by Morgan Rice
The sight below brought Thor great sadness—yet it also brought him great hope. Here was a place they could build again, a place they could make even more resplendent. With the Empire finally gone, the Ring finally secure, Thor felt every cause for hope. They were all alive and safe, and that was all that mattered. The stones, they could all go back to the way they were. And with Gwendolyn at his side, Thor felt that anything was possible.
Thor felt his mother’s ring, bulging inside his pocket, and he knew the time had come to propose. The time had come for them to be together, forever. He did not want to wait another moment. He opened his mouth to speak.
“Set down there,” Gwendolyn suddenly called aloud to Mycoples. “I see the knights approaching.”
Thor looked down and saw the men traveling down the road, beginning to filter in through the gates of King’s Court. Mycoples dove down, as Gwen had requested.
They landed right before the incoming army, Mycoples setting down in the center of the courtyard, the men rushing out to greet them. Thor knew that his moment to propose was gone. But it would come again. He’d be sure of it. Before the day had passed, he would find a way to make Gwendolyn his wife.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Luanda marched and marched, exhausted, weak from hunger, freezing, feeling as if her trek would never end. She couldn’t allow herself to stop. She had to make it back, to her homeland, to Bronson. She was still reeling as she thought how lucky she had been to escape, what a close call it had been. She had been looking over her shoulder the entire march back, still fearing that somehow, maybe, Romulus would find a way to take down the Shield, to follow her, to grab her and bring her back.
But he was never there. He was gone now, the Shield was truly up, and Luanda had been safe marching, all this way, through the wasteland of the Ring, determined to make it home. She was relieved, yet she also felt a sense of dread. Would her people take her back in, after all she had done? Would they want to kill her? She could hardly blame them. She was embarrassed by her own actions.
Yet she had nowhere else to go. This was the only home she knew. And she loved Bronson, and ached to see him again, to apologize in person.
Luanda was remorseful for what she had done, and she wished it could have been otherwise. She wished she could take it all back, could do it all differently. Looking back on it now, she didn’t understand what had come over her, how she had allowed her ambition to overcome her. She had wanted it all. And she had failed.
This time, she had learned her lesson; she was humbled. She did not yearn for power now. Now, she just wanted peace. She just wanted to be back with her people, in a place to call home. She saw firsthand how bad life could be with the Empire, and she wanted to get as far away from ambition as possible.
Luanda thought of Bronson, of how much he had cared for her, and she hated herself for letting him down. She felt that if there was anyone left that might forgive her, might take her back in again, it was he. She was determined to find him, not matter how far she had to march. She only prayed he was still alive.
Luanda came upon the rear camp of the MacGils, all of them marching towards King’s Court on the wide road leading West, thousands of men, exhausted but jubilant, fresh off their victory. She was thrilled to catch up with them, to see that they had won, and she weaved her way through, asking each if they knew where Bronson was. She asked them all the same thing: if they had seen him, if he was alive.
Most had ignored her with a grunt, turning away from her, shrugging, ignorant. And those that recognized her, sent her away with disparaging remarks.
“Aren’t you the MacGil girl? The one who sold us all out?” asked a soldier, elbowing his friends, who all turned and examined her with scorn.
I am a member of the MacGil royal family, the firstborn daughter of King MacGil. You are a commoner. You remember that and keep your place, she wanted to say. The old Luanda would have.
But now, humbled, ashamed, she merely lowered her head. She was no longer the woman she once was.
“Yes, that is I,” she answered. “I am sorry.”
Luanda turned and disappeared back into the camp, weaving her way in and out, until finally she tapped yet another soldier on the shoulder, and as he turned, she prepared to ask him if he knew were Bronson was.
But as he turned she stopped cold.
So did he.
All around him the men kept marching, yet the two of them stood there, frozen, staring at each other.
She could hardly breathe. There, facing her, was her love.
Bronson.
Bronson stared back at Luanda in shock. She stood there and, for several seconds, she did not know if he would hate her, send her away, or embrace her.
But suddenly his eyes welled with tears and she could see relief flood his face, and he rushed forward and embraced her. He held her tight, and she embraced him back. It felt so good to be in his arms again, and she clung to him as she began sobbing, her body wracked with tears, not realizing how much she’d held in, how upset she was. She let it all out, crying, ashamed.
“Luanda,” he said, holding her. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re alive.”
“I love you too,” she said through her tears, unable to let go, to back away.
She pulled back and, unable to look into his eyes, lowered her head, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Forgive me,” she said softly, unable to meet his gaze. “Please. Forgive me.”
He embraced her again, holding her tight.
“I forgive you for everything,” he said. “I know it wasn’t the real you.”
She looked up and met his eyes, and she saw that they did not look at her with scorn. She could see that he still loved her as much as the day she had met him.
“I knew that you were just caught up in the grips of something,” he continued. “Ambition. It overwhelmed you. But it wasn’t you. It wasn’t the Luanda I know.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re right. It wasn’t me.”
She smiled, breathing deep, collecting herself as she wiped away her tears.
“And what of the others?” she asked nervously. “Thorgrin? My sister? Are they alive?”
She knew that if the answer was no, she would face an angry mob who would blame it on her and want her dead.
Bronson smiled and nodded back, and as she saw his face, she was overwhelmed with joy and relief.
“They are indeed,” he replied. “They have all gone to King’s Court, which is where we head now. I am sure they will accept you back.”
He took her hand, but she stopped and pulled it away, shaking her head.
“I am not so sure,” she said. “How can they ever trust me again?”
“That’s her,” came a dark voice.
Luanda turned to see several soldiers approaching, one pointing at her.
“There’s the MacGil girl,” he added. “The one who betrayed Thor.”
A group of soldiers marched forward and grabbed Luanda from behind, quickly, before she could react, and began to bind her wrists with rope.
“What you doing?” Bronson called out, indignant, approaching them. “That is my wife!”
“She is also a traitor,” the soldier replied firmly. “The one who sold out our army. She is under arrest. It is for the queen to decide her fate—not us. And not you.”
“Where are you taking her?” Bronson pressed, blocking their way. “I demand for her to have an audience with the Queen!”
“An audience she will indeed have,” they replied. “But as a prisoner.”
“No!”
Bronson lunged forward to free her, but a group of soldiers blocked his way and drew their swords.
“Bronson, please!” Luanda cried out. “Let it go. They are right to take me. Please don’t fight them. They’ve done nothing wrong.”
Bronson slowly lowered his sword, realizing they were right. In a just society, justice needed to be served. There was nothing he could do about it. He loved Luanda;
but he also served the queen.
“Luanda, I will talk to her for you,” Bronson said. “Do not worry.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but the soldiers were already taking her away, to the distant horizon, to King’s Court. It was a city that Luanda had once entered as royalty—and now, ironically, she would enter as a prisoner. She did not need honors anymore; she only prayed her sister would allow her to keep her life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gwendolyn walked through the remains of King’s Court, accompanied by Thor, her brothers Kendrick, Reece and Godfrey, and flanked by Erec, Steffen, Bronson, Srog, Aberthol and several new advisors, the large group taking stock, surveying the damage that had been done to this once-great city. Gwendolyn’s heart broke as she walked through, this city she had been raised in, this city that embodied her childhood. Every corner was haunted with memories, time she had spent here with her father, her brothers, the places she had learned to ride a horse, to wield a sword, to read the lost language. It was the place where she had learned to leave childhood behind.
It was all changed now, a place she barely knew. The bones of it were there, remnants of stone walls, charred by dragon’s breath, crumbling buildings, traces of ramparts. The ground was still littered with corpses, and she held back tears as she walked between them, all the brave Silver and MacGils and Silesians who had died for their country, making a heroic stand against the Empire. She was in awe at their bravery, at what they had sacrificed.
“They all put up a stand knowing it would mean their lives,” Gwen said aloud as she walked, the others listening. “Yet they made a stand anyway. This is the very height of courage. These are the great heroes of the Ring. The unknown and unnamed fallen warriors all around us. It is to them that we owe our greatest debt.”
There came a grunt of affirmation from among the warriors as they walked with her. Gwen was overcome by the honor and courage that ran in her people’s veins, and she felt a huge responsibility to live up to it, to be as honorable and fearless a leader as her people deserved. She hoped she could.
“Our first task must be to bury our dead,” Gwendolyn said, turning to her entourage. “Summon all of our people to collect all of these bodies, and to prepare them for a great funeral pyre, which we shall have tonight. The corpses of the Empire can be discarded in the fields, beyond the walls of the outer ring of our city, where they can be eaten by the dogs.”
“Yes my lady,” one of her generals said, turning and hurrying back to the crowd, dispatching officers immediately to do her will. All around them soldiers broke into action, as they began to collect the dead. Gwendolyn could not look at their faces anymore; she needed the city cleared of them to not be haunted.
They finished circling the perimeter of the inner courtyard, past the toppled statue of her father, past the fountain which no longer bubbled, and Gwen paused beside it. She looked down at the huge stone figure of her father, now lying in several pieces, and was inflamed with rage at Andronicus and the Empire.
“I want my father’s statue rebuilt,” she commanded. “I want the fountains around him bubbling again, and I want this walkway lined with flowers.”
“Yes, my lady,” said another of her men, hurrying off to do her bidding.
“But my lady,” one of her new advisors said, “would it not be more appropriate for there to be a statue of you up here now? After all, this is the center of King’s Court, and this is where the ruler’s statue stands, and you are our ruler. Your father is no longer with us.”
Gwen shook her head.
“My father will always be with us,” she corrected, “and I do not need a statue to honor myself. I would rather remember those whose shoulders we stand on.”
“Yes my lady,” he said.
Gwendolyn turned and saw the approving eyes of all of her men, and her eyes rested on Thor’s. More than anything, she just wanted time to walk with him alone. The two of them never seemed to have enough time alone together, and there was something she needed to say to him. She was burning to tell him about her pregnancy. About his baby. She felt the baby flip in her stomach even as she thought of it.
Soon, she told herself. When all of this was done, all these affairs of state, all settled down, she would tell him. Perhaps even tonight. She felt a rush of excitement just thinking about it.
They continued circling the courtyard, until finally they reached the doors to King’s Castle. Gwendolyn looked up, and felt a pain in her stomach at the sight. It had once been the finest castle in both kingdoms, sung off, praised by poets, even outside the Ring. It had been the seat of MacGil Kings for seven generations, the seat of her own father.
Now there it stood, half destroyed, half its walls standing, the other half open to the sky. She could hardly fathom it, how something of this height and breadth could be damaged. It had always seemed so impervious to her. It felt like a metaphor for the ring: half of it destroyed, and half of it still standing, a foundation on which to rebuild. A daunting task lay ahead of her, not just here but everywhere, in every town throughout the Ring.
Gwen breathed deep as she surveyed it, and she felt inspired by the challenge.
“Let us go inside,” Gwen said to the others.
Her entourage looked at her with a flash of concern.
“My lady, I do not know how stable it is,” Kendrick said. “Those walls, they could collapse.”
Gwen slowly shook her head.
“It was our father’s castle, and his father’s before him. It has lasted for centuries. It will hold us.”
Gwen boldly stepped forward, and the others followed close behind. They walked through the massive stone and iron gates, one of them intact, the other hanging crooked on its hinges. The portcullis lay burnt and twisted on its side, now but a relic.
The wind whistled through as they walked, no sound heard but that of their footsteps crunching on gravel. They passed beneath a tall stone archway and Gwen expected to find the ancient oak, carved doors that had marked the entrance to the castle. But they were gone, torn off their hinges, stolen. It pained Gwen to see. They were doors Gwen had walked through nearly every day of her life.
They all entered the main chamber, and Gwen felt a draft, and looked up at the gaping holes in the high, tapered ceilings, letting in winter sunlight and gusts of cold. Their boot steps echoed in this empty hall, piles of rubble everywhere. But beneath the dirt and rubble, Gwen could still spot the original marble floors. She also saw that many of the frescoes still remained on the walls, covered by dirt.
They crossed the chamber, a trapped bird fluttering on the ceiling, and Gwen walked up a series of stone steps, wide enough to hold them all side-by-side, its railings gone. The steps felt sure, and she ascended, unafraid.
They continued down corridor after corridor, holes in the walls letting in sunlight and cold. The walls caved in in places, but the structure seemed intact. As they went, they passed scattered corpses of soldiers, men who had fought bravely, hand-to-hand, giving their lives to defend this place.
“Make sure these men are collected, too,” Gwendolyn commanded.
“Yes, my lady,” said one of her attendants, hurrying off to do her will.
One corpse hung over the stone railing, eyes wide open, staring up into the sky. Gwen reached over and gently closed his eyes. She had seen so much death these last few days, she did not know if these images would ever leave her mind.
They continued down several more corridors until finally they reached the main doors to the Great Hall, the hall her father had used, had spent the greater part of his day, surrounded by counselors and generals, making decisions and passing judgments, running the daily business of the Western Kingdom. The grand council table had been destroyed, lying in rubble in the center of the room. But Gwen took heart as she saw the ancient golden doors that had heralded this room were still there. She stepped up, feeling their hinges, running her hand along the ancient carvings on the door, made centuries ago, the handiwork of the first archit
ect of the Ring, one of the greatest treasures of this castle. Gwen felt a burst of hope. She turned and faced her men.
“We shall build a new council chamber around these doors. And around that chamber, a new castle to hold it—and around that castle, a new King’s Court!”
The men cheered in approval.
“We shall find new craftsmen,” she added. “As fine as the man who carved these doors. And he shall adorn every inch of King’s Court. No expense shall be spared. These doors will be a shining symbol for all who come here that the Ring is strong. That it will always be strong. That it can be rebuilt.”
The men cheered, all looking to her with hope, and she could see she inspired confidence. Gwen could feel that they needed a leader at this time, and she was determined to give these great people whatever it was they needed. These people were all like family to her. Maybe her father had been right after all: maybe she had been meant to lead.
They all passed through the doors and entered what remained of the castle chamber, walking amidst piles of rubble, looking up at the broken stained-glass that lined the walls. Some of the windows were intact, Gwen noticed; others were gone forever.
Gwen walked down the center of the hall, right up to the great throne, where her father had sat countless times, and examined it. It was still intact, she was relieved to see, its seven ivory and gold steps still leading up, its wide arms still lined with gold. It was all covered in layers of dirt, yet still it was recognizable.
Steffen hurried forward and wiped the dirt off the seat, off its arms, until the gold shone through once again.
“Please sit, my lady,” he said, stepping aside.