by Morgan Rice
For the first time since he was a boy, Erec laid eyes on his father, and his heart sank. His father lay in bed, head propped up on silk pillows, silk covers up to his chest despite the warm summer day. He looked so much older, frailer, smaller than Erec remembered. The sight pained him to no end.
In Erec’s memory, his father was as a tall, broad-chested great warrior, a fierce and tough man, wise and calculating, respected by all who looked at him. He was a man who had managed to grasp the throne in his youth, to out-fight others who had royal lineage by sheer strength, determination, and fighting skill.
As he was a warrior and not a ruler, a man who did not hail from royal blood, all the islanders had been certain that he would not be able to hang onto the throne, and would not be a great ruler. But his father surprised them all. He turned out to be not only the best warrior in the Isles, but also a great and cunning ruler. He managed to hold onto the throne—and strengthen it—his entire life, and in the process, made the Southern Isles a much stronger place. He was the one who had discovered the copper mines, who had brought them all wealth, who had helped build most of the copper structures on the island today; he was the one who had extended the fishing fleet, had reinforced the cliffs, had made the islands prosperous and bountiful—and who had fended off all attacks on his islands. He had succeeded all these years, despite the predictions, and he had, unpredictably, become the greatest King the Southern Isles had ever known.
And now he lay dying, this mountain of a man, and Erec knew there would be huge shoes to fill. He did not know if he, or anyone, was capable of filling them.
“Father,” Erec said, his heart breaking as he stepped forward and stopped by his father’s bedside.
The King opened his eyes slightly, then at the sight of Erec, opened them more widely. He leaned his head forward, just a little, looked at Erec, and reached out a frail hand.
Erec clasped it and kissed his father’s hand. It was wrinkly and old and cold to the touch. It felt like death.
“My son,” he said, longing in his voice.
Erec admired his father as a king and as a soldier; but he had mixed feelings about him as a father. After all, his father had shipped him off at a very young age, had sent him away from everything he knew and loved. He knew his father did it for his benefit, but nonetheless, a part of Erec felt as if his father did not want him here. Or was more interested in being a king than a father.
A part of Erec, he couldn’t deny, would have liked to stay here, to be close, to spend his life with his father and his family; a part of Erec, he had to admit, resented his father for this forced exile, for choosing his life for him.
“You have reached me before my death,” his father said.
Erec nodded, his eyes glistening at the sound of his father’s weak voice. It did not seem fitting that such a great warrior should be reduced to this.
“Perhaps you shall not die, Father,” he said.
His father shook his head.
“Every healer here has seen me twice. I was supposed to die months ago. I have hung on,” he said, breaking into a fit of coughing, “to see you.”
Erec could see his father’s eyes glistening, and he could see that his father did indeed care about him. It struck his heart deeply. Despite himself, Erec felt a tear form. He quickly wiped it away.
“You probably believe I did not care about you, having sent you away all these years. But it is because I did care about you. I knew that a life with the MacGils would gain you fame and reputation and rank beyond what you could ever have achieved here, on our small islands. As a boy, you were the finest warrior I had ever seen. Dare I say, I saw myself in you. It is true, I did not want to deprive the MacGils of your skills; but between you and I, I will tell you, it was also that I did not want to deprive you of the power you could achieve there.”
Erec nodded, touched, beginning to understand, to look at his father in a whole new light.
“I understand, Father.”
His father broke into another fit of coughing, and when he stopped, he looked up and saw Alistair. He waved her over.
“Your bride,” he said. “I want to see her.”
Erec turned and nodded and Alistair stepped forward tentatively, then kneeled beside Erec, reached out, and kissed his father’s hand.
“My liege,” she said softly.
He looked her up and down, carefully, for a long time, then finally nodded with satisfaction.
“You are far more than just a beautiful woman,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. You are a warrior, too. Erec has chosen well.”
Alistair nodded back, seeming to be touched.
“Treat him well,” the King added. “You will be Queen here one day soon. A Queen must be more than a devoted wife. Treat my people well, too. People need a King—but they also need a Queen. Do not forget that.”
Alistair nodded.
“Yes, my liege.”
“I must talk to you now,” he said to Erec.
Erec nodded to Alistair, and she bowed and quickly turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
“All of you, leave us,” the King called out.
One by one his flock of attendants hurried from the room, closing the door.
Erec and his father were left alone, and the silence felt heavier. Erec clutched his father’s hand, freely allowing a tear to roll down his face.
“I do not want you to die, Father,” he said, holding back tears.
“I know, my son. Yet my time has come to an end on this earth. Few things matter to me now. What matters to me now, most of all, is you.”
He coughed for a long time, then leaned forward.
“Listen to me,” he commanded, his voice suddenly firm, bearing the strength Erec remembered as a child. He looked up and saw a glimmer of the fierce determination in his father’s face that he recalled. “There’s much you must understand, and not much time to learn it. My people—our people— they are more complex than you think. Never forget our roots. Hundreds of years ago, our islands were a mere colony for prisoners, outcasts, exiles, slaves—all the people that the Ring did not want. They shipped them here to die.
“But we surprised them all, and we survived. We became a people in our own right. And over centuries, we have evolved. We have become self-sufficient, and the greatest warriors anywhere in the Empire. We have become adept sailors, fishermen, farmers, even in these rugged cliffs. Now, centuries later, we have gone from outcasts to a crown jewel, a nation of bounty and warriors.
“Our relationship with the MacGils mended over the years to the point where we sent them our warriors to apprentice and they sent us theirs. The MacGils want our warriors. There’s always been an unspoken alliance between us. In times of great trouble or danger, they expect us to come to their aid. But what you must understand is that our people are divided. Some consider us indebted to them, and will remain loyal to the death. But a good deal of us are isolationists. They resent the Ring, and do not want to help.”
He looked at Erec meaningfully.
“You must understand your people. If you try to rally them all to the defense of the Ring, you may have a civil war on your hands. They are proud, and stubborn. Try to lead them all, and you will lead none of them. You must lead carefully. Do you understand? It is you as King who must decide.”
His father broke into a prolonged fit of coughing, and Erec sat there, trying to process it all. He was beginning to realize that his people and their politics were much more complex than he’d thought.
“But Father, the MacGil family took me in as one of theirs. The Ring is my second home. I have sworn to come to their aid if ever they needed it—and I always keep my vows.”
His father nodded.
“And now you will come to realize what it means to be a King. It is easy to give your word—and to keep it—as a warrior; it is much harder to keep it as a ruler. If your people will not follow you, who exactly are you ruling?”
Erec thought of his word
s, as his father suddenly closed his eyes. He lifted his hand and waved Erec off. Erec wanted to say goodbye to him, to hug him.
But that was not his father’s way—it never was. His father was a cold and hard man when he wanted to be—even abrupt. And now Erec could see that he was through with him. Erec had served his purpose.
As Erec turned to walk out the door, his father coughing and coughing, Erec knew this was the last time he’d ever see him, and he was left wondering. His father had left him as heir to his kingdom—but did he truly love him as a son? Or did he only love him as heir to his affairs?
And even more so, the thought that struck Erec like a knife in his chest: if being King meant compromising one’s word, one’s honor, for the sake of the masses, was that something Erec could do? Erec had lived his entire life for honor, and he would give up his life for honor, no matter what the cost. But as King, could he afford that luxury? He would destroy himself for the sake of honor—but could he destroy a kingdom?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Gwendolyn stood at the head of the huge ship, leading her fleet, peering out into the horizon and rising up and down as the ship was buoyed on the rolling waves. She breathed deep, knowing that every moment, every spray of an ocean wave, took them further and further from the Ring.
They sailed into a driving wind and mist, the rain finally pausing, but the thick, gloomy clouds refusing to recede. Despite the summer, it was getting colder the further north they went, and Gwen pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders. She clutched Guwayne, holding him tight to her chest, relishing his warmth, rocking him as she looked out and wondered of the future that lay ahead of them.
Gwendolyn did not turn around and look back—not once—even though she knew that the mainland of the Ring was now far from sight. She feared that, if she turned around, she would spot Romulus’s dragons, that somehow they would break through Argon’s shield and pursue them. Recalling their awful sight, the heat of their flames as they’d approached, she shuddered; she did not want to jinx it.
All around her, all there was, was ocean, water in every direction, an endless monotony. But it didn’t matter; she welcomed water for a change. She couldn’t bear to look back behind her, in the direction where her home once stood. It was too painful. Everything, she knew, that she ever loved and cherished was now burned to the ground; King’s Court, she felt sick to think, was now being enjoyed by Romulus and his soldiers, by his dragons. All of her people throughout the Ring, the ones who had not had time to evacuate with her, were surely dead. Her homeland was no more. Gwen felt gutted; she felt as if somehow it were all her fault. She wished dearly that she could have rescued more of her people.
All that remained, all the hope she had left in the world, lay straight ahead. She looked about and saw her dozens of ships and could not help but feel that they were stealing away like exiles, a mass exodus from the bounties of the Ring to the lonely, craggy, stormy Upper Isles. Gwen trembled to think that the rest of her days, her people’s days, would be doomed to such a place; but at least, she told herself, they were alive. They had survived. And for now, that was all that mattered.
Gwen knew there would be no welcoming party waiting to greet her; only a cold, if not hostile, reception by Tirus’s men. The last she’d heard, she’d dispatched Reece to apologize to Tirus; who knew how Tirus had taken it. Would he be gracious upon their arrival? she wondered. Somehow, she doubted it. She now inhabited a cold, barren place, stuck between one adversary and the next, she and all her people forced to fight, one way or the other, in whatever direction they chose, just to survive.
Gwen closed her eyes and tried to push out the horror; she thought of all the people she’d had to leave behind, spread throughout the Ring, all under her care. She shook her head, thinking of all the families who must be dead right now, eviscerated by Romulus’s hand and the breath of his dragons. She did not understand how it could have happened. Romulus, somehow, had managed to lower the Shield, and had managed to somehow control all those dragons. She had sensed doom coming, yet she’d never imagined such breadth of destruction.
Gwen felt like collapsing, like giving up, so weak and tired and drained in every possible way, but she forced herself to be strong. After all, she was Queen, and she still ruled, and her people were looking to her. Her queendom had shrunk to this ship, this fleet, these hundreds of people, yet still, it was something. She had to go on for their sake.
Gwen craved someone to talk to, now more than ever. She thought of Argon, and recalled how Ralibar had caught up to them, had deposited Argon’s limp body, unmoving, on the deck, where he still lay; Gwendolyn and the others had tried to awaken him, to no avail. Her heart had broken at the sight, and she wondered if Argon had left them this time for good. Ralibar had taken off, she did not know where, and she did not know if he would ever come back to her, either. Gwendolyn felt more alone than ever. Without Argon, without Ralibar, without Thor—and with only these few thousand men—what hope did any of them have? They would be lucky, she knew, to even reach the Upper Isles. If Argon’s shield lowered, they would be finished. They could not withstand a direct attack from Romulus and his dragons, and she knew that eventually, they would surely follow them.
Gwen looked out to the horizon, to the stormy seas, and wished that now, more than ever, Thorgrin was here, by her side.
“My Queen?” came a soft voice.
Gwendolyn turned to see her brother, Kendrick, come up beside her, along with her other brother, Godfrey, and Steffen and Aberthol. She took comfort in their presence, and was grateful that at least they had survived.
“We won’t be approaching the Isles for some time, if even today. Night looms, and the wind is picking up. Will you come below with the rest of us? Standing up here will make you sick, and will not make us arrive any faster.”
Gwendolyn shook her head.
“I don’t want us to arrive any faster. I want to return to the Ring. But it is gone. Destroyed forever,” she replied, despondent. “And it is my fault.”
She turned and faced them, and Kendrick and the others exchanged a grave look. Gwen told herself to be strong.
“It is not your fault, my lady,” Steffen replied. “On the contrary, you saved all these people you see here.”
“I expect us to arrive at daybreak,” Kendrick said, “and our men will need to be prepared. I doubt we shall find a warm reception. We intercepted a raven heading for the Ring. It brings news that our brother has killed Tirus.”
“What!?” Gwen said, shocked.
Kendrick nodded, gravely.
“I sent him to apologize and he murdered the man?” Gwen asked, trying to process it. She could hardly conceive what had happened, and she was furious at Reece.
“Word is that there is an open revolt on the island, that our men are cut off, stuck on their small fleet of ships. Perhaps we can reach them in time.”
Gwendolyn nodded, determined.
“Tirus deserved to die,” she said, “yet Reece was foolish to defy my orders. That said, we abandon no one. We will sail as hard as we can throughout the night, and if need be, we shall fight to the death to rescue our men.”
She looked to her men, who all looked to her for leadership, and her voice rose with confidence.
“Do not worry,” she told them. “We shall take back the Upper Isles. At least in this we shall be successful. And once there, we shall establish a new stronghold, a new home for us, expatriates of the Ring.”
They all nodded, and she could see that they took some reassurance in her words, in her confidence.
“And what if Argon’s spell should falter?” Godfrey asked. “What if those dragons should be let loose? How can we possibly fight them off?”
“Romulus now has the Ring,” Gwen replied. “Perhaps he shall be content with that and not pursue us.”
“And if he is not?” Aberthol pressed.
“Then we shall have no choice but to fight him. And his dragons.”
The men l
ooked grave.
“But my queen, we cannot win,” Aberthol said. “It would be us against a host of dragons—and a million-man army.”
Gwendolyn nodded, realizing he was correct.
“For now, let us reach the Isles, free our brothers, and establish a home. Let us pray that Argon’s shield holds.”
“And if not?” Aberthol pressed. “Have we no other options?”
Gwen turned and looked out to the horizon, as somber as her mood, knowing they did not.
“Yes,” she said. “We can do what we always do: fight for our honor—and fight to the death.”
*
Godfrey and Illepra sat below deck as night fell, the huge ship rocking up and down. Godfrey leaned his back against the wall as Illepra tended his wounds, wrapping a bandage around his arm again and again. As he studied her, so close, he noticed a difference in how she looked at him. Before, she’d always looked at him in a disapproving matter—and yet now, he was surprised to see her smiling at him, wrapping his arm slowly and affectionately, cutting the bandage tenderly, tending his wounds with love and affection.
“You’ve changed,” she said to him.
Godfrey looked at her, puzzled.
“How so?” he asked. “That’s funny, because I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
“You’re not the boy you once were,” she said. “You are a man now. You stood up and fought as a man. You risked your life for others, for the sake of our city, as few others would. I’m surprised. I would not have expected it from you.”
Godfrey blushed, looking away.
“I did not do it in order for you to be proud. I was not seeking your approval, or anyone else’s—especially not my dead father’s. I did it for myself. And for my sister.”
“Yet nonetheless, you did it. I know you are not your father. But I’ll tell you something: I think you are going to become even greater than your father ever was.”
Godfrey raised his brow, surprised at her words.
“You mock me,” he said.
