A Rule of Queens (Book #13 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice

of the Second Ring lives.”
    Gwendolyn paused, her mind racing.
    “The Second Ring?” she asked, under her breath,
growing with excitement. It was all coming back to her, all her reading. It was
hazy, and she could not quite remember all of it; she had thought it was a
children’s fable.
    “More myth than fact,” Aberthol chimed in, his
old voice cutting into the air as he stepped forward to look at the map. “ Between
the four horns and the two spikes ,” he began to recite, “ between the
ancient shores and the Twin Lakes, north of the Altbu— ”
    “ —and south of the Reche ,” Bokbu finished,
“ the Second Ring resides. ”
    Aberthol and the chief locked eyes with each
other, each recognizing the old writings by heart.
    “A myth from centuries past,” Aberthol said. “You
trade old wives’ tales and myths here. That is your currency.”
    “Some call it myth,” Bokbu said. “And some,
fact.”
    Aberthol shook his head doggedly.
    “The chances of an alternate Ring are remote,”
Aberthol said. “To stake the hopes of our people on such a venture would be to stake
our future on death.”
    Gwen studied Bokbu and she could see the
seriousness on his face, and she felt he truly believed that the Second Ring
existed. He studied the map he had drawn, his face grave.
    “Years ago,” Bokbu finally continued, his voice
grave, “when I was a young boy, I saw a sword of steel, and a breastplate,
brought into this village. It was found, my father said, in the desert, on a
dying man. A man who looked like your people, with pale skin. A man who wore a
suit of steel, who had armor with the same markings as yours. He died before he
could tell us where he was from, and we hid the armor on fear of death.”
    Bokbu sighed.
    “I believe the Second Ring exists,” he added.
“If you can find it, if you can reach it, perhaps you can find a home, a true
home, in the Empire.”
    “Another place to hide from the Empire?”
Kendrick said, derisively.
    “If the Second Ring exists,” Bokbu said, “it is
so well-hidden that they are not hiding. They are living. It is a remote
chance, my lady,” he concluded, “but a chance nonetheless.”
    Before Gwen could process it all, a shrill
voice suddenly cut through the night. At first it was a shriek, and then it
morphed into a long cry, and then a sustained chanting.
    Gwen turned as all the men fell silent and sat
back and watched, as there stepped forward a woman with long black hair falling
down to her waist, palms up by her side, and a red silk scarf wrapped about her
neck. She leaned back, raised her hands to the heavens, and chanted a solemn
song. She chanted louder and louder, and as she did, the flames on all the
bonfires leapt higher.
    “Spirits of the flames!” she chanted. “Visit
us. Let us pay our respects. Tell us what you have to tell us. Let us see what
we cannot!”
    Gwendolyn flinched and jumped back as the fire
before her began to spark and grow brighter. She looked and was shocked to see
shapes swirling within it. She felt her hairs stand on end.
    The seer’s chanting slowed, then stopped, as
she came over and stood over Gwendolyn. Gwen felt fear as the seer’s glowing
yellow eyes stared back at her.
    “Ask me what you will,” the seer said, her
voice inhumanly dark.
    Gwen sat there, trembling inside, wanting to
ask, wanting to know, but afraid to. What if it was not the answer she sought?
    Finally, she summoned the courage.
    “Thorgrin,” Gwendolyn said, barely getting out
the words. “Guwayne. Tell me. Do they live?”
    There was a long silence, as the seer turned
her back on her and faced the fire. She reached down and threw two fistfuls of
dirt into the flames. The fire sparked and shot up, and the seer, her back to
Gwendolyn, began muttering dark words Gwen did not understand.
    Finally, she turned to her, her glowing yellow
eyes fixed on hers. Gwen could not look away if she wanted to.
    “Your baby will not return as you know him,”
she