another corridor, passed through the rear chapel, through another door, passed several guards, and entered the private chambers of the castle. She had to speak with her mother, and she knew she would be resting here, as she saw her slipping out of the feast. Her mother had little tolerance for these long social affairs anymore. She knew that she liked to slip out to her private chambers and rest as often as possible.
Gwen passed another guard, went down another hall, then finally stopped before the door to her mother’s dressing room. She was about to open it, but then she stopped. Behind the open door, she heard muted voices, their pitch rising, and sensed something wrong. It was her mother, arguing. She listened closely, and heard her father’s voice. They were fighting. But why?
Gwen knew she should not be listening-but she could not help herself. She reached out and gently pushed open the heavy oak door, grabbing it by its iron knocker. She opened it just a crack and listened.
“He won’t stay in my house,” her mother snapped, on edge.
“You rush to judgment, when you don’t even know the entire story.”
“I know the story,” she snapped back. “Enough of it.”
Gwen heard venom in her mother’s voice, and was taken aback. She rarely heard her parents fight-just a few times in her life-and she had never heard her mother so worked up. She could not understand why.
“He will stay in the barracks, with the other boys. I do not want him under my roof. Do you understand?” she pressed.
“It is a big castle,” her father spat back. “His presence will not be noticed by you.”
“I don’t care if it is noticed or not. I don’t want him here. He’s your problem. It was you who chose to bring him in.”
“You are not so innocent either,” her father retorted.
She heard footsteps, watched her father strut across the room and out the door on the other side, slamming it behind him so hard that the room shook. Her mother stood there, alone in the center of the room, and began to cry.
Gwen stood there and felt terrible. She didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, she thought it best to slip away, but on the other, she couldn’t stand the sight of her mother crying, couldn’t stand to leave her there like that. She also, for the life of her, could not understand what they were arguing about. She assumed they were arguing about Thor. But why? Why would her mother even care? Dozens of people lived under their roof.
Gwen couldn’t bring herself to just walk away, not with her mother in that state. She had to comfort her. She reached up and gently pushed the door open.
It creaked, and her mother wheeled, caught off guard. She scowled back.
“Do you not knock?” she snapped. Gwen could see how upset she was, and felt terrible.
“What’s wrong mother?” Gwen asked, walking towards her gently. “I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you arguing with father.”
“You are right: you shouldn’t pry,” her mother retorted.
Gwen was surprised: her mother was often a handful, but was rarely like this. The force of her anger made Gwen stop in her tracks, a few feet away, unsure.
“Is it about the new boy? Thor?” she asked.
Her mother turned and looked away, wiping a tear.
“I don’t understand,” Gwen pressed. “Why would you care where he stayed?”
“My matters are of no concern to you,” she said coldly, clearly wanting to end the matter. “What do you want? Why have you come here?”
Gwen was nervous now. She wanted her mother to tell her everything about Thor, but she couldn’t have picked a worse moment. She cleared her throat, hesitant.
“I…actually wanted to ask you about him. What do you know of him?”
Her mother turned and narrowed her eyes at her, suspicious.
“Why?” she asked, with deadly seriousness. Gwen could feel her summing her up, looking right through her, and seeing with her uncanny perception that Gwen liked him. She tried to hide her feelings, but knew it was no use.
“I’m just curious,” she said, unconvincingly.
Suddenly, the queen took three steps towards her, grabbed her arms roughly, and stared into her face.
“Listen to me,” she hissed. “I’m only going to say this once. Stay away from that boy. Do you hear me? I don’t want you anywhere near him, under any circumstance.”
Gwen was horrified.
“But why? He’s a hero.”
“He is not one of us,” her mother answered. “Despite what your father might think. I want you to keep away from him. Do you hear me? Vow to me. Vow to me right now.”
“I will not vow,” Gwen said, yanking her arm away from her mother’s too strong grip.
“He is a commoner, and you are Princess,” her mother yelled. “You are a
Gwen hardly knew how to respond. She had never seen her mother like this.
“Do not tell me what to do, mother,” she said, finally.
Gwen did her best to put on a brave voice, but deep inside she was trembling. She had come here wanting to know everything; now, she felt terrified. She did not understand what was happening.
“Do as you wish,” her mother said. “But his fate lies in your hands. Don’t forget it.”
With that, her mother turned, strutted from the room, and slammed it behind her, leaving Gwen all alone in the reverberating silence, her good mood shattered. She stood there and wondered. What could possibly elicit such a strong reaction from her mother and her father?
Who was this boy?
CHAPTER TEN
MacGil sat in the banquet hall, watching over his subjects, he at one end of the table and Cloud at the other, and hundreds of men from both clans between them. The wedding revelries had been going on for hours, and finally, the tension between the clans had settled down from the day’s jousting. As MacGil suspected, all the men needed was wine and meat-and women-to make them forget their differences. Now they all mingled at the same table, like brothers in arms. In fact, looking them over, MacGil could no longer even tell they were of two separate clans.
MacGil felt vindicated: his master plan was working after all. Already, the two clans seemed closer. He had managed to do what a long line of MacGil kings before him could not: to unify both sides of the ring, to make them, if not friends, then at least peaceful neighbors. He spotted his daughter, Luanda, arm in arm with her new husband, the McCloud prince, and she seemed content. His guilt lessened. He might have given her away-but he did, at least, give her a queenship.
MacGil thought back to all the planning that preceded this event, recalled the long days of arguing with his advisors. He had gone against the advice of all his counselors in arranging this union. He knew it was not an easy peace. He knew that, in time, the McLouds would settle in on their side of the Highlands, that this wedding would be long forgotten, and that one day they would stir with unrest. He was not naive. But now, at least, there was a blood tie between the clans-and especially when a child was born, that could not be so easily ignored. If that child flourished, and one day even ruled, a child born of two sides of the Ring, then perhaps, one day, the entire ring could be united, the Highlands would no longer be a border of contention, and the land could prosper under one rule. That was his dream. Not for himself, but for his descendants. After all, the Ring had to stay strong, needed to stay unified in order to protect the Canyon, to fight off the hordes of the world beyond. As long as the two clans remained divided, they presented a weakened front to the rest of the world.
“A toast,” MacGil shouted, and stood.
The table grew quiet as hundreds of men stood, too, raising their casks.
“To the wedding of my eldest child! To the union of the MacGils and McClouds! To peace throughout the
