“Send this off with the next falcon,” Srog ordered.
“Yes, my Lord,” the attendant said, hurrying off.
Srog wondered if the attendant truly would follow out his order, or if the missive would, as so many others, get lost mysteriously.
“Sabotage is a strong word,” Falus said darkly.
The other soldiers around the table slowly quieted, all turning and looking Srog’s way.
Srog stared back at Falus, Tirus’ eldest son. He resembled Tirus exactly. He stared back, defiant.
“The queen’s ships are meant for smoother waters,” Karus added. “Perhaps the tides snapped the ropes.”
Srog shook his head, annoyed.
“No tides did this,” he said, “and the queen’s ships can traverse waters stronger than these. It was the work of men.”
“Perhaps it was the work of one of your men?” Falus asked. “Perhaps you have a traitor amongst you?”
Srog was exhausted by Karus’ and Falus’ subtle reasoning, both staring back at him with the same dark, defiant eyes of their father.
“And perhaps some great sea monster with perfectly square teeth jumped up and ate the rope,” Srog answered sarcastically.
Some of the warriors about the table snickered, and Falus and Karus reddened and grimaced back.
“You mock us,” Falus said, threateningly.
“Your people are sabotaging our ships,” Srog said, his voice rising. “And I want to know why.”
The room grew tense.
“Perhaps they are unhappy that your queen has imprisoned our leader like a common criminal,” came a voice from the end of the table.
Srog looked over to see that it was one of the nobles; a muted grunt of approval arose among the table’s other nobles.
“Your leader,” Srog countered, “was a traitor to the Ring. He joined the Empire against us. Gwendolyn’s sentence was lenient. He deserved hanging.”
“He was a traitor to
The other nobles grunted in agreement.
Srog stared back, his anger rising.
“Just because you live on these isles, it doesn’t make you separate from us. You are still protected by our armies.”
“We do fine in these Upper Isles without your help,” one said.
“Perhaps our people just don’t want you here,” said another. “Perhaps they don’t like the look of the Queen’s ships filling our shores.”
“No one likes to be occupied,” said another.
“You are not occupied. You are free. Your men come to our shores, and we come to yours. We protect you from foreign enemies, and our ships come to you filled with supplies for your countrymen, supplies you dearly need.”
“We do not need protecting,” said another noble. “Nor do we need your supplies. If you MacGils would stay on your mainland, we would have no problems.”
“Oh?” Srog countered, “Then why did you MacGils invade us unprovoked and try to take the mainland for yourselves?”
The nobles reddened, unable to respond. They looked at each other, then slowly, sourly, one of them got up, scraping his chair back along the stone, standing and facing his men.
“My meat has soured,” he said.
He turned and walked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
A thick, tense silence followed.
Slowly, one at a time, the other nobles rose and walked from the room.
Now Srog sat with just three men at the table—Tirus’ three sons, Falus, Karus and Matus. Srog looked about, and felt more on edge ever.
“Just release our father,” Falus said to him quietly. “Then our men will let your ships be.”
“Your father tried to kill our queen,” Srog said. “And he betrayed us twice. He cannot be released.”
“Then as long as he’s in his cell, do not expect our people to tolerate you,” Karus said.
The two brothers stood and began to walk out. They stopped and turned to Matus.
“You’re not joining us?” Falus asked, surprised.
Matus sat there defiantly.
“My place is here. At this table. The queen’s table.”
Falus and Karus shook their heads in disgust, then turned and stormed out.
Srog sat there, at the mostly empty table, feeling hollowed out.
“My Lord, I apologize for them,” Matus said. “Gwendolyn was more than kind to spare my father’s life.”
“I do not understand your people,” Srog said. “For the life of me, I do not understand them. What does it take to rule them well? I ruled a great city, far greater than this. But with these people, I cannot rule them.”
“Because mine are a people not meant to be ruled,” Matus said. “They are defiant by nature—even to my father. That was the secret my father knew. Do not try to rule them; the less you try, the more they may come around. Then again, they might not. They are stubborn people, with little to lose. That is the reason they live here—they do not want anything to do with the mainland. They are wrong in almost everything they do, but they might be right about one thing: you might do yourself and Gwendolyn a greater service to bring your assets elsewhere.”
Srog shook his head.
“Gwendolyn needs the Upper Isles. She needs a unified Ring. All the MacGils are of one family, sharing blood. This division, it makes no sense.”
“Sometimes geography creates a great divide amongst a people over time. This family has grown apart.”
An attendant came by and placed a new goblet of wine before Srog, and he picked it up.
“You are the only one I can completely trust here,” Srog said, appreciative. “How is it that you are unlike the rest of your people?”
“I despise my father,” Matus said. “I despise everything he stands for. He has no principles, no honor. I admired Gwendolyn’s father, my uncle, King MacGil, greatly. I always admired all of the MacGils of the mainland. They live by their honor, no matter what it takes. That is the life I’ve always wanted.”
“Well, you have lived it yourself,” Srog said approvingly.
Srog raised the goblet to his lips, prepared to drink, when suddenly, Matus leapt forward and swung around, and knocked the goblet from his hand. It went flying, landing on the floor, echoing as it rolled across the stone.
Srog stared back at him, shocked, not understanding.
Matus crossed the room, picked up the goblet, and held it up for Srog to see.
Srog came closer, and noticed a black lining at the bottom of it.
Matus reached down, ran his finger along it, held it up, and rubbed his fingers together. As he did, a fine black dust drifted down to the ground.
“Blackroot,” he said. “One sip, and you’re dead.”
Srog stood there, frozen, looking at it in horror, his blood running cold.
“How did you know?” he asked in a whisper.
“The color of your wine,” Matus answered. “It seemed too dark to me.”
As Srog stood there, frozen in horror, not knowing what to say, Matus looked both ways, then leaned in close.
“Trust no one.
