A Sky of Spells sr-9

by Morgan Rice

  Standing there, hardly a few feet away, Reece was shocked to realize, was his cousin. Stara. The love of his childhood. The girl he would stay awake for, late at night, dreaming of. The girl he had never forgotten. The girl he had secretly hoped to marry most of his life.

  There she stood, and now, she had grown into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  As Reece stared into her crystal blue eyes, however much he tried, he could not summon thoughts of Selese. All thoughts of the woman he was about to marry flew from his head. He could not help it. Reece was hypnotized by Stara.

  And as she stared back, unmoving, her eyes perfectly still, crystal-clear, like the lake behind her, Reece could see that she was as equally hypnotized by him. Their love, the strongest thing Reece had ever felt in his life, so strong it pained him, had never died. It had never even faltered.

  Reece forced himself to turn his thoughts to Selese, to their wedding. But standing here, before Stara, rooted to this place, all free thought was impossible. He was in the grip of something greater than himself, something he did not understand. As he stood there, he knew that fate had interceded, and that his life, and the lives of everyone around him, whether he liked it or not, was about to change forever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Bronson sat in the feasting hall of his fathers, in the old McCloud castle, seated at the head of the long table, Luanda beside him. Seated up and down the table, on either side, were McClouds and MacGils, grizzled warriors all of them, each sticking to their side of the table, none, despite Bronson’s efforts, intermingling with the others. Bronson surveyed it all, and his head hurt. Nothing was going as he had planned.

  Bronson, in an act of desperation, had summoned all of these warriors together for a feast, to try to bring them closer to one another, to hash out any differences. He had chosen representatives from feuding clans on both sides of the Highlands, and he had throne a lavish feast in their honor, replete with music, wine, and delicious food. And yet, thus far, the night had not been going well. They each stuck to their side of the table, talking to their own clansman, and ignoring the others. They were both so stubborn, like two kids refusing to look at each other. It had made for an awkward feast at best, and Bronson was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake to even attempt this.

  This feast followed hours of festivities, a mini festival which Bronson had ordered to celebrate a wedding of a MacGil clansman to a McCloud bride. It was originally supposed to be a quiet, simple wedding, in a humble village on the MacGil side of the Highlands; but when Bronson heard of it, he insisted that the wedding be a huge, public affair. This was exactly what he needed, and he personally paid for the expenses of it, thinking this would be the perfect event to help bring the two warring sides together. This young couple was truly in love, and Bronson hoped that maybe their love and goodwill would spread to the people.

  The day’s wedding, though, had been an awkward affair, with both clansman staying on their sides, and the disapproving families of the groom and bride not even intermingling.

  It had spilled over to the feasting hall, and Bronson had figured that the mood would be more relaxed at night, after the wedding, after all the dancing, once the men relaxed with drink and a good meal.

  And yet here they all were, late into the night, the McCloud bride the only McCloud on the MacGil side of the room. Bronson had tried many times throughout the night to break the ice, but nothing seemed to work.

  “You had better do something,” Luanda whispered into his ear.

  He turned and looked at her. She leaned in close, staring at him intently.

  “This feast of yours is a failure. It is not bringing goodwill between them. And if this does not, nothing will. You must bring them together somehow. I do not like what I see.”

  “And what is that?” Bronson asked.

  “A war erupting between them both.”

  Bronson turned and looked out at the room, and felt the tension in the air, and on some level, he knew she was right. Luanda had a talent for always seeing things for what they were.

  “A toast!” Bronson screamed out, standing and slamming his mug on the table until the room quieted.

  Bronson knew the time had come to take decisive action, to be a great leader. He had to set the tone for harmony between the two clans.

  “A toast to two great families!” he boomed. “To two great clans, coming together in peace. It is amazing how love can unite us all. Let us all follow this couple’s great example and come together, from both sides of the Highlands, to create one nation, one Ring, in harmony with each other.”

  The bride and groom raised their mugs, as did several on the MacGil side; yet no one on the McCloud side bothered to. Bronson realized that the MacGils were more open to peace than the McClouds. It was hardly surprising: having grown up amongst the McClouds, he knew them to be obstinate.

  “I have a better idea!” yelled Koovia, standing amidst the McCloud clansman, slamming his mug on the table, his voice booming, commanding attention. He looked drunk, his face red with scorn, and Bronson did not like what he saw.

  The room quieted, as all eyes fell on him.

  “I suggest that our new leader, Bronson, prove himself to be a leader—instead of being a puppet of the MacGil girl!”

  The McClouds cheered, as Bronson’s face reddened. Before he could reply, Koovia continued:

  “A true leader of the McCloud kingdom would assert his royal privileges on a wedding night!” Koovia boomed.

  The McCloud warriors screamed and cheered, banging their mugs on the table, whipped up into a drunken frenzy.

  “Of what does he speak?” Luanda asked Bronson, confused, as the room erupted into a clamor.

  But Bronson was fuming, too busy to address her.

  “You do not mean what you say!” Bronson yelled back to Koovia.

  “Of course I do!” Koovia boomed. “Your father took the privilege, many times. Any true McCloud king must—that is, if you are a king.”

  There came another great cheer from the McClouds, as they slammed their mugs.

  “What is it that he speaks of?” a MacGil warrior finally called out, confused.

  “I speak of the deflowering of the bride on her wedding night!” Koovia boomed defiantly, back to the MacGils.

  All the MacGils on their side of the table suddenly stood in an uproar, angrily muttering towards the McClouds.

  Bronson detected motion out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up and saw several McCloud soldiers circling around the outskirts of the room and barring all the exits.

  Bronson felt a pit in his stomach as he realized he had been setup. This was all a trap, schemed by Koovia.

  “You have tricked us with your feast!” the MacGil warrior screamed accusingly to Bronson.

  Bronson wanted to call out that he knew nothing of this, but before he could reply, Koovia interceded.

  “You are completely surrounded!” Koovia yelled to the MacGils. “There is no way out. Hand over the bride. It is time for our king to have his way with her. And if he won’t—we will!”

  The McClouds all cheered, driven to a drunken furor, while the MacGils all drew their swords. The McClouds drew theirs, too.

  As they stood there, facing off, Koovia walked around the table, right up to Bronson, several of his men following, while Bronson stood and faced him.

  “Take the bride, and you will be our leader,” Koovia said to Bronson. “If not, you will face death yourself by my own hand, and I shall be the new McCloud king.”

  The McCloud soldiers cheered.

  Bronson stared back at Koovia. He had been cornered in, outmaneuvered. He should have known better. His people always viewed kindness as weakness. They were even more primitive than he had realized.

  “You can take the kingship from me if you like,” Bronson replied calmly, “but you will not touch the bride. You will have to kill me first.”

  Koovia scowled.

  “As I thought,” h
e said. “A pathetic leader to the last.”

  Bronson drew his sword and blocked Koovia’s path to the bride.

  Koovia drew his sword, and the tension thickened, as the two prepared to face off.

  Suddenly, Luanda stepped forward, between them, and calmly reached out a hand and laid it gently on Koovia’s sword.

  “Bronson speaks out of line,” she said. “Of course he will perform his kingly duties.”

  Koovia looked back, caught off guard.

  “You are a great and strong man,” Luanda added. “Lower your sword, and I will be sure Bronson does as you say. Blood need not be shed here tonight.”

  Koovia looked at her, then slowly relaxed his hand, as he lowered his sword just a bit. He looked her up and down and grinned.

  “You are a nice piece yourself,” Koovia said. “After Bronson has her, I might just take you.”

  She smiled back at him.

  “I would love that, my Lord,” Luanda said. She stepped forward and whispered in his ear. “It has been a long time since I have slept with a real lord.”

  Koovia grinned wide and Luanda leaned back and met his smile. He relaxed his hand, and as soon as he did, Luanda burst into action.

  Luanda quickly extracted a hidden dagger from her waist, spun around, and in one lightning fast motion, stabbed Koovia in the throat.

  His eyes bulged open as blood gushed down over his chest and he raised his hands to the blade.

  But it was too late. He collapsed to his knees, then slumped forward, face-first, dead.

  The entire room stared in shock.

  A moment later, both sides charged each other with a great battle cry, each aiming to kill the other.

  As Bronson stood there, in the middle of it all, he knew, without a doubt, that the next war of the Ring had begun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Thorgrin felt something licking his face, and he opened his eyes to see Krohn standing over him. He woke slowly, disoriented, and sat up, wondering where he was. He spotted his horse, still standing near the entrance to the cave, and he remembered coming here, through the forest, at night and in pouring rain. Now sunshine streamed in through the cave, birds chirped, the world was dry, and Thor sat up, disoriented, wondering if any of it had ever happened.

  Had his encounter with Argon been real? A dream? Or somewhere in between?

  Thor stood and rubbed his eyes, and tried to distinguish what was a dream from what was real. He looked all around, searching for Argon, but he was nowhere to be found. He felt a heat coursing through his body, felt stronger than he ever had. Had they truly had a training session? Thor felt as if they had.

  Above all, Thor felt as if a message had been conveyed to him, and he felt it ringing in his ears. His mother. The final clue to finding her awaited him in his hometown. Was it true?

  Thor walked to the edge of the cave and took a few steps out and looked at the forest. Water dripped from branches in the early morning sun, and the forest was alive with the sounds of animals and insects awakening for the day. He looked out at the early morning sunlight, the rays streaking in through the leaves, and his dream hung on him like a mist. He knew, with burning clarity, exactly what he needed to do; he needed to go back to his hometown. He needed to see for himself if the final clue was there. The way to find his mother.

  Thor mounted his horse, kicked it, and, Krohn at his heels, charged through the forest. He intuitively knew the path this time, the exact way to leave this forest, the path that would lead to his hometown. He closed his eyes as he rode and recalled seeing the forest from the owl’s eyes, seeing the entire landscape, and no longer did he feel lost. He looked at the nature all around him, heard the noises of the animals, and he felt one with them; he felt stronger, omnipotent, as if he could go anywhere in the world and not get lost.

  Thor soon reached the edge of the forest and looked out and saw the road before them, winding, leading over hills and valleys, to the crossroads he knew would take him to his village. He recognized the mountains in the distance, the lonely road he had taken his entire childhood to leave his village.

  Thor looked at it with a sense of apprehension. A part of him really did not want to return to his home town. He knew that when he arrived there would be all those boys, and his father, waiting to greet him, patronizing and condescending. He could already feel the stares of the village folk, of all the boys he had grown up with. They wouldn’t see him for who he was now; they would still see him as the boy they once knew, a shepherd’s youngest boy, someone not to be taken seriously.

  But Thor kicked his horse, determined. This was not about them. It was about his greater mission. He would put up with them all for a chance to find his mother.

  Thor charged down the road, towards the village. He braced himself as he rounded a bend, slowed his horse, and finally entered through the town, the small, sleepy farming village he remembered, without even a proper wall around it, or a gate to mark its entrance. Growing up, he had thought this was the greatest place in the world. But now, having been to so many places, seen so many things, this town seemed small, pathetic. It was just another poor village, with nothing special. It was a place for people who had not made it elsewhere, who had settled for this poor and forgotten region of the Ring.

  Thor turned and rode down the main street of his village, bracing himself, expecting to find it bustling, as it usually was, with all of the faces he recognized. But what he saw surprised him: the streets were not as he expected, filled with people, animals, children—instead, they were completely empty. Desolate. His village had been abandoned.

  Thor could not understand the sight before him. It was a typical, sunny morning, and it made no sense for these streets to be empty. As he looked more closely, he was surprised to see that many of the buildings were destroyed, reduced to piles of rubble. He looked down and could see residues of tracks in the streets, signs of a great army passing through here. He looked at the stone cottages, and saw stains of blood on some of them.

  With his professional soldier’s eye, Thor knew right away what had happened here: the Empire. Their army had invaded this region of the Ring, and clearly they had passed through this poor village; the people here were unfortunate enough to be caught in his way, and this place had been decimated. Everything Thor had once known was gone—as if it had never been.

  Thor dismounted and walked somberly through the streets, feeling awful as he walked past shells of structures he barely recognized. It was slowly dawning on him that everyone who had once lived here had either fled or was now dead.

  It was an eerie feeling. This place he had known most his life as home, was abandoned. The oddest thing about it was that Thor had had no desire to return here and would have been glad to never lay eyes on this place again; and yet now that he saw it like this, he felt regret. Seeing it like this made Thor feel, strangely enough, as if he had no home left in the world, no trace of his origins at all.

  Where was his true home in the world? Thor wondered. It should be a simple question to answer, and yet the more Thor lived, the more he was beginning to realize that that was the most difficult question of all.

  Thor heard the rattle of a pot, and he turned and braced himself, on guard, to see a small cottage, still standing, one wall destroyed. The door was ajar, and Thor’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, wondering if there was a wounded soldier inside, or perhaps a scavenger.

  As he watched the entrance, an old, heavy woman came out, carry her pot, wobbling, dressed in rags. She carried her pot, overflowing with water, over to a pile of wood. She had just set it down when she looked up to see Thor.

  She jumped back, startled.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “No one has come through here since the war.”

  Thor dimly recognized her; she was one of the old women perpetually hunched before their cottages, cooking.

  “My name is Thorgrin,” he said. “I mean you no harm. I used to live here. I was raised here.”

  She squ
inted up at him.

  “I know you,” she said. “You are the youngest of the brothers,” she added derisively. “The shepherd’s boy.”

  Thor reddened. He hated that people still thought of him this way, that no matter how much honor he achieved, it would never be any different.

  “Well, don’t expect to find anyone here,” she added, scowling, setting to her fire. “I’m just about the only one left.”

  Thor suddenly had a thought.

  “In my father still here?”

  Thor felt a lump in his throat at the idea of seeing him again. He hoped he would not have to. And yet at the same time, he hoped he was not dead. As much as he hated the man, for some reason, the thought bothered him.

  The woman shrugged.

  “Check for yourself,” she said, then ignored him, turning back to her stew.

  Thor turned and continued to walk through the village, now a ghost town, Krohn at his heels. He meandered through the streets, until finally he reached his former home.

  He turned the corner and expected to see it standing there, as it always had, and he was shocked to see it was a pile of rubble. There was nothing left. No house. He had expected to see his father, standing there, scowling back, waiting for him. But he was not there, either.

  Thor walked slowly over to the pile of rubble, Krohn at his heels, whining, as if he could sense Thor’s sadness. Thor did not know why he was sad. He had hated this place; and yet still, for some reason, it bothered him.

  Thor walked over to the pile of rocks and kicked them with his toe, rummaging, searching for something, he did not know what. Some clue, maybe. Some idea. Whatever it was that had led him back to this place. Maybe this had all been a mistake? Maybe he had been a fool to follow his intuition? Maybe this had all been wishful thinking? Perhaps there was no clue after all that could lead him to his mother?

  After several minutes, Thor finished kicking over the rocks. He sighed, preparing to turn around and leave. This had all been a mistake. There was nothing left for him here. Just ghosts of what had once been.