A Sky of Spells (Book #9 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (24 page)

Thorgrin felt something
licking his face, and he opened his eyes to see Krohn standing over him. He woke
slowly, disoriented, and sat up, wondering where he was. He spotted his horse,
still standing near the entrance to the cave, and he remembered coming here, through
the forest, at night and in pouring rain. Now sunshine streamed in through the
cave, birds chirped, the world was dry, and Thor sat up, disoriented, wondering
if any of it had ever happened.

Had his encounter with Argon
been real? A dream? Or somewhere in between?

Thor stood and rubbed his
eyes, and tried to distinguish what was a dream from what was real. He looked
all around, searching for Argon, but he was nowhere to be found. He felt a heat
coursing through his body, felt stronger than he ever had. Had they truly had a
training session? Thor felt as if they had.

Above all, Thor felt as if a
message had been conveyed to him, and he felt it ringing in his ears. His mother.
The final clue to finding her awaited him in his hometown. Was it true?

Thor walked to the edge of
the cave and took a few steps out and looked at the forest. Water dripped from branches
in the early morning sun, and the forest was alive with the sounds of animals
and insects awakening for the day. He looked out at the early morning sunlight,
the rays streaking in through the leaves, and his dream hung on him like a
mist. He knew, with burning clarity, exactly what he needed to do; he needed to
go back to his hometown. He needed to see for himself if the final clue was
there. The way to find his mother.

Thor mounted his horse,
kicked it, and, Krohn at his heels, charged through the forest. He intuitively
knew the path this time, the exact way to leave this forest, the path that
would lead to his hometown. He closed his eyes as he rode and recalled seeing
the forest from the owl’s eyes, seeing the entire landscape, and no longer did
he feel lost. He looked at the nature all around him, heard the noises of the
animals, and he felt one with them; he felt stronger, omnipotent, as if he
could go anywhere in the world and not get lost.

Thor soon reached the edge
of the forest and looked out and saw the road before them, winding, leading over
hills and valleys, to the crossroads he knew would take him to his village. He
recognized the mountains in the distance, the lonely road he had taken his
entire childhood to leave his village.

Thor looked at it with a
sense of apprehension. A part of him really did not want to return to his home
town. He knew that when he arrived there would be all those boys, and his
father, waiting to greet him, patronizing and condescending. He could already
feel the stares of the village folk, of all the boys he had grown up with. They
wouldn’t see him for who he was now; they would still see him as the boy they
once knew, a shepherd’s youngest boy, someone not to be taken seriously.

But Thor kicked his horse, determined.
This was not about them. It was about his greater mission. He would put up with
them all for a chance to find his mother.

Thor charged down the road,
towards the village. He braced himself as he rounded a bend, slowed his horse,
and finally entered through the town, the small, sleepy farming village he
remembered, without even a proper wall around it, or a gate to mark its
entrance. Growing up, he had thought this was the greatest place in the world. But
now, having been to so many places, seen so many things, this town seemed small,
pathetic. It was just another poor village, with nothing special. It was a
place for people who had not made it elsewhere, who had settled for this poor and
forgotten region of the Ring.

Thor turned and rode down
the main street of his village, bracing himself, expecting to find it bustling,
as it usually was, with all of the faces he recognized. But what he saw
surprised him: the streets were not as he expected, filled with people,
animals, children—instead, they were completely empty. Desolate. His village had
been abandoned.

Thor could not understand the
sight before him. It was a typical, sunny morning, and it made no sense for
these streets to be empty. As he looked more closely, he was surprised to see
that many of the buildings were destroyed, reduced to piles of rubble. He
looked down and could see residues of tracks in the streets, signs of a great army
passing through here. He looked at the stone cottages, and saw stains of blood
on some of them.

With his professional
soldier’s eye, Thor knew right away what had happened here: the Empire. Their
army had invaded this region of the Ring, and clearly they had passed through this
poor village; the people here were unfortunate enough to be caught in his way,
and this place had been decimated. Everything Thor had once known was gone—as
if it had never been.

Thor dismounted and walked somberly
through the streets, feeling awful as he walked past shells of structures he
barely recognized. It was slowly dawning on him that everyone who had once lived
here had either fled or was now dead.

It was an eerie feeling.
This place he had known most his life as home, was abandoned. The oddest thing
about it was that Thor had had no desire to return here and would have been
glad to never lay eyes on this place again; and yet now that he saw it like
this, he felt regret. Seeing it like this made Thor feel, strangely enough, as
if he had no home left in the world, no trace of his origins at all.

Where was his true home in
the world? Thor wondered. It should be a simple question to answer, and yet the
more Thor lived, the more he was beginning to realize that that was the most
difficult question of all.

Thor heard the rattle of a
pot, and he turned and braced himself, on guard, to see a small cottage, still
standing, one wall destroyed. The door was ajar, and Thor’s hand fell to the
hilt of his sword, wondering if there was a wounded soldier inside, or perhaps
a scavenger.

As he watched the entrance,
an old, heavy woman came out, carry her pot, wobbling, dressed in rags. She carried
her pot, overflowing with water, over to a pile of wood. She had just set it
down when she looked up to see Thor.

She jumped back, startled.

“Who are you?” she asked. “No
one has come through here since the war.”

Thor dimly recognized her;
she was one of the old women perpetually hunched before their cottages,
cooking.

“My name is Thorgrin,” he
said. “I mean you no harm. I used to live here. I was raised here.”

She squinted up at him.

“I know you,” she said. “You
are the youngest of the brothers,” she added derisively. “The shepherd’s boy.”

Thor reddened. He hated that
people still thought of him this way, that no matter how much honor he
achieved, it would never be any different.

“Well, don’t expect to find anyone
here,” she added, scowling, setting to her fire. “I’m just about the only one
left.”

Thor suddenly had a thought.

“In my father still here?”

Thor felt a lump in his
throat at the idea of seeing him again. He hoped he would not have to. And yet
at the same time, he hoped he was not dead. As much as he hated the man, for
some reason, the thought bothered him.

The woman shrugged.

“Check for yourself,” she said,
then ignored him, turning back to her stew.

Thor turned and continued to
walk through the village, now a ghost town, Krohn at his heels. He meandered
through the streets, until finally he reached his former home.

He turned the corner and expected
to see it standing there, as it always had, and he was shocked to see it was a
pile of rubble. There was nothing left. No house. He had expected to see his
father, standing there, scowling back, waiting for him. But he was not there,
either.

Thor walked slowly over to
the pile of rubble, Krohn at his heels, whining, as if he could sense Thor’s
sadness. Thor did not know why he was sad. He had hated this place; and yet
still, for some reason, it bothered him.

Thor walked over to the pile
of rocks and kicked them with his toe, rummaging, searching for something, he
did not know what. Some clue, maybe. Some idea. Whatever it was that had led
him back to this place. Maybe this had all been a mistake? Maybe he had been a
fool to follow his intuition? Maybe this had all been wishful thinking? Perhaps
there was no clue after all that could lead him to his mother?

After several minutes, Thor
finished kicking over the rocks. He sighed, preparing to turn around and leave.
This had all been a mistake. There was nothing left for him here. Just ghosts
of what had once been.

As Thor turned and began to
walk back, suddenly Krohn whined. Thor turned and spotted Krohn in the
distance, on the far side of the yard, near the small structure where Thor had
lived, away from the rest of the family. Krohn was whining, looking back and
rummaging through rocks, as if urging Thor to come look.

Thor hurried over, knelt
beside Krohn, and looked, wondering.

“What is it, boy?” Thor
asked, stroking his head. “What do you see?”

Krohn whined as he pawed at
a large rock, and Thor reached down and pulled back the heavy stone. He found
more stones, and he kept extracting them until finally he saw something. Something
was flashing, catching the sun.

Thor reached down, into the
crevice in the rocks, and pulled it out. He held up something small, brushed
off the dirt, and glanced at it in wonder. As he brushed off all the dirt he
saw that it was shiny, yellow, round. He looked closer and finally realized it
was a gold locket.

There was fine lettering on
it, and Thor saw it was carved in inscriptions, in a language he could not
understand. Thor ran his fingers along the edge of it, and he came across
something, like a clasp. He pushed it, and the locket popped open.

To Thor’s surprise, he saw
an inscription in gold on one side, and a golden arrow, swirling, on the other.
It moved every time he turned it. It came to a rest, and kept pointing in one
direction. Every time he moved, the arrow adjusted.

Thor rubbed off the dirt and
read the inscription, this in a language he knew. As he read the words, his heart
stopped.

For my
son. Thorgrin. Follow the arrow. And it will lead you to me.

Heart racing, Thor stood and
turned and held up the locket, and he found the arrow pointing in a particular
direction. He looked out at the sky, the horizon, and he knew this arrow would
lead him to the Land of the Druids.

As Thor grasped it, he felt
a tremendous coursing through his palm, through his entire body. He knew that
it was real, that all of this was real, and he felt certain that the time had
come to find his mother. The time had come to find out the truth about who he
really was, who he was meant to be.

Thor looked out at the sky,
and resolved that as soon as his child was born, as soon as the wedding was
over, he would leave.

Thor looked out at the
horizon, and felt his mother closer than she ever was.

“Be patient, mother,” he said.
“I am coming for you.”

Gwendolyn stood on the upper
parapets of her castle, looking down at King’s Court, admiring all the wedding
preparations, admiring how magnificent the rebuilt city looked. Now that
everyone had left for Departure Day, Gwen had needed to take a break herself,
had needed some time alone up here. It was a beautiful day, the sun was
shining, a warm summer breeze swayed the branches of the fruit trees, and Gwen
leaned back and breathed in the fresh air.

There came a screech, and
Gwen looked up and saw Ralibar, soaring high above, intertwining with Mycoples,
the two of them making broad circles around King’s Court. Gwen smiled, thinking
of her morning ride on Ralibar, recalling how gentle he had been today. The two
were becoming closer, as if he sensed how pregnant she was, and was flying with
extra care. She felt reassured to see him circling, as if being watched over, protected.

Gwen looked out at the
horizon and knew that Thor was out there somewhere and would be returning soon,
and that, finally, they had nothing left to fear. Everything was perfect now,
and yet for some reason, she did not feel at ease. She did not know why, but
she could not help but feel as if something dark was on the horizon, was coming
for them all. Was it real? Or was it just her own mind playing tricks on her?
Her mind spun with so many small matters related to ruling her kingdom, it was
hard for her to think clearly.

“The affairs of state,” came
a voice, “can weigh on you like a rock.”

Gwendolyn turned around,
thrilled to recognize that voice, and saw Argon, standing there, holding his
staff, wearing his cloak and hood, his eyes shining right through her. He
walked up beside her, his staff clicking on the stone as he went, and stood
beside her, looking out with her over her kingdom.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she
said, turning and looking out beside him. “I have been ill at ease as of late.
And I don’t know why.”

“But don’t you?” he asked
cryptically.

She turned and looked at
him, wondering.

“Am I wrong?” she asked. “Tell
me honestly: is something terrible about to happen? Is our peace about to be
shattered?”

Argon turned and stared at her
for so long, the intensity of his eyes nearly made her turn away. Finally, he uttered
one word which sent a chill through her:

“Yes.”

Gwendolyn’s heart pounded at
his words, and she felt her blood run cold. She stared back, feeling a slow panic
creep over her.

“What is it?” she asked, her
voice trembling. “What will happen?”

Slowly, Argon shook his
head.

“I have learned my lesson of
interfering in human matters.”

He turned back out,
surveying her kingdom.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Just
tell me enough, enough to prepare. To do whatever I have to to protect my
people.”

Argon sighed.

“You are much like your
father,” he said. “You don’t even know how much. He always wanted to be the
greatest ruler he could be; but sometimes, fate gets in the way.”

He turned and stared at her,
and for the first time, she saw compassion in his eyes.

“Not all kingdoms are meant
to last,” he said. “And not all rulers. You have done a marvelous job, greater
than any MacGil before you. You have wrested control from a doom that was
supposed to happen, and you have done so with courage and honor. Your father
looks down on you now and smiles at you.”

Gwen felt a flush of warmth at
his words.

“Yet some things,” he
continued, “are beyond your control. We are all at the mercy of a greater destiny
that courses through the universe. The Ring has its own fate, as a person has a
fate.”

Gwen gulped, desperate to
know more.

“What danger could affect us
now?” she asked. “The Shield is restored. The Empire is gone. Andronicus is
dead. McCloud is dead. We have two dragons here. What can harm us? What more
can I do?”

Slowly, Argon shook his
head.

“Hiding amidst the most
glorious flowers, are the most poisonous snakes; behind the most brilliant sunshine
are the darkest clouds, the fiercest storms, waiting to gather. Do not look at
the sun; look at the clouds behind it, the clouds you do not yet see. Know for
certain that they are there. Prepare. Do it now. It is up to you, and no one
else. You are the shepherd that leads the flock, and the flock knows not what
comes.”

Gwendolyn shuddered, Argon
confirming what she felt herself. Something horrible was on the horizon, and it
was up to her, and her alone, to take action, to prepare. But what?

Gwen turned to ask Argon
more, but before she could open her mouth, he was already gone. She stared at
the clouds, at the sky, at the horizon, wondering. The day seemed so perfect. What
lurked beyond?

*

 Gwendolyn sat in the
reconstructed House of Scholars, before a long, ancient wooden table completely
covered in books and scrolls and maps, studying them all intently. This was the
only place in the kingdom Gwen came for solace, for peace and quiet, these
ancient, dusty books always setting her at ease, connecting her to her
childhood. Indeed, Gwen had devoted a great deal of her time these last six moons
to personally overseeing the reconstruction of this building that had meant so
much to her, to Aberthol, and to her father. She had insisted on its being restored
to be as beautiful as it had been, and yet even grander, big enough to hold
even more volumes. Most of their precious volumes had been burned, or stolen by
the Empire; but deep in the lower levels, Aberthol had wisely hidden stories of
books that remained untouched. Andronicus, savage that he was, had not realized
how deep beneath the earth the House of Scholars had been built—precisely for
times like this, times of war—and luckily, some of the most precious items had
been saved.

It was these volumes that Gwendolyn
pored over now. There were others besides, as Gwendolyn had made it her mission
to have her men scour the Ring, find any precious volumes that might be
scattered. They returned with loaded wagons full of volumes which she had paid
for personally, and soon she had rebuilt the House of Scholars to a library greater
than it had ever been. She loved this new house even more, and she was amazed
that she had pulled it off, never truly thinking it could be rebuilt from the
ashes when she had first seen it in that sorry state. It was the thing she was
most proud of since the reconstruction had begun.

Gwen had been tucked away here
all day, ever since her fateful meeting with Argon, scrutinizing book after
book, scroll after scroll, reading up on what all her ancestors had done in
times of trouble, times of invasion. She wondered how all of them prepared, in
times of peace, for a looming disaster. Gwen might not be able to control what
was to come, but the one thing she could control was her scholarship, and it
always gave her comfort and a sense of control to read during times of crisis.

As Gwen read about ancient
refuges and escapes, she realized that the one thing she had not planned for in
the reconstruction of King’s Court was an escape route. After all, King’s Court
was the most fortified city of the Ring—what need could there possibly be for
escape? And where could they possibly escape to that was more fortified?

And yet Argon’s words rang
in her head, and she felt a need to prepare. She felt that if she were to be a
good leader, then she should have a backup contingency. Some sort of escape
plan. What would they do if King’s Court were overrun? It was painful to even
consider, as they had just rebuilt it—yet she felt a need to have a plan in
place. What if somehow the Ring were destroyed again? What if somehow the Shield
were lowered, or destroyed? Then what? She could not leave her people exposed
to slaughter. Not on her watch.

Gwendolyn read for hours and
hours about the sacks of all the great cities of the Ring throughout the
centuries. She read the history, once again, of all the MacGils, of her father’s
father,  and his father’s father. She felt more connected than ever to her
ancestors, as she read anew about their trials and tribulation, all the hardships
of all the kings before her. She found herself getting lost in their history.
She was amazed to see that others experienced what she was going through, had
the same woes and challenges of ruling a kingdom that she had, even so many centuries
ago. In some ways, nothing ever changed.

Yet, despite everything she
read, she found no reference anywhere to any escape contingency. The closest
reference she found was an obscure footnote from a tale of six centuries ago: an
ancient sorcerer had managed to bring down the Shield for a time, and the creatures
of the Wilds had crossed the canyon and overran the Ring. The second MacGil king,
realizing he was unable to fight them all, took his people—a much smaller
people than they had now—loaded them on ships, and evacuated them all to the Upper
Isles. When the Shield was restored and the creatures left, he moved them back
to the mainland of the Ring, saving them all and killing the creatures that
remained.

Gwen, intrigued, examined
the dusty, ancient maps, illustrating pictures of the routes they had taken.
Crude arrows showed the way they had traveled to board the ships, then the
routes to the Upper Isles. She studied the diagrams, and thought it all through
carefully. It had been a primitive plan for a primitive time, a time when the
Ring was much smaller. And yet it had worked.

The more Gwen thought about
it, the more she realized that there was great wisdom in that plan—wisdom that could
be applied today. In the event of a disaster, couldn’t she do the same as her
ancestors had? Couldn’t she evacuate her people to the Upper Isles? They might
not be able to return to the Ring, as her ancestors had. But they could at
least wait out the invasion, or the disaster, at least live there long enough for
her people to decide what to do. They would be safe, at least, from a mass
invasion: after all, the Upper Isles were an impossible place to attack, with their
jagged shores in every direction, funneling all enemies to narrow choke points.
A million attacking men were as good as one hundred. The Empire could send tens
of thousands of ships, but they still would only be able to attack with a few
at a time. And the nasty weather and currents helped defend the Isles even more.

Gwen’s eyes were tired from
reading, and yet she sat upright as she considered it all, feeling a jolt of
excitement. The more she considered it, the more she warmed to the idea. Perhaps
a retreat to the Upper Isles was the perfect plan in the case of a disaster.

Gwen closed the book, rubbed
her eyes, and leaned back and sighed. Was she getting carried away? Lost in
catastrophic thoughts? After all, it was a beautiful, sunny summer day outside,
and her wedding, the day of her dreams, was but a half moon away. They were not
being attacked or invaded, and they were stronger than her ancestors had ever
been. She knew she should leave all this dark thinking behind and go out there
and enjoy the day. She was too prone to catastrophic thoughts; she always had
been.

As Gwen stood and prepared
to leave, she accidentally knocked over a large, heavy book, and as she did, a
smaller book, previously hidden, fell out from it, onto the floor, in a small
cloud of dust. It  was a tiny, scarlet, leather-bound book, and as Gwen picked
it up with curiosity, she turned the pages and found them brittle. This curious
volume was so old, its pages had turned brown with age.

As Gwen glanced at the
ancient language it was penned in, she was surprised to see what it was:
Sodarius’
Book of Prophecies
. She had heard of it her whole life, but was never even
certain if it truly existed. She’d heard rumors of it, but no one she had ever
met had ever actually laid hands on it. It was supposed to contain the most
fantastical predictions for the future of the Ring, some of which were accurate,
and some of which never came to pass.

Gwen’s hands trembled with
excitement as she realized what she was holding. She turned the pages quickly,
combing through, until she came to the prophecies that addressed her time and
place. She stopped, her breathing shallow, as she came upon her own name.

The seventh and final
ruler of the MacGils will be the greatest. She will lead her people through
their greatest victory. Yet she will also lead them through their greatest
downfall. Gwendolyn will be her name.

Gwen stopped, hands shaking,
hardly able to believe what she was reading. She hesitantly turned the page:

Gwendolyn will lead her
people to—

Gwen looked down and saw
with dismay that some of the pages were burnt, cut off mid-sentence. The
remainder of the book only showed snippets of phrases, all of them cut off, broken
mid-sentence. She turned pages frantically, desperate to know what will happen.
She scanned, looking for keywords, and she could not believe it when she stumbled
upon Thorgrin’s name:

Her husband Thorgrin will
die, too, and his death will come when—