A Sky of Spells

  Alistair turned and looked at him, eyes widening.

  “Really?” she asked, filled with hope.

  He nodded back, earnest.

  “I want us to marry in my homeland, in the Southern Isles. I want my father to meet you. And all of my people. I want you to have the reception you deserve. My father is King, and you will be a princess among my people. It shall be a grand wedding. One befitting of you. If you do not mind waiting?”

  Alistair leaned in and hugged him tight, and he hugged her back, and they kissed.

  “There are too many people here,” Gwendolyn said. “I wish to be just with you. Come with me.”

  She reached out and took his hand, and she led him quietly, through the night, heading towards the royal castle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Thorgrin walked slowly through his old village, bewildered. Here was the place he had grown up, and yet it seemed so foreign to him. The streets were empty, the doors to the houses all left open, as if it had all been abandoned in a rush.

  He walked through it slowly, a harsh driving wind whipping his face, stirring up the dirt, and he had never felt so alone.

  Thor turned the corner and saw his father’s home, and he walked towards it with dread. It was the only home in the village with the door closed.

  He reached it, turned the knob, and slowly pulled open the creaking wood door. His heart stopped.

  Standing there, facing him, was not his father—but Andronicus.

  Andronicus stepped out, smiling and sneering at the same time, his body half decayed, and reached out a long bony hand for Thor’s throat.

  “My son,” he said in his ancient, awful voice. “You may have killed me. But I can still haunt your dreams.”

  Thor reached up and swatted the bony hand away, slicing his wrists—and as he did, the landscape changed.

  Thor looked down and saw that his wrist was bleeding, scratched not by his father’s skeleton but by a thicket of thorns. Thor struggled to walk through the pile of thorns, higher than his head, scratching his arms every which way as he pushed through. He was entangled, and with each step he was in more pain, the thorns embedding more deeply into his skin.

  Thor struggled with all his might, and finally broke through to the other side.

  Before him lay a wasteland, sky the color of ash, the soil mud. On it lay thousands of corpses, the corpses of the Empire, of the McCloud’s, of every soldier Thor had ever met and killed in battle. There they all lay, moaning.

  Rafi stood in the center, and raised an accusing finger at Thor.

  “This blood is on your hands,” he said, his voice horrifying, cutting right through Thor.

  As one, all the corpses rose, turned to Thor, and charged.

  Thor raised his hands and screamed.

  “NO!”

  Thor blinked, and found himself standing on a footbridge.

  He looked down and saw the raging waters of the ocean below. He saw a single, small boat, bobbing wildly in the ocean, empty. He realized that he had been on that boat, sometime long ago, and now he had made it up here, on this narrow footbridge. Just one step to the right or the left, and he would plummet to his death.

  Thor looked up, and saw that the footbridge stretched for miles in the sky, and ended at the top of a high cliff. At its edge there was perched a castle, overlooking the sky, the ocean. Light flooded in through the castle windows, a light so bright it hurt Thor’s eyes to look.

  On the footbridge, not far from him, stood a woman, wearing light blue robes, holding out a hand. He sensed instantly that it was his mother.

  “My son,” she said. “Your wars are done. The time has come to meet. For you to understand the depths of your powers. For you to know who you truly are.”

  Thor wanted desperately to take a step towards her, but he sensed something behind them, and he turned and saw standing, not far away from him, a boy, who looked like him. He was taller than Thor, with bright blonde hair, broad shoulders and a noble face. He had a strong jaw and a proud chin.

  He looked up lovingly at Thor.

  “Father,” he said, reaching out a hand. “I need you.”

  Thor turned and looked back and forth between the two, torn, not knowing which to way to go.

  Suddenly, the footbridge beneath him collapsed, and Thor felt himself plummeting, screaming, down to the raging waters of his death.

  Thor woke screaming.

  He sat up in bed in the darkness, breathing hard, and looked all around him. Gwen, awakened, sat up beside him, grabbing a candle from her bedside table, pulling it towards her and holding it up to Thor’s face, examining him with concern.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

  Gwen breathed heavily, and Thor could see it was burdensome for her to move in bed, being as pregnant as she was, and he felt badly for having wakened her. They lay in her parents’ former chamber, now her chamber, in a huge four-poster bed piled with luxurious furs. Krohn jumped up and came running over to Thor, licking him several times.

  Thor jumped up from bed, threw on his robe, and hurried over to the small basin against the wall and splashed water on his face. He breathed deep, water dripping down his face, and looked out through the open-air arched window. Down below lay King’s Court, perfectly silent and still, all the revelers gone home. The two moons hung low in the sky, one red, one violet, and they let in a soft light through the clouds.

  Thor breathed deep, rubbing his face, trying to clear his mind. He had been having too many nightmares of late. He kept seeing the faces of all his opponents, reliving times from battles. It clung to him like a fog. He had also been having recurring visions of his son, and of his mother. He felt something ominous was on the horizon, but he did not know what.

  Most of all, Thor was feeling an intense desire, growing stronger each day, to seek out his mother, to know who he truly was, to understand his destiny.

  “Everything is okay,” Thor said softly, his back to Gwendolyn.

  He turned and walked over to her, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Go back to sleep,” he added, taking her candle, returning it to her bedside table, blowing it out.

  Gwen lay back, curling up beneath the covers.

  “Come back to bed,” she said.

  “I will. Soon enough,” Thor said.

  He needed to get fresh air, to clear his mind, to shake off the demons of the night.

  Thor walked across the room, Krohn following at his heels, and strode out of the chamber and into the castle hall, closing the door gently behind him.

  It was brighter out here, several torches lit along the wall. The two soldiers standing at attention outside the door stiffened at his presence.

  Thor turned and made his way down the twisting, ancient stone corridors, and finally up a narrow, spiral stone staircase, to the parapets. The roof was his place of refuge, a place he had come to escape the demons of the night.

  Thor crossed the castle roof, Krohn at his heels, running his hand along the wide, smooth stones. He looked down at King’s Court. It was beautiful, tranquil, shining beneath the moonlight, thousands of torches arranged neatly along the walls, everything built back perfectly. A few revelers slept on the castle grounds, too tired or drunk to make it back to their beds. King’s Court was so safe now, they could sleep out in the open with no fears. The city grounds were strewn with the mess of the day’s parties, hundreds of banquet tables still laden with leftover food, a mess that would have to wait to the next day to be cleaned up.

  As Thor looked down, he marveled at all that Gwen had accomplished here. And he marveled at all the twists and turns life had taken for him. Growing up, he had never in a million years expected to find himself, an outsider, invited into King’s Castle—much less living in it, standing atop it in the moonlight and surveying the court. As an outsider, he had just hoped and dreamed to maybe one day enter its gates. Now here he stood, at the very peak of it all. He was overjoyed, yet it was also so surreal. It wa
s scary, in a way, being at the top of everything in life; a part of him feared there was nowhere left for him to go from here but down.

  Thor felt so confused about life. Finally, he had everything he’d ever dreamed of. He had a wife-to-be who he loved, and who loved him; he had a child on the way; he was respected by his peers, and loved by the people. And yet somehow, for some inexplicable reason, he still felt that something was missing from his life, and he did not know what. Was it not knowing his mother? Not knowing his destiny, his purpose? He felt he should be happy, and while on most levels he was, on some small level, he did not understand why he was not. What was it that he was missing? Was it just human nature to never feel entirely content, even once you had what you dreamed of?

  More than ever, Thor craved answers. He needed to see Argon.

  Thor heard a great screech in the sky, and he looked up and saw Mycoples, circling high, making her presence known. She always knew when Thor was up here, and she always flew by to greet him.

  “ARGON!” Thor called out to the night sky, leaning back and looking up at the stars. “WHERE ARE YOU!?”

  Krohn whined, and Thor looked down, and then followed his gaze, and was shocked to see Argon standing there, dressed in a black cloak and hood, holding his staff, but a few feet away, staring at him calmly, expressionless, as if he had always been standing right here. His eyes shone with such intensity that Thor nearly had to look away.

  “You needn’t call so loudly,” a voice said quietly.

  Thor approached him, and the two stood side-by-side and turned and looked out at the city together.

  “I’ve missed you, Argon,” Thor said. “I have called for you many times. Where have you been?”

  “I travel many worlds,” Argon replied cryptically. “But I am always here with you, in your world, in some way.”

  “Then you know all that is happening,” Thor said. “You know about my sister. My child. My son.”

  Argon nodded solemnly.

  “But then why did you never tell me? You never told me any of this.”

  Argon smiled.

  “It was not for me to tell,” he replied. “I learned my lesson about interfering in human destiny. It is not something I intend to do again.”

  “What else are you not telling me?” Thor asked, wondering, desperate to know. He could not help but feel something ominous on the horizon, some great secret, something that had to do with him, and he sensed that Argon knew what it was.

  Argon looked at Thor, then turned and looked back out at the city.

  “There is much,” he said finally, “that I would rather not know myself.”

  Thor felt a deepening sense of foreboding at his words.

  “Am I going to die Argon?” he asked flatly, desperate to know.

  Argon waited a long time, so long that Thor worried that he might not ever answer him.

  “We all die, Thorgrin,” he finally answered. “Only a few of us truly live.”

  Thor breathed deep, wondering. He was overflowing with questions.

  “My son,” Thor said. “Will he be a great man?”

  Argon nodded.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “A great warrior. Greater, even, than yourself. His fame will vastly outshine yours.”

  Thor burned with pride for his son, and his eyes swelled with tears. He was thrilled that Argon finally gave him a straight answer—yet he also sensed something was too good to be true.

  “But for everything there comes a price,” Argon said.

  Thor’s heart pounded as he considered this.

  “And what is the price for my son?” Thor asked hesitantly.

  “Fathers and sons are one. The bond is deeper than can be explained. One must sacrifice for the other, whether he chooses to or not. Sons bear the sins of their fathers—and fathers bear their sins yet to come.”

  Thor looked out at the city, worried. He sensed something dark on the horizon.

  “I need to know when I will die,” Thor insisted. “Will it be soon?”

  Argon slowly shook his head.

  “Your time has not yet arrived, young Thorgrin,” Argon said. “Not today, anyway. There is still much left for you to achieve, greater things than even you can ever dream. Your training is not yet complete. You still have not mastered your powers. And you will need them, where you are going.”

  “Where am I going?” Thor asked, puzzled. “And what will I need them for? The Ring is at peace.”

  Argon turned and looked out, and slowly shook his head.

  “Peace is merely an illusion, a blanket behind the always waiting flames of war.”

  Thor’s heart beat faster.

  “Where does the next danger lurk, Argon? Just tell me that. How can I prepare?”

  Argon sighed.

  “Danger lurks everywhere, Thorgrin. You can prepare only by learning to master yourself.”

  “My mother,” Thor said. “I keep seeing her in my dreams.”

  “That is because she is summoning you. It is not a call you can ignore. Your destiny depends on it. The fate of your people depends on it.”

  “But how shall I find her?” Thor asked, looking out at the horizon, wondering. “I don’t know how to—”

  Thor turned to face Argon, but as he did, he was shocked to see that he was already gone.

  “ARGON!” Thor called out, turning in every direction, looking about.

  He stood there, looking, waiting, watching for hours, until even the first sun touched the sky—but no matter how long he looked, there came nothing in return but the howling of the wind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Gwendolyn sat on her throne in the rebuilt Council chamber, the early morning light of the first sun streaking in through the stained-glass windows, painting the room muted colors. She surveyed the vast number of people who filled the room in wonder. She could hardly believe how many people filled the chamber—of advisors, council members, hangers-on, well-wishers, nobles, lords, attendants—and now, on a special day like today, petitioners, lining up outside the room, down the Hall, and outside the castle. It was an ancient tradition for rulers to hear petitions on the day after Summer Solstice, and Gwendolyn, regardless of how exhausted she was, would not let her people down.

  Gwen was also taken aback by how resplendent this room now looked, since its reconstruction. Hardly six moons ago she had sat here, the room mostly rubble, freezing cold air gushing in through the open walls. Now it was a beautiful summer day, temperate breezes coming in through the open, arched stained-glass windows, and it was the finest hall in the two kingdoms. She had doubled the size of this famed hall, had doubled the size of the council table, and had built for them comfortable seats, so they could wait in dignity.

  This hall was where she spent most of her days now. She wanted to be out there, walking the fields, carefree as she had been when she was a child—or spending her time with Thor, taking a stroll through her courtyards and gardens. But alas, the ruling of her kingdom required so many petty decisions and matters, hearing one person after the other. Many days she came in here, expecting to leave early, but before she knew it, the day grew long, and she left here after dark.

  Today, she was determined for it to be different. After all, the Summer Solstice came but once a year, and today, the day that followed, was Departure Day; so many people would be departing on this day, embarking for somewhere in the kingdom. It was thought to bring good luck to depart the day after the Summer Solstice, and her people took it very seriously.

  Nearby stood Thor, Reece, Kendrick, Godfrey, Erec, Aberthol, Steffen, Alistair and Selese, along with several close advisors, including all those who had once sat on her father’s council. Gwen was tired from last night’s festivities, and even more tired from the baby. The nurses had told her she was due any day, and she could feel it without being told. Her baby flipped like mad, and with each day, Gwen felt it harder to catch her breath. She sat there, first thing in the morning, already feeling like going to sleep, struggl
ing to keep her eyes open.

  She forced herself to focus. It was a big day, after all, one of the most important and auspicious days of the year, and her council chamber, already packed, was growing ever more crowded.

  Gwen had been receiving foreign dignitaries and well-wishers since the sun rose, visitors from all corners of the Ring and of the Empire who had come for her wedding. A corner of the room was already piled high with wedding gifts for her, and gifts for her baby. Her wedding was still days away, and yet the gifts poured in: golden candlesticks, precious jewels, ancient rugs, delicacies of every sort.… There was already more than she could count, or ever use in a lifetime. She had been showered with great affection from the masses, and she was quickly becoming known as the people’s Queen. Perhaps it was because she had suffered, and the people—all of whom had also suffered in their own way—related to her.

  The masses absolutely loved her—as much as the nobles did—a rare thing in the kingdom. It was something that even her father had not enjoyed. His nobles had respected him, and the masses had feared and appreciated him. All had thought he was a fair king. But none had loved him. Her father had kept the people and the nobles at a distance; Gwendolyn kept her doors open and treated them like part of her family.

  Having finished entertaining all of her foreign dignitaries, her external affairs were over for the morning, and it was time to turn to her internal affairs. Aberthol cleared his throat, banged his staff on the floor and stepped forward, beginning the proceedings. The room began to quiet.

  “We begin with a report from the tax collector,” Aberthol announced.

  Earnan, his father’s old tax councilor, stepped forward, bowed, and read from a scroll.

  “Two thousand casks of wine,” he announced, his voice dry. “One thousand casks of ale. Eight thousand chickens; six thousand hens. One thousand cows….”

  He lowered the scroll and looked up, his face grim.

  “The royal festivities and the queen’s wedding, all hosted by us, represent a generosity of a magnitude never displayed before in the history of the two kingdoms. My lady, you are the most generous ruler that has ever sat on that throne. But these festivities are also cause for concern. We have nearly drained whatever was left of our royal treasury.”