Gwendolyn had fled. Somehow, she had known he was coming, he did not know how. She had outsmarted him once again.
“It cannot be,” Romulus said out loud, not understanding. Where could she have gone? How could she have known he was coming? Romulus had been meticulous about destroying everyone in his path—there was no way a messenger could have reached her. He had even made a point of keeping back his dragons, so that they would not hear their cries, not see the devastation they had wrought.
Yet despite all of his preparations, all of his careful planning, somehow Gwendolyn had found out. How could she have evacuated this entire city so quickly?
His face flushed in rage. She had robbed him of his victory.
And most confusing of all: where could they have gone? The Ring was a finite space, he knew, and there was only so far they could go to hide.
Romulus, enraged, kicked his horse with a cry, and charged down the well-maintained road, right for the wide-open gates of King’s Court—left open as if to tantalize him. All of his men joined him, racing behind him, Luanda still bound behind him on his horse, as they rode right into the great city.
Romulus could barely contain his rage; his greatest moment of satisfaction had been stripped from him. He had been dreaming of destroying these gates himself, of murdering everyone in his path, of setting fire to the place and enjoying the screams of pain.
Now there was nothing for him to do but walk inside.
It did not feel like a victory at all. It felt like a defeat. Half the fun of taking a city was inflicting pain, torture, devastation. No, this was not a victory at all.
Romulus’s men cheered as they rode into the city, and the sound of their cries inflamed him even more; stupid idiots, celebrating a victory that they didn’t even achieve. Romulus could not stand it anymore.
Romulus jumped down from his horse, yanking Luanda down with him, stormed up to the first soldier he found, drew his sword, and chopped off his head. He then charged forward and chopped off another head; then another; then another.
Finally, his soldiers got the point. They all stopped their revelry and grew quiet as they made way for him. They lined up at attention, awaiting his command, trembling in fear. The courtyard of the city, just moments before so filled with glee, now had a pallor of death.
Romulus stood in the center of his men as they cleared a circle around him, and boomed out:
“There is no victory to celebrate, fools! On the contrary, you should be ashamed. You have all been outsmarted by a girl queen. She has evaded us, has rescued her people from our grasp. Is this cause to celebrate?”
His men stood still, not moving a muscle, as Romulus strode up and down the ranks, debating whether to kill some more of them. He had to vent his rage somehow. Not one of them stirred; they knew him too well.
Romulus, hands on his hips, turned and scanned the walls, scanned everywhere, hoping for a sign of somebody, of any life at all. But there was none. Where could they have gone?
A shrill cry pierced the air, followed by a flapping of wings; it grew louder, and soon over Romulus’s head there appeared his host of dragons. They circled furiously, they too enraged, their great talons hanging below them as they swooped down, then up, circling again and again, as if wanting to breathe fire on them all. Romulus could feel their rage at the lack of bloodshed. It was a rage he shared.
What sort of a victory would this be without death and destruction? What sort of a victory would it be without knowing that Gwendolyn was dead, crushed beneath his feet, and that all of her people were annihilated?
As Romulus wondered where Gwendolyn could be, suddenly he had an idea. Who else would know where that crafty girl would have gone, except one of her own?
Romulus looked over at Luanda; she stood several feet away, gagged, squirming against her ropes, her wrists and ankles still bound behind her back. Romulus rushed forward, raised his knife, and her eyes opened wide with fear as he came close.
But he reached out and sliced her binds, including her gag.
“Where is your sister?” Romulus demanded.
Luanda, free from her binds, rubbing her wrists, glared back.
“How should I know?” she said. “You’ve got me tied up like an animal. You filthy pig.”
Luanda reached back and smacked her palm across his face, a smack that echoed in front of all of his men. Romulus’s first impulse was to punch her back, and to hit her harder than she hit him. But he restrained himself. The smack actually felt good, shook him from his dark thoughts, and he admired her fiery spirit, the way she looked back at him with such venom. It actually made him smile: he loved seeing someone as filled with rage as himself.
“Tell me where she is,” he repeated slowly. “You know her. You know this place. Why did she leave? Where did she go?”
Luanda put her hands on her hips, looking all about King’s Court, as if debating.
“And if I did know,” she said, “why would I tell you?”
Romulus stared at her, his expression darkening. But he knew he needed her, and forced himself to use his most seductive voice.
He took a step closer to her and smiled, raising one hand and stroking her hair.
“Because I will make you my queen,” he said softly, his voice guttural. “You will be the most powerful woman in the Empire.”
He had expected her to gush in awe and gratitude; and yet instead, she surprised him: she scoffed.
“There is nothing I would rather less,” she spat. “I’d rather die first.”
He scowled.
“Then I will give you death,” he said. “Or whatever it is you want. If you do not wish to be my queen, then just tell me what you want—anything—and you shall have it.”
Luanda looked long and hard at him, as if summing him up, as if thinking. Finally, her eyes narrowed.
“What I want,” she said slowly, “is to be the one to kill my sister. I want her captured alive. I want her brought to me—to me personally—to beg for mercy.”
Romulus looked her up and down, shocked at her response. She was more like him than he’d thought. For the first time, he admired her.
Romulus smiled broadly. Maybe after all, he would indeed make her his queen—whether she liked it or not.
“Agreed,” he said.
Luanda took several steps forward, her back to him, and scanned the gates, the courtyard, the dusty ground, seeming to think it all over.
“If I know my sister,” she said, “she’s planned an escape route. She always plans ahead. She plans for everything. And she’s way too smart for you. If she wanted to save her people, she would not just plan to go elsewhere in the Ring—she would assume that eventually you would find her. So wherever it is she went, it would be outside the Ring. Across the Canyon. Probably across a sea. Likely her ships are setting sail right now.”