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

“But I shall not. Instead,
you shall be banished to live out your days back on the Upper Isles, never to
set foot on the mainland of the Ring again. Furthermore, you shall be
imprisoned there, under guard of my own watch. You shall live out the remainder
of your days in a dungeon cell.”

Tirus stared back defiantly.

“Then I should rather you would
execute me. I choose that over life in prison.”

Gwen smirked.

“You’ve lost the privilege
to choose. The choices are mine now. Justice is done, for the Ring, for my
family, and for my dead father. Enjoy your time underground.”

Gwen turned to her
attendants.

“Get him out of my sight,”
she commanded.

They rushed to do her
bidding, dragging him away, and Tirus screamed and resisted, forcing them to
drag him.

“You shall never get away
with this!” he screamed, while being led away. “My people are a proud people!
They will never allow this indignity! They will never allow their king to be
imprisoned!”

Gwen stared him down coldly.

“Whoever said you were King?”

They dragged him outside, screaming,
and finally slammed the door behind them.

The room was thick with a
heavy silence, and Gwen could feel the fear and respect for her in the room.
She also was beginning to feel tougher, stronger, than she ever had. Finally,
wrongs were being set right, and it no longer intimidated her to do it.

Gwendolyn turned and looked over
at Tirus’ three sons, all standing there, staring back, clearly afraid. Two of
them looked like the father, and appeared equally defiant. The third, though,
with long, curly hair and hazel eyes, seemed different than the others.

“He spoke the truth,” one of
the sons said. “Our people are as hard as the rocks our island was formed on.
They will never abide his imprisonment.”

“If your people take affront
at the imprisonment of a traitor, then they are not a people who are welcome in
the Ring,” Gwen replied coldly.

“My lady,” Aberthol said,
clearing his throat, “I suggest you imprison Tirus’ sons as well. They are
clearly loyal to their father, and nothing good can come from allowing them to
roam free.”

“My lady,” Kendrick
interrupted, “please do not jail the youngest of the sons, Matus. He was
instrumental in helping our cause during the war, in freeing all of us and
sparing our lives from death.”

Gwendolyn studied Matus, who
looked different than the other two: he did not have the dark eyes and features
of his brothers, and he had more of a proud, noble spirit to him. He did not
look like an Upper Islander; he appeared to look more like one of her own people.
He even looked as if he could belong to her own family. She remembered all of
these boys from her childhood, these distant cousins they would visit once a
year, when their father visited the Upper Isles. She remembered Matus’ always
being apart from the others, kinder; and she recalled the other three as
mean-spirited and cold. Like their father.

“Release his binds,” she
commanded, and an attendant rushed forward and severed the ropes binding Matus’
wrists.

“The MacGil blood flows
strongly in you,” she said approvingly to Matus, “I thank you. Clearly, we owe
you a great debt. Ask anything of us.”

Matus stepped forward and
lowered his head humbly.

“It was an honor, my lady,”
he said. “You owe me nothing. But if you ask me, then I shall ask you to
release my brothers. They were swept up in my father’s cause, and they did you
no harm.”

Gwen nodded approvingly.

“A noble request,” she said.
“You ask not for yourself but for others.”

Gwen turned to her
attendants: “Release them,” she commanded.

As attendants rushed forward
and released them, the two other sons watched with surprise and relief.

Aberthol stepped forward in
outrage.

“You make a mistake, my lady!”
he insisted.

“Then it is mine to make,”
she replied. “I shall not punish sons for the sins of the fathers.”

She turned to them.

“You may return to the Upper
Isles. But do not follow in your father’s footsteps, or I will not be so kind
the next time, cousins or not.”

The three brothers turned
and walked quickly from the hall. As they were leaving, Gwen called out: “Matus!”

Matus stopped at the
doorway, with the others.

“Stay behind.”

The other brothers looked at
him, then frowned and walked out without him, closing the doors.

“I need people I can trust.
My new kingdom is fragile, and has many positions to fill. Name yours.”

Matus shook his head.

“You do me too great an
honor, my lady,” he said. “Whatever actions I took were out of love—not out of
a desire for position. I did what I did because it was the right thing to do,
and because what my father did, I am ashamed to say, was wrong.”

“Noble blood runs in your
veins,” she said. “The Upper Isles will need a new lord now that your father is
imprisoned. I would like you to take his place and be my regent.”

“
Me
, my lady?” Matus
asked, voice rising in shock. “Lord of the Upper Isles? I could not. I am but a
boy.”

“You are a man, who was
fought and killed and saved other men. And you have shown more honor and
integrity than men twice your age.”

Matus shook his head.

“I could not take the
position my father held—especially before my older brothers.”

“But I ask you to,” she
said.

He shook his head firmly.

“It would sully the honor of
what I did. I did not do what I did to gain position, or power. Only because it
was the right thing to do. I am indebted to you and humbled for the offer. But
it is an offer I cannot accept.”

She nodded, studying him.

“I understand,” she said. “You
are a true warrior and you do the MacGils much honor. I hope that you will at
least stay close to court.”

Matus smiled.

“I thank you, my lady, but I
must return to the Upper Isles. I may not agree with all the people there, but
nonetheless it is my home. I feel it is where I am needed, especially in these
tumultuous times.”

Matus bowed, turned, and
walked out the council doors, an attendant closing them gently behind him. As
Gwen watched him go, she had a feeling they would meet again; he almost felt
like another brother to her.

“Srog, step forward,” Gwen
said.

Srog stood before her.

“The Upper Isles still need
a lord. If you are willing, there are few men I trust more. I need someone who
can tame these Upper Islanders. You have ruled a great city in Silesia, and I
have no doubt you can keep them in order.”

Srog bowed.

“My lady, truth be told,
after all these wars, I dearly miss Silesia. I ache to return, to rebuild. But
for you, I would do anything. If the Upper Isles is where I am needed, then it
is to the Upper Isles that I shall go. I shall rule in your name.”

Gwen nodded back, satisfied.

“Excellent. I know you shall
do a fine job of it. Keep Tirus imprisoned. Keep an eye on the sons. And get
these stubborn people to like us, will you?”

Everyone in the room
laughed.

Gwen sighed, exhausted.
Matters of court never seemed to end.

“Well, if that is all, then
I would like to go and participate—”

Before she could finish the
words, the doors to the hall opened yet again, and Gwen was shocked to see two
young girls enter, perhaps twelve and ten, followed by Steffen, who nodded to
them with encouragement. They were beautiful, simple, proud, and they walked
right into the hall of men and stood before Gwen.

“My lady,” Steffen said. “Our
men were approached by these two young women, who insist they have an urgent
message for you.”

Gwen was impatient, baffled,
feeling pain in her stomach and wanting to leave this throne.

“We haven’t time for young
girls’ games,” she said, exasperated.

Steffen nodded.

“I understand, my lady,” he
said. “Yet they seem very serious. They claim it is a matter of the utmost
urgency, and that the entire kingdom is at stake.”

Gwendolyn raised one
eyebrow, wondering what it could be. The expressions on their faces did indeed
seem earnest.

She sighed.

“I do not know what matter
could be of such vital importance, that it cannot wait, coming from the mouths
of two young girls. But they have survived this war, and that says something. I
am sure they know the consequences of wasting the Queen’s time. If they remain determined,
let them come forth.”

The girls turned and looked
to Steffen, afraid, and he nodded back with encouragement. They turned back to
Gwen and stepped forward.

They looked exhausted from
the war, wearing soiled clothing, emaciated, clearly starved from rationing. Gwen
could see from the looks on their faces that they were serious girls and bore
serious news. As they came close, she also took an immediate liking to them.
They reminded her of herself as a young girl.

“My lady,” the eldest said
respectfully, curtsying and prodding the other to curtsy with her. “Forgive us,
but we bear news which cannot wait.”

“Well, out with it then,”
Gwen said, impatient, exhausted, sounding more curt than she’d wanted.

“I am Sarka and my sister is
Larka. We live in a small cottage outside the city, with our mother. Some time
ago, a man crashed into our home and held us hostage, until we captured him and
my father brought him to the authorities. The Empire killed my father, though, and
took the prisoner.”

The girl took a deep breath,
clearly nervous, as if reliving the trauma.

“Some time later, while
playing in the fields, I spotted this same man. I would recognize him from
anywhere. I am sure it was your brother, my lady. Gareth.”

Gwendolyn’s heart stopped at
the word, and her eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Gareth?” she repeated.

“Yes, my lady.”

“My brother? Gareth? The
former King?” she asked, in shock, trying to process it all. She had not
expected this. Gareth’s name had been so far form her consciousness, with
everything else going on, that she had nearly forgotten about him. If she had
thought of him, she merely assumed he’d been killed in the war.

“We know where he is,” Sarka
said.

Gwendolyn stood, her body
electrified.

Gareth. Her father’s
assassin. The man who had tried to kill her; who had thrown her brother
Kendrick in jail. The man who had escaped justice for far too long, who her
father’s spirit cried out for vengeance. The man who had stolen the Sword,
lowered the Shield, who had set the entire Ring in a tailspin. The man whom
they owed all this calamity to.

It was time for vengeance.

“Show me.”

Romulus stood at the helm of
the ship, looking out into the foaming waves of the open sea before him, grabbing
onto the wooden rail and squeezing so hard that he snapped it in half. Splinters
flew all around him and he grimaced at the open sea, cursing the gods of the
land, of the wind, of the sea—and most of all, of war. Cursing his bad fate.
Cursing his defeat, the first defeat of in his life.

Romulus replayed in his head,
again and again, what had happened, how everything had gone so wrong. He could
hardly fathom it. It felt like just moments ago when he’d had that girl, the MacGil
girl, in his arms, was across the bridge, had succeeded in lowering the Shield,
had watched his men stampede into the Ring. The Ring had been his.

Then it had all gone so wrong,
so quickly. Those two dragons had appeared, like a vision from hell, and he’d
had to watch all his men set to flame, all his carefully laid plans brought to
ruin. Worst of all, that sneaky girl had escaped from his grasp, had crossed
the bridge and had reached the other side just a moment before his men could
catch her. As she’d landed he’d watched with horror as the Shield came back up,
and as all his dreams fell apart.

He had lost. He had to admit
it. He’d been forced to retreat, to regroup for another day. He still had the
cloak, but with those dragons inside the Ring, with the Empire crushed, and
with Luanda on alert, he could not risk going back in to hunt for her. As a
good commander, he knew when to attack and when to retreat.

As Romulus sailed, heading
back for the Empire, he thought and thought. He needed a new strategy. He
needed to gather his men, to solidify his position back home, in the Empire. He
had been gone too long, and he could not allow himself to be left vulnerable,
as Andronicus had.

There was no room for mistakes
now. Romulus had to take control of what he could. He had to forget the Ring.
He could not allow it to become an obsession and to become his ruin, as
Andronicus had. He needed to learn from Androncius’ mistakes.

The Ring was miniscule in
relation to the Empire: after all, the Empire still dominated ninety nine
percent of the world. And once he solidified his position at home, he could
always find a way back in, on another day, to crush the Ring.

As Romulus sailed, huge
rolling waves sending the bow up and down, foam spraying all around him, he
pondered what sort of traps might be awaiting back home, in the Empire. It
would be a tricky path to maneuver, the path to solidify a nervous Empire, to
take over Andronicus’ spot, to unify all the various armies and worlds, to fill
that power vacuum. Others, surely, would be vying for it. But none as ruthless
as Romulus. Anyone who stood in his way, he would crush quickly and
definitively.

As he stood there pondering,
Romulus was momentarily confused; he thought he spotted movement out of the
corner of his eye, and at the last second he turned and spotted several
soldiers coming up behind them. One held a wire in both hands, and before
Romulus could react, he leaned forward, looped it around Romulus’ throat, and yanked
with all his might.

Romulus gasped for air, eyes
bulging from his head, his breathing stopped. The wire was wrapped around
twice, and the soldier behind him yanked with all he had. Romulus realized he was
being choked to death, by his own people.

Romulus saw his entire ship,
dozens of officers, rushing forward. But not to save him, as he thought; rather,
to help kill him. It was a mutiny.

Romulus’ life flashed before
his eyes, flailing, gasping as the soldier squeezed tighter and tighter. He
felt that in another moment, he would be dead. He saw his whole life flashing
before his eyes, all his victories, and now his defeat. He saw all his
conquests, and all the conquests yet to come, and one overriding thought
coursed through his mind: he was not ready to die.

Romulus summoned some deep
part of himself, and somehow mustered one last burst of strength. He leaned
forward then threw his head back, impacting his assailant with the back of his
skull, on the bridge of his nose, breaking it.

The soldier dropped to his
knees, and Romulus quickly unraveled the wire from his throat, blood dripping
as it left a deep scar, his throat bleeding. Because of all of his muscle, the
wire had not yet gone deep enough to sever his arteries. Romulus had always
been told he had the widest and thickest neck in the Empire—and this proved it.

Romulus did not hesitate: he
reached down, grabbed a flail from his waist, spun it high overhead and smashed
the soldier in the face before him. He then continued to swing it, the spiked metal
ball soaring through the air, and connected with a half-dozen soldiers in a broad
circle, knocking them all to the ground as they neared. The others, charging
for him, stopped in their tracks.

But he would not let them
go. Now Romulus was in a rage, and he charged
them
. He swung the flail
over his head, again and again, taking out soldier after soldier, and within
moments, took down a dozen more. Many tried to turn and run, but he hunted
these down, and they had nowhere to go, smashing them in the backs, their cries
filling the air.

A horn was sounded, and
hundreds of men came rushing up from below deck. Romulus was relieved; finally,
his loyal soldiers would rush to his aide and help put down the mutiny.

But as he saw them all
charging right for him, wild-eyed, wielding swords and spears and axes, as he
saw the look in their eyes, he realized they were not coming to protect him:
they, too, were coming to kill him. This was a well-planned mutiny. Every
single man on his ship had turned against him.

Romulus was in a panic. He
turned and looked out at the sea, at his vast flotilla of ships filling the
horizon, and looked to see if any of the other ships were watching, waiting,
were part of the mutiny. He was relieved to see they were not. They were
unaware. This was an isolated mutiny, on his ship alone, not spread throughout his
fleet.

Romulus thought quick, as
the men bore down on him. He could not kill all of these men alone. He would have
to do something else. Something drastic.

Romulus heard the crash of the
waves against the rocks as they passed a lone group of rocks jutting out in the
midst of the ocean, and an idea came to him.

There were no men between he
and the wheel, and Romulus sprinted for it, a lead of a good twenty yards on
the others. He grabbed hold of it and spun it frantically, again and again,
clockwise—right for the rocks.

The ship lurched, turning
hard right, and all the men went flying, across the deck, smashing into the
side rail. Romulus grabbed on tight to prevent himself from falling, and
finally, as the ship was on course for the most jagged rocks, he straightened
it out. The men were thrown the other way.

Romulus looked out and saw
he had achieved what he had wanted: the ship was now on course for the rocks, only
feet away. Too close to change course.

As the hundreds of soldiers
regained their footing and began charging him again, Romulus turned, ran for the
side rail, jumped up on it and dove headfirst for the water. He soared through
the air and landed headfirst in the icy cold waters, plunging deep. He used his
momentum to continue swimming underwater, as far as he could, to get away from
the spears being hurled after him.

Romulus held his breath a
good sixty seconds, as he swam farther and farther away from the ship. He
forced himself to stay down below even longer, pushing himself until his lungs
were at the point of bursting, until finally the spears stopped and in their
stead he heard a faint, distant rumble, the sound of wood smashing against
rock.

Romulus finally surfaced, gasping
for air, far from the ship, and turned and watched. His former ship was destroyed,
impaled by the rocks, waves crashing all around it, smashing it into them again
and again. The ship soon took on water and within moments sank vertically; his
men shrieked and flailed as they sank into the water, to a cold and frigid
death, the waves smashing them against the rocks.

Romulus turned and looked to
the horizon. His other, loyal, ships were but a few hundred yards away, and he
already set off swimming.

It would take more than a
mutiny to kill him.