by Morgan Rice
Only Conven seemed on-edge. He had abstained from the liquid. Instead he sat there, jaw set, staring into the flames with an intensity that scared Thor. He seemed as if he were lost in another world, deep inside a world of grief. Thor wondered if he would ever come back to them, ever be the same old Conven that he had been. The others saw it, too, and Thor caught Reece looking at him with concern. They exchanged a look, but neither of them knew what to do or say to make Conven feel better.
Indra looked over at Conven, and she reached over and handed another bowl to Elden and whispered something in his ear. Elden nodded, leaned forward, and held the bowl out towards Conven, sitting beside him.
But Conven not even look over at it.
“You should drink,” Elden said, his voice punctuating the silence amidst the crackling of the flames. “We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. Now is time to rest.”
But Conven, still staring into the flames, shook his head curtly, and Elden set the bowl down, clearly sympathizing with Conven’s grief.
Elden cleared his throat.
“Conven,” he said. “Did I ever tell you about how I joined the Legion? About how I left my village?”
Conven slowly shook his head, still not looking at him.
Elden cleared his throat several times, then took a deep breath, now staring into the flames himself.
“My father, you see, he was a blacksmith. I was his apprentice. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. I didn’t want to. I wanted to be a warrior. To train with the Legion. I could not imagine a life in my village, being a blacksmith my entire life, at the mercy of serving others. I enjoyed the hammer and the forge, but it was not enough for me. I needed something bigger.
“The problem was, my father was deep in debt to our landlord. A certain Mister Tribble. My father was a good and decent and hard-working man, and he always paid his debts. But our village was small, and there was a limit to the amount of business we had. We were not near any crossroads, and business rarely passed through. My father tried as hard as he could to be prosperous. He worked harder than you could imagine. But even so, it just was enough to pay for our food and our rent. But Mr. Tribble kept raising the rent, every year, exorbitantly, and we just couldn’t keep up.
“Over time, my father fell deeper and deeper into debt to Mister Tribble. And when the time came for me to leave our village, to join the Legion, I was not allowed. Mister Tribble forbid my father to let me go. He insisted that I continue to work as his apprentice, to pay off the debts—or else he would kick my father out of our cottage.
“My father was furious. He told me to go—he wanted me to be happy above all. But I couldn’t. He needed me. And I knew that it was my place. So I stayed behind, to help him pay off Mister Tribble, who already owned nearly all of the town and was richer than you could imagine. This was what stopped me from joining.”
Elden fell into silence, staring into the flames.
“But I don’t understand?” Conven said, finally snapping out of it and turning to Elden. “You did join. What happened?”
Elden stared long into the flames, cleared his throat, and finally continued.
“One day, Mister Tribble came to our house. It wasn’t enough that he was squeezing every penny out of us, with interest. It wasn’t enough that he forbid me to leave and join the Legion. It wasn’t enough that my father did nothing but work to pay his rent. One day, he decided he wanted more. He decided he wanted to take over our house, and make it a bar. He showed up one day, and announced that we had to be packed up and out by morning light. On the street. He didn’t care where we went. That was that. He turned and walked out.
“My father just collapsed before me. He wept and wept, like a broken man. And that was the moment that changed my life. I could not stand to see my father like that. I could no longer stand the injustice of it all.
“I charged out of our house, mounted our horse and chased after Mister Tribble. I overcame him on the road, on the outskirts of town, and I confronted him. I pulled him down from his cart, and my goal was to talk sense into him. To make him understand. Not to hurt him. But when I pulled him down, he reached for a dagger and sliced my cheek. He left me this scar,” Elden said, pointing to the scar that ran beneath his eye, aflame against the blaze of the fire. Thor had always wondered about that scar, but had never asked.
Elden cleared his throat.
“Mr. Tribble then raised his dagger and aimed it for my heart. Even though I was weaponless, and had not struck him. My defenses kicked in. I redirected his hand away from me, and as it happened, he ended up stabbing himself in the stomach. I’ll never forget his expression as he looked into my eyes, dying, on the way to the underworld. I held him in my arms for about a minute, until he collapsed at my feet. It was the first man I had ever killed.”
Elden sighed, frowning, and it seemed he was reliving it as he spoke.
“It so happened that the law had been out patrolling, and they saw me, holding Mister Tribble, the knife in his stomach as he died. They blew their horn, and they came charging for me. If they caught me, I knew I’d be sitting in a jail right now.”
“So what did you do?” Conven asked, finally snapping out of it and engrossed in the story.
“I didn’t wait,” Elden said. “I couldn’t. No matter what I said, they would assume my guilt. So I jumped on my horse and continue riding and I never turned back. “I rode all the way to the next town, and it so happened that was the time they were coming through for the Selection. I stood with the other boys, and I stood a foot taller than all of them, and I made sure I was selected. Thank god I was. It saved my life. If I ever went back to my hometown, I’d probably be arrested.”
There came a long silence as Elden finished and they all stared into the flames.
“And whatever came of your father?” Conven asked.
Elden shook his head.
“I do not know. I have not seen him since.”
Elden sighed.
“I do not even know why I’m telling you this story,” he added.
Indra smiled.
“I warned you all. It is the qurum milk. It quickens the blood, and urges people to speak their deepest thoughts.”
They all turned and stared back into the flames, crackling in the night, as a silence fell over them. Conven did not necessarily seem happier than before, but hearing the story did seem to help snap him out of his gloom.
We all feel for your loss,” Reece said to Conven. “But you are not the only one who has lost. Each of us here, we have all lost someone dear to us. I…” he said, then lowered his head, pausing as if debating. “Well…I…I never told anyone this before, but I lost my dear cousin.”
“Your cousin?” Thor asked.
Slowly, Reece nodded, looking sadly into the flames.
“My father, King MacGil, was the eldest of three brothers. His younger brother, Lord MacGil, lives with his four children in the Upper Isles. The Upper Isles are part of the Ring, yet separated by the Tartuvian. They are not far, maybe fifty miles offshore. Have you ever been?”
The others shook their heads. Thor dimly recalled hearing of the Upper Isles, once, in school.
“They are a rough and desolate place,” Reece continued. “Stormy seas. More rain than sun, and always a driving wind. Perched on the edge of cliffs, it is a beautiful terrain, but not for the weak of heart. They say the Upper Isles breed a different breed of man. And this is where the other MacGils live.
“When I was younger, we would visit. Many times. My father and his brothers used to be close. As close as brothers could be. And I was close to my cousins. Lord MacGil had three boys and one girl. The girl, Stara, is my age. She is the most beautiful and noble girl you have ever met. Inside and out. When I was young, we were raised as close as brother and sister.”
Reece sighed, staring into the flames, seeming weighed down by the tale.
“At some point along the way,” Reece continued, “my father and his younger brother had a falling ou
t. Apparently, so the rumor goes, his brother became ambitious. He was next in line for the throne, after all, and he had new advisors whispering in his ear. He began to hatch a plan to oust my father. Or at least, that’s what my father’s spies told him.
“We visited less and less, and on our final visit there, the mood was already tense. It broke my heart. Because you see, I never told anyone, but I was in love with Stara. And she was in love with me. We had vowed that when we grew up, we would marry each other. And every year I saw her, we would renew that vow, and our love for each other never waned.”
Reece took a deep breath.
“One night, in Lord MacGil’s castle, while he was hosting us, his oldest son died. And that’s when everything changed.”
“How?” Thor asked.
“We were all at a feast, and a glass of wine was poured for Lord MacGil and his eldest son drank it in his stead. He keeled over, dead on the spot. The wine was poisoned, and it had been meant for Lord MacGil. Given the political climate, Lord MacGil assumed his older brother was behind it. He kicked us out, and after that night, he never spoke to my father again—and forbid his family to speak to us, too.
“We all left hastily, in the dark of night, and never returned to the Upper Isles, and I never saw my cousins again. Nor did they ever come to visit us.”
Reece sighed.
“The irony is that I was close to my cousin who died; he was like an older brother to me. And as far as Stara…I still see her face every night. I want to talk to her again. To tell her that we had nothing to do with it. But I know I shall never be able to. That was the reason I have dated no other girl since. It wasn’t until I met Selese that, for the first time, I was able to see another woman’s face in her stead.”
They all settled back into a heavy silence as the wind whipped through the desert, fanning the flames. Thor looked at his brothers and realized that each was burdened by his own quiet desperation. He was not the only one; neither was Conven. They were all young, yet they were all suffering in some small way, all already weighed down by life. Some, he realized, were just better at hiding it than others.
Thor wanted to ponder his further, but his eyes began to close on him, and he let them. Tomorrow, after all, would bring the toughest leg of their quest and, perhaps, his final day.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Gwendolyn rode beside Steffen, the two of them alone on the winding forest trail, riding, as they had been for hours, through the deep wood. As they proceeded on their endless trek, slowing the horses to a walk, they passed beneath towering trees with gnarled branches, curving in tangled arches over their head, blocking out the sky. It was a surreal landscape, and Gwendolyn felt as if she were riding into a fairytale. Or into somebody’s nightmare.
The only thing illuminating the forest was the dimmest streak of sunlight, somewhere in the distance. The Southern Forest. It was a forest of gloom, a place she had feared as a child. It was rumored to be thick with thieves and scoundrels, a place that even honorable knights feared to tread—much less a woman practically alone. Yet, at least, she kept reminding herself, she had escaped Silesia, at least she was alive.
“My lady?” Steffen asked for the third time.
She looked over, snapped out of her reverie, and saw Steffen. She was so grateful for his presence. He was like a rock to her, the one person left she could rely on to always be at her side.
“My lady, are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded back, dimly aware he had been trying to talk.
Gwen was amazed they had made it this far already. She closed her eyes and recalled their fleeing the castle, recalled Steffen’s leading her through the secret tunnels. They crawled for she did not know how long, crouching low, brushing spiders off as she went, her back killing her. The blackness of the tunnel had seemed never-ending, and at many moments she was sure that Steffen had chosen the wrong path.
Finally, the tunnel had ascended, twisting up and up, and as they’d reached the very top, she’d been amazed to see them punch through soil and grass. They emerged to find themselves somewhere in a field of grass, miles away from Silesia. Steffen had done it. The two of them were far from anywhere, no Empire troops in sight. Gwen had been grateful for the sunlight, and grateful for the cold, fresh air on her face.
As they’d surfaced Steffen had whistled, and out from behind a cave emerged two beautiful gleaming horses.
“They are Srog’s property,” Steffen had explained, as they’d each mounted their stallions. “This was an escape hatch, meant for the King and Queen, in case of emergencies. Srog instructed me to use the horses. No one else can use them now: we are the only ones to get out.”
They had galloped south for miles, heading towards the Tower of Refuge, somewhere on the other side of the Ring, the two of them alone charging across the plains. They charged and charged, while day turned into night, and night into day, hardly taking a break. They stuck to isolated terrain, riding in places they knew Andronicus’ empire could not be. They crossed nearly the entire Ring, avoiding major cities and towns, traversing the plains until they had finally, but hours before, entered the great Southern Forest.
Now, finally, exhausted, they had slowed their hard riding to a walk. They finally felt far enough from Silesia, from Andronicus’ reach, to slow down. They also felt extremely cautious in this forest, and wanted to go more slowly and be vigilant.
As they went, the two of them searched the gnarled woods, looking warily about at their surroundings, on guard. The woods were far too thick to peer through, and the hairs raised on the back of Gwen’s neck. She imagined all sorts of creatures staring back at her. Winter birds cawed as they went, and Gwen had an increasingly bad feeling. She wondered if they had a mistake attempting this.
But Gwen realized she should be grateful they had escaped alive, had made it this far, and that Steffen was with her. They were close to the Tower of Refuge now, and they only had to stick to the course. Still, these last few miles were the hardest. With every step, she felt an increasing sense of danger. She had been in many woods in her life, and this wood did not feel safe to her. There was a reason that the Empire troops had not entered it, and a reason none of the King’s men ever entered it. It was too thick, too susceptible to ambush. Everyone skirted it, even if that meant adding days to a journey. But not her: she couldn’t afford to. It was most the direct route to the Tower of Refuge, and the safest route to avoid detection by the Empire.
“My lady, you don’t have to do this,” Steffen said.
Gwen looked at him blankly, lost in her thoughts.
“Do what?” she asked.
“The Tower of Refuge,” he said. “To cut yourself off from the world. There are people who love you. Silesia is no longer safe, but there are other places you can hide, other places you can wait until Andronicus’ men leave. But the Tower…that is forever. Those who enter never leave. It is a tower of nuns, doomed to silence.”
Gwen shrugged. She felt her life was over anyway, that the best part of it had been stolen from her by Andronicus and McCloud.
“Whether it’s this jail or another,” she responded, “it’s just a matter of choice. We all live in our own private jails.”
They fell back into silence as the two of them walked, and Gwen could feel Steffen wanted to rebut her; but he held his tongue out of respect.
Gwen thought she heard a twig snap, and at the same moment Steffen suddenly held out a hand, stopping her and himself.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Shhh,” Steffen said, looking all about, listening.
Gwen felt her heart pounding, as there came another twig snap.
She turned slowly, and froze as a large group of miscreants approached, more than a dozen of them. They emerged from all sides of the wood, each looking more desperate than the next. They wore rags, had dirt-covered faces and fingernails, were unshaven and missing teeth, men in their twenties, all equipped with crude weapons on their belts. They looked thin, and
they had a frantic look in their eyes. They all had dark, soulless eyes, and Gwen could see that they all meant harm.
“That looks like Royal garb to me,” one called out to the other. His accent was crude and rough, the accent of the South, and the tone of his voice sent a chill right through Gwendolyn.
“Sure does,” answered another. “What have we here? Some sort of lady?”
“I swear I recognize that face,” said another. “Looks like a MacGil.”
“Can’t be,” said another. “The MacGils are all dead by now. Unless this one here’s a corpse.”
“Prettiest corpse I ever did see.”
The crowd of ruffians broke into crude laughter, and Gwen’s anxiety heightened as they got closer.
“I’m telling you it is,” insisted one of them. “They’re not all dead. The daughter. The girl.”
They all studied her more seriously.
“Can’t be,” one said. “She’s in Silesia.”
“Maybe she escaped,” said another.
Gwen felt increasingly uncomfortable as they scrutinized her. She wished she was not wearing the royal mantle that Srog had given her, the royal jewels, the rings on her fingers, her bracelets and necklaces. She realized she must be a walking target to these people.
“Come any further, and you will regret that you had,” Steffen warned beside her, his voice steely cold.
The group broke into laughter.
“What have we here? A hunchbacked dwarf keeping guard of the lady, is it?”
“What happened, they ran out of ordinary guards?”
More laughter.
“My my, you must really be hard put if you’re relying on this pygmy to do you any good,” said another, shaking his head.
“I will not warn you again,” Steffen threatened, his voice dropping in deadly seriousness.