
and flanked by Erec, Steffen, Bronson, Srog, Aberthol and several new advisors,
the large group taking stock, surveying the damage that had been done to this
once-great city. Gwendolyn’s heart broke as she walked through, this city she
had been raised in, this city that embodied her childhood. Every corner was
haunted with memories, time she had spent here with her father, her brothers, the
places she had learned to ride a horse, to wield a sword, to read the lost
language. It was the place where she had learned to leave childhood behind.

It was all changed now, a place
she barely knew. The bones of it were there, remnants of stone walls, charred
by dragon’s breath, crumbling buildings, traces of ramparts. The ground was still
littered with corpses, and she held back tears as she walked between them, all
the brave Silver and MacGils and Silesians who had died for their country,
making a heroic stand against the Empire. She was in awe at their bravery, at
what they had sacrificed.

“They all put up a stand
knowing it would mean their lives,” Gwen said aloud as she walked, the others
listening. “Yet they made a stand anyway. This is the very height of courage. These
are the great heroes of the Ring. The unknown and unnamed fallen warriors all
around us. It is to them that we owe our greatest debt.”

There came a grunt of
affirmation from among the warriors as they walked with her. Gwen was overcome
by the honor and courage that ran in her people’s veins, and she felt a huge
responsibility to live up to it, to be as honorable and fearless a leader as her
people deserved. She hoped she could.

“Our first task must be to
bury our dead,” Gwendolyn said, turning to her entourage. “Summon all of our
people to collect all of these bodies, and to prepare them for a great funeral
pyre, which we shall have tonight. The corpses of the Empire can be discarded
in the fields, beyond the walls of the outer ring of our city, where they can be
eaten by the dogs.”

“Yes my lady,” one of her generals
said, turning and hurrying back to the crowd, dispatching officers immediately
to do her will. All around them soldiers broke into action, as they began to
collect the dead. Gwendolyn could not look at their faces anymore; she needed
the city cleared of them to not be haunted.

They finished circling the perimeter
of the inner courtyard, past the toppled statue of her father, past the
fountain which no longer bubbled, and Gwen paused beside it. She looked down at
the huge stone figure of her father, now lying in several pieces, and was
inflamed with rage at Andronicus and the Empire.

“I want my father’s statue
rebuilt,” she commanded. “I want the fountains around him bubbling again, and I
want this walkway lined with flowers.”

“Yes, my lady,” said another
of her men, hurrying off to do her bidding.

“But my lady,” one of her new
advisors said, “would it not be more appropriate for there to be a statue of
you up here now? After all, this is the center of King’s Court, and this is
where the ruler’s statue stands, and you are our ruler. Your father is no
longer with us.”

Gwen shook her head.

“My father will always be
with us,” she corrected, “and I do not need a statue to honor myself. I would
rather remember those whose shoulders we stand on.”

“Yes my lady,” he said.

Gwendolyn turned and saw the
approving eyes of all of her men, and her eyes rested on Thor’s. More than
anything, she just wanted time to walk with him alone. The two of them never
seemed to have enough time alone together, and there was something she needed
to say to him. She was burning to tell him about her pregnancy. About
his
baby. She felt the baby flip in her stomach even as she thought of it.

Soon, she told herself. When
all of this was done, all these affairs of state, all settled down, she would
tell him. Perhaps even tonight. She felt a rush of excitement just thinking
about it.

They continued circling the
courtyard, until finally they reached the doors to King’s Castle. Gwendolyn
looked up, and felt a pain in her stomach at the sight. It had once been the
finest castle in both kingdoms, sung off, praised by poets, even outside the Ring.
It had been the seat of MacGil Kings for seven generations, the seat of her own
father.

Now there it stood, half
destroyed, half its walls standing, the other half open to the sky. She could
hardly fathom it, how something of this height and breadth could be damaged. It
had always seemed so impervious to her. It felt like a metaphor for the ring: half
of it destroyed, and half of it still standing, a foundation on which to
rebuild. A daunting task lay ahead of her, not just here but everywhere, in
every town throughout the Ring.

Gwen breathed deep as she
surveyed it, and she felt inspired by the challenge.

“Let us go inside,” Gwen said
to the others.

Her entourage looked at her
with a flash of concern.

“My lady, I do not know how stable
it is,” Kendrick said. “Those walls, they could collapse.”

Gwen slowly shook her head.

“It was our father’s castle,
and his father’s before him. It has lasted for centuries. It will hold us.”

Gwen boldly stepped forward,
and the others followed close behind. They walked through the massive stone and
iron gates, one of them intact, the other hanging crooked on its hinges. The portcullis
lay burnt and twisted on its side, now but a relic.

The wind whistled through as
they walked, no sound heard but that of their footsteps crunching on gravel. They
passed beneath a tall stone archway and Gwen expected to find the ancient oak,
carved doors that had marked the entrance to the castle. But they were gone,
torn off their hinges, stolen. It pained Gwen to see. They were doors Gwen had
walked through nearly every day of her life.

They all entered the main
chamber, and Gwen felt a draft, and looked up at the gaping holes in the high, tapered
ceilings, letting in winter sunlight and gusts of cold. Their boot steps echoed
in this empty hall, piles of rubble everywhere. But beneath the dirt and
rubble, Gwen could still spot the original marble floors. She also saw that
many of the frescoes still remained on the walls, covered by dirt.

They crossed the chamber, a
trapped bird fluttering on the ceiling, and Gwen walked up a series of stone
steps, wide enough to hold them all side-by-side, its railings gone. The steps
felt sure, and she ascended, unafraid.

They continued down corridor
after corridor, holes in the walls letting in sunlight and cold. The walls
caved in in places, but the structure seemed intact. As they went, they passed scattered
corpses of soldiers, men who had fought bravely, hand-to-hand, giving their
lives to defend this place.

“Make sure these men are
collected, too,” Gwendolyn commanded.

“Yes, my lady,” said one of
her attendants, hurrying off to do her will.

One corpse hung over the
stone railing, eyes wide open, staring up into the sky. Gwen reached over and
gently closed his eyes. She had seen so much death these last few days, she did
not know if these images would ever leave her mind.

They continued down several
more corridors until finally they reached the main doors to the Great Hall, the
hall her father had used, had spent the greater part of his day, surrounded by
counselors and generals, making decisions and passing judgments, running the
daily business of the Western Kingdom. The grand council table had been destroyed,
lying in rubble in the center of the room. But Gwen took heart as she saw the ancient
golden doors that had heralded this room were still there. She stepped up,
feeling their hinges, running her hand along the ancient carvings on the door, made
centuries ago, the handiwork of the first architect of the Ring, one of the
greatest treasures of this castle. Gwen felt a burst of hope. She turned and
faced her men.

“We shall build a new council
chamber around these doors. And around that chamber, a new castle to hold it—and
around that castle, a new King’s Court!”

The men cheered in approval.

“We shall find new craftsmen,”
she added. “As fine as the man who carved these doors. And he shall adorn every
inch of King’s Court. No expense shall be spared. These doors will be a shining
symbol for all who come here that the Ring is strong. That it will always be
strong. That it can be rebuilt.”

The men cheered, all looking
to her with hope, and she could see she inspired confidence. Gwen could feel that
they needed a leader at this time, and she was determined to give these great
people whatever it was they needed. These people were all like family to her. Maybe
her father had been right after all: maybe she had been meant to lead.

They all passed through the
doors and entered what remained of the castle chamber, walking amidst piles of
rubble, looking up at the broken stained-glass that lined the walls. Some of
the windows were intact, Gwen noticed; others were gone forever.

Gwen walked down the center
of the hall, right up to the great throne, where her father had sat countless
times, and examined it. It was still intact, she was relieved to see, its seven
ivory and gold steps still leading up, its wide arms still lined with gold. It
was all covered in layers of dirt, yet still it was recognizable.

Steffen hurried forward and wiped
the dirt off the seat, off its arms, until the gold shone through once again.

“Please sit, my lady,” he
said, stepping aside.

Gwen hesitated, unsure.

“It was my father’s throne,”
she replied.

“It is your throne now,”
Kendrick said, stepping forward. “The people need a leader. The people need you.
Please, sit. Father would want you to.”

Gwendolyn looked to Thor,
who nodded back at her.

“Sit, my love,” he said
reassuringly. “Sit for all of us.”

Gwendolyn took strength in
Thor’s presence, and in the presence of all the others. She realized they were
right. It was no longer about her: it was now about something bigger than her.

Gwen slowly ascended the
ivory and gold steps, her boots clicking in the empty hall as she went, until
finally she reached her father’s throne. She turned and sat on it.

From up here she looked down
at all these great men who had accompanied her, and as one, they all knelt
before her.

“My Queen,” they all said as
one.

“Rise,” Gwendolyn said.

Slowly, they stood.

“I may be a Queen, but I am
merely my father’s daughter. You need not kneel for me. This was my father’s seat:
I sit on it only out of duty to him.”

“Yes, my lady,” they said.

“Excuse me, my lady,”
Aberthol said, stepping up, “but there are many urgent matters of state that
must be attended to. What better time and place than here and now to address
them, while we are here in the council chamber?”

“My father never delayed any
matter, and I shall not either.”

Aberthol nodded, pleased.

“My lady, first and
foremost, you will need to name a new council of advisors. Remember your father’s
old council? Most left when your brother Gareth took the throne. Now is a
chance for you to start again.”

Gwendolyn nodded, thinking
it through.

“I shall honor those who
honored my father. Any of his old advisors may join. In addition, Aberthol, you
shall be on it; so shall my brothers, Kendrick, Godfrey, and Reece; Thorgrin,
you will be on it; and so will you, Erec, Srog, Bronson, and Steffen.”

Steffen opened his eyes wide
in shock.

“
Me
, my lady?” he
asked. “I am but a humble servant. I am a simple man, not an important ruler of
the Ring. It is not an honor befitting me to sit on the Queen’s Royal Council.”

“How wrong you are,” she
said. “It befits you like few others. You shall sit on my Council and advise me
on all matters. There are few men I trust more. Do you accept this honor?”

Steffen lowered his head.

“My lady, it shall be the
greatest honor.”

Gwendolyn nodded, pleased. It
was past due that Steffen had a station befitting his special place in her
heart, that his selfless loyalty was rewarded. Given his humility, if anyone
deserved to be elevated, it was he.

“Very good, my lady,” Aberthol
said, “a most excellent choice of council indeed. Now, the most pressing matter
of business is the McClouds. With the Empire gone, the McCloud cities sacked,
and the McCloud ruler dead, you are ruler now of all that remains of the Ring,
of both kingdoms, of both sides of the Highlands. Surely, the McClouds will
look to us to lead, to unify. Never before in the history of the MacGils has
there been such an opportunity for unification. No MacGil before you has had
the power you now have.”

“They are disorganized now,”
Srog chimed in. “Weak. Now might be an opportunity. Now might be the time to
attack them, to crush them once and for all and occupy their side.”