A Sky of Spells (Book #9 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (20 page)

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 baby. 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.

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.

These past six moons Srog
had come to know these Upper Islanders; they were a wily people, and could
never be fully trusted. His six moons of ruling here had met with nothing but
frustration, the people here clearly determined to thwart his rule at every
turn, to sabotage his efforts. They were a rebellious folk, and they were intent
on breaking off the yolk of the new queen Gwendolyn.

“There, my Lord,” the
general cried out to be heard over the wind. “Do you see it?”

Srog peered into the mist and
saw bobbing there, in the rough ocean, the remnant of one of the queen’s ships,
tossing in the waves, smashing into the rocks. The waves crashed all around the
boat, and the ship smashed again and again into the rocks. The ship, empty of
men, spun in each direction. Srog could hear the splintering of wood even from
here as it was smashed to pieces against the rocks.

“The anchor was cut early
this morning,” the general continued. “By the time our men detected it, it was
too late. They could not salvage it in time, my Lord.”

“You are certain it was cut?”
Srog asked.

The general reached out and
held in his hand a severed piece of rope.

“A clean-cut, my Lord,” he explained.
“No rock did this. It was a man’s dagger. Sabotage.”

Srog examined the rope, and
realized he was correct.

Srog sighed, weary from this
place. He had spent most his life in Silesia, a grand, civilized city, where
the people were honest, noble. He had ruled it well, uniting upper and lower
Silesia, achieving what no Lord had ever managed to do. Silesia was a palace
next to this dump, and Silesians were nothing like these Upper Islanders. After
all his time here, Srog was slowly settling into the conclusion that the Upper
Islanders enjoyed their subversion; they thrived on it. More and more, he
sensed that they were a people who could not be ruled.

Each time Srog found an
Upper Islander he could trust, that person, too, betrayed him. He was now at
the point where he trusted no one.

“Increase patrols at the
ships,” Srog said. “I want a soldier on duty at the moorings, all through the
day and night. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the general said.
He turned and hurried down the ridge, ordering his men, who all burst into
action.

Srog looked down and surveyed
the dozens of queen’s ships anchored at the wide sandy beach, and prayed that
none of them met the same fate. This was the second ship this month that had been
destroyed by sabotage, and he was determined not to lose another one.

Srog turned and hurried
through the awful weather, followed by his advisors, jogging back to the warmth
of the castle. It was hardly a castle—more like a fort, built square and low to
the ground, with no artistic imagination or aesthetic appeal. It was
utilitarian, uninspired and cold, much like the people of this place.

Srog hurried through the
doors, opened for him, and rushed inside. The door slammed behind them, and he finally
found quiet from the raging wind and rain. He stood there, his body dripping
from the wet, and took off his outer shirt, as he was accustomed to by now,
hanging it on a hook. He marched through the fort, running his hands through
his wet hair, guards stiffening to attention as he went.

Srog passed through various
corridors and finally entered the great hall, small compared to the castles he
was used to. A square room with low ceilings, it had a large fireplace along
one wall, with table and chairs positioned close to it. The Upper Islanders always
stayed close to a fire, needing warmth and heat to dry off from the weather,
and now there were several dozen men seated around the table.

Srog took a seat at the
center of the table, close to the fireplace, and ran his wet hand through his
hair and over his clothes several times, doing his best to dry it off. Several
mangy dogs moved out of his way as he came close. They sat close by, repositioning
themselves, and looked up at him, waiting for food.

Srog threw them a piece of
meat from the table, then reached over, grabbed a goblet of wine, and drank the
whole thing, wanting to make this place go away. He rubbed his head in his
hands. This island gave him a massive headache. A second ship sabotaged by
these people. What was wrong with them? Why did their resentments and petty
rivalries run so deep? Srog was beginning to feel that Gwendolyn had made a
mistake to try to unite the Upper Isles with the mainland. He was feeling more
and more that she should abandon the whole place, and let it fall prey to its
own destiny, as her father had before her.

Srog looked up and saw
seated across from him Tirus’ three sons, Karus, Falus and Matus. Around the rest
of the table sat several dozen more warriors and noblemen of the Upper Isles, all
loyal to Tirus, all deep into their drinking and food, as torches were lit all
around them. They were all settling in for the night.

Up here, they celebrated the
Summer Solstice a day late, and this meager, somber meal was this Isle’s
version of celebration. Srog shuddered, and not just from the wet and the cold.
He missed King’s Court; he missed Silesia, and he pined to be back on the
mainland. He could not help but feel his time here was futility.

Srog wished he could understand
these Upper Islanders, but try as he did, he could not. They claimed that the
source of their upset stemmed from Tirus’ imprisonment; yet after six moons of
observing them, Srog did not believe that was all of it. He felt that, even if Tirus
were set free, these people would still find some cause for subversion.

“And what reports today, my
lord?” Matus asked, sitting beside him. Srog had learned that Matus was the only
Upper Islander he could trust.

“Another ship sabotaged,” Srog
answered grimly. “Lost to the rocks. Gwendolyn will not be happy.”

Srog looked down at the
scroll before him, finished penning letter for Gwendolyn, and handed it to a
waiting attendant.

“Send this off with the next
falcon,” Srog ordered.

“Yes, my Lord,” the
attendant said, hurrying off.

Srog wondered if the
attendant truly would follow out his order, or if the missive would, as so many
others, get lost mysteriously.

“Sabotage is a strong word,”
Falus said darkly.

The other soldiers around
the table slowly quieted, all turning and looking Srog’s way.

Srog stared back at Falus,
Tirus’ eldest son. He resembled Tirus exactly. He stared back, defiant.

“The queen’s ships are meant
for smoother waters,” Karus added. “Perhaps the tides snapped the ropes.”

Srog shook his head, annoyed.

“No tides did this,” he
said, “and the queen’s ships can traverse waters stronger than these. It was
the work of men.”

“Perhaps it was the work of one
of your men?” Falus asked. “Perhaps you have a traitor amongst you?”

Srog was exhausted by Karus’
and Falus’ subtle reasoning, both staring back at him with the same dark,
defiant eyes of their father.

“And perhaps some great sea
monster with perfectly square teeth jumped up and ate the rope,” Srog answered
sarcastically.

Some of the warriors about
the table snickered, and Falus and Karus reddened and grimaced back.

“You mock us,” Falus said,
threateningly.

“Your people are sabotaging
our ships,” Srog said, his voice rising. “And I want to know why.”

The room grew tense.

“Perhaps they are unhappy
that your queen has imprisoned our leader like a common criminal,” came a voice
from the end of the table.

Srog looked over to see that
it was one of the nobles; a muted grunt of approval arose among the table’s other
nobles.

“Your leader,” Srog
countered, “was a traitor to the Ring. He joined the Empire against us. Gwendolyn’s
sentence was lenient. He deserved hanging.”

“He was a traitor to
your
Ring,” said another noble. “Not ours.”

The other nobles grunted in agreement.

Srog stared back, his anger
rising.

“Just because you live on
these isles, it doesn’t make you separate from us. You are still protected by
our armies.”

“We do fine in these Upper Isles
without your help,” one said.

“Perhaps our people just don’t
want you here,” said another. “Perhaps they don’t like the look of the Queen’s
ships filling our shores.”

“No one likes to be
occupied,” said another.

“You are not occupied. You
are free. Your men come to our shores, and we come to yours. We protect you
from foreign enemies, and our ships come to you filled with supplies for your
countrymen, supplies you dearly need.”

“We do not need protecting,”
said another noble. “Nor do we need your supplies. If you MacGils would stay on
your mainland, we would have no problems.”

“Oh?” Srog countered, “Then
why did you MacGils invade us unprovoked and try to take the mainland for
yourselves?”

The nobles reddened, unable
to respond. They looked at each other, then slowly, sourly, one of them got up,
scraping his chair back along the stone, standing and facing his men.

“My meat has soured,” he
said.

He turned and walked from
the room, slamming the door behind him.

A thick, tense silence
followed.

Slowly, one at a time, the
other nobles rose and walked from the room.

Now Srog sat with just three
men at the table—Tirus’ three sons, Falus, Karus and Matus. Srog looked about,
and felt more on edge ever.

“Just release our father,” Falus
said to him quietly. “Then our men will let your ships be.”

“Your father tried to kill
our queen,” Srog said. “And he betrayed us twice. He cannot be released.”

“Then as long as he’s in his
cell, do not expect our people to tolerate you,” Karus said.

The two brothers stood and
began to walk out. They stopped and turned to Matus.

“You’re not joining us?” Falus
asked, surprised.

Matus sat there defiantly.

“My place is here. At this
table. The queen’s table.”

Falus and Karus shook their
heads in disgust, then turned and stormed out.

Srog sat there, at the
mostly empty table, feeling hollowed out.

“My Lord, I apologize for
them,” Matus said. “Gwendolyn was more than kind to spare my father’s life.”

“I do not understand your
people,” Srog said. “For the life of me, I do not understand them. What does it
take to rule them well? I ruled a great city, far greater than this. But with
these people, I cannot rule them.”

“Because mine are a people
not meant to be ruled,” Matus said. “They are defiant by nature—even to my
father. That was the secret my father knew. Do not try to rule them; the less
you try, the more they may come around. Then again, they might not. They are
stubborn people, with little to lose. That is the reason they live here—they do
not want anything to do with the mainland. They are wrong in almost everything
they do, but they might be right about one thing: you might do yourself and Gwendolyn
a greater service to bring your assets elsewhere.”

Srog shook his head.

“Gwendolyn needs the Upper Isles.
She needs a unified Ring. All the MacGils are of one family, sharing blood.
This division, it makes no sense.”

“Sometimes geography creates
a great divide amongst a people over time. This family has grown apart.”

An attendant came by and
placed a new goblet of wine before Srog, and he picked it up.

“You are the only one I can
completely trust here,” Srog said, appreciative. “How is it that you are unlike
the rest of your people?”

“I despise my father,” Matus
said. “I despise everything he stands for. He has no principles, no honor. I
admired Gwendolyn’s father, my uncle, King MacGil, greatly. I always admired all
of the MacGils of the mainland. They live by their honor, no matter what it
takes. That is the life I’ve always wanted.”

“Well, you have lived it
yourself,” Srog said approvingly.