Morgan Rice - A Sky of Spells

And as she stared back, unmoving, her eyes perfectly still, crystal-clear, like the lake behind her, Reece could see that she was as equally hypnotized by him. Their love, the strongest thing Reece had ever felt in his life, so strong it pained him, had never died. It had never even faltered.

Reece forced himself to turn his thoughts to Selese, to their wedding. But standing here, before Stara, rooted to this place, all free thought was impossible. He was in the grip of something greater than himself, something he did not understand. As he stood there, he knew that fate had interceded, and that his life, and the lives of everyone around him, whether he liked it or not, was about to change forever.

Bronson sat in the feasting hall of his fathers, in the old McCloud castle, seated at the head of the long table, Luanda beside him. Seated up and down the table, on either side, were McClouds and MacGils, grizzled warriors all of them, each sticking to their side of the table, none, despite Bronson’s efforts, intermingling with the others. Bronson surveyed it all, and his head hurt. Nothing was going as he had planned.

Bronson, in an act of desperation, had summoned all of these warriors together for a feast, to try to bring them closer to one another, to hash out any differences. He had chosen representatives from feuding clans on both sides of the Highlands, and he had throne a lavish feast in their honor, replete with music, wine, and delicious food. And yet, thus far, the night had not been going well. They each stuck to their side of the table, talking to their own clansman, and ignoring the others. They were both so stubborn, like two kids refusing to look at each other. It had made for an awkward feast at best, and Bronson was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake to even attempt this.

This feast followed hours of festivities, a mini festival which Bronson had ordered to celebrate a wedding of a MacGil clansman to a McCloud bride. It was originally supposed to be a quiet, simple wedding, in a humble village on the MacGil side of the Highlands; but when Bronson heard of it, he insisted that the wedding be a huge, public affair. This was exactly what he needed, and he personally paid for the expenses of it, thinking this would be the perfect event to help bring the two warring sides together. This young couple was truly in love, and Bronson hoped that maybe their love and goodwill would spread to the people.

The day’s wedding, though, had been an awkward affair, with both clansman staying on their sides, and the disapproving families of the groom and bride not even intermingling.

It had spilled over to the feasting hall, and Bronson had figured that the mood would be more relaxed at night, after the wedding, after all the dancing, once the men relaxed with drink and a good meal.

And yet here they all were, late into the night, the McCloud bride the only McCloud on the MacGil side of the room. Bronson had tried many times throughout the night to break the ice, but nothing seemed to work.

“You had better do something,” Luanda whispered into his ear.

He turned and looked at her. She leaned in close, staring at him intently.

“This feast of yours is a failure. It is not bringing goodwill between them. And if this does not, nothing will. You must bring them together somehow. I do not like what I see.”

“And what is that?” Bronson asked.

“A war erupting between them both.”

Bronson turned and looked out at the room, and felt the tension in the air, and on some level, he knew she was right. Luanda had a talent for always seeing things for what they were.

“A toast!” Bronson screamed out, standing and slamming his mug on the table until the room quieted.

Bronson knew the time had come to take decisive action, to be a great leader. He had to set the tone for harmony between the two clans.

“A toast to two great families!” he boomed. “To two great clans, coming together in peace. It is amazing how love can unite us all. Let us all follow this couple’s great example and come together, from both sides of the Highlands, to create one nation, one Ring, in harmony with each other.”

The bride and groom raised their mugs, as did several on the MacGil side; yet no one on the McCloud side bothered to. Bronson realized that the MacGils were more open to peace than the McClouds. It was hardly surprising: having grown up amongst the McClouds, he knew them to be obstinate.

“I have a better idea!” yelled Koovia, standing amidst the McCloud clansman, slamming his mug on the table, his voice booming, commanding attention. He looked drunk, his face red with scorn, and Bronson did not like what he saw.

The room quieted, as all eyes fell on him.

“I suggest that our new leader, Bronson, prove himself to be a leader—instead of being a puppet of the MacGil girl!”

The McClouds cheered, as Bronson’s face reddened. Before he could reply, Koovia continued:

“A true leader of the McCloud kingdom would assert his royal privileges on a wedding night!” Koovia boomed.

The McCloud warriors screamed and cheered, banging their mugs on the table, whipped up into a drunken frenzy.

“Of what does he speak?” Luanda asked Bronson, confused, as the room erupted into a clamor.

But Bronson was fuming, too busy to address her.

“You do not mean what you say!” Bronson yelled back to Koovia.

“Of course I do!” Koovia boomed. “Your father took the privilege, many times. Any true McCloud king must—that is, if you are a king.”

There came another great cheer from the McClouds, as they slammed their mugs.

“What is it that he speaks of?” a MacGil warrior finally called out, confused.

“I speak of the deflowering of the bride on her wedding night!” Koovia boomed defiantly, back to the MacGils.

All the MacGils on their side of the table suddenly stood in an uproar, angrily muttering towards the McClouds.

Bronson detected motion out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up and saw several McCloud soldiers circling around the outskirts of the room and barring all the exits.

Bronson felt a pit in his stomach as he realized he had been setup. This was all a trap, schemed by Koovia.

“You have tricked us with your feast!” the MacGil warrior screamed accusingly to Bronson.

Bronson wanted to call out that he knew nothing of this, but before he could reply, Koovia interceded.

“You are completely surrounded!” Koovia yelled to the MacGils. “There is no way out. Hand over the bride. It is time for our king to have his way with her. And if he won’t—we will!”

The McClouds all cheered, driven to a drunken furor, while the MacGils all drew their swords. The McClouds drew theirs, too.

As they stood there, facing off, Koovia walked around the table, right up to Bronson, several of his men following, while Bronson stood and faced him.

“Take the bride, and you will be our leader,” Koovia said to Bronson. “If not, you will face death yourself by my own hand, and I shall be the new McCloud king.”

The McCloud soldiers cheered.

Bronson stared back at Koovia. He had been cornered in, outmaneuvered. He should have known better. His people always viewed kindness as weakness. They were even more primitive than he had realized.

“You can take the kingship from me if you like,” Bronson replied calmly, “but you will not touch the bride. You will have to kill me first.”

Koovia scowled.

“As I thought,” he said. “A pathetic leader to the last.”

Bronson drew his sword and blocked Koovia’s path to the bride.

Koovia drew his sword, and the tension thickened, as the two prepared to face off.

Suddenly, Luanda stepped forward, between them, and calmly reached out a hand and laid it gently on Koovia’s sword.