A Sea of Shields

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Luanda immersed herself in the cold spring, alone, high up in the mountains of the Highlands, as was her habit every morning. She ran the cold water through her hair, now grown back fully, and the icy feel on her scalp made her feel alive, awake. It reminded her of where she was. She was not home; she was in a foreign land. On the wrong side of the Highlands. An exile. And she would never return home. The cold water reminded her, as it did every morning, and in some ways, she had come to enjoy it. It was her way of reminding herself of what her life had become.

It was empty up here in these mountain springs, surrounded by thick summer woods and leaves, and covered in a morning mist. And despite hating everything about this side of the Highlands, Luanda had to admit that she’d actually grown to like it here, in this spot that no one else knew about. She had discovered it accidentally one day, on one of her long hikes, and had come here every day since.

As Luanda slowly emerged from the water, she dried herself with the thin wool towel she had brought, and then, as was her habit every morning, she took the long branch of herbs the apothecary had given her, and relieved herself on it. She placed the herbs on a rock in the sunlight, beside the water, and waited. She closely watched their green color, as she had every day for moons, waiting and hoping they would turn white. If they did, the apothecary told her, it meant she was with child.

Every morning Luanda had stood there, drying off, and had watched the long, curved leaves—and every morning she had been disappointed. She had now given up hope; now, it was just a matter of routine.

Luanda was beginning to realize that she would never get pregnant. Her sister would beat her in this, too. Life would be cruel to her in this way, too, as it had in every other way.

Luanda leaned over the water and stared at her reflection. The perfectly still waters reflected the summer sky, the clouds, the two suns, and Luanda reflected on the twists and turns life had thrown her. Had anyone ever really loved her in her life? She wasn’t certain anymore. She knew she loved Bronson, though, and that he loved her back. Perhaps that should be enough, with or without child.

Luanda gathered her things and prepared to leave, and as an afterthought, she glanced at the branch lying on the rock.

She stopped cold as she did, holding her breath.

She could not believe it: there, in the sun, the branch had turned white.

Luanda gasped. She raised her hand to her mouth, afraid to reach out for it. She lifted it with shaking hands, examined it every which way. It was white. Snow white. As it had never been before.

Luanda, despite herself, started crying. She gushed with tears, overwhelmed with emotion. She reached down and held her stomach, and felt reborn, felt overwhelmed with joy and happiness. Finally, life had taken a turn in her favor. Finally, she would have everything that Gwendolyn had.

Luanda turned and raced from the spring, through the forest, back down the ridge. In the distance she could already see the fort that held her husband. She ran at full speed, tears streaming down her face, tears of joy. She could hardly wait to tell him the news. For the first time she could remember, she was happy.

She was truly happy.

Luanda burst into the castle hall, raced past the guards, took the spiral stone stairs three at a time. Out of breath, she ran and ran, dying to see Bronson. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction. He, Bronson, the man she had come to love more than anything in the world, who had himself come to want a child so badly.

Finally, their dreams had come true. Finally, they would be a family. A family of their own.

Luanda burst down the hall and hurried through the tall arched doors, not even noticing that there were no guards there, that the door was already ajar, not perceiving anything she normally did. She hurried into the room and stopped short.

She was confused. Something was wrong.

The world started to move in slow motion around Luanda as she looked about the room, and there, on the cold stone floor, beside the door, she noticed two bodies. They were Bronson’s guards. Both dead.

Before she could register the horror of it, Luanda noticed, lying there, toward the back of the room, another body. She recognized his clothing immediately: Bronson. Lying still, on his back. Not moving. His eyes opened wide, staring at the ceiling.

Luanda felt her entire body shake violently, as if someone had split her in two. She stumbled forward, her knees going weak, and collapsed to the floor, landing on top of her husband’s body.

She clutched Bronson’s cold hands and looked down at his blue face, at the stab wounds all over his body. And slowly, but surely, it all sank in.

Her husband. The one thing she still loved in the world. The father of her child. Dead.

Assassinated.

“NO!” Luanda wailed, again and again, shaking Bronson, as if somehow that would bring him back. She wept and wept, clutching him, her body convulsing, wracked with tears.

Luanda needed someone, something, to blame. There were the McClouds, of course, who had done this, and who she wanted to murder. If only Bronson had listened to her, if only he had not set them free.

But that wasn’t enough. She needed to blame someone else. The person behind all this.

In her mind, Luanda settled on one person: her sister.

Gwendolyn.

It was her fault. Her policies; her stupid naïveté; it had all led to her husband’s death. She had ruined everything. She had not only taken away her life, but the life of the one person she loved in the world.

Luanda shrieked, beside herself, determined. Now, with Bronson’s death, there was nothing left for her in the world. All that remained was for her to instill in everyone else the same suffering they had instilled in her.

She would do it.

Luanda stood, cold and hard, resolved. She turned and marched from the hall, her heart quickening. She had an idea. Something that would ruin Gwendolyn, once and for all.

And it was time to put it into motion.