A Sky of Spells

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Luanda marched and marched, exhausted, weak from hunger, freezing, feeling as if her trek would never end. She couldn’t allow herself to stop. She had to make it back, to her homeland, to Bronson. She was still reeling as she thought how lucky she had been to escape, what a close call it had been. She had been looking over her shoulder the entire march back, still fearing that somehow, maybe, Romulus would find a way to take down the Shield, to follow her, to grab her and bring her back.

But he was never there. He was gone now, the Shield was truly up, and Luanda had been safe marching, all this way, through the wasteland of the Ring, determined to make it home. She was relieved, yet she also felt a sense of dread. Would her people take her back in, after all she had done? Would they want to kill her? She could hardly blame them. She was embarrassed by her own actions.

Yet she had nowhere else to go. This was the only home she knew. And she loved Bronson, and ached to see him again, to apologize in person.

Luanda was remorseful for what she had done, and she wished it could have been otherwise. She wished she could take it all back, could do it all differently. Looking back on it now, she didn’t understand what had come over her, how she had allowed her ambition to overcome her. She had wanted it all. And she had failed.

This time, she had learned her lesson; she was humbled. She did not yearn for power now. Now, she just wanted peace. She just wanted to be back with her people, in a place to call home. She saw firsthand how bad life could be with the Empire, and she wanted to get as far away from ambition as possible.

Luanda thought of Bronson, of how much he had cared for her, and she hated herself for letting him down. She felt that if there was anyone left that might forgive her, might take her back in again, it was he. She was determined to find him, not matter how far she had to march. She only prayed he was still alive.

Luanda came upon the rear camp of the MacGils, all of them marching towards King’s Court on the wide road leading West, thousands of men, exhausted but jubilant, fresh off their victory. She was thrilled to catch up with them, to see that they had won, and she weaved her way through, asking each if they knew where Bronson was. She asked them all the same thing: if they had seen him, if he was alive.

Most had ignored her with a grunt, turning away from her, shrugging, ignorant. And those that recognized her, sent her away with disparaging remarks.

“Aren’t you the MacGil girl? The one who sold us all out?” asked a soldier, elbowing his friends, who all turned and examined her with scorn.

I am a member of the MacGil royal family, the firstborn daughter of King MacGil. You are a commoner. You remember that and keep your place, she wanted to say. The old Luanda would have.

But now, humbled, ashamed, she merely lowered her head. She was no longer the woman she once was.

“Yes, that is I,” she answered. “I am sorry.”

Luanda turned and disappeared back into the camp, weaving her way in and out, until finally she tapped yet another soldier on the shoulder, and as he turned, she prepared to ask him if he knew were Bronson was.

But as he turned she stopped cold.

So did he.

All around him the men kept marching, yet the two of them stood there, frozen, staring at each other.

She could hardly breathe. There, facing her, was her love.

Bronson.

Bronson stared back at Luanda in shock. She stood there and, for several seconds, she did not know if he would hate her, send her away, or embrace her.

But suddenly his eyes welled with tears and she could see relief flood his face, and he rushed forward and embraced her. He held her tight, and she embraced him back. It felt so good to be in his arms again, and she clung to him as she began sobbing, her body wracked with tears, not realizing how much she’d held in, how upset she was. She let it all out, crying, ashamed.

“Luanda,” he said, holding her. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“I love you too,” she said through her tears, unable to let go, to back away.

She pulled back and, unable to look into his eyes, lowered her head, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Forgive me,” she said softly, unable to meet his gaze. “Please. Forgive me.”

He embraced her again, holding her tight.

“I forgive you for everything,” he said. “I know it wasn’t the real you.”

She looked up and met his eyes, and she saw that they did not look at her with scorn. She could see that he still loved her as much as the day she had met him.

“I knew that you were just caught up in the grips of something,” he continued. “Ambition. It overwhelmed you. But it wasn’t you. It wasn’t the Luanda I know.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re right. It wasn’t me.”

She smiled, breathing deep, collecting herself as she wiped away her tears.

“And what of the others?” she asked nervously. “Thorgrin? My sister? Are they alive?”

She knew that if the answer was no, she would face an angry mob who would blame it on her and want her dead.

Bronson smiled and nodded back, and as she saw his face, she was overwhelmed with joy and relief.

“They are indeed,” he replied. “They have all gone to King’s Court, which is where we head now. I am sure they will accept you back.”

He took her hand, but she stopped and pulled it away, shaking her head.

“I am not so sure,” she said. “How can they ever trust me again?”

“That’s her,” came a dark voice.

Luanda turned to see several soldiers approaching, one pointing at her.

“There’s the MacGil girl,” he added. “The one who betrayed Thor.”

A group of soldiers marched forward and grabbed Luanda from behind, quickly, before she could react, and began to bind her wrists with rope.

“What you doing?” Bronson called out, indignant, approaching them. “That is my wife!”

“She is also a traitor,” the soldier replied firmly. “The one who sold out our army. She is under arrest. It is for the queen to decide her fate—not us. And not you.”

“Where are you taking her?” Bronson pressed, blocking their way. “I demand for her to have an audience with the Queen!”

“An audience she will indeed have,” they replied. “But as a prisoner.”

“No!”

Bronson lunged forward to free her, but a group of soldiers blocked his way and drew their swords.

“Bronson, please!” Luanda cried out. “Let it go. They are right to take me. Please don’t fight them. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

Bronson slowly lowered his sword, realizing they were right. In a just society, justice needed to be served. There was nothing he could do about it. He loved Luanda; but he also served the queen.

“Luanda, I will talk to her for you,” Bronson said. “Do not worry.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but the soldiers were already taking her away, to the distant horizon, to King’s Court. It was a city that Luanda had once entered as royalty—and now, ironically, she would enter as a prisoner. She did not need honors anymore; she only prayed her sister would allow her to keep her life.