by Morgan Rice
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Godfrey ran through the back alleys of the seediest part of King’s Court, trying to keep up with the young boy as he weaved in and out of the crowds, running ever since the graveyard. Akorth and Fulton trailed behind him, struggling to catch up, breathing hard, not in as good shape as he—and Godfrey was not in great shape, so that wasn’t saying much. Too many years in the alehouse had affected all of them, and chasing after this boy was a mighty struggle. As Godfrey heaved, he resolved to turn over new leaf, to stop drinking for good, and to start getting into shape. This time, he meant it.
Godfrey shoved a drunk out of his way, sidestepped a young man trying to sell him opium and pushed his way past a row of whores as this part of town became worse and worse, the alleys narrowing, filled with sewage and mud. This boy was quick and knew these streets well, twisting his way through shortcuts, around vendors—it was obvious that he lived somewhere close.
Godfrey had to catch him. Clearly, there was a reason this boy was running, why he had not stopped since they’d spotted him at the grave. He was scared. He was Godfrey’s only hope of finding the proof he needed to find his assassin—and to bring down his brother.
The boy knew his way around here well, but Godfrey knew it even better. What Godfrey lacked in speed he made up for in wit, and having spent nearly his entire life drinking and whoring in these streets, having spent way too many nights here running from his father’s guards, Godfrey knew these streets too well—better, even, than the boy. So when he saw the boy turn left down a side street, Godfrey immediately knew that that street hooked around, and that there was only one way out. Godfrey saw his chance: he took a shortcut between buildings, preparing to head the boy off at the pass.
Godfrey leapt out of the alley just in time to block the boy’s path, who, looking back over his shoulder, never saw it coming. Godfrey tackled him from the side and drove him down hard into the mud.
The boy screamed and flailed, and Godfrey reached up and grabbed his arms and pinned him down.
“Why do you run from me?” Godfrey demanded.
“Leave me alone!” the boy shouted back. “Get off of me. Help! Help!”
Godfrey smiled.
“Do you forget where we are? There is no one around to help you here, boy. So stop shouting and speak to me.”
The boy breathed hard, wide-eyed in fear, and at least he stopped shouting. He stared back at Godfrey, scared but also defiant.
“What do you want from me?” the boy asked, between breaths.
“Why did you run from me?”
“Because I didn’t know who you were.”
Godfrey looked down, skeptical.
“Why were you in that graveyard? Who do you know was killed? Who was buried there?”
The boy hesitated, then relented.
“My brother. My older brother.”
Godfrey, feeling bad for the boy, loosened his grip a bit, but not enough to let him go yet.
“Well I’m sorry for you,” Godfrey said. “But not for myself. Your brother tried to poison me the other night. In the Tavern.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but he kept silent.
“I know nothing of the plot,” the boy said.
Godfrey narrowed his eyes, and knew for sure that this boy was hiding something.
As Akorth and Fulton arrived behind him, Godfrey got to his feet and grabbed the boy by his shirt, and picked him up with him.
“Where do you live, boy?” Godfrey asked.
The boy looked from Godfrey to Akorth and Fulton, and remained silent. He seemed scared to answer.
“He’s probably a homeless bugger,” Fulton volunteered. “I bet he doesn’t even have any parents. He’s an orphan.”
“That’s not true!” the boy protested. “I DO have parents!”
“They probably hate you, want nothing to do with you,” Akorth goaded.
“You’re a LIAR!” the boy screamed. “My parents LOVE me!”
“And then where do they live, if these parents exist?” Fulton asked.
The boy fell silent.
“I will make this very simple for you,” Godfrey said, matter-of-fact. “Either you tell us where you live, or I will drag you to the King’s Castle and have you chained to the dungeon, never to come out.”
The boy looked at him, eyes widening in fear, then, after several tense seconds, he lowered his eyes to the ground, raised an arm behind him, and pointed.
Godfrey followed his finger to see a small attached house—more like a shack, leaning to one side, looking as if it might collapse at any moment. It was narrow, barely ten feet wide, and had no windows. It was the poorest place he had ever seen.
He grabbed the boy’s arm, and dragged him towards his home.
“We’ll see what your parents have to say about your behavior,” Godfrey said.
“No, Mister!” the boy cried out. “Please don’t tell on me to my parents! I didn’t do anything! They’ll get mad!”
Godfrey led him there, pleading and protesting, then kicked open the door and let himself inside, dragging the boy, Akorth and Fulton behind him.
The inside of this shack was even smaller than the outside. It was a one room home, and as they walked in, the boy’s parents stood a few feet away, and turned and faced them, alarmed. The mother had been engaged in knitting, the father in tanning a hide, and they both stopped what they were doing, stood upright, and stared at the intruders, then looked down to their boy with concern.
Godfrey finally released the boy, who ran to his mother’s side, hugging her tight around the waist.
“Blaine!” she said to the boy, worried, hugging him. “Are you okay?”
“Who are you?” the father demanded, angry, taking a step towards them. “What right do you have to charge into our home? And what have you done to our boy?”
“I did nothing to your boy,” Godfrey answered. “I only brought him back home, because I want answers.”
“Answers?” the father demanded, angrier, confused, walking towards him threateningly. He was an older man, with a large nose, covered in warts, and strong face—and he did not look pleased.
“Your other son poisoned me last night,” Godfrey stated.
The father stopped in his tracks, as the mother burst out weeping.
“You speak of Clayforth,” the father said. He looked down sadly, and slowly shook his head.
“They chased me home all the way from the grave mama,” the boy said.
“I believe that Blaine knows something about my attempted murder,” Godfrey said to the mother.
She looked at him with alarm, protective of her son.
“And what makes you say that? You know nothing of our son.”
“He ran from us at the grave. He is hiding something. I want to know what it is. I don’t want to hurt your boy. I just want to know why his brother poisoned me, and who was behind it.”
“My boy knows nothing of such devious plots,” his father snapped. “Clayforth was trouble, I admit. But not Blaine. He would never sink to business like that.”
“But his brother would?” Godfrey asked.
The father shrugged.
“He’s dead now. He has paid for his sins. It is what it is.”
“It is NOT what it is,” Godfrey corrected, his own voice rising. “I was almost killed last night. Do you understand? I am the son of a King. Do you know the sentence for attempted murder on royalty? Clayforth is dead, but that does not make amends. Blaine knows something. That makes him an accessory to the crime. By King’s Law, he can be punished. Now you will tell me what you know, or I will bring the Royal Guard here!”
Godfrey stood there, red-faced, breathing hard, more worked up than he had been in a long time. He had had enough, and he wanted answers.
The father looked alarmed for the first time, and he turned and looked at his son, now unsure. Blaine clung to his mother’s waist.
“Blaine,” his father said to him, “is there so
mething you know that you are not telling us?”
Blaine looked from his father to his mother, shaking his head nervously.
Godfrey sighed, thinking what to do. He finally reached into his pocket, pulled out a sack of gold, and threw it on the floor before them. Tons of gold coins spilled out over the floor of the small house, and the mother and father both gasped at the sight.
“King’s Gold,” Godfrey said. “The finest. Go ahead, count it. It’s enough for you to live the rest of your lives and never have to work again. I don’t want anything in return. It is yours to keep. All I want is the truth. All I want is for your son to tell me what he saw. I know that he knows something. I just want to know what it is. I will protect him. I promise.”
The mother stroked her boy’s hair, squatted down, and kissed him on the forehead.
“Blaine, if you didn’t see anything, don’t be afraid. We don’t need this gold.”
But the father marched over sternly and grabbed Blaine by the chin.
“Blaine, these men believe you know something. That money can change our family’s life forever. If you have something to say, say it. Remember, I have taught you to always speak the truth. Do not be like your bother. Go on now. Be a man. You’ve nothing to fear.”
Blaine swallowed nervously, then finally looked up at Godfrey.
“I was with Clayforth the other night,” Blaine said. “A man we had never seen before came up to him. He knew that Clayforth was a runner, for the den, and he asked him if he would put poison in a man’s drink. At first my brother said no. But then he showed him gold—more gold than even you have here. He still said no. But he kept showing him more and more gold. And then he gave in.”
Blaine took a deep breath.
“You must understand,” he added, “my brother had never done anything like that before. But the money—it was too much for him to turn down. He said it would change our lives forever and that we’d never have to come back to this part of town. He wanted to buy mamma and papa a new house somewhere clean and safe.”
“Did you see this man’s face?” Godfrey asked.
The boy nodded, slowly.
“He was a tall man. Taller than any man I’d ever seen. And he was missing a tooth.”
“On the right side?” Godfrey asked.
The boy nodded, his eyes opened wide. “How did you know?”
Godfrey knew, all too well. It was Afget, Gareth’s new attack dog. There was no one else who fit that description. And now he had a witness. He had a witness that proved that Gareth’s man attempted assassination on him, the King’s son. It was grounds to have him deposed. It was the proof they needed.
“I need your son to be a witness,” Godfrey said to his father. “What he witnessed is of importance not just to me, but to the kingdom itself, to all of King’s court. To the entire Ring. I need him to testify. It will make amends for his brother trying to take my life. None of you will be in danger. You will all be protected, I guarantee it. You can keep all this gold and more.”
A thick silence hung over the room, as they all turned to the boy.
“Blaine, it is your choice,” the father said.
Blaine looked Godfrey up and down, then looked at his parents.
“Do you promise my parents will be safe?” Blaine asked Godfrey. “And that they can keep all the gold?”
Godfrey smiled.
“All of this and more,” he reassured. “And yes, you have my word. You will all be safer than you’ve ever been.”
Finally, Blaine shrugged.
“Then I don’t see why not. After all, like you said, papa, it never hurts to tell the truth.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Thor galloped back across the desert, getting farther which each step from his hometown, from memories of his encounter with his father—or, rather, the man who had raised him. It had been a life-changing trip, both dreadful and inspiring. The encounter had been painful, yet it had also finally given him the clarity he had always sought. His entire life he had suspected that he was different from his father, from his brothers, from his village; that he didn’t belong there; that some great secret about his past was being hidden from him; that he was destined for something, some place, greater.
Now, finally, after hearing everything his father had to say—that he was not really his father, that those were not really his brothers—that his mother was alive—that he was truly different—it all made perfect sense. Despite the troubling confrontation, he finally felt a sense of ease, deeper than he’d ever felt in his life. He was finally beginning to peel back the layers of the mystery of his true identity, to understand more of who he was.
Thor kept turning over in his mind all the things his father said. He was overjoyed to know that his mother was alive, that she cared for him; he could feel her necklace against his bare throat even as he rode, and the feeling comforted him, made him feel as if his mother were right there with him. He could feel an intense energy radiating off of it, and it filled his whole being. She really cared for him. He could sense that. And she wanted to see him. That meant more to him than anything. He was more determined than ever to find her.
But then he couldn’t help wonder: if she cared so much for him, why had she given him away to begin with? And why to that man who raised him, and why in that village?
Another question perplexed him even more: who, then, was his real father? The mystery baffled him. Now, not only did he not know who his mother was, but he did not know who his real father was, either. It could be anyone. Was he a Druid, too? Did he live in the Ring? And why had his father abandoned him, too?
Thor felt the ring his mother had given him sitting snug in his inner shirt pocket, and his mind turned to thoughts of Gwendolyn. More than ever, he knew she was the one. He sensed that this ring had come into his life now for a reason, that he was meant to give it to her. He couldn’t wait to return and ask her to be his—and if she said yes, to place it on her finger. It was the most beautiful ring he had ever seen, and the idea of her accepting it thrilled him.
Thor kicked his horse, eager to return to his Legion brothers as the second sun fell in the sky. He wanted to finish the rebuilding and get back to King’s Court and see Gwen, see Krohn again. He wanted to return to the House of Scholars, to study the map more deeply, and to figure out how he might journey to the Land of the Druids. He had to see his mother. And he had to know who his father was.
Thor felt a sense of sadness as he thought of the man who had raised him. Growing up he had thought the world of him—but the man was nothing to him now. It took so many years for Thor to reach this day, to finally get clarity. He was also, at the same time, beginning to feel a new sense of self-worth. Since this man was not his father, what he thought or how he felt about Thor didn’t really matter. He was just a stranger. Thor now felt free to come to his own conclusions about how he felt about himself. At the same time, he could seek out his true father—and that man, Thor hoped, might be a great man, which would make Thor feel an even greater sense of pride in himself. And that man might actually love him for who he is, might be proud of all he had accomplished.
As Thor raced across the wasteland, nearing the village, his horse suddenly pulled hard to the left, surprising him. Thor tried to pull him back on course, but he refused to listen. He brought Thor off course, and as they rounded a small hill, Thor discovered a gurgling stream, cutting through the wasteland, its glowing blue waters contrasting with the yellow desert floor. The horse ran right up to the stream and Thor had no choice but to dismount as it lowered its head to drink.
He must have been thirsty, Thor realized. Yet still, it was strange behavior—his horse was usually obedient. Thor was beginning to wonder if the horse led him to this spot for a reason, when suddenly he heard a voice:
“Sometimes the truth is a heavy thing to bear.”
Thor knew the voice, and he turned slowly, overcome with relief to see Argon standing there, in his robes, holding his staff, his eyes shin
ing right at him. He almost looked like an apparition against the desolate wasteland.
“That man was not my father,” Thor said. “You knew all this time. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Argon shook his head.
“It was not for me to tell.”
“And who then is my father?”
Argon shook his head again. He remained silent.
“Can you tell me, at least, anything about him?” Thor pressed.
“He is a very great and very powerful man,” Argon said. “One worthy of you. When the time is right, you will know him.”
Thor welled with excitement to hear this. His father was a great man. That meant the world to him.
“I feel different now,” Thor said, “since discovering the news, since receiving my mother’s message. I don’t feel like the same boy I was.”
“Because you are not,” Argon said. “That boy is far behind. You are a man now. There is no turning back. Training can transform you—but so can knowledge. You’re not the Thor you used to be. Now you’re ready.”
Thor looked at him, puzzled.
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to begin your real training,” Argon said. “Not your play with swords and sticks and shields—but the training that matters most. Your inner training.
“Close your eyes,” Argon said, raising a palm and his staff, “and tell me what you see.”
Thor realized now why his horse had led him here. It was not to drink. It was to bring him to Argon, to this unlikely training ground, in the middle of nowhere. Thor would never understand Argon’s ways. He seemed to appear at the most unlikely times, and in the most unlikely places.
Thor closed his eyes and breathed deep, trying to center himself, to prepare himself for whatever Argon would throw at him.
“Look into the core of the Ring,” Argon commanded. “See all times—past, present and future. What do you see?”
Thor closed his eyes, struggling. Slowly, something was coming to him.
“I see that they are one,” Thor said. “I see no division between the past or the future. Time—it is like a flowing river.”
