by Morgan Rice
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 squinted 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.
As Thor turned and began to walk back, suddenly Krohn whined. Thor turned and spotted Krohn in the distance, on the far side of the yard, near the small structure where Thor had lived, away from the rest of the family. Krohn was whining, looking back and rummaging through rocks, as if urging Thor to come look.
Thor hurried over, knelt beside Krohn, and looked, wondering.
“What is it, boy?” Thor asked, stroking his head. “What do you see?”
Krohn whined as he pawed at a large rock, and Thor reached down and pulled back the heavy stone. He found more stones, and he kept extracting them until finally he saw something. Something was flashing, catching the sun.
Thor reached down, into the crevice in the rocks, and pulled it out. He held up something small, brushed off the dirt, and glanced at it in wonder. As he brushed off all the dirt he saw that it was shiny, yellow, round. He looked closer and finally realized it was a gold locket.
There was fine lettering on it, and Thor saw it was carved in inscriptions, in a language he could not understand. Thor ran his fingers along the edge of it, and he came across something, like a clasp. He pushed it, and the locket popped open.
To Thor’s surprise, he saw an inscription in gold on one side, and a golden arrow, swirling, on the other. It moved every time he turned it. It came to a rest, and kept pointing in one direction. Every time he moved, the arrow adjusted.
Thor rubbed off the dirt and read the inscription, this in a language he knew. As he read the words, his heart stopped.
For my son. Thorgrin. Follow the arrow. And it will lead you to me.
Heart racing, Thor stood and turned and held up the locket, and he found the arrow pointing in a particular direction. He looked out at the sky, the horizon, and he knew this arrow would lead him to the Land of the Druids.
As Thor grasped it, he felt a tremendous coursing through his palm, through his entire body. He knew that it was real, that all of this was real, and he felt certain that the time had come to find his mother. The time had come to find out the truth about who he really was, who he was meant to be.
Thor looked out at the sky, and resolved that as soon as his child was born, as soon as the wedding was over, he would leave.
Thor looked out at the horizon, and felt his mother closer than she ever was.
“Be patient, mother,” he said. “I am coming for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Gwendolyn stood on the upper parapets of her castle, looking down at King’s Court, admiring all the wedding preparations, admiring how magnificent the rebuilt city looked. Now that everyone had left for Departure Day, Gwen had needed to take a break herself, had needed some time alone up here. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, a warm summer breeze swayed the branches of the fruit trees, and Gwen leaned back and breathed in the fresh air.
There came a screech, and Gwen looked up and saw Ralibar, soaring high above, intertwining with Mycoples, the two of them making broad circles around King’s Court. Gwen smiled, thinking of her morning ride on Ralibar, recalling how gentle he had been today. The two were becoming closer, as if he sensed how pregnant she was, and was flying with extra care. She felt reassured to see him circling, as if being watched over, protected.
Gwen looked out at the horizon and knew that Thor was out there somewhere and would be returning soon, and that, finally, they had nothing left to fear. Everything was perfect now, and yet for some reason, she did not feel at ease. She did not know why, but she could not help but feel as if something dark was on the horizon, was coming for them all. Was it real? Or was it just her own mind playing tricks on her? Her mind spun with so many small matters related to ruling her kingdom, it was hard for her to think clearly.
“The affairs of state,” came a voice, “can weigh on you like a rock.”
Gwendolyn turned around, thrilled to recognize that voice, and saw Argon, standing there, holding his staff, wearing his cloak and hood, his eyes shining right through her. He walked up beside her, his staff clicking on the stone as he went, and stood beside her, looking out with her over her kingdom.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, turning and looking out beside him. “I have been ill at ease as of late. And I don’t know why.”
“But don’t you?” he asked cryptically.
She turned and looked at him, wondering.
“Am I wrong?” she asked. “Tell me honestly: is something terrible about to happen? Is our peace about to be shattered?”
Argon turned and stared at her for so long, the intensity of his eyes nearly made her turn away. Finally, he uttered one word which sent a chill through her:
“Yes.”
Gwendolyn’s heart pounded at his words, and she felt her blood run cold. She stared back, feeling a slow panic creep over her.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What will happen?”
Slowly, Argon shook his head.
“I have learned my lesson of interfering in human matters.”
He turned back out, surveying her kingdom.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Just tell me enough, enough to prepare. To do whatever I have to to protect my people.”
Argon sighed.
“You are much like your father,” he said. “You don’t even know how much. He always wanted to be the greatest ruler he could be; but sometimes, fate gets in the way.”
He turned and stared at her, and for the first time, she saw compassion in his eyes.
“Not all kingdoms are meant to last,” he said. “And not all rulers. You have done
a marvelous job, greater than any MacGil before you. You have wrested control from a doom that was supposed to happen, and you have done so with courage and honor. Your father looks down on you now and smiles at you.”
Gwen felt a flush of warmth at his words.
“Yet some things,” he continued, “are beyond your control. We are all at the mercy of a greater destiny that courses through the universe. The Ring has its own fate, as a person has a fate.”
Gwen gulped, desperate to know more.
“What danger could affect us now?” she asked. “The Shield is restored. The Empire is gone. Andronicus is dead. McCloud is dead. We have two dragons here. What can harm us? What more can I do?”
Slowly, Argon shook his head.
“Hiding amidst the most glorious flowers, are the most poisonous snakes; behind the most brilliant sunshine are the darkest clouds, the fiercest storms, waiting to gather. Do not look at the sun; look at the clouds behind it, the clouds you do not yet see. Know for certain that they are there. Prepare. Do it now. It is up to you, and no one else. You are the shepherd that leads the flock, and the flock knows not what comes.”
Gwendolyn shuddered, Argon confirming what she felt herself. Something horrible was on the horizon, and it was up to her, and her alone, to take action, to prepare. But what?
Gwen turned to ask Argon more, but before she could open her mouth, he was already gone. She stared at the clouds, at the sky, at the horizon, wondering. The day seemed so perfect. What lurked beyond?
*
Gwendolyn sat in the reconstructed House of Scholars, before a long, ancient wooden table completely covered in books and scrolls and maps, studying them all intently. This was the only place in the kingdom Gwen came for solace, for peace and quiet, these ancient, dusty books always setting her at ease, connecting her to her childhood. Indeed, Gwen had devoted a great deal of her time these last six moons to personally overseeing the reconstruction of this building that had meant so much to her, to Aberthol, and to her father. She had insisted on its being restored to be as beautiful as it had been, and yet even grander, big enough to hold even more volumes. Most of their precious volumes had been burned, or stolen by the Empire; but deep in the lower levels, Aberthol had wisely hidden stories of books that remained untouched. Andronicus, savage that he was, had not realized how deep beneath the earth the House of Scholars had been built—precisely for times like this, times of war—and luckily, some of the most precious items had been saved.
It was these volumes that Gwendolyn pored over now. There were others besides, as Gwendolyn had made it her mission to have her men scour the Ring, find any precious volumes that might be scattered. They returned with loaded wagons full of volumes which she had paid for personally, and soon she had rebuilt the House of Scholars to a library greater than it had ever been. She loved this new house even more, and she was amazed that she had pulled it off, never truly thinking it could be rebuilt from the ashes when she had first seen it in that sorry state. It was the thing she was most proud of since the reconstruction had begun.
Gwen had been tucked away here all day, ever since her fateful meeting with Argon, scrutinizing book after book, scroll after scroll, reading up on what all her ancestors had done in times of trouble, times of invasion. She wondered how all of them prepared, in times of peace, for a looming disaster. Gwen might not be able to control what was to come, but the one thing she could control was her scholarship, and it always gave her comfort and a sense of control to read during times of crisis.
As Gwen read about ancient refuges and escapes, she realized that the one thing she had not planned for in the reconstruction of King’s Court was an escape route. After all, King’s Court was the most fortified city of the Ring—what need could there possibly be for escape? And where could they possibly escape to that was more fortified?
And yet Argon’s words rang in her head, and she felt a need to prepare. She felt that if she were to be a good leader, then she should have a backup contingency. Some sort of escape plan. What would they do if King’s Court were overrun? It was painful to even consider, as they had just rebuilt it—yet she felt a need to have a plan in place. What if somehow the Ring were destroyed again? What if somehow the Shield were lowered, or destroyed? Then what? She could not leave her people exposed to slaughter. Not on her watch.
Gwendolyn read for hours and hours about the sacks of all the great cities of the Ring throughout the centuries. She read the history, once again, of all the MacGils, of her father’s father, and his father’s father. She felt more connected than ever to her ancestors, as she read anew about their trials and tribulation, all the hardships of all the kings before her. She found herself getting lost in their history. She was amazed to see that others experienced what she was going through, had the same woes and challenges of ruling a kingdom that she had, even so many centuries ago. In some ways, nothing ever changed.
Yet, despite everything she read, she found no reference anywhere to any escape contingency. The closest reference she found was an obscure footnote from a tale of six centuries ago: an ancient sorcerer had managed to bring down the Shield for a time, and the creatures of the Wilds had crossed the canyon and overran the Ring. The second MacGil king, realizing he was unable to fight them all, took his people—a much smaller people than they had now—loaded them on ships, and evacuated them all to the Upper Isles. When the Shield was restored and the creatures left, he moved them back to the mainland of the Ring, saving them all and killing the creatures that remained.
Gwen, intrigued, examined the dusty, ancient maps, illustrating pictures of the routes they had taken. Crude arrows showed the way they had traveled to board the ships, then the routes to the Upper Isles. She studied the diagrams, and thought it all through carefully. It had been a primitive plan for a primitive time, a time when the Ring was much smaller. And yet it had worked.
The more Gwen thought about it, the more she realized that there was great wisdom in that plan—wisdom that could be applied today. In the event of a disaster, couldn’t she do the same as her ancestors had? Couldn’t she evacuate her people to the Upper Isles? They might not be able to return to the Ring, as her ancestors had. But they could at least wait out the invasion, or the disaster, at least live there long enough for her people to decide what to do. They would be safe, at least, from a mass invasion: after all, the Upper Isles were an impossible place to attack, with their jagged shores in every direction, funneling all enemies to narrow choke points. A million attacking men were as good as one hundred. The Empire could send tens of thousands of ships, but they still would only be able to attack with a few at a time. And the nasty weather and currents helped defend the Isles even more.
Gwen’s eyes were tired from reading, and yet she sat upright as she considered it all, feeling a jolt of excitement. The more she considered it, the more she warmed to the idea. Perhaps a retreat to the Upper Isles was the perfect plan in the case of a disaster.
Gwen closed the book, rubbed her eyes, and leaned back and sighed. Was she getting carried away? Lost in catastrophic thoughts? After all, it was a beautiful, sunny summer day outside, and her wedding, the day of her dreams, was but a half moon away. They were not being attacked or invaded, and they were stronger than her ancestors had ever been. She knew she should leave all this dark thinking behind and go out there and enjoy the day. She was too prone to catastrophic thoughts; she always had been.
As Gwen stood and prepared to leave, she accidentally knocked over a large, heavy book, and as she did, a smaller book, previously hidden, fell out from it, onto the floor, in a small cloud of dust. It was a tiny, scarlet, leather-bound book, and as Gwen picked it up with curiosity, she turned the pages and found them brittle. This curious volume was so old, its pages had turned brown with age.
As Gwen glanced at the ancient language it was penned in, she was surprised to see what it was: Sodarius’ Book of Prophecies. She had heard of it her whole life, but was never even certain if it truly e
xisted. She’d heard rumors of it, but no one she had ever met had ever actually laid hands on it. It was supposed to contain the most fantastical predictions for the future of the Ring, some of which were accurate, and some of which never came to pass.
Gwen’s hands trembled with excitement as she realized what she was holding. She turned the pages quickly, combing through, until she came to the prophecies that addressed her time and place. She stopped, her breathing shallow, as she came upon her own name.
The seventh and final ruler of the MacGils will be the greatest. She will lead her people through their greatest victory. Yet she will also lead them through their greatest downfall. Gwendolyn will be her name.
Gwen stopped, hands shaking, hardly able to believe what she was reading. She hesitantly turned the page:
Gwendolyn will lead her people to—
Gwen looked down and saw with dismay that some of the pages were burnt, cut off mid-sentence. The remainder of the book only showed snippets of phrases, all of them cut off, broken mid-sentence. She turned pages frantically, desperate to know what will happen. She scanned, looking for keywords, and she could not believe it when she stumbled upon Thorgrin’s name:
Her husband Thorgrin will die, too, and his death will come when—
Gwen turned the pages, anxious to see the exact predictions, her hand shaking. She felt sick to her stomach as she read the dates. It couldn’t be.
Gwen took the book and threw it across room, smashing it against the wall, and she burst into tears.
She told herself it was all nonsense, the writings of a hack from centuries ago. Yet despite herself, Gwen could not help but feel it to all be true.
“My lady?” came a frantic voice.
Gwendolyn spun to see Aberthol’s concerned face at the doorway, peaking into the room.