A Sky of Spells (Book #9 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (23 page)

Reece grabbed hold of the thick,
knotted rope, leaned over the edge of the ship, and threw up yet again, as the
ship tossed and turned on the rolling seas, as it had been ever since he left
the mainland. He grabbed hold of the thick knotted rope and did his best to
straighten himself. He leaned back and wiped his mouth, grateful that they were
close.

Despite the summer month, Reece
shivered. It was unforgiving here in the Upper Isles, at least twenty degrees
colder than it had been on the mainland; the currents, too, were more turbulent,
and the cool ocean spray hung in the wind, keeping him wet. It had been an
awful journey, sailing into a driving wind, the boat carried high, then low, on
the sea the entire way, nearly all of its passengers throwing up.

Reece did not know how they
had made it this far, in this raging ocean, in this desolate place. It had not
been a long journey, and yet it felt like years. There was something about the climate
here, the endless, monotonous grey, that just put him in a foul mood. The damp
cold had sunk into his bones, and he could not wait to set foot on shore and
get himself beside a roaring fire.

Beside Reece stood Krog,
also grabbing the railing, but not throwing up as the others. On the contrary,
he smiled down at Reece.

“Looks like one of us has a
stronger stomach than the other,” Krog mocked, grinning wide.

Reece caught his breath,
wiping his mouth. Krog’s mockery made it all worse.

“I hate you,” Reece said.

Krog smiled wider.

“Why have you joined me on
this journey?” Reece asked. “To help me? Or to torture me?”

Krog grinned, patting Reece
on the shoulder.

“Maybe a little bit of both,”
Krog replied.

Reece shook his head,
overcome with yet another wave of nausea. He was not in the mood for Krog.

“I never should have saved
your life,” Reece said.

“You’re right,” Krog
replied. “That was your first mistake. Now you’re stuck with me. Loyalty dies
hard.”

“You call this loyalty?”
Reece asked. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

Krog shrugged and turned
away.

The ship jerked, and Reece
looked up and watched as they narrowly avoided a long stretch of rocks, then
finally touched shore, the ship landing on the sand with a jolt. All hands rushed
forward and dropped the anchor beside Gwendolyn’s fleet, then hurried to lower
the planks and secure the sails.

Horns sounded up and down Gwendolyn’s
fleet of ships, their unique pattern heralding the arrival of a member of the royal
family, and on the shore below Reece could see, lined up, dozens of Gwen’s soldiers,
ready to greet him in a show of respect. Reece noticed that Tirus’ people were
conspicuously absent from welcoming him.

Standing before all the men,
Reece spotted Matus, Tirus’ eldest, his cousin, the one person here he had
remembered most fondly from his youth. He hurried forward, shielding his eyes
from the mist and helping the others secure the planks, clearly excited for
Reece’s arrival.

Reece’s men lowered the
plank and Reece hurried down it, Krog and the others following; the wind picked
up and sheets of rain poured down as Reece reached the shore.

Matus hurried forward and
Reece embraced him, clasping forearms.

“Welcome, my Lord,” Matus
said.

“I am not a lord,” Reece
said, “I am merely a member of the royal family, as are you, cousin. Thank you
for greeting me.”

Matus smiled.

“I would have it no other
way. Srog asked me to apologize on his behalf—he was detained by an urgent
matter at court and asked me to give you a tour first, then bring you to the
castle—if you don’t mind my company.”

Now it was Reece’s turn to
smile.

“I would have it no other
way,” he said. “I wish to tour the isle first anyway.”

The two of them turned and
set off, Reece walking side-by-side with Matus, all of their men falling in behind
them.

They walked for hours, covering
all the landscapes of the Upper Isles, the sun finally breaking through the
clouds as Matus filled him in on everything. The two of them talked like
brothers, and it all came back to Reece, how close they had been as children,
how well they had always gotten along. They were each the youngest of their
siblings, and each the same age, and each knew what it meant to grow up in an
ambitious royal family.

They caught up on their
childhood, on all the affairs of the MacGil families, and as Reece passed
through various towns and villages, some childhood memories came back to him in
flashes. He remembered playing in certain places, waiting for his father
outside certain forts. He remembered, even back then, it being a cold, hard
place, a climate he did not wish to return to.

As he went, Reece took in
all the stares of all the locals, observed as much as he could, and noticed
they were not all that friendly. He sensed some tension in the air.

“It is quite different being
here now than it was when we were young,” Reece said. “When I was a child, there
was harmony upon our arrival, a great respect and fanfare shown my father. Now,
I observe a certain coldness in your people.”

Matus shook his head
apologetically.

“I apologize for them,” he
said. “You indeed have a keen eye. Our people are still upset about Tirus. They
are humiliated about the failed invasion of the Ring. They are malcontents.
That is their nature. They are an obstinate people. I am from here, and yet I
still don’t completely understand them. Then again, I’ve never felt much like one
of them.”

“No,” Reece said,
appreciating Matus’ honesty, “you have always been more like one of us. Sometimes
I think you were born to the wrong side of the royal family.”

Matus roared with laughter.

“I think so, too.”

They walked and walked and Krog
followed, several feet behind, closer than the rest of the entourage, and Matus
glanced back and gave Reece a curious glance.

“Who is your friend?” Matus
asked.

Reece grimaced.

“He’s not my friend,” he
said.

“You got that right,” Krog
chimed in.

“I told you to wait for me
at the ship,” Reece said to Krog, exasperated.

But Krog ignored him,
continued to follow, one hand resting on his sword hilt and looking all about,
as if on the lookout for danger.

“I intend to protect you,”
Krog said.

“I don’t need protection,” Reece
said, annoyed.

“I intend to repay my debt,”
Krog said. “And I don’t trust these Upper Islanders.”

Matus raised an eyebrow.

“Is your friend always this
suspicious?” Matus asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

Reece shrugged, annoyed but
resigned to the fact that Krog was uncontrollable.

“He’s not my friend,” Reece
repeated.

They continued on their
hike, and finally crested a small hill. From here, down below, Reece spotted,
not far away, a small lake in the hills. He noticed a woman, carrying an empty
bucket, kneel beside the lake and begin to fill it up.

Reece watched her, curious. There
was something about her which seemed familiar, but he could not figure out
what.

Reece took several steps closer,
examining her profile, wondering how he knew her.

Then, she suddenly raised the
bucket, turned and faced him. She was shocked to see him, and she froze.

She stood there, and as her
eyes locked on Reece’s, the bucket slipped from her hands, splashing at her
feet. She did not even bother to look down it.

Reece could not have moved
if someone pushed him. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared into those
yes, losing all sense of time and place. They were hypnotic. They were eyes he
knew, eyes that had been embedded into his consciousness. They were eyes he
had, for many years, dreamt of.

Standing there, hardly a few
feet away, Reece was shocked to realize, was his cousin. Stara. The love of his
childhood. The girl he would stay awake for, late at night, dreaming of. The
girl he had never forgotten. The girl he had secretly hoped to marry most of his
life.

There she stood, and now,
she had grown into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

As Reece stared into her
crystal blue eyes, however much he tried, he could not summon thoughts of
Selese. All thoughts of the woman he was about to marry flew from his head. He
could not help it. Reece was hypnotized by Stara.

And as she stared back, unmoving,
her eyes perfectly still, crystal-clear, like the lake behind her, Reece could
see that she was as equally hypnotized by him. Their love, the strongest thing Reece
had ever felt in his life, so strong it pained him, had never died. It had
never even faltered.

Reece forced himself to turn
his thoughts to Selese, to their wedding. But standing here, before Stara, rooted
to this place, all free thought was impossible. He was in the grip of something
greater than himself, something he did not understand. As he stood there, he
knew that fate had interceded, and that his life, and the lives of everyone
around him, whether he liked it or not, was about to change forever.

Bronson sat in the feasting hall
of his fathers, in the old McCloud castle, seated at the head of the long table,
Luanda beside him. Seated up and down the table, on either side, were McClouds
and MacGils, grizzled warriors all of them, each sticking to their side of the
table, none, despite Bronson’s efforts, intermingling with the others. Bronson
surveyed it all, and his head hurt. Nothing was going as he had planned.

Bronson, in an act of
desperation, had summoned all of these warriors together for a feast, to try to
bring them closer to one another, to hash out any differences. He had chosen representatives
from feuding clans on both sides of the Highlands, and he had throne a lavish
feast in their honor, replete with music, wine, and delicious food. And yet,
thus far, the night had not been going well. They each stuck to their side of
the table, talking to their own clansman, and ignoring the others. They were
both so stubborn, like two kids refusing to look at each other. It had made for
an awkward feast at best, and Bronson was beginning to wonder if he had made a
mistake to even attempt this.

This feast followed hours of
festivities, a mini festival which Bronson had ordered to celebrate a wedding
of a MacGil clansman to a McCloud bride. It was originally supposed to be a
quiet, simple wedding, in a humble village on the MacGil side of the Highlands;
but when Bronson heard of it, he insisted that the wedding be a huge, public
affair. This was exactly what he needed, and he personally paid for the
expenses of it, thinking this would be the perfect event to help bring the two warring
sides together. This young couple was truly in love, and Bronson hoped that maybe
their love and goodwill would spread to the people.

The day’s wedding, though,
had been an awkward affair, with both clansman staying on their sides, and the disapproving
families of the groom and bride not even intermingling.

It had spilled over to the
feasting hall, and Bronson had figured that the mood would be more relaxed at
night, after the wedding, after all the dancing, once the men relaxed with
drink and a good meal.

And yet here they all were, late
into the night, the McCloud bride the only McCloud on the MacGil side of the
room. Bronson had tried many times throughout the night to break the ice, but
nothing seemed to work.

“You had better do
something,” Luanda whispered into his ear.

He turned and looked at her.
She leaned in close, staring at him intently.

“This feast of yours is a
failure. It is not bringing goodwill between them. And if this does not,
nothing will. You must bring them together somehow. I do not like what I see.”

“And what is that?” Bronson
asked.

“A war erupting between them
both.”

Bronson turned and looked
out at the room, and felt the tension in the air, and on some level, he knew
she was right. Luanda had a talent for always seeing things for what they were.

“A toast!” Bronson screamed
out, standing and slamming his mug on the table until the room quieted.

Bronson knew the time had
come to take decisive action, to be a great leader. He had to set the tone for
harmony between the two clans.

“A toast to two great
families!” he boomed. “To two great clans, coming together in peace. It is
amazing how love can unite us all. Let us all follow this couple’s great
example and come together, from both sides of the Highlands, to create one
nation, one Ring, in harmony with each other.”

The bride and groom raised
their mugs, as did several on the MacGil side; yet no one on the McCloud side bothered
to. Bronson realized that the MacGils were more open to peace than the McClouds.
It was hardly surprising: having grown up amongst the McClouds, he knew them to
be obstinate.

“I have a better idea!”
yelled Koovia, standing amidst the McCloud clansman, slamming his mug on the
table, his voice booming, commanding attention. He looked drunk, his face red
with scorn, and Bronson did not like what he saw.

The room quieted, as all
eyes fell on him.

“I suggest that our new
leader, Bronson, prove himself to be a leader—instead of being a puppet of the MacGil
girl!”

The McClouds cheered, as
Bronson’s face reddened. Before he could reply, Koovia continued:

“A true leader of the
McCloud kingdom would assert his royal privileges on a wedding night!” Koovia
boomed.

The McCloud warriors
screamed and cheered, banging their mugs on the table, whipped up into a
drunken frenzy.

“Of what does he speak?” Luanda
asked Bronson, confused, as the room erupted into a clamor.

But Bronson was fuming, too
busy to address her.

“You do not mean what you
say!” Bronson yelled back to Koovia.

“Of course I do!” Koovia
boomed. “Your father took the privilege, many times. Any true McCloud king must—that
is, if you
are
a king.”

There came another great
cheer from the McClouds, as they slammed their mugs.

“What is it that he speaks
of?” a MacGil warrior finally called out, confused.

“I speak of the deflowering
of the bride on her wedding night!” Koovia boomed defiantly, back to the
MacGils.

All the MacGils on their
side of the table suddenly stood in an uproar, angrily muttering towards the McClouds.

Bronson detected motion out
of the corner of his eye, and he looked up and saw several McCloud soldiers
circling around the outskirts of the room and barring all the exits.

Bronson felt a pit in his
stomach as he realized he had been setup. This was all a trap, schemed by
Koovia.

“You have tricked us with
your feast!” the MacGil warrior screamed accusingly to Bronson.

Bronson wanted to call out
that he knew nothing of this, but before he could reply, Koovia interceded.

“You are completely
surrounded!” Koovia yelled to the MacGils. “There is no way out. Hand over the
bride. It is time for our king to have his way with her. And if he won’t—we will!”

The McClouds all cheered,
driven to a drunken furor, while the MacGils all drew their swords. The
McClouds drew theirs, too.

As they stood there, facing
off, Koovia walked around the table, right up to Bronson, several of his men
following, while Bronson stood and faced him.

“Take the bride, and you
will be our leader,” Koovia said to Bronson. “If not, you will face death
yourself by my own hand, and I shall be the new McCloud king.”

The McCloud soldiers cheered.

Bronson stared back at Koovia.
He had been cornered in, outmaneuvered. He should have known better. His people
always viewed kindness as weakness. They were even more primitive than he had realized.

“You can take the kingship
from me if you like,” Bronson replied calmly, “but you will not touch the
bride. You will have to kill me first.”

Koovia scowled.

“As I thought,” he said. “A
pathetic leader to the last.”

Bronson drew his sword and
blocked Koovia’s path to the bride.

Koovia drew his sword, and the
tension thickened, as the two prepared to face off.

Suddenly, Luanda stepped
forward, between them, and calmly reached out a hand and laid it gently on
Koovia’s sword.

“Bronson speaks out of line,”
she said. “Of course he will perform his kingly duties.”

Koovia looked back, caught
off guard.

“You are a great and strong
man,” Luanda added. “Lower your sword, and I will be sure Bronson does as you
say. Blood need not be shed here tonight.”

Koovia looked at her, then slowly
relaxed his hand, as he lowered his sword just a bit. He looked her up and down
and grinned.

“You are a nice piece
yourself,” Koovia said. “After Bronson has her, I might just take you.”

She smiled back at him.

“I would love that, my Lord,”
Luanda said. She stepped forward and whispered in his ear. “It has been a long
time since I have slept with a real lord.”

Koovia grinned wide and
Luanda leaned back and met his smile. He relaxed his hand, and as soon as he
did, Luanda burst into action.

Luanda quickly extracted a
hidden dagger from her waist, spun around, and in one lightning fast motion,
stabbed Koovia in the throat.

His eyes bulged open as
blood gushed down over his chest and he raised his hands to the blade.

But it was too late. He
collapsed to his knees, then slumped forward, face-first, dead.

The entire room stared in
shock.

A moment later, both sides
charged each other with a great battle cry, each aiming to kill the other.

As Bronson stood there, in
the middle of it all, he knew, without a doubt, that the next war of the Ring
had begun.