“So have I,” she said, irritated, losing patience. “Do you think you’re the only one who is unhappy here? I must sit here all day and wait for you. I have no one and nothing here. I want a baby. I
Bronson examined her, seeming confused.
She pulled him towards her, threw him down to the bed and jumped on top of him.
“Luanda, this is not the time. I’m not ready—”
Luanda ignored him. She did not care what Bronson wanted any more.
But to Luanda’s shock, Bronson pushed her off the bed.
Luanda stood there, humiliated, in a rage. She was furious at Bronson. At her sister. At herself. At her life.
“I said not now!” Bronson said.
“Who cares if it’s now or later?” she yelled back. “It’s not working!”
Bronson sat on the edge of the bed, looking dejected.
“My sister will give birth any day,” Luanda added. “And I will have nothing to show.”
“It is not a competition,” he said calmly. “And we have all the time in the world. Calm yourself.”
“No we don’t!” she screamed. “And you are wrong: the entire world is a competition.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “Let us not fight.”
Luanda stood there, breathing hard, fuming.
“Sorry is not good enough,” she said.
Luanda threw on her robe, marched past Bronson and stormed out the room. She would find a way to get out of this place and to regain power—no matter what she had to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Srog stood at the top of the highest peak of the Upper Isles, peering down through the rain and mist at the Bay of Crabs. He looked closely at the long jetties of boulders that stretched into the sea, squinting into the fog and blinding rain. He was dripping wet, doused by the rain, his clothes and hair wet, as he stood there beside his generals.
Srog had learned to tune out the rain ever since moving here. It was part of life on the Upper Isles: each day the sky was overcast, blanketed by rolling clouds, the wind ever-present, and the climate twenty degrees cooler, even in summer. There was always either the threat of rain, or the presence of it. No day was dry. The Upper Isles, he had learned, deserved their reputation as a gloomy, miserable place, the weather fitting its reputation—and the people matching the temperament of the weather.
These past six moons Srog had come to know these Upper Islanders; they were a wily people, and could never be fully trusted. His six moons of ruling here had met with nothing but frustration, the people here clearly determined to thwart his rule at every turn, to sabotage his efforts. They were a rebellious folk, and they were intent on breaking off the yolk of the new queen Gwendolyn.
“There, my Lord,” the general cried out to be heard over the wind. “Do you see it?”
Srog peered into the mist and saw bobbing there, in the rough ocean, the remnant of one of the queen’s ships, tossing in the waves, smashing into the rocks. The waves crashed all around the boat, and the ship smashed again and again into the rocks. The ship, empty of men, spun in each direction. Srog could hear the splintering of wood even from here as it was smashed to pieces against the rocks.
“The anchor was cut early this morning,” the general continued. “By the time our men detected it, it was too late. They could not salvage it in time, my Lord.”
“You are certain it was cut?” Srog asked.
The general reached out and held in his hand a severed piece of rope.
“A clean-cut, my Lord,” he explained. “No rock did this. It was a man’s dagger. Sabotage.”
Srog examined the rope, and realized he was correct.
Srog sighed, weary from this place. He had spent most his life in Silesia, a grand, civilized city, where the people were honest, noble. He had ruled it well, uniting upper and lower Silesia, achieving what no Lord had ever managed to do. Silesia was a palace next to this dump, and Silesians were nothing like these Upper Islanders. After all his time here, Srog was slowly settling into the conclusion that the Upper Islanders enjoyed their subversion; they thrived on it. More and more, he sensed that they were a people who could not be ruled.
Each time Srog found an Upper Islander he could trust, that person, too, betrayed him. He was now at the point where he trusted no one.
“Increase patrols at the ships,” Srog said. “I want a soldier on duty at the moorings, all through the day and night. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the general said. He turned and hurried down the ridge, ordering his men, who all burst into action.
Srog looked down and surveyed the dozens of queen’s ships anchored at the wide sandy beach, and prayed that none of them met the same fate. This was the second ship this month that had been destroyed by sabotage, and he was determined not to lose another one.
Srog turned and hurried through the awful weather, followed by his advisors, jogging back to the warmth of the castle. It was hardly a castle—more like a fort, built square and low to the ground, with no artistic imagination or aesthetic appeal. It was utilitarian, uninspired and cold, much like the people of this place.
Srog hurried through the doors, opened for him, and rushed inside. The door slammed behind them, and he finally found quiet from the raging wind and rain. He stood there, his body dripping from the wet, and took off his outer shirt, as he was accustomed to by now, hanging it on a hook. He marched through the fort, running his hands through his wet hair, guards stiffening to attention as he went.
Srog passed through various corridors and finally entered the great hall, small compared to the castles he was used to. A square room with low ceilings, it had a large fireplace along one wall, with table and chairs positioned close to it. The Upper Islanders always stayed close to a fire, needing warmth and heat to dry off from the weather, and now there were several dozen men seated around the table.
Srog took a seat at the center of the table, close to the fireplace, and ran his wet hand through his hair and over his clothes several times, doing his best to dry it off. Several mangy dogs moved out of his way as he came close. They sat close by, repositioning themselves, and looked up at him, waiting for food.
Srog threw them a piece of meat from the table, then reached over, grabbed a goblet of wine, and drank the whole thing, wanting to make this place go away. He rubbed his head in his hands. This island gave him a massive headache. A second ship sabotaged by these people. What was wrong with them? Why did their resentments and petty rivalries run so deep? Srog was beginning to feel that Gwendolyn had made a mistake to try to unite the Upper Isles with the mainland. He was feeling more and more that she should abandon the whole place, and let it fall prey to its own destiny, as her father had before her.
Srog looked up and saw seated across from him Tirus’ three sons, Karus, Falus and Matus. Around the rest of the table sat several dozen more warriors and noblemen of the Upper Isles, all loyal to Tirus, all deep into their drinking and food, as torches were lit all around them. They were all settling in for the night.
Up here, they celebrated the Summer Solstice a day late, and this meager, somber meal was this Isle’s version of celebration. Srog shuddered, and not just from the wet and the cold. He missed King’s Court; he missed Silesia, and he pined to be back on the mainland. He could not help but feel his time here was futility.
Srog wished he could understand these Upper Islanders, but try as he did, he could not. They claimed that the source of their upset stemmed from Tirus’ imprisonment; yet after six moons of observing them, Srog did not believe that was all of it. He felt that, even if Tirus were set free, these people would still find some cause for subversion.
“And what reports today, my lord?” Matus asked, sitting beside him. Srog had learned that Matus was the only Upper Islander he could trust.
“Another ship sabotaged,” Srog answered grimly. “Lost to the rocks. Gwendolyn will not be happy.”
Srog looked down at the scroll before him, finished penning letter for Gwendolyn, and handed it to a waiting attendant.
