by Morgan Rice
“The kingdom she rules is vast, and there are not many people she can trust—not like a brother,” Reece said. “Enough of this gloomy talk. It is all for naught, I assure you. I shall be back in but a few days, and we shall be together forever.”
Reece leaned in and kissed her, and she stepped forward and hugged him tightly, clinging to him.
Thor mounted his horse and from this vantage point, he looked around at all his brothers, all of them mounting their horses. It was odd to see all these men in one place who, in but moments, would be scattered across the kingdom. Soon, Godfrey would be on the other side of the Highlands; Kendrick and Erec would be far off securing forts and bridges; Conven, O’Connor and Elden would be returning to their villages, each seeking out their own family members; Steffen would be far away, tending to distribution in the small villages. And Thor himself would be many days’ ride from King’s Court, scouring the towns for new recruits for the Legion.
The festivities were over, the Summer Solstice already behind them, as if it had never happened. They were now getting down to the hard work of running and restoring the kingdom. Thor knew that soon enough, they would all be reunited again. Yet he could not help but wonder how much each of them would be changed when they returned.
A distant horn sounded, Thor kicked his horse, along with the others, and they all charged off, away from King’s Court, each forking in their own direction on the dusty road. Thor knew he should be filled with joy, with optimism; yet for some reason, a part of him could not help but feel as if he might not see all of these men again.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Bronson marched out of the tall, vertical gates of Highlandia, flanked by the McCloud generals, his father’s former men, along with dozens of attendants, and he sighed, in an irritable mood. He was annoyed that he was being led to the sight of yet another dispute, yet another cattle raid, yet another headache in his impossible effort to unite the McClouds and the MacGils. He was seriously starting to wonder whether it was even possible to bring peace between the two perpetually warring clans.
It darkened his mood even more to be lead here by his father’s former general, Koovia. Over the last six moons, McCloud had come to distrust Koovia; it was starting to dawn on him that Koovia was not the ingratiating general that he had at first made himself to be. Koovia had initially pretended to be all too eager to help unite the two sides of the Highlands; yet the more Bronson got to know him, the more he observed him increasingly trying to undermine his efforts, to keep the two clans apart from each other. Koovia was, deep down, wary of the MacGils—as he had been during his father’s time—and increasingly uncontrollable.
Working with Koovia was a necessary evil, given that all the McCloud soldiers loved him, and that he somehow retained a hypnotic fix on his men. Bronson had pondered imprisoning him, more than once, but refrained for the fallout that would come. As it was, Bronson was on shaky ground here, trying to control these people, trying to control the MacGils on the other side of the Highlands, and trying to get them all to live in harmony. It had been six moons of hell.
Bronson had forgotten how stubborn his people were, how hard-headed, how prone to violence and aggression. Having spent some time on the MacGil side, Bronson was realizing more and more the stark differences between the two clans. The last several hundred years had really bred two different peoples. Bronson felt that he himself acted more like a MacGil, and he felt more of a sympathy with the MacGils. Coming back to his people now actually embarrassed him, seeing how crude they were, how prone to go to war against people who meant them no harm.
When Bronson had first arrived, the McClouds had been grateful to all the MacGils for liberating them from the grip of Andronicus and of the Empire. They had been grateful for Bronson’s presence here, for his help in rebuilding. They had even expressed a desire and enthusiasm to unite the two kingdoms.
But the more time Bronson spent here, the more he felt it was a front, that his people were not actually interested in uniting, that they wanted to stay apart, and that they distrusted the MacGils deeply. The MacGils seemed more open to trusting the McClouds, despite a long history of being attacked unprovoked; yet every day since Bronson’s arrival, some McClouds had undermined the effort in yet another raid or dispute.
McCloud followed Koovia, wondering where he was leading him today.
They hiked along a low ridge as they emerged from the castle, blooms of summer all around them, the Highlands covered in tall, colored grasses. Bronson looked down on both sides of the ridge and as far as he could see were bright flowers, covering both slopes of the Highlands. The sight was quite a dramatic change from winter, where the Highlands were nothing but snow and ice. Standing up here, Bronson felt a cool breeze, always cooler this high up.
Still, it was a picture-perfect summer day, clouds gathering lightly in the sky under the rays of the first and second suns. From up here, looking down, Bronson felt as if he were atop the world, looking down on the two kingdoms, these two kingdoms he still hoped to make one, and he wondered, with a land like this, how anything could possibly be wrong in the world.
As they rounded a bend, McCloud heard the bickering carrying on the wind, and he saw two angry parties before him, dozens of MacGils on one side, and dozens of McClouds on the other, angrily arguing with each other, as a flock of sheep milled about them. Bronson sensed their anger even from here, and he knew he would be walking into a firestorm. He sighed, bracing himself.
“This is where it happened,” Koovia explained, as they approached.
They neared, and Koovia screamed for silence. Slowly, the warring clans quieted and all eyes turned to Bronson.
“What happened this time?” Bronson asked, already impatient.
“It is very simple what happened,” said one of the McClouds, an old man, faced lined with stubble, missing teeth, standing protectively over his sheep. “These MacGils came up here and raided our sheep and tried to bring them back over the Highlands. We caught them before they went. You must imprison them now, if you are the strong ruler you claim to be.”
There came a cheer from the McCloud side. Bronson turned and looked at the MacGils; they stood there patiently, meekly, a younger bunch with intelligent eyes, awaiting their turn. As he looked beyond them, Bronson saw the beautiful summer countryside, and wished he could be anywhere but here. With all this bounty, all this beauty, all around them, what did these men have to fight about?
“And your side of the story?” he asked the MacGils. “Did you come up here and steal these cattle?”
“We did, my Lord,” the MacGils answered plainly.
Bronson stared back in surprise, not expecting that answer.
“Then you admit your crime?”
“No, my lord,” they replied.
Now Bronson was confused.
“How is theft not a crime?”
“You cannot steal what is yours, my lord,” they replied. “Those cattle were ours to begin with. We just stole them back.”
“Stole them back?” Bronson asked. His stomach was burning.
The MacGils nodded.
“The McClouds raided our cattle last week. We came and took them back. See those markings?”
They bent over, grabbed a sheep, turned its leg, and showed a brand on it.
“The mark of the MacGils. Plain for anyone to see.”
Bronson stared, and saw the marking, and realized they were indeed correct.
He turned and faced the McClouds, now annoyed with them for stealing—and for lying.
“And what have you to say for yourselves?” he asked.
The elder McCloud shrugged.
“I found them wandering the hills.”
“Wandering the hills on the MacGil side,” the MacGils retorted. “That doesn’t make them yours.”
The old men shrugged.
“You let them loose, then they are not yours anymore.”
“They were not loose! They were grazing! Sheep graze. That is what th
ey do!”
The old man shouted and cursed at them, and the MacGils started to curse them back. A cacophony of noise arose, men cursing each other, sheep bleating.
Bronson rubbed his forehead, his headache worsening. The day had hardly begun, and there was yet a long day ahead. Why could these men not get along? Was his cause here hopeless?
He had to admit, even though they were his native people, the McClouds were the instigators. In every case he had seen, they were always the ones at fault. It was as if a part of them just did not want peace.
Bronson stepped forward, and there came a lull in the squabbling as all eyes turned to him.
“If these are his sheep, then these are his sheep,” Bronson finally said to the McClouds. “It does not matter where you found them. He took back what was his.”
He turned to the MacGils.
“Take them and go,” he said. “I am sorry for your trouble.”
The MacGils nodded, satisfied, and corralled their sheep and began to lead them down to their side of the mountain.
“You can’t just let them go!” the old man yelled out to Koovia. “Stop them! Our new King is too weak to support us! Use the might of your army! Unless you are too weak, too!”
Bronson bristled at the old man’s words, and he could see Koovia bristling, too, and thinking it all over himself. He could see that Koovia wanted to go after those sheep.
But Koovia instead turned and shoved the old man, and he stumbled back. He grabbed the hilt of his sword.
“Say another word old man, and we will see who is weak!”
Koovia stepped forward in a rage, and the old man backed away.
Slowly, the McClouds turned and stormed down the hill.
Koovia, still scowling, turned and faced Bronson.
“You don’t know your people,” he said. “You are not a King in their eyes, or regent, or whatever it is that Gwendolyn has named you. To them, you are weak. A puppet. The McClouds are used to taking what they want by force. That is their way. You will never change them. So stop wasting your time here, and go back to Gwendolyn.”
Bronson frowned, fed up.
“You are my general,” Bronson said. “You answer to me. I don’t answer to you. I speak with the authority of Gwendolyn. Both sides of the kingdom will be united. And you will do your part by allowing the MacGil soldiers to patrol with you.”
Koovia reeled back in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
Bronson scowled; he could tell by Koovia’s face that he was lying.
“I have heard the reports,” Bronson said. “For many moons you have told me you were allowing the MacGils to patrol with our men—yet the other day I was told MacGils came to your camp and you shut them out. Are the reports not true?”
Koovia seemed flustered.
“The MacGils are not our people,” he said, defensive. “What does it matter to you? You are not one of them. You were raised here. Your father would be ashamed of you.”
Bronson darkened.
“I know where I was raised. I am your leader. You answer to me. And I say that our men will train together.”
Koovia shook his head slowly, looking Bronson up and down.
“You may be leader for now, but you won’t be for long. Our people responded to your father because he used force. Brutal force. That is what our people need. You will not employ it—and to our people, that makes you weak. And the weak always fall.”
Koovia turned his back and marched away, his men falling in behind him. Bronson stood there and watched them go, back down the hill, his headache increasing.
He could not help but wonder what on earth he was doing here.
* * *
Luanda paced in her castle chamber, the room alight with torches, impatient as night fell, waiting for Bronson’s return. He’d been gone all day, yet again, on matters related to the unification. It was, she knew, an exercise in futility, and it just made her mad at her sister. Gwendolyn had always been so naïve. What had she been thinking? That the two clans would really unite?
If she had just asked her, then Luanda would have told her at once that it would never work. The McClouds, she knew from experience, were savages. If Luanda was queen, she would have simply sealed up the Highlands, created a great wall, doubled the patrols and let the savages rot here. She would protect the Western kingdom of the Ring, and let be what may be on the Eastern side.
But Gwendolyn, always the idealist, had to let her little fantasies play out—and even worse, she had to assign Bronson to try to enforce it. Each day was getting worse in this awful place, and Luanda knew that nothing good could come of it.
It was not Luanda’s problem. Exiled here, to the other side of the Highlands, she might as well have been sentenced to prison—or to death instead. Being stuck here, having to live with these savages, in this empty castle, with nothing to do all day but wait for Bronson to return home, was the worst possible punishment Gwen could have given her.
At first, of course, Luanda had been grateful her life had been spared. But now, six moons later, her gratitude had morphed to resentment. The more time passed, the more she was feeling like her old self, feeling a growing restlessness. She was sorely disappointed; she had been sure that at some point Gwendolyn would have granted her mercy and relented and let her back into her homeland, into King’s Court. She could not believe that she was still stuck here, banished, that she had been shut out of all the wedding preparation and festivities going on across the Highlands. That she had been left to rot here all alone. It was almost too much to bear. Her sister, she felt, should have exhibited more mercy.
Luanda fumed for many moons, as her hair slowly grew back, spending many days crying. Until one day, finally, a plan had come to her, a way out of her misery, a way to gain back control. It dawned on her, as clear as day: if she had a child, that child could not be banished from King’s Court. Luanda was a young, healthy woman, and she could bear children. Royal children. After all, she was the firstborn of King MacGil, and her child would carry the bloodline. Gwendolyn might have won this generation, but Luanda realized that things could change with the next. She was determined, and she would stop at nothing, would do everything in her power, to make sure that her offspring ousted her sister’s. She would find a way to put them on the throne, and regain power.
The idea had hardened in Luanda’s mind over these past moons, and she had made Bronson sleep with her, every day and every night. Each day she had awakened expecting to be able to report the good news that she was pregnant.
And yet here she was, fuming, six moons later, and still no baby. It had been a failure, like everything else in her life. It was not working, for whatever reason. It might not ever work, she realized. She had awakened so hopeful every day, but now, she was losing hope. Their marriage seemed doomed; all of her plans seemed doomed. Even this, her backup plan, was falling apart.
The door opened and Luanda spun, caught off guard, as Bronson stormed in, ignoring her. Bronson marched across the room, lost in thought, clearly fixated by his day’s business.
Luanda had no time for his brooding; she came up behind him, grabbed his shoulders, and began to pull off his clothes. Maybe this time would be different.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’ve been waiting for you all day,” she said, slipping out of her robe, standing there naked.
Bronson barely noticed her, though, as he crossed the chamber and went to his desk, leafing through a pile of scrolls.
“You’ve been gone all day,” she said. “Now it’s time for us.”
She came up behind him and stroked his arms and shoulders. She could feel the tension in them.
Finally, he turned around.
“Please, Luanda, not now. I’ve had a terrible day.”
“So have I,” she said, irritated, losing patience. “Do you think you’re the only one who is unhappy here? I must sit here all day and wait for you. I have no one and nothing here. I want a bab
y. I need a baby.”
Bronson examined her, seeming confused.
She pulled him towards her, threw him down to the bed and jumped on top of him.
“Luanda, this is not the time. I’m not ready—”
Luanda ignored him. She did not care what Bronson wanted any more.
But to Luanda’s shock, Bronson pushed her off the bed.
Luanda stood there, humiliated, in a rage. She was furious at Bronson. At her sister. At herself. At her life.
“I said not now!” Bronson said.
“Who cares if it’s now or later?” she yelled back. “It’s not working!”
Bronson sat on the edge of the bed, looking dejected.
“My sister will give birth any day,” Luanda added. “And I will have nothing to show.”
“It is not a competition,” he said calmly. “And we have all the time in the world. Calm yourself.”
“No we don’t!” she screamed. “And you are wrong: the entire world is a competition.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “Let us not fight.”
Luanda stood there, breathing hard, fuming.
“Sorry is not good enough,” she said.
Luanda threw on her robe, marched past Bronson and stormed out the room. She would find a way to get out of this place and to regain power—no matter what she had to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Srog stood at the top of the highest peak of the Upper Isles, peering down through the rain and mist at the Bay of Crabs. He looked closely at the long jetties of boulders that stretched into the sea, squinting into the fog and blinding rain. He was dripping wet, doused by the rain, his clothes and hair wet, as he stood there beside his generals.
Srog had learned to tune out the rain ever since moving here. It was part of life on the Upper Isles: each day the sky was overcast, blanketed by rolling clouds, the wind ever-present, and the climate twenty degrees cooler, even in summer. There was always either the threat of rain, or the presence of it. No day was dry. The Upper Isles, he had learned, deserved their reputation as a gloomy, miserable place, the weather fitting its reputation—and the people matching the temperament of the weather.