by Morgan Rice
She was not prepared to give it up, to let it go. She wanted what Gwendolyn had. She wanted to be queen, here in her own home. And she would get what she wanted.
“They treat her as if she’s a Queen,” Luanda hissed to Bronson, standing by her side. He stood there stupidly, like a commoner, with a smile on his face and a mug of ale in his hand, and she hated him. What did he have to be so happy about?
Bronson turned to her, annoyed.
“She is a Queen,” he said. “Why shouldn’t they?”
“Put down that mug and stop celebrating,” she ordered, needing to let her anger out at someone.
“Why should I?” he shot back. “We’re celebrating after all. You should try it—it won’t hurt you.”
She glowered back at him.
“You are a stupid waste of a man,” she scolded him. “Do you not even realize what this means? My little sister is now Queen. We will all now have to answer to her. Including you.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked. “She seems nice enough.”
She screamed, reached up, and shoved Bronson.
“You’ll never understand,” she snapped. “I, for one, am going to do something about it.”
“Do what?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
Luanda turned and began to storm off, and Bronson hurried to catch up with her.
“I don’t like that look in your eye,” he said. “I know that look. It never leads to anything good. Where are you going?”
She glared back at him, impatient.
“I will speak to my mother, the former Queen. She still holds a good deal of power. Of all people, she should understand. I am her firstborn, after all. The throne deserves to be mine. She will establish it for me.”
She turned to go but felt a cold hand on her arm as Bronson stopped her and stared back. He was not smiling now.
“You’re a fool,” he said back coldly. “You are not the woman I once knew. Your ambition has changed you. Your sister has been more than gracious to us. She took us in when we fled from the McClouds, when we had nowhere to go. Do you not remember? She trusted us. Would you return the favor this way? She is a kind and wise Queen. She was chosen by your father. Her. Not you. You would only make a fool of yourself to meddle in the affairs of King’s Court.”
Luanda glowered back, about to explode.
“We are not in King’s Court anymore,” she hissed. “And these affairs you speak of—these are my affairs. I am a MacGil. The first MacGil.” She raised a finger and jabbed him in the chest. “And don’t you ever tell me what to do again.”
With that, Luanda turned on her heel and hurried across the courtyard, down the steps to lower Silesia, determined to find her mother and to oust her sister once and for all.
* * *
Luanda stormed through the corridors of the castle in Lower Silesia, twisting and turning her way past guards until she finally reached her mother’s chamber. Without knocking or acknowledging the attendants, she barged in.
The former Queen sat there, her back to Luanda, in a tall wooden chair, flanked by two attendants and Hafold, staring out a small window into the blackness of night. Through the window, Luanda could see all the torches lining lower Silesia, a thousand sparks of light, and could hear the distant cries of celebration.
“You never learned to knock, Luanda,” her mother said flatly.
Luanda stopped in her tracks, surprised that her mother knew it was her.
“How did you know it was me?” Luanda asked.
Her mother shook her head, her back still to her.
“You always had a certain gait about you. Too rushed. Too impatient. Like your father.”
Luanda frowned.
“I wish to speak with you in private,” she said.
“That never amounts to anything good, does it?” her mother retorted.
After a long silence, finally her mother waved her hand; her two attendants and Hafold left, crossing the room and slamming the oak door behind them.
Luanda stood there in the silence and then hurried forward, walking around to the other side of her mother’s chair, determined to face her.
She stood across from her and looked down and was surprised to see how much her mother had aged, had dwindled, since she’d last seen her. She was healthy again since the poisoning, yet she looked much older than she ever had. Her eyes had a deadness to them, as if a part of her had died long ago, with her husband.
“I’m happy to see you again mother,” she said.
“No you’re not,” her mother said back, staring at her blankly, coldly. “Tell me what it is you want from me.”
Luanda was irked by her, as always.
“Who is to say that I want anything from you other than to say hello and wish you well? I am your daughter after all. Your firstborn daughter.”
Her mother blinked.
“You’ve always wanted something from me,” her mother said.
Luanda clenched her jaws, steeling herself. She was wasting time.
“I want justice,” Luanda finally said.
Her mother paused.
“And what form should that take?” her mother asked carefully.
Luanda stepped forward, determined.
“I want the throne. The queenship. The title and rank my sister has snatched from me. It is mine by right. I am firstborn. Not she. I was born to you and father first. It is not right. I’ve been passed over.”
Her mother sighed, unmoved.
“You were passed over by no one. You were given first choice of marriage. You chose a McCloud. You chose to leave us, to have your own queenship elsewhere.”
“My father chose McCloud for me,” Luanda countered.
“Your father asked you. And you chose it,” the Queen said. “You chose to be Queen in a distant land rather than to stay here with your own. If you had chosen otherwise, perhaps you would be queen now. But you are not.”
Luanda reddened.
“But that is not fair!” she insisted. “I am older than she!”
“But your father loved her more,” her mother said simply.
The words cut into her like a dagger, and Luanda’s whole body went cold. Finally, she knew her mother had spoken the truth.
“And who did you love more, mother?” Luanda asked.
Her mother looked up at her, held her gaze for a long time, expressionless, as if summing her up.
“Neither of you, I suppose,” she finally said. “You were too ambitious for your own good. And Gwendolyn….” But her mother trailed off with a puzzled expression.
Luanda shivered.
“You don’t love anyone, do you?” she asked. “You never did. You’re just an old, loveless woman.”
Her mother smiled back.
“And you are powerless,” she replied. “Or else you would not be visiting an old, loveless woman.”
Luanda stepped forward, impassioned.
“I demand that you give me my throne! Order Gwendolyn to hand power to me!”
Her mother laughed.
“And why would I do that?” she asked. “She makes a better Queen than you ever would.”
Luanda turned red and felt her whole body on fire.
“You shall regret this mother,” she seethed, her voice filled with rage.
Luanda turned and stormed from the room, and the last thing she heard before she slammed the door were her mother’s final words, haunting her:
“When you reach my age,” she said, “you will find there are few things left in life that you do not regret.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thor stood somberly beside his Legion brothers—Reece, Elden, O’Connor, and Conven, along with the dozen other Legion who survived Andronicus’ invasion—all of them lined up, holding torches. Late in the night, the festivities winding down, they stood amongst a huge crowd in the city square, Gwen facing them as a heavy silence overcame the crowd. Behind him an immense funeral pyre was erected. It stood a dozen feet high
and stretched a hundred feet, and on it were laid all the brave souls who had been murdered by Andronicus’ men.
Among them, Thor had been pained to learn, was his former commander, Kolk, along with dozens of his Legion brothers and Silver. It weighed heavily on his heart, to think all these brave warriors had died defending the Ring while he had not made it back in time to help. If only he had found the Sword sooner, he thought, perhaps none of this would have happened.
Gwendolyn had called for this funeral service, in the midst of the celebrations, to mark and remember the dead, all those who had fallen defending the city. Thor was so proud of her, standing up there, before these thousands, all looking to her with hope, all looking to her as their leader.
She bowed her head and thousands followed suit. In the thick silence, all that could be heard were the flickering of the torches and the howling of the wind. In her somber expression, Thor could see her own suffering in her face. She could truly empathize with those in grief, and Thor knew that whatever words she was about to utter would not be empty ones.
“In the midst of our greatest joy,” Gwendolyn began gravely, her voice booming out, the voice of a leader, “we must pause to honor our greatest tragedy. These brave souls gave their lives to defend our country, our city, our honor. You fought side-by-side with them. We were the lucky ones to survive. They were not.”
She breathed.
“May their souls be taken by the gods, and may we make a place for each of them in our memory. They fought for a cause which we carry on. The Empire still remains within our borders and each one of us must fight to the death until we have driven out the invaders from our precious Ring for good.”
“HEAR, HEAR!” screamed the crowd as one, the chant of thousands rising up to the midnight air.
She turned and held her torch high, and Thor followed with the others. They gravely approached the pyre, then each leaned forward and set their flames to the wood.
In moments the flames spread throughout the night, creating a massive fire and lighting the city square. The flames rose high in the cold night, and Thor could feel the heat even from here. He forced himself not to recoil, forced himself to stare into the fire, to remember all the brothers he had lost, to remember Kolk. He owed Kolk a great deal: he had accepted him into the Legion, even if grudgingly, and had helped train him. They’d had their differences, but Thor never wanted to see him dead. On the contrary, Thor had been looking forward to seeing Kolk’s expression when he returned with the Sword in hand. It was yet another reason for vengeance.
As the fire blazed towards the heavens, Thor saw the distraught faces of his remaining Legion brothers. None were more distraught than Conven, whose faced was still etched with grief for the loss of his twin brother.
Gwendolyn rejoined Thor by his side, and as they all stood there in the silence, staring into the flames with thousands of others, Aberthol, using his cane, stepped forward and emerged from the crowd. He turned and faced them, clearing his throat against the crackling of the immense flames.
“Tonight is the Winter Solstice. From this day forward, each day grows a little lighter, a little longer. We have turned the corner, and it is no coincidence that our salvation has come on this day. It was written in the stars. We are on the road to renewal, to rebirth. We will build all that once was, once again. But we must always remember the destruction. For only from the ashes can there grow the strongest tree.
“The Ring has suffered under the weight of hundreds of years of battle,” he said. “This is not the first funeral for brave warriors. Nor will it be the last. But these brave young souls here today died fending off an invasion on a scale unlike any other their forefathers had known. Their deeds shall be recorded in the Annals of the MacGils, and shall be remembered for all time.”
“HEAR, HEAR!” shouted the crowd.
Aberthol paused.
“Remember that you carry a piece of them with you now,” he continued. “Do not think your life is permanent. The greatest illusion we all live under is the permanence of life. You are mortal, like they. Do not hesitate to meet your enemy, to live a life of valor. Let us transform our grief. Let us take up their cause, seek justice, and transform these funeral rites into a rite of swords.”
“HEAR, HEAR!” shouted the crowd.
Bells tolled, Aberthol retreated, and as he did, the crowd began to disperse. Thor and the others slowly turned and followed. Small bonfires were erected all throughout the city square, as people broke off into smaller groups, the mood of the night’s festivities having turned somber as they remembered their dead at midnight.
The crowd broke off into small groups, and people huddled on the ground before their bonfires, passed around wineskins, roasted desserts, and told stories. Others fell asleep where they sat or lay, exhausted from the day of battle, from the heat of the fires, and from bellies filled with food and wine.
Thor broke off into a small group with Gwendolyn, Kendrick, Godfrey, Reece, Elden, O’Connor, and Conven. Reece was accompanied by Selese, and Elden by Indra. Thor was happy to see Reece with the girl he had not stopped talking about throughout their quest.
The group settled comfortably on the ground, around the flames of a small fire. Gwen sat next to Thor and he draped an arm around her, pulling her in close, her fur mantle soft on his palm. Krohn came up close and lay his head in Gwen’s lap and Thor stroked his head and handed him another piece of meat. Krohn ate happily. Thor had forgotten how attached Krohn was to Gwen, and he did not know if Krohn was happier to see him or her.
As they all sat around the fire, a drink was passed around which Thor had never seen. Thor looked down as a cup of foaming white liquid, warm to the touch, was placed in his hands. It was welcome in the cold night.
“Koonta,” Srog explained to the curious group. “The drink of the Silesians.”
Thor held it in both his hands and raised it to his lips. It was spicy and warm, frothing at the top, and it tasted like vanilla mixed with rum. It was delicious, and as Thor drank, it warmed his throat and chest. It also went right to his head, and he immediately realized he’d drunk too much. Everyone around him did the same.
Thor looked up to see two of the surviving Legion members approach and stand over their group.
“Can we join you?” one of them asked.
Thor had remembered meeting these Legion members once, briefly, when he had first joined: Serna and Krog. Serna, the one who addressed them, was a tall, broad soldier, about Thor’s age, with long brown hair and piercing brown eyes, wide and narrowly shaped. He looked prematurely aged, hollow circles under his eyes, and Thor knew that if he had been one of the few who had survived, he must be a good warrior indeed. The other, Krog, was several years older, short, with darker skin, a shaved head and a large hoop earring in his left ear. He wore a vest with no sleeves, even in the cold, and his muscles were visibly bulging through it. He was unsmiling, and Thor could see that he was a man who lived for war.
They both looked down at Thor with respect, and indeed, Thor noticed everyone looking at him differently since his return.
“Please do,” Thor said, always one to be gracious and hospitable. He slid over and made room; they came and sat beside him.
They nodded in greeting at the other Legion in the circle, who nodded back. After so much time spent together with Reece, Elden, O’Connor, and Conven, it felt a bit odd to see their group expand, especially after the loss of Conval. But it felt good, too. After all, they were all Legion, and they all needed to stick together—especially until the Legion could be replenished with a new crop of warriors.
Serna and Krog’s eyes fell to the Destiny Sword at his belt, and they looked at Thor as if he were a god.
“Is it heavy?” Serna asked.
The others all turned and looked at Thor, as all eyes fell to the Destiny Sword. It was the first time he had been asked about it, and he was not quite sure how to respond. He hadn’t really thought about it that much—it had just felt natural.
“Actually, it is lighter than my other swords,” Thor replied. “It feels weightless.”
“But twenty men could not wield it,” Krog said. “It is heavy. It is just not heavy in your hands.”
“That is because you are the one meant to wield it,” Kendrick added.
Thor shrugged.
“I don’t know why,” Thor answered humbly. “It is as much a mystery to me as to anyone else.”
“It is because you carry a great destiny,” Aberthol said, leaning forward from across the fire, face aglow in the flames.
“What destiny is that?” Thor asked, eager to understand more.
Aberthol shook his head.
“No one knows,” he said. “The Sword has been written and sung about for seven generations of MacGil Kings, but the truth is, no one really knows its origin, or what it means. All that is known is that it maintains the Shield. And that you’re the only one in recorded history, of all the generations, of all the kings, to have wielded it.”
The group stared at Thor in awe, and he felt self-conscious. He did not savor all the attention.
“All I have done is try to serve the Ring,” Thor replied.
“And you have served it well, indeed, my friend,” Kendrick said, reaching over and clasping a hand on his shoulder.
“I am not done yet,” Thor said. “Not while Andronicus remains. Tomorrow, as the sun breaks, I shall fly Mycoples and wield the Sword, and battle whatever remains of Andronicus’ army. I shall not give him time to regroup and escape on his ships.”
“And we shall join you,” Kendrick chimed in.
“We may not be as fast as you,” Atme added, “or as powerful as Mycoples. But we have men, and we have swords, and we will kill whomever we can.”
Thor nodded.
“Then I shall welcome your accompaniment,” Thor said.
“And when it’s done?” O’Connor chimed in. “What shall we do when there are no more wars left to wage?”