by Morgan Rice
“You’ve been gone all day,” she said. “Now it’s time for us.”
She came up behind him and stroked his arms and shoulders. She could feel the tension in them.
Finally, he turned around.
“Please, Luanda, not now. I’ve had a terrible day.”
“So have I,” she said, irritated, losing patience. “Do you think you’re the only one who is unhappy here? I must sit here all day and wait for you. I have no one and nothing here. I want a baby. I need a baby.”
Bronson examined her, seeming confused.
She pulled him towards her, threw him down to the bed and jumped on top of him.
“Luanda, this is not the time. I’m not ready—”
Luanda ignored him. She did not care what Bronson wanted any more.
But to Luanda’s shock, Bronson pushed her off the bed.
Luanda stood there, humiliated, in a rage. She was furious at Bronson. At her sister. At herself. At her life.
“I said not now!” Bronson said.
“Who cares if it’s now or later?” she yelled back. “It’s not working!”
Bronson sat on the edge of the bed, looking dejected.
“My sister will give birth any day,” Luanda added. “And I will have nothing to show.”
“It is not a competition,” he said calmly. “And we have all the time in the world. Calm yourself.”
“No we don’t!” she screamed. “And you are wrong: the entire world is a competition.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “Let us not fight.”
Luanda stood there, breathing hard, fuming.
“Sorry is not good enough,” she said.
Luanda threw on her robe, marched past Bronson and stormed out the room. She would find a way to get out of this place and to regain power—no matter what she had to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Srog stood at the top of the highest peak of the Upper Isles, peering down through the rain and mist at the Bay of Crabs. He looked closely at the long jetties of boulders that stretched into the sea, squinting into the fog and blinding rain. He was dripping wet, doused by the rain, his clothes and hair wet, as he stood there beside his generals.
Srog had learned to tune out the rain ever since moving here. It was part of life on the Upper Isles: each day the sky was overcast, blanketed by rolling clouds, the wind ever-present, and the climate twenty degrees cooler, even in summer. There was always either the threat of rain, or the presence of it. No day was dry. The Upper Isles, he had learned, deserved their reputation as a gloomy, miserable place, the weather fitting its reputation—and the people matching the temperament of the weather.
These past six moons Srog had come to know these Upper Islanders; they were a wily people, and could never be fully trusted. His six moons of ruling here had met with nothing but frustration, the people here clearly determined to thwart his rule at every turn, to sabotage his efforts. They were a rebellious folk, and they were intent on breaking off the yolk of the new queen Gwendolyn.
“There, my Lord,” the general cried out to be heard over the wind. “Do you see it?”
Srog peered into the mist and saw bobbing there, in the rough ocean, the remnant of one of the queen’s ships, tossing in the waves, smashing into the rocks. The waves crashed all around the boat, and the ship smashed again and again into the rocks. The ship, empty of men, spun in each direction. Srog could hear the splintering of wood even from here as it was smashed to pieces against the rocks.
“The anchor was cut early this morning,” the general continued. “By the time our men detected it, it was too late. They could not salvage it in time, my Lord.”
“You are certain it was cut?” Srog asked.
The general reached out and held in his hand a severed piece of rope.
“A clean-cut, my Lord,” he explained. “No rock did this. It was a man’s dagger. Sabotage.”
Srog examined the rope, and realized he was correct.
Srog sighed, weary from this place. He had spent most his life in Silesia, a grand, civilized city, where the people were honest, noble. He had ruled it well, uniting upper and lower Silesia, achieving what no Lord had ever managed to do. Silesia was a palace next to this dump, and Silesians were nothing like these Upper Islanders. After all his time here, Srog was slowly settling into the conclusion that the Upper Islanders enjoyed their subversion; they thrived on it. More and more, he sensed that they were a people who could not be ruled.
Each time Srog found an Upper Islander he could trust, that person, too, betrayed him. He was now at the point where he trusted no one.
“Increase patrols at the ships,” Srog said. “I want a soldier on duty at the moorings, all through the day and night. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the general said. He turned and hurried down the ridge, ordering his men, who all burst into action.
Srog looked down and surveyed the dozens of queen’s ships anchored at the wide sandy beach, and prayed that none of them met the same fate. This was the second ship this month that had been destroyed by sabotage, and he was determined not to lose another one.
Srog turned and hurried through the awful weather, followed by his advisors, jogging back to the warmth of the castle. It was hardly a castle—more like a fort, built square and low to the ground, with no artistic imagination or aesthetic appeal. It was utilitarian, uninspired and cold, much like the people of this place.
Srog hurried through the doors, opened for him, and rushed inside. The door slammed behind them, and he finally found quiet from the raging wind and rain. He stood there, his body dripping from the wet, and took off his outer shirt, as he was accustomed to by now, hanging it on a hook. He marched through the fort, running his hands through his wet hair, guards stiffening to attention as he went.
Srog passed through various corridors and finally entered the great hall, small compared to the castles he was used to. A square room with low ceilings, it had a large fireplace along one wall, with table and chairs positioned close to it. The Upper Islanders always stayed close to a fire, needing warmth and heat to dry off from the weather, and now there were several dozen men seated around the table.
Srog took a seat at the center of the table, close to the fireplace, and ran his wet hand through his hair and over his clothes several times, doing his best to dry it off. Several mangy dogs moved out of his way as he came close. They sat close by, repositioning themselves, and looked up at him, waiting for food.
Srog threw them a piece of meat from the table, then reached over, grabbed a goblet of wine, and drank the whole thing, wanting to make this place go away. He rubbed his head in his hands. This island gave him a massive headache. A second ship sabotaged by these people. What was wrong with them? Why did their resentments and petty rivalries run so deep? Srog was beginning to feel that Gwendolyn had made a mistake to try to unite the Upper Isles with the mainland. He was feeling more and more that she should abandon the whole place, and let it fall prey to its own destiny, as her father had before her.
Srog looked up and saw seated across from him Tirus’ three sons, Karus, Falus and Matus. Around the rest of the table sat several dozen more warriors and noblemen of the Upper Isles, all loyal to Tirus, all deep into their drinking and food, as torches were lit all around them. They were all settling in for the night.
Up here, they celebrated the Summer Solstice a day late, and this meager, somber meal was this Isle’s version of celebration. Srog shuddered, and not just from the wet and the cold. He missed King’s Court; he missed Silesia, and he pined to be back on the mainland. He could not help but feel his time here was futility.
Srog wished he could understand these Upper Islanders, but try as he did, he could not. They claimed that the source of their upset stemmed from Tirus’ imprisonment; yet after six moons of observing them, Srog did not believe that was all of it. He felt that, even if Tirus were set free, these people would still find some cause for subversion.
“And what repo
rts today, my lord?” Matus asked, sitting beside him. Srog had learned that Matus was the only Upper Islander he could trust.
“Another ship sabotaged,” Srog answered grimly. “Lost to the rocks. Gwendolyn will not be happy.”
Srog looked down at the scroll before him, finished penning letter for Gwendolyn, and handed it to a waiting attendant.
“Send this off with the next falcon,” Srog ordered.
“Yes, my Lord,” the attendant said, hurrying off.
Srog wondered if the attendant truly would follow out his order, or if the missive would, as so many others, get lost mysteriously.
“Sabotage is a strong word,” Falus said darkly.
The other soldiers around the table slowly quieted, all turning and looking Srog’s way.
Srog stared back at Falus, Tirus’ eldest son. He resembled Tirus exactly. He stared back, defiant.
“The queen’s ships are meant for smoother waters,” Karus added. “Perhaps the tides snapped the ropes.”
Srog shook his head, annoyed.
“No tides did this,” he said, “and the queen’s ships can traverse waters stronger than these. It was the work of men.”
“Perhaps it was the work of one of your men?” Falus asked. “Perhaps you have a traitor amongst you?”
Srog was exhausted by Karus’ and Falus’ subtle reasoning, both staring back at him with the same dark, defiant eyes of their father.
“And perhaps some great sea monster with perfectly square teeth jumped up and ate the rope,” Srog answered sarcastically.
Some of the warriors about the table snickered, and Falus and Karus reddened and grimaced back.
“You mock us,” Falus said, threateningly.
“Your people are sabotaging our ships,” Srog said, his voice rising. “And I want to know why.”
The room grew tense.
“Perhaps they are unhappy that your queen has imprisoned our leader like a common criminal,” came a voice from the end of the table.
Srog looked over to see that it was one of the nobles; a muted grunt of approval arose among the table’s other nobles.
“Your leader,” Srog countered, “was a traitor to the Ring. He joined the Empire against us. Gwendolyn’s sentence was lenient. He deserved hanging.”
“He was a traitor to your Ring,” said another noble. “Not ours.”
The other nobles grunted in agreement.
Srog stared back, his anger rising.
“Just because you live on these isles, it doesn’t make you separate from us. You are still protected by our armies.”
“We do fine in these Upper Isles without your help,” one said.
“Perhaps our people just don’t want you here,” said another. “Perhaps they don’t like the look of the Queen’s ships filling our shores.”
“No one likes to be occupied,” said another.
“You are not occupied. You are free. Your men come to our shores, and we come to yours. We protect you from foreign enemies, and our ships come to you filled with supplies for your countrymen, supplies you dearly need.”
“We do not need protecting,” said another noble. “Nor do we need your supplies. If you MacGils would stay on your mainland, we would have no problems.”
“Oh?” Srog countered, “Then why did you MacGils invade us unprovoked and try to take the mainland for yourselves?”
The nobles reddened, unable to respond. They looked at each other, then slowly, sourly, one of them got up, scraping his chair back along the stone, standing and facing his men.
“My meat has soured,” he said.
He turned and walked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
A thick, tense silence followed.
Slowly, one at a time, the other nobles rose and walked from the room.
Now Srog sat with just three men at the table—Tirus’ three sons, Falus, Karus and Matus. Srog looked about, and felt more on edge ever.
“Just release our father,” Falus said to him quietly. “Then our men will let your ships be.”
“Your father tried to kill our queen,” Srog said. “And he betrayed us twice. He cannot be released.”
“Then as long as he’s in his cell, do not expect our people to tolerate you,” Karus said.
The two brothers stood and began to walk out. They stopped and turned to Matus.
“You’re not joining us?” Falus asked, surprised.
Matus sat there defiantly.
“My place is here. At this table. The queen’s table.”
Falus and Karus shook their heads in disgust, then turned and stormed out.
Srog sat there, at the mostly empty table, feeling hollowed out.
“My Lord, I apologize for them,” Matus said. “Gwendolyn was more than kind to spare my father’s life.”
“I do not understand your people,” Srog said. “For the life of me, I do not understand them. What does it take to rule them well? I ruled a great city, far greater than this. But with these people, I cannot rule them.”
“Because mine are a people not meant to be ruled,” Matus said. “They are defiant by nature—even to my father. That was the secret my father knew. Do not try to rule them; the less you try, the more they may come around. Then again, they might not. They are stubborn people, with little to lose. That is the reason they live here—they do not want anything to do with the mainland. They are wrong in almost everything they do, but they might be right about one thing: you might do yourself and Gwendolyn a greater service to bring your assets elsewhere.”
Srog shook his head.
“Gwendolyn needs the Upper Isles. She needs a unified Ring. All the MacGils are of one family, sharing blood. This division, it makes no sense.”
“Sometimes geography creates a great divide amongst a people over time. This family has grown apart.”
An attendant came by and placed a new goblet of wine before Srog, and he picked it up.
“You are the only one I can completely trust here,” Srog said, appreciative. “How is it that you are unlike the rest of your people?”
“I despise my father,” Matus said. “I despise everything he stands for. He has no principles, no honor. I admired Gwendolyn’s father, my uncle, King MacGil, greatly. I always admired all of the MacGils of the mainland. They live by their honor, no matter what it takes. That is the life I’ve always wanted.”
“Well, you have lived it yourself,” Srog said approvingly.
Srog raised the goblet to his lips, prepared to drink, when suddenly, Matus leapt forward and swung around, and knocked the goblet from his hand. It went flying, landing on the floor, echoing as it rolled across the stone.
Srog stared back at him, shocked, not understanding.
Matus crossed the room, picked up the goblet, and held it up for Srog to see.
Srog came closer, and noticed a black lining at the bottom of it.
Matus reached down, ran his finger along it, held it up, and rubbed his fingers together. As he did, a fine black dust drifted down to the ground.
“Blackroot,” he said. “One sip, and you’re dead.”
Srog stood there, frozen, looking at it in horror, his blood running cold.
“How did you know?” he asked in a whisper.
“The color of your wine,” Matus answered. “It seemed too dark to me.”
As Srog stood there, frozen in horror, not knowing what to say, Matus looked both ways, then leaned in close.
“Trust no one. No one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Romulus stood at the helm of his new ship, hands on his hips, huge, rolling waves sending the ship rising and falling, smashing into the foam, as he watched the coastline of the Empire’s capitol come into view. Behind him sailed his fleet, thousands of Empire ships, all returning home from their defeat. Romulus peered into the horizon, as the mist began to lift, and spotted the host of soldiers waiting to greet him on shore, as he suspected he would. His stomach tightened, as he prepared for the confron
tation to come.
Ragon, clearly, had received word of his return, and assembled all his men. The number two general beneath Romulus, Ragon had surely heard, by now, of Andronicus’ death, of Romulus’ assassination of the former council, and of Romulus’ seizing position as Supreme Commander. If Romulus had been victorious, Ragon would be awaiting him with parades and accolades—he would have no choice.
But because Romulus was returning in disgrace, Ragon was waiting to greet him in a very different way. Ragon, Romulus knew, was waiting to imprison him, to make it clear to all the armies that Romulus was stripped of power, and that Ragon was the new Supreme Commander. Romulus knew how we thought, because Romulus would do the same thing in his shoes.
But Romulus did not plan on ceding power so easily. His men, he knew, would be watching their exchange closely to see which commander would come out victorious. Romulus had not fought his entire life to capitulate, and no matter how many soldiers he faced, it was time to rule with an iron fist. He squeezed the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white, preparing.
Romulus’ ship soon touched shore, and as it did, he waited patiently, as his men lowered the long plank from their ship down to the beach. They lined it, standing at attention, and he walked between them, taking all the time in the world. His men followed behind him, and he made a show of appearing calm and confident for all the world to see.
Tens of thousands of Empire soldiers, lined up in neat formations, awaited him below, all behind Ragon. Romulus knew that his men could not win the battle; there were too many of them, the entire main body of the Empire army, awaiting. He would have to win another way.
Romulus strutted proudly onto the shore, heading right for Ragon, unafraid.
Ragon stood there, tall, muscular, his broad face covered in scars, and scowled back, flanked by his soldiers. Romulus walked right up to him and stopped, and in the thick silence, the two of them faced off, each determined.
“Romulus, of the first battalion of the Eastern Province of the Empire,” Ragon boomed, loud enough to be heard by his men, “You are hereby set to be imprisoned and executed for crimes against the Empire.”
