by Morgan Rice
Since that night, since her ruthless quashing of the rebellion, no McCloud had acted up. The MacGils now had a tighter grip on the McCloud city than ever.
More and more MacGils, she knew, now looked to her, Luanda, as their true leader. Bronson had wavered, had shown weakness, and Luanda had been the one to exhibit the necessary strength and resolve. The dynamic had shifted, and they were viewed as a husband and wife ruling a city, with Luanda the decisive player. Bronson seemed to be fine with that; he was overwhelmed with the situation, and not a man inclined toward force. Luanda, though, had no hesitation.
Bronson had never thanked or applauded her for her ruthless actions that night; yet he had not chided her, either. Perhaps he was still in shock; or perhaps, deep down, he also held admiration for what she had done.
As Luanda thought back to that night, she realized she owed Bronson much, too. After all, if it wasn’t for Bronson stepping forward and saving her, she would be dead right now. She clutched his waist tighter as they passed through the gates. The more they had grown together, the more she realized that Bronson was the only one she truly loved in the world—the only one she could count on, the only one, despite any weakness he might have, that she cared about and respected. She owed him her life. And that was not something she took lightly. She was determined to stay by his side. And if ruthlessness and brutality were things he was lacking to rule, then she would gladly supply them for him.
They entered through the soaring gates of King’s Court, joining in with a throng dressed in black. They dismounted, and as they did, Luanda anticipated being welcomed as a returning hero. What a difference a few moons made, when not so long ago, she had entered here in disgrace. Now she was being invited back by the Queen, after her heroic actions on behalf of the MacGils, and now she would participate in her mother’s funeral. She would take her spot once again as an honored member of the royal family.
Luanda smiled wide, as she was beginning to realize that her time of exile was over. She anticipated greeting all of her siblings there, all of them applauding her, apologizing to her, allowing her a place back in court, with Bronson. Luanda couldn’t wait to find out what rank and position Gwen gave her, and to settle down here. She vowed to never leave King’s Court again—and most of all, to never cross the Highlands again.
Luanda and Bronson weaved their way through King’s Court with the masses, passed through yet another arch, exited the other side of the city, and followed the funeral procession up a hill. Bells tolled with every step they took.
Finally, they all came to a stop. The crowd was so thick, Luanda could barely see over their heads, could barely catch a glimpse of the tomb of her ancestors.
Determined, Luanda pushed her way through the masses, clutching Bronson’s hand. As the people turned and looked at who she was, they parted way for her, and she was allowed to come all the way to the front, the guards stepping aside.
Luanda stopped at the clearing, taking in the sight. Before her was the ancient marble tomb of her ancestors, built into the hillside, its roof covered in grass—the final resting place of her father, and his father before him, and all those before them. There sat a small clearing before it, in which lay her mother’s sarcophagus, carved of marble and, thankfully, closed.
Beside it stood Argon, facing the masses, and around him, in a semicircle, stood her siblings: Kendrick, Godfrey, Reece—and, of course, Gwendolyn. Luanda did a double take as she saw Gwendolyn holding an infant. She was shocked. The last time Luanda had seen her, she had barely been pregnant.
The sight of the baby inflamed Luanda with jealousy. She had been kept so out of the loop, she hadn’t even been informed of the baby’s, her nephew’s, birth. Worst of all, there stood Gwendolyn, her younger sister, holding a baby—while she, Luanda, the eldest, stood there, barren. It was unfair. It brought up a fresh wave of resentment in Luanda, who resolved quietly to double her efforts to have a child with Bronson—if for no other reason than to trump her sister.
Beside Gwendolyn stood Thorgrin; beside Godfrey, Illepra; and beside Kendrick, Sandara. Down at Gwendolyn’s feet, there stood Krohn, that animal that Luanda had never liked. Krohn turned and snarled at Luanda as she stepped into the clearing to take her spot beside the others in this place reserved just for the family, Bronson at her side.
Bronson stood there, as if afraid to enter the clearing reserved for the family, but Luanda grabbed his hand and yanked him, and the two of them walked right up to the sarcophagus, taking their place beside the others.
The crowd grew silent, thousands of them, all standing, watching, as Gwendolyn and her siblings turned and faced Luanda, seeing her for the first time in moons. There was a look of cautious surprise on their faces; this was certainly not the big warm welcome she had anticipated. Then again, she reasoned, this was a somber event.
Luanda looked at Gwendolyn, and was surprised to see how different she looked since her pregnancy. Gwen looked much older now, aged beyond her years. She saw the lines in her forehead, under her eyes—and she could tell that being Queen had taken its toll. Yet it was a toll that Luanda had wanted taken on herself.
Luanda searched Gwen’s face, looking for any signs of apology or remorse; she was baffled to see none. Gwen stared back, cold and hard, the same look she wore on the day she’d banished her. All the warmth and compassion of the younger sister she’d once known was gone. Luanda could not understand why. After all, had she not summoned her back here? Her younger sister, she felt, was becoming harder and harder to understand the older they grew.
There was no time to talk to her now. Argon stepped forward before the sarcophagus and raised both arms high, and everyone lowered their heads and closed their eyes.
“We come here today to celebrate the death of a beloved member of the royal MacGil family,” he boomed, his voice carrying on the wind in the silence. “The matriarch of the family, our beloved King MacGil’s devoted wife. A beloved Queen herself for so many years. A woman we all knew and loved. A woman who will finally have a chance to lie with her husband, who was taken from her too soon.”
Argon’s words made Luanda think of her mother, and of their relationship. It had been a relationship Luanda had always felt confident in, had always thought she understood. Yet as Luanda grew up, she had begun to wonder if maybe she had read it all wrong. When she was young, Luanda had always assumed that she, being firstborn, was her mother’s favorite, her pride and joy, the one she had groomed to become a great ruler and Queen. They had never fought.
Gwendolyn, on the other hand, had always been the one that her mother had the most difficulty with, was the one who she had always been arguing and screaming with. But Luanda and her mother had always gotten along. When Luanda had been married off to the McCloud kingdom, Luanda had naturally assumed that that was because her mother had expected her to be a woman of great power, and had condoned this marrying off, which would give Luanda the position of strength she deserved. At the same time, she had assumed that her mother had not thought of Gwendolyn for any great position, and that she kept her here, to remain in King’s Court, where no woman could obtain power, for an empty life.
Yet now, so much older, Luanda was wondering if she was all wrong. Now, looking back, she saw things differently. Now she saw that the relationship may have been quite the opposite. Perhaps Gwendolyn was the one that her mother had had faith in all along, the same way her father had. Perhaps all of her fighting and screaming with Gwen had been a sign that she was, paradoxically, closer to her. Perhaps Luanda’s lack of fighting with her was not a sign of their bond but rather a sign of her mother’s disappointment and indifference; and perhaps her mother had married her off to get her out of the MacGil side of the kingdom.
Luanda wondered. She had always assumed her mother had admired her ambition; yet now, looking back on it, seeing the great spot reserved for Gwendolyn, Luanda wondered if her mother actually detested her ambition. Luanda was beginning to look at all of her siblings with a fresh eye; sh
e now saw that she was not the leader, the one most respected—but rather the outcast, and the one least loved. It pained her to realize it. And to realize how delusional she had been. How could she not have seen it? How could she have been so wrong for so long?
Luanda felt old feelings rise to the surface, and she felt a fresh wave of anger and indignation. She looked at her mother’s stone sarcophagus, and she had no tears to shed, like her siblings. She felt a cold wave of neutrality.
Perhaps, Luanda reasoned, she had been born into the wrong family. She should have been born into a family that appreciated her. She deserved that. After all, what was so wrong with her? What was so wrong with ambition? She had been born into a royal family with tremendous ambition. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to model? Why wasn’t her ambition appreciated? She had tried to model everyone around her—and yet, somehow, she had failed.
Argon slowly lowered his hands, finishing his chanting and recitation, and the siblings stepped forward. They each reached out and placed a small rock on the lid of the sarcophagus, as was the ancient custom.
Luanda stepped forward and slowly placed on the lid a beautiful, small white rock she had found on the banks of a river, a beautiful rock which she had carried across the kingdom. She felt pleased with herself. But then Gwendolyn stepped in and placed a rock right after hers, and Luanda saw it was a large, yellow rock, shining and sparkling in the sun, the most beautiful rock she had ever seen, and Luanda felt a fresh wave of resentment and jealousy. Even in death, Gwendolyn outdid her every step of the way. Was there nothing left for Luanda? No place left where she could excel? Not even in this?
Several attendants stepped forward and carried the sarcophagus into the tomb, and soon, it slipped into the blackness—and her mother’s body was gone.
Luanda released her breath, realizing how anxious she was. She turned to face Gwendolyn, expecting, now that the ceremony was over, for all of her siblings to welcome her.
Yet Luanda was shocked to see Gwendolyn turn her back on her and begin to walk away.
“Gwendolyn!” Luanda called out, her voice strident, cutting through the air.
Gwendolyn turned and faced her, as did all the other siblings, and a thick, tense silence settled around them.
“Have you no words for me?” Luanda asked, stunned. “Will you not welcome me home?”
“Welcome you home?” Gwen repeated, sounding baffled. “You are not home. And you are not welcome here.”
Luanda stood there, stunned.
“Of what do you speak? You invited me back home,” Luanda pleaded, slowly feeling her world collapse around her. Was this some sort of sick joke?
Gwendolyn shook her head, firm.
“You were summoned back for our mother’s funeral,” Gwen corrected. “At our mother’s request. Not mine. Your sentence has not been lifted. You will return to your home, on your side of the Highlands, now.”
Luanda felt her entire body flush with rage, a prickling of her skin. She felt as if a dagger had been plunged into her heart. She could not even process Gwendolyn’s words, her entire world spinning all around her. Could it be true?
“I am home!” Luanda insisted, barely thinking clearly, “and I will never go back to the far side of the Highlands! Ever!”
Now Gwendolyn reddened, facing her, equally determined.
“The choice is not yours to make,” she said. “Your choice was made for you on the day you betrayed us all. Your punishment deserved death. I was merciful, and gave you exile.”
Luanda felt like crying.
“And for how long?” Luanda asked. “Will you never let me back?”
“You are alive,” Gwendolyn said. “Be grateful for that.”
Luanda wanted to kill her sister.
“You have become a cruel, cold-hearted Queen,” Luanda said. “An awful sister who has forgotten mercy.”
Gwendolyn sneered.
“And did you show mercy the day you offered for Andronicus to kill us all?”
Luanda frowned.
“Those were different times,” she countered.
Gwendolyn shook her head.
“You have not changed, Luanda. And you never will.”
Luanda stared at her sister, wanting to hurt her somehow. She did not know how, but she had to say something before she left, something that would really strike at her. Luanda, reeling, looked down and fixed her eyes on Gwendolyn’s baby.
“I curse your child!” Luanda screamed out loud.
A horrified gasp spread through the crowd.
“I curse him that he should suffer the same punishment that I am made to suffer! That you never enjoy his presence as long as you live! That he be taken away from you, that you be divided, never to enjoy him!” Luanda screamed, pointing at Guwayne and shaking.
Gwendolyn turned bright red, looking as if she might lunge at her sister.
“Get this creature out of my sight,” Gwendolyn said to her men.
The guards rushed forward, grabbed Luanda, and dragged her away.
“NO!” Luanda kicked and screamed as the masses of onlookers stared at her, dragged backwards through the crowd, Bronson trying to get the guards off of her, but unable. “You can’t send me back there! Anywhere but there!”
Luanda felt her heart sinking as she was dragged, knowing she would be escorted all the way back to the other side of the Highlands, to her vision of hell, never allowed to set foot in her home again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The second sun hung low on the horizon, a huge red ball in the sky, and Selese looked up and watched it, her face covered in tears. In her hand, she clutched the scraps of parchment that she had torn up, the letters curled up in her palm, the ones proving that Reece loved someone else. After tearing them to pieces, she had saved the shredded parchment. After all, it was all that she had left of Reece in the world. It was his handwriting, and despite everything, despite how he had hurt her, she still loved him—more than she could say. And she needed to hold onto something of Reece’s as she came here, to the Lake of Sorrows.
Selese looked up at the blood red sun and did not look away, staring at it long enough to sting her eyes. She no longer cared. This, she decided, would be the last sun she ever witnessed.
Selese looked out at the Lake of Sorrows, glowing a bright red, reflecting the sun. It looked alive, as if it were a lake on fire. It sat perfectly still, only a lonely wind passing through, the trees rustling, a high-pitched noise, as if crying, as if knowing what Selese was about to do.
Selese cried and cried as she took her first step into the water, clutching the fragments of Reece’s letter. She thought of all the time she had spent with him, of how alive he had made her feel, of how much she had been looking forward to their wedding, to their life together. Her love for him was so strong, she could barely comprehend it; she would cross the Ring for him, do anything for him. But if he did not love her back as much, she had no desire to live.
Their love had given her life a new purpose, and all these moons preparing for their wedding had swept her up, had been the greatest time in her life. Yet now, she was about to be publicly humiliated, scorned by Reece, his wedding proposal retracted. Embarrassed in front of the entire kingdom when he left her alone at the altar.
It was too much for Selese to comprehend. Not the humiliation, or the scorn—she could handle that—but most of all, Reece’s lack of love for her. It pained her so much to think that he did not love her back. Even worse—that he loved someone else more.
Selese took another step into the water, then another.
Soon, she was up to her knees, clutching the shreds of parchment. The water was cold, unforgiving, despite the summer season, and she began to shiver.
Selese heard the screech of a bird, high up, and she craned her neck to see a falcon circling, screeching. She dimly recognized it as Thorgrin’s falcon. Estopheles. He screeched and screeched, as if trying to convince her not to step any further.
Selese tried to shut out
its cries. She looked down at the water before her and took another step, now up to her thighs.
Selese reached out, both fists clutching the torn parchment, and gently placed the pieces in the still waters of the lake. As she opened her hands and let them go, she watched as the little shreds of parchment floated away, farther and farther, until the parchment filled with water, and the pieces began to sink, one at a time. Selese spread open her empty palms and let the cold water touch them.
She took another step.
Then another.
She was up to her chest now. She heard herself crying and crying, her body wracked with sobs. She never thought her life would end in this way. In this place. At this time. Alone. Without Reece.
Life had been so kind to her. And yet it had also been so cruel.
Selese heard another screech, high up in the sky. She turned and floated on her back, drifting, weightless, toward the middle of the lake. She lay perfectly still, floating atop the water, and looked up at the sky.
It was filled with a million streaks of red, the two suns almost touching, the most beautiful sky she had ever seen. She floated on her back for she did not know how long, until finally, slowly, her limbs grew cold, heavy, numb, and she felt herself begin to sink.
She did not fight it. She let the water bring her down until her face was submerged. She closed her eyes and in the icy cold blackness felt her body sinking slowly, deeper and deeper, down to the depths of the Lake of Sorrows.
One final thought came to her, before her world turned black:
