by Morgan Rice
It was empty up here in these mountain springs, surrounded by thick summer woods and leaves, and covered in a morning mist. And despite hating everything about this side of the Highlands, Luanda had to admit that she’d actually grown to like it here, in this spot that no one else knew about. She had discovered it accidentally one day, on one of her long hikes, and had come here every day since.
As Luanda slowly emerged from the water, she dried herself with the thin wool towel she had brought, and then, as was her habit every morning, she took the long branch of herbs the apothecary had given her, and relieved herself on it. She placed the herbs on a rock in the sunlight, beside the water, and waited. She closely watched their green color, as she had every day for moons, waiting and hoping they would turn white. If they did, the apothecary told her, it meant she was with child.
Every morning Luanda had stood there, drying off, and had watched the long, curved leaves—and every morning she had been disappointed. She had now given up hope; now, it was just a matter of routine.
Luanda was beginning to realize that she would never get pregnant. Her sister would beat her in this, too. Life would be cruel to her in this way, too, as it had in every other way.
Luanda leaned over the water and stared at her reflection. The perfectly still waters reflected the summer sky, the clouds, the two suns, and Luanda reflected on the twists and turns life had thrown her. Had anyone ever really loved her in her life? She wasn’t certain anymore. She knew she loved Bronson, though, and that he loved her back. Perhaps that should be enough, with or without child.
Luanda gathered her things and prepared to leave, and as an afterthought, she glanced at the branch lying on the rock.
She stopped cold as she did, holding her breath.
She could not believe it: there, in the sun, the branch had turned white.
Luanda gasped. She raised her hand to her mouth, afraid to reach out for it. She lifted it with shaking hands, examined it every which way. It was white. Snow white. As it had never been before.
Luanda, despite herself, started crying. She gushed with tears, overwhelmed with emotion. She reached down and held her stomach, and felt reborn, felt overwhelmed with joy and happiness. Finally, life had taken a turn in her favor. Finally, she would have everything that Gwendolyn had.
Luanda turned and raced from the spring, through the forest, back down the ridge. In the distance she could already see the fort that held her husband. She ran at full speed, tears streaming down her face, tears of joy. She could hardly wait to tell him the news. For the first time she could remember, she was happy.
She was truly happy.
*
Luanda burst into the castle hall, raced past the guards, took the spiral stone stairs three at a time. Out of breath, she ran and ran, dying to see Bronson. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction. He, Bronson, the man she had come to love more than anything in the world, who had himself come to want a child so badly.
Finally, their dreams had come true. Finally, they would be a family. A family of their own.
Luanda burst down the hall and hurried through the tall arched doors, not even noticing that there were no guards there, that the door was already ajar, not perceiving anything she normally did. She hurried into the room and stopped short.
She was confused. Something was wrong.
The world started to move in slow motion around Luanda as she looked about the room, and there, on the cold stone floor, beside the door, she noticed two bodies. They were Bronson’s guards. Both dead.
Before she could register the horror of it, Luanda noticed, lying there, toward the back of the room, another body. She recognized his clothing immediately: Bronson. Lying still, on his back. Not moving. His eyes opened wide, staring at the ceiling.
Luanda felt her entire body shake violently, as if someone had split her in two. She stumbled forward, her knees going weak, and collapsed to the floor, landing on top of her husband’s body.
She clutched Bronson’s cold hands and looked down at his blue face, at the stab wounds all over his body. And slowly, but surely, it all sank in.
Her husband. The one thing she still loved in the world. The father of her child. Dead.
Assassinated.
“NO!” Luanda wailed, again and again, shaking Bronson, as if somehow that would bring him back. She wept and wept, clutching him, her body convulsing, wracked with tears.
Luanda needed someone, something, to blame. There were the McClouds, of course, who had done this, and who she wanted to murder. If only Bronson had listened to her, if only he had not set them free.
But that wasn’t enough. She needed to blame someone else. The person behind all this.
In her mind, Luanda settled on one person: her sister.
Gwendolyn.
It was her fault. Her policies; her stupid naïveté; it had all led to her husband’s death. She had ruined everything. She had not only taken away her life, but the life of the one person she loved in the world.
Luanda shrieked, beside herself, determined. Now, with Bronson’s death, there was nothing left for her in the world. All that remained was for her to instill in everyone else the same suffering they had instilled in her.
She would do it.
Luanda stood, cold and hard, resolved. She turned and marched from the hall, her heart quickening. She had an idea. Something that would ruin Gwendolyn, once and for all.
And it was time to put it into motion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Kendrick, devastated since his encounter with his mother, tried to clear his mind and ease his thoughts on this holy day, as he walked slowly up the mountain face, following the path in smooth, broad circles, hiking with hundreds of Silver and soldiers as they wound their way up the holy mountain, each with a rock in hand. Pilgrimage Day had arrived, one of the holiest days of the year, and as Kendrick did every year, he joined his brothers in arms in the trek to this place. They’d spent the morning immersing in the river, collecting the choicest rocks, then spent the afternoon on the long hike up the mountain, walking slowly, circling its way up, higher and higher.
When they reached the top, the tradition was to place a rock, to kneel, and to pray. To purge themselves of the year’s past sins, and to prepare for the year to come. It was a sacred day for all those defending the kingdom. It was considered especially auspicious for a knight to trek with a woman whom he loved. Kendrick had asked Sandara, and she had agreed to come with him. She walked now, by his side, also immersed in silence.
Try as he did, it was hard for Kendrick to shake thoughts of his encounter with his mother. Although hundreds of miles had passed since the encounter, it still hung heavy on his heart. He wished he had never met her; he wished he had never sought her out. Kendrick wished, instead, that he had lived with the mystery his entire life, lived with the fantasy that his mother was someone else. Sometimes, he realized, fantasy was more precious than reality. Fantasy could sustain you, whereas real life could crush you.
“Are you okay, my lord?” Sandara asked.
Kendrick turned and looked at her, interrupted from his thoughts. As always, the sight of her lifted his worries. He loved Sandara more than he could say. So beautiful, so tall, with broad shoulders, dark skin, dark eyes, and the look of the Empire race, so exotic, so different from anyone he’d ever known. He reached out and took her hand as they walked.
“I will be fine,” he said.
“I think, my lord, you are still upset from your encounter with your mother,” she said.
Kendrick bit his tongue, knowing she was right, but not feeling ready to talk about it.
Sandara sighed.
“My mother was a cold, cruel merciless woman,” she said. “She hated me. My father was a great warrior, and kind to everyone. I am not cruel or mean like my mother was. I chose to take on the traits of my father.”
He looked at her and saw her staring at him, intensely.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “Who your m
other, or father, was, does not affect you. You look for yourself in them. But you are yourself. To understand who you are, look to yourself. Be the person you choose to be. You choose who you are, you mold yourself every moment of every day.”
Kendrick thought of her words as they walked, circling the mountain, and realized she bore great wisdom. It was hard to do, but he had to let go of his parents. He had to discover who he was, himself.
Kendrick felt better already, and he turned and studied her.
“My parents never married,” he said. “They didn’t spend their life together. I myself do not wish to live this life alone. I wish to be married. To have children who know me. Children who are legitimate. Sandara,” Kendrick said, clearing his throat, “I wish to marry you. I know I’ve asked you before. But I truly want you to think about it. Please.”
Sandara looked down to the ground, and her eyes welled with tears.
“I love you, my lord,” she replied. “I truly do. But my home is far away. If there were not an ocean between us, yes, I would marry you. But I must return home. To my people. To the Empire. To those I know and love.”
“But you are not there,” Kendrick said. “You are here now. And your family is enslaved there.”
Sandara shrugged.
“True. But I’d rather live a slave in my home than be free and away from my people.”
Kendrick could not really understand, but he knew he would have to accept her wishes.
“At least I’m with you now, my lord,” she said. “I will not be departing for several days.”
Kendrick held Sandara’s hand tighter, and he wondered why all the women he cared about in the world had to disappear from him. He knew he should just cherish the time he had with her now. But thinking of her leaving made it hard.
They walked, silently, with hundreds of others, until finally they reached the peak of the mountain. It was solemn up here, quiet, and a sacred feeling hung in the air. Kendrick felt immediately at peace.
Kendrick knelt on the grass of the wide plateau, and along with other knights, placed his rock on the growing mound of rocks. As he did, he bowed his head low.
Please, God, he prayed silently, do not take this beautiful woman away from me. Allow us to be together. Find some way. I do not wish to part from her.
Kendrick opened his eyes and slowly stood, surprised at the prayer he chose. He had not been planning it. He usually prayed for the year to come, usually prayed for strength against his enemies, for courage, for valor. But this was the prayer that entered Kendrick’s mind, and he did not stop it.
He turned to Sandara, and she smiled back.
“I prayed for you, my lord,” she said. “That you find wisdom and peace.”
Kendrick smiled back.
“I said a very special prayer, too.”
As Kendrick looked over Sandara’s shoulder, he detected movement off in the horizon, and suddenly, his smile collapsed. He was confused by what he saw; it made no sense.
Kendrick pushed Sandara aside and studied the horizon with a professional warrior’s eye. As he did, his heart beat quicker in his chest.
It couldn’t be. There, on the horizon, was a dust cloud, black smoke, and thousands of warriors in armor, charging, heading down the road toward the unguarded King’s Court. This was the only day of the year, Pilgrimage Day, when the gates were left open. Of course, Kendrick never thought it would need to be protected. Who on earth could be attacking them when the Ring was so safe and secure?
As Kendrick looked closely, his face flushed red as he recognized the armor of the McClouds. He fumed, mad at himself for not leaving more protection behind. He was a good half day’s ride away, and those McClouds were already so close, too close, already overriding the gates.
In moments, Kendrick realized with a shock that his sister, unprotected, would be dead.
Kendrick let out a great battle cry, and all his men turned and saw what he saw, then they all followed suit as Kendrick quickly raced down the mountain, sprinting for his horse, eager to join the fight—but realizing, with a sinking feeling, that it was already too late.
Within moments, everyone he knew and loved would be dead.
CHAPTER FORTY
Godfrey galloped down the endless road, as he had been doing all night, alone, gasping for breath, glancing back over his shoulder for any sign of the McCloud army. He spotted them, as he had throughout his whole ride, raising up a huge cloud of dust on the horizon, no more than a half-hour’s ride behind him. Godfrey swallowed hard and kicked his horse harder.
Godfrey knew he had no room for error as he galloped, more exhausted than he’d been in his life, his drunken stupor entirely worn off, and feeling as if he might keel over at any moment. He was sweating, too out of shape for this, the sweat dripping into his eyes, stinging him. A ridge lay before him, and he prayed to all the gods he knew that when he crested it, King’s Court would be in sight.
His prayers came true. Finally, in the distance, Godfrey was relieved to see the rebuilt gates of King’s Court. As he suspected, they sat wide open, with only but a handful of soldiers standing guard. Of course. It was Pilgrimage Day, and the hundreds of knights who usually stood guard would be away, up on the mountain, and would not return until evening. But by then, Godfrey knew, it would be too late. Everyone would be killed, the entire city ransacked.
Godfrey kicked his horse with fresh determination as he charged at breakneck speed, barely breathing, his heart slamming in his chest.
Finally, as he neared the gates of the city, the few guards before it, young, novice soldiers, stared back at him in surprise, not understanding.
“BAR THE GATES!” Godfrey shouted.
“What?!” one of them called back.
The soldiers looked to each other, puzzled, as if assuming Godfrey were mad. Indeed, Godfrey realized, he probably looked mad, given his appearance, slovenly, sweating, unshaven, hungover, hair in his eyes and having ridden all night.
Godfrey reddened, determined.
“AN ARMY COMES!” he shouted. “CLOSE THOSE GATES OR I’LL KILL YOU MYSELF!”
The soldiers finally looked over Godfrey’s shoulder, watching the horizon; at first, they were expressionless, distrusting.
But then, Godfrey watched their eyes open wide in panic, and he realized the McClouds must have crested the ridge.
The soldiers, suddenly frantic, rushed to lower the gate.
“SOUND THE HORNS!” Godfrey shouted, as he rode through the open gates, right before the men lowered them.
The sound of horns filled the city, echoing each other in a chorus. They sounded out in a pattern of threes, the sound for an evacuation of the city, a sound that Godfrey had never heard in his life.
Thousands of civilians emerged quickly from their dwellings, well-disciplined, prepared, hurrying through the city streets, heading in an orderly way for evacuation route throughout the back of the city. Gwendolyn had thought of everything, and had prepared her people well. Godfrey was pleased to see that it was working, and felt an odd feeling, one he’d never felt: it was a feeling of purpose. A feeling of having contributed, of having made a difference. Of being fearless. Of being wanted and needed.
It was a feeling of responsibility. It was foreign to him. And he liked it.
Godfrey, emboldened, charged right for the castle where he knew his sister would be, and as he ran, the attendants threw the doors for him, recognizing him as the Queen’s brother.
He did not take the time to dismount, but rather galloped right through the entrance, into the grand hall, and all the way down the corridor until he reached the staircase.
He leapt off his horse, tumbling to the ground, gasping for air, and stumbled for the stairs, taking them three and four at a time, heaving.
Finally, he made it to the upper floor, raced down the corridor, and reached the ancient doors to the Queen’s council chamber, the room where their father had sat with his council.
Godfrey did not even pause as the gu
ards tried to block his way; he ran into them with his shoulder, bumping them out of the way, then put a shoulder into the door and crashed it open.
Godfrey stumbled into the room, startling everyone. His sister, on her throne, holding Guwayne, stood, as did the dozens of council members, all staring at him, shocked. Clearly he’d interrupted an important meeting.
“Godfrey,” Gwendolyn said, “why are you here? What is the meaning of this—”
“Evacuate now!” Godfrey gasped, breathless. “Have you not heard the horns? We are under attack!”
The room broke into chaos as Gwen and all the councilmen ran to the windows, Gwen clutching her baby, and threw open the newly installed stained glass window panes. As they did, the sound of the horns rushed into the room, as did the sound of commotion and chaos below.
Godfrey joined them, and as they all looked out, their faces fell in a horrified expression. Godfrey, standing beside his sister, could see the McCloud army racing right for their gates.
While panic and fear spread throughout the room, even amongst all these hardened soldiers, Gwen remained calm. She had become a tough leader, Godfrey realized, tougher even than all these men.
“Evacuate at once!” Gwendolyn commanded her men. “Do as my brother says. All of you. Now!”
The councilmen rushed into action, racing from the room. Steffen, though, refused to leave her side, coming up and standing beside her.
Gwen stood holding Guwayne, Steffen the only one left in the room with her, aside from Godfrey.
“You must go with them,” Gwen said to Godfrey.
“And what about you?” Godfrey asked, amazed at her calm, at her fearlessness.
Gwen shook her head.
“I will be fine,” she said.
