The old man shouted and cursed at them, and the MacGils started to curse them back. A cacophony of noise arose, men cursing each other, sheep bleating.
Bronson rubbed his forehead, his headache worsening. The day had hardly begun, and there was yet a long day ahead. Why could these men not get along? Was his cause here hopeless?
He had to admit, even though they were his native people, the McClouds were the instigators. In every case he had seen, they were always the ones at fault. It was as if a part of them just did not want peace.
Bronson stepped forward, and there came a lull in the squabbling as all eyes turned to him.
“If these are his sheep, then these are his sheep,” Bronson finally said to the McClouds. “It does not matter where you found them. He took back what was his.”
He turned to the MacGils.
“Take them and go,” he said. “I am sorry for your trouble.”
The MacGils nodded, satisfied, and corralled their sheep and began to lead them down to their side of the mountain.
“You can’t just let them go!” the old man yelled out to Koovia. “Stop them! Our new King is too weak to support us! Use the might of your army! Unless you are too weak, too!”
Bronson bristled at the old man’s words, and he could see Koovia bristling, too, and thinking it all over himself. He could see that Koovia wanted to go after those sheep.
But Koovia instead turned and shoved the old man, and he stumbled back. He grabbed the hilt of his sword.
“Say another word old man, and we will see who is weak!”
Koovia stepped forward in a rage, and the old man backed away.
Slowly, the McClouds turned and stormed down the hill.
Koovia, still scowling, turned and faced Bronson.
“You don’t know your people,” he said. “You are not a King in their eyes, or regent, or whatever it is that Gwendolyn has named you. To them, you are weak. A puppet. The McClouds are used to taking what they want by force. That is their way. You will never change them. So stop wasting your time here, and go back to Gwendolyn.”
Bronson frowned, fed up.
“You are my general,” Bronson said. “You answer to me. I don’t answer to you. I speak with the authority of Gwendolyn. Both sides of the kingdom will be united. And you will do your part by allowing the MacGil soldiers to patrol with you.”
Koovia reeled back in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
Bronson scowled; he could tell by Koovia’s face that he was lying.
“I have heard the reports,” Bronson said. “For many moons you have told me you were allowing the MacGils to patrol with our men—yet the other day I was told MacGils came to your camp and you shut them out. Are the reports not true?”
Koovia seemed flustered.
“The MacGils are not our people,” he said, defensive. “What does it matter to you? You are not one of them. You were raised here. Your father would be ashamed of you.”
Bronson darkened.
“I know where I was raised. I am your leader. You answer to me. And I say that our men will train together.”
Koovia shook his head slowly, looking Bronson up and down.
“You may be leader for now, but you won’t be for long. Our people responded to your father because he used force. Brutal force. That is what our people need. You will not employ it—and to our people, that makes you weak. And the weak always fall.”
Koovia turned his back and marched away, his men falling in behind him. Bronson stood there and watched them go, back down the hill, his headache increasing.
He could not help but wonder what on earth he was doing here.
Luanda paced in her castle chamber, the room alight with torches, impatient as night fell, waiting for Bronson’s return. He’d been gone all day, yet again, on matters related to the unification. It was, she knew, an exercise in futility, and it just made her mad at her sister. Gwendolyn had always been so naive. What had she been thinking? That the two clans would really unite?
If she had just asked her, then Luanda would have told her at once that it would never work. The McClouds, she knew from experience, were savages. If Luanda was queen, she would have simply sealed up the Highlands, created a great wall, doubled the patrols and let the savages rot here. She would protect the Western kingdom of the Ring, and let be what may be on the Eastern side.
But Gwendolyn, always the idealist, had to let her little fantasies play out—and even worse, she had to assign Bronson to try to enforce it. Each day was getting worse in this awful place, and Luanda knew that nothing good could come of it.
It was not Luanda’s problem. Exiled here, to the other side of the Highlands, she might as well have been sentenced to prison—or to death instead. Being stuck here, having to live with these savages, in this empty castle, with nothing to do all day but wait for Bronson to return home, was the worst possible punishment Gwen could have given her.
At first, of course, Luanda had been grateful her life had been spared. But now, six moons later, her gratitude had morphed to resentment. The more time passed, the more she was feeling like her old self, feeling a growing restlessness. She was sorely disappointed; she had been sure that at some point Gwendolyn would have granted her mercy and relented and let her back into her homeland, into King’s Court. She could not believe that she was still stuck here, banished, that she had been shut out of all the wedding preparation and festivities going on across the Highlands. That she had been left to rot here all alone. It was almost too much to bear. Her sister, she felt, should have exhibited more mercy.
Luanda fumed for many moons, as her hair slowly grew back, spending many days crying. Until one day, finally, a plan had come to her, a way out of her misery, a way to gain back control. It dawned on her, as clear as day: if she had a child, that child could not be banished from King’s Court. Luanda was a young, healthy woman, and she could bear children. Royal children. After all, she was the firstborn of King MacGil, and her child would carry the bloodline. Gwendolyn might have won this generation, but Luanda realized that things could change with the next. She was determined, and she would stop at nothing, would do everything in her power, to make sure that her offspring ousted her sister’s. She would find a way to put them on the throne, and regain power.
The idea had hardened in Luanda’s mind over these past moons, and she had made Bronson sleep with her, every day and every night. Each day she had awakened expecting to be able to report the good news that she was pregnant.
And yet here she was, fuming, six moons later, and still no baby. It had been a failure, like everything else in her life. It was not working, for whatever reason. It might not
The door opened and Luanda spun, caught off guard, as Bronson stormed in, ignoring her. Bronson marched across the room, lost in thought, clearly fixated by his day’s business.
Luanda had no time for his brooding; she came up behind him, grabbed his shoulders, and began to pull off his clothes. Maybe this time would be different.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’ve been waiting for you all day,” she said, slipping out of her robe, standing there naked.
Bronson barely noticed her, though, as he crossed the chamber and went to his desk, leafing through a pile of scrolls.
“You’ve been gone all day,” she said. “Now it’s time for us.”
She came up behind him and stroked his arms and shoulders. She could feel the tension in them.
Finally, he turned around.
“Please, Luanda, not now. I’ve had a terrible day.”
