by Morgan Rice
The match was over.
Darius knelt there, feeling a sweet sense of victory, mixed with remorse. He had survived. Raj had survived.
But at what price?
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The Lords of the Seven stood close together in a circle in the dim stone chamber, lit only by the sole shaft of light pouring down through the oculus in the ceiling, and faced each other silently, donning their all-black robes and black hoods. Immortals, beings who had led the Empire through century after century, who had been there all the way back at the Great Forming, these seven men stood in the shadows, on the periphery of the sunlight, silently staring into it, as they had for millennia.
For millennia, they had stood there and stared into the light, seeing visions, watching the past, forming the future as it swirled through the dust in the light, deciding on a course for the Empire. These beings represented the four horns and two spikes of the Empire, and the seventh was the deciding vote. They were the One Who Ruled All, the ones whom even the Supreme Commanders had to defer to. They were the ones whose will was absolute, and whom had never been defied. Ever.
Now, for the first time, as they stared into the shaft of sunlight, the circular black granite table beneath it was not empty—but instead, held the severed head of their messenger. They had sent him to Volusia, and she had returned him lifeless.
They all stared at it solemnly, silently concurring on a plan of action.
It was the seventh Lord who stepped forward, as he often did, to speak on their behalf. He reached out, grabbed the hair matted with blood, picked it up, and looked into its eyes. They were still open, and stared back at him with a look of agony in death.
“This Volusia,” he began, his voice dark, gravelly, “this young girl who thinks she’s a Goddess—she thinks she can defy us. She has come to believe she can win.”
“We shall dispatch our forces from all corners of the Empire,” interjected another, “and crush the capital. Within a fortnight, she shall be deposed.”
The seventh Lord raised the head higher and stared into its eyes, as though searching for an answer. The silence hung heavy in the air.
“No,” he finally replied.
All the others turned to him.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “That is exactly what she wants. She has weaved a trap. She has some power at her disposal, a dark power, one I cannot discern. One I don’t quite trust. We shall not fall into it.”
“Then shall we just let her run free, run the capital with disdain?” asked another, outraged.
The seventh waited a long time, then finally stepped into the sunlight, revealing a too-pale face, startling blue eyes, a visage marked by centuries of evil and deception. He looked out at the others and grinned an evil grin.
“We shall give her what she does not expect,” he added. “We shall make her suffer where it hurts her most.”
He breathed deep.
“Volusia,” he said.
The others all stared back, and he could feel them thinking.
“We shall send our armies not to the capital, but to her home city. It is defenseless now, left unguarded. She shall never expect it. We shall destroy everything she’s ever known and loved. All of her people. Every last one. It shall lure her out, irrationally, to war. And then we shall meet her, then we shall make her know the power of the Seven.”
There came a long silence, and finally the other six Lords stepped into the circle, each raising their fists.
They touched fists to the table, the sacred symbol, and it was decreed.
Soon, Volusia would be a memory.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
As the second sun fell, Gwendolyn entered the royal feasting hall in the magnificent castle of the Ridge, passing through great silver doors, held open for her by several attendants, and was overwhelmed at the sight before her. Joined by Kendrick, Sandara, Steffen, Arliss, Stara, Aberthol, Brandt, Atme, Illepra, and a half dozen Silver, with Krohn at her heels—all that remained of the Ring, all who had survived the great trek—Gwendolyn entered the hall and looked up, in awe at the soaring, tapered ceilings, the walls in here lined with weapons, war trophies, suits of armor, banners, and the mounted, stuffed heads of game. Beneath her feet was a well-worn cobblestone, its floor spread out with hand-woven rugs, on which lay lazy and well-fed dogs. Music hung in the air, and as Gwen looked out, she saw bands of musicians, playing harps, interspersed amidst the feasting tables. The feasting tables were all made of silver, save for the King’s which was made of gold, large and round, right in the center of the room. Everything shone, and it was like walking into a dream.
Equally impressive were the people, this hall packed with hundreds of the royal court, dressed in the finest garb, draped with the finest jewels Gwen had ever seen. The men wore the purple mantle of the royal family, warriors each, all with the characteristic shaved heads and long blond, stiff beards of this people. Some of the beards, Gwen noticed, were braided, indicating perhaps a certain rank, while others were long and stiff. Logs roared in the enormous marble fireplace, and several dogs lounged before them, contentedly chewing away on bones. It was a room bursting with splendor and abundance, with joy and prosperity, with music, liveliness—and most of all food. The delicious smell of all the roasting meats and sauces made Gwen’s knees weak. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a decent meal.
Gwen felt the hunger pains in her stomach, and she knew she was ready for her first big meal—as all of her people were; indeed, as she looked over, she saw her people looking out, transfixed by the heaps of meats and cheeses and luxuries of every sort on every table, and practically drooling at the bounty before them.
“My lady.”
Gwendolyn turned to see an attendant approach in deference.
“If you would allow me to lead you to the King’s table. He has reserved a spot for you and your men.”
Gwendolyn nodded and followed him across the chamber, touched that the King would reserve spots for her. She knew it was a great honor.
As they passed through the crowd, she could feel the eyes of hundreds of people on her, all nodding back affably, smiling, and all examining them as if they were objects of curiosity. Gwen suddenly felt self-conscious about her clothes, fearing for a moment that she was still wearing the same garb she’d had to cross the desert. Then she looked down and remembered that she wore a luxurious outfit of black silks that the King’s attendants had graciously left for her in her chamber.
As she neared the King’s table, Gwen looked out and saw the King seated at the head, and beside him, his wife, the Queen, seated perfectly erect and wearing a gracious smile, with her long blond hair and green eyes, the very picture of beauty and royalty. She wore the most beautiful necklace Gwen had ever seen, comprised of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds, and on her head she wore a diamond-encrusted crown. She looked to be the King’s age, perhaps in her forties.
She stood and faced Gwendolyn.
“My Queen,” she said to Gwendolyn, taking her hand and kissing it as she was introduced.
“My Queen,” Gwendolyn responded, smiling. Then she shook her head. “You are Queen here, my lady,” Gwendolyn added, “not I. It is I who should be addressing you.”
The Queen smiled back.
“Once a queen, you are always a Queen,” she replied graciously. “Everything you have has been stripped away from you. I shall make sure that the honor and title of your rank is shall not be stripped away too. All of our men have been instructed to address you by your rank—I have seen to that.”
Gwen flushed, surprised, overcome by this woman’s kindness, and she felt a rush of love for her. Even Gwendolyn’s own mother had never been so kind to her, and Gwen could not help herself—she stepped forward and embraced her.
The Queen at first seemed caught off guard, especially as a surprised gasp spread through the room; but then she embraced Gwen back, warmly.
The King reached out clasped both of Gwendolyn’s hands warml
y, then kissed both her cheeks, as was, Gwen assumed, their custom, as he led her to her seat at the table, opposite the King. Kendrick was seated to one side of her, Steffen on the other, and the others all around the table, joining not only the King and Queen, but several others, all appearing to be members of his family. Gwendolyn found herself seated in the most luxurious soft-cushioned chair.
Gwen felt relieved that all of her people were here—all except Argon, who was in the hands of the King’s healers, and the baby, whom Illepra had given to the nurses for feeding. The Silver sat at their own table close by, joining warriors who appeared to be the King’s elite, who all welcomed them warmly. Clearly, they were eager to share battle stories.
“We can always speak,” the King boomed, as all eyes turned to him, “but first, you must eat. After all you’ve been through, let food come first. Talk can come later.”
The King nodded, and a moment later, trays of foods and delicacies were placed before her by a flock of attendants. Gwen saw the King and the others eating, and she could no longer restrain herself. She reached down and popped the first delicacy into her mouth, a fig covered with shredded coconut. She chewed, and as she did, she felt her entire body restored.
Unable to resist, she ate several more before she finally held himself in check.
Gwen heard a whining, and she kicked herself for forgetting Krohn; he sat at her feet, patiently, and she reached down and gave him one. He swallowed it whole, licked his lips, and she gave him another. Then another.
Gwendolyn ate and ate, as did the others, eating thinly sliced steaks covered in delicious sauces, along with several fruits and vegetables she had never seen before. She gave Krohn one bite for every one she took. Course after course arrived, more than she’d ever seen, even at a wedding feast, and Gwen was impressed by the endless bounties of this place. The table, always, was filled with laughter, these people relaxed, carefree, and quick to laugh.
When she could eat no more, Gwen looked up and was relieved to see all of her people around the table equally content. Even Krohn, beside her, was finally content, curled at her feet, sleeping. Finally, she could lean back and relax, for the first time in she did not know how long. She looked all around the chamber, at the craftsmanship of this castle, and she was overwhelmed by the beauty of this place, by its order and sophistication. In some ways, it was like being back in King’s Court—yet grander.
Gwen sat back, stuffed, and felt her energy slowly being restored within her. She looked up to the King and Queen and felt overwhelmed with gratitude. If it weren’t for them, she and all her people would be starving to death in the desert right now.
“I cannot thank you enough,” Gwendolyn said sincerely. “You have brought us back to life. May the Gods repay your kindness. I, one day, somehow, shall find a way to repay you.”
The King smiled.
“You already have,” he said, in his deep, booming voice, and the others quieted as he spoke. “You grace us with your presence and allow us to practice the sacred law of hospitality. Not to mention, you are our distant bloodline, after all. We share the same ancestors, descend from the same line of kings and queens. There was a time when they all dined together, here in the Ridge. Now that time for our people has come again. For after all, even if separated by a great sea, we are one people.”
Gwendolyn had never thought of it that way, but she knew it to be true as she examined their faces; she saw a resemblance in their bone structure, a look to them that could have fit in perfectly with her kin, her people. She could see something of herself in them, too, and she found it remarkable to consider how she could look similar to someone so far away, on the other side of the world. It was as if one big, great family had been split in two all these years.
Now that she had eaten and could think clearly, Gwendolyn slowly took in her environment; she looked around the table, noticed all the others seated beside the King, and she was curious.
The King must have noticed her curiosity, because he cleared his throat and spoke.
“Allow me to introduce you to my family,” the King said. “Seated here with me are six of my children—four boys and two girls—all, the pride of my life. Here to my right is my eldest son, Koldo, a fine warrior and the leader of my Legions. He will be the one to inherit my kingdom.”
Gwendolyn looked over and was surprised to see a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, his skin dark black, perhaps in his late twenties. He smiled graciously, revealed perfect, bright white teeth, and like the others, he had a bald head, a scar running across it, and a short beard. He had the poise of a warrior, and of a King’s firstborn son.
“My Queen,” he said, his voice deep and strong, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Gwendolyn smiled and nodded back.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied.
Gwen was curious as to how the King’s firstborn and heir could be of a different race—but she knew that now was not the time to ask.
“Seated beside him,” the King continued, “are my second-eldest sons, my twins, Ludvig and Mardig.”
Two men, perhaps in their early twenties, looked back at her, and Gwen was at first surprised they were twins. They were of the same height and general build, but otherwise, they did not resemble each other. One, Ludvig, was more muscular, sat erect, and had the aura of a warrior, and the bald head and a braided blond beard of their people. He had a rugged look, with a large jaw and a plain, honest face. The other, Mardig, looked similar, but was thinner, more slight, had no beard, and had a full head of dark hair. His features were more refined, and unlike his brother, he had a pretty-boy like face, and he stared back at her with dark eyes, in contrast to his brother’s blue eyes, and Gwen detected some darkness in them. She wondered why he, alone of all the others, did not shave his head, and she made a mental note to ask later.
Beside him, clinging to him possessively and glaring back at Gwendolyn, sat a woman about his age, with long black hair and eyes, whom Gwen took, from her wedding ring, to be his wife.
Ludvig nodded back at her respectfully.
“My Queen,” he said, his voice strong and respectful.
The other one, Mardig, did not nod back at all.
“You are not my Queen,” Mardig said, “so I shall not address you that way. But welcome, stranger.”
“Mardig!” the Queen of the Ridge yelled at him, her face darkening. She turned to Gwen, blushing, apologetic. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said. “It seems not all of my boys have grown up as they should.”
Gwen wondered what was going on, but thought it best to stay out of it.
“Do not worry, my Queen,” she said. “I am comfortable to be addressed however anyone here wishes.”
The tension dissipated, and yet inwardly, Gwen made a mental note to be careful of Mardig. She did not like what she sensed.
The King cleared his throat.
“Seated to my other side here you’ll find my eldest daughter, Ruth. She is as fine a warrior as any of the others. Don’t be fooled by her sex or appearance.”
Gwen looked over and saw a girl of perhaps eighteen, tall, with broad shoulders, looking back at her with strength in her eyes, the eyes of a warrior, a look she could recognize anywhere. Gwen was surprised to see that she, too, wore a shaved head, and wore light chainmail armor. While she was very pretty, her features were somewhat masculine, and if Gwen had not been told she was a girl, she might not have guessed.
“Pleased to meet you, my Queen,” she said, her voice deep and confident and strong, the voice of a warrior.
Gwen sensed the sincerity in her, a warrior’s spirit, and she liked her instantly.
“The honor is mine,” Gwen responded, impressed.
“Beside her,” the King continued, “my youngest daughter, Jasmine. Do not let her age fool you; she is wiser than us all. Her scholarship outpaces even my Chief Scholar, so much so that in this year, only her tenth, she has been named the official scholar of the King.”
Gwendolyn looked at the girl in surprise, and saw a beautiful young girl with almond-shaped green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair staring back at her, her eyes shining with intelligence. Gwen could sense that there was something special about her.
“My Queen,” she said, a slight smile in her eyes, “the history of the MacGil Queens is an interesting one. I should like to share it with you sometime.”
Gwen nodded back, and could not help but smile; the girl spoke as if she were as old as Aberthol.
“I would be delighted,” Gwendolyn replied. She could see Aberthol bristle beside her, and was amused that he felt jealous.
“And beside her,” the King concluded, “you’ll find my youngest son, Kaden, nearing his fourteenth year, a very special age for the warriors-to-be in our kingdom. He shall embark on his warrior quest soon and enter into manhood.”
“I shall follow in my brother’s footsteps,” he said back, proudly, to Gwen. He still had a full head of hair, brownish, and it made Gwen wonder if the boys here shaved their heads when they became men.
Gwen smiled, hearing the courage and determination in his voice.
“I am sure you will, young warrior,” she replied.
“Those are my children—” the King began, but his Queen cut him off, laying a hand on his wrist.
“We have other children, too,” she said, mysteriously. “Though they cannot join us tonight.”
Gwen, confused, was intrigued to know more, but she merely nodded courteously, not wanting to pry.
The King looked down briefly, and Gwen could see the disappointment in his face. It made her wonder about these other children, and what they could have done to disappoint their father so much.
“It is great honor to meet you all,” Gwen replied. “Thank you for welcoming us to your family’s table.”
“We are one bloodline after all,” the Queen said, “and we want you all to feel at home here.”
Attendants arrived bearing sacks of wine, filling golden goblets, and as Gwen drank, it went right to her head. They then brought trays upon trays heaped with sweets, chocolates and delicacies of every sort, and as Gwen ate them, unable to resist, they were the most delicious desserts she’d ever had.
