A Rite of Swords sr-7

by Morgan Rice

  As he looked in the upper parapet, he saw a woman whom he knew to be his mother. She stood there, looking down him, arms out by her side.

  “Mother!” Thor screamed, floating past her quickly. “Save me!”

  “Come home, my son,” she pleaded. “Your duty is done. Come home with me.”

  “Mother!” Thor screamed, reaching for her.

  Thor woke sweating. He sat upright, breathing hard and looked over, disoriented.

  Gwendolyn lay beside him on the pile of furs. Thor started to calm down and remember their night together. He was safe. It was all just a dream.

  Thor’s face was covered in sweat, despite the fact that the fire had died long ago. Krohn whined and jumped down from Gwendolyn’s lap and came over and licked him. Thor closed his eyes and collected himself, wondering about the nature of dreams. It took him a while to come back to himself. It had all seemed too real.

  Thor looked over and studied Gwendolyn in her sleep. Her eyes were closed and she looked angelic. He looked down at her stomach, saw that it was flat, and wondered.

  He shook his head. Of course, it was just a dream, just a fanciful vision of the night. He had to teach himself not to pay so much attention to his dreams. But try as he did, he was beginning to find that it was getting harder to separate what was real from what was imagined.

  Thor could not fall back asleep. His heart pounding, he gently rose from the furs.

  He looked outside and could see that it was still dark out. The sky had not yet broke, and torches still flickered in the corners of the room. All was still. Surely Silesia was sleeping off the great revelries of the night.

  But Thor could no longer sleep. He crossed the room, put on his robe, and walked barefoot across the cold, stone floor. As he went, Krohn followed, staying by his side. He quietly opened the great arched door and gently closed it behind him.

  Thor walked down the corridor, Krohn on his heels, twisting and turning, making his way to the parapets, to clear his head and get fresh air. He passed several guards, still at attention, who stiffened as he went.

  He finally turned down a narrow corridor, walked through a low doorway, and stepped out onto one of the upper balconies of the castle.

  A cold gust of wind hit his face and woke him. It was refreshing, just what Thor needed. He walked forward to the thick stone railing and looked out at the city of Silesia. There was still the occasional torch flickering, but all was silent and still. Down below was a huge mess from all the food and wine that had been eaten and drunk. It looked as if a parade had swept through the city and not cleaned up.

  Thor breathed deep, trying to wipe out the visions of his dreams. But their residue clung to him, like an evil fog.

  “The burdens of the night,” came a voice.

  Thor spun, recognizing the old man’s voice, and was comforted to see standing there, not far from him, Aberthol. He held a staff and looked out over the parapets, too. The scholar of MacGil kings, Gwendolyn’s teacher, he was a man who meant so much to the MacGil family, and whom Thor respected greatly.

  “I am sorry,” Thor said. “I did not see you or I would have paid my respects.”

  Aberthol smiled.

  “You were not looking for me. You came, surely, for another reason. Besides, men are barely seen at my age. It is the young who steal the vision.”

  Thor felt comforted at the sound of his voice; this man had seen it all, had been so close to King MacGil, to Gwendolyn. He had a grandfatherly tone that made Thor feel that everything would be all right, no matter what. He also reminded him of Argon somewhat, and made him miss Argon dearly. Thor resolved once again to find Argon, wherever he was, and bring him back.

  “You flee from the terrors of the night,” Aberthol said. “I see from the look in your eye. I know it, because I flee from them, too. I rarely sleep well. I am up most nights, poring over books, as I have been nearly my entire life. They calm me. It is my way.”

  He sighed.

  “One day you will learn to walk the horrors of the night,” he continued. “Staying awake keeps them at bay, but then again, our waking hours create them to begin with.”

  As Thor studied Aberthol, the ancient lines of his face, he wondered if he could be of help, be a source of answers for him for all the questions that were burning in his mind. After all, Aberthol was a scholar, and he knew the history of the Ring better than anyone.

  “Can I share a secret with you?” Thor asked.

  Aberthol studied him, and finally nodded.

  “Many men share secrets with me,” he said. “Gwendolyn’s father did, and the King MacGil before him. My head is filled with bones and secrets.”

  Thor stood there, hesitating. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure if he could trust him; but on the other, he desperately needed to talk to someone, to release the burden he carried inside.

  “My father,” Thor said, and paused. “I… do not descend from a great king. My father is…a monster. My father . . . is Andronicus.”

  Aberthol looked back for the longest time, gravely, and Thor’s heart pounded as he wondered if he were being judged.

  Finally, to Thor’s surprise, Aberthol nodded and replied: “I know.”

  Thor was shocked; he stared back, dumbfounded.

  “You know? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t for me to tell,” Aberthol replied. “It was for you to find out, when the time was right. Your lineage is common knowledge among certain of the Ring’s elite, among those few of us old enough to know what really happened in the early days.”

  “But you’ve never told anyone?” Thor asked, shocked.

  Aberthol smiled.

  “Like I said, secrets stay locked with me.”

  “But is it possible?” Thor pressed. “Maybe it is a mistake. Maybe he is not really my father.”

  Aberthol slowly shook his head.

  “If it gives you solace to think that, then do. We all live with our fantasies, with our dreams that sustain us. But if it is the truth you want, then you must know that Andronicus is indeed your father.”

  Thor felt himself grow cold.

  “How is that possible?” Thor repeated. “I wield the Destiny Sword. Legend has it that only a MacGil can wield it. Is the legend false?”

  Aberthol shook his head.

  “It is true. Your father is indeed a MacGil. And you are indeed a MacGil.”

  Thor’s eyes opened wide, confused.

  “Andronicus?” he asked. “A MacGil?”

  Aberthol sighed.

  “He is. As much of a MacGil as any of the others. In the beginning, at least. You see, Andronicus was not always the monster that he is now. He was once, simply, the eldest brother of the King MacGil you knew and loved.”

  Thor was breathless; his mind reeled.

  “I did not know that King MacGil had an older brother,” he said.

  Aberthol nodded.

  “King MacGil had two brothers. Andronicus, the eldest, and Tirus, the youngest. These three brothers were as close as three brothers could be. Andronicus was of a fair and good nature and virtue. One of the bravest and noblest members of the Silver.”

  Thor could hardly believe it.

  “The Silver? Andronicus? How is it possible?”

  Aberthol shook his head.

  “The day of the Great Divide. That story is long, and for another time. Suffice it to say that there is within all of us a very fine line between the good and the dark. This line becomes even finer when you reach supreme power. Andronicus wanted power, more power than he was entitled to. He made a choice. A pact. He succumbed to dark forces. He abandoned the Ring. He gained great power in the Empire, and he became someone else. Something else. Over time, he has changed to become what he is now, unrecognizable to the man he once was.”

  Aberthol stepped forward.

  “You must understand,” he said compassionately, “your father, the true Andronicus, he was a good man. A MacGil. He was of a good nature. That is your tru
e father—not the man he became. There is a propensity to change in all of us. Some of us fight it better than others. He was not strong enough; he gave into it. But that doesn’t mean you will. You can be stronger than your father.”

  Thor stood there, his mind reeling, trying to process at all. It all made him feel sick to his stomach. It also made him realize that he and Gwendolyn were cousins; it made him realize that he was cousins, too, to Reece and Kendrick and Godfrey. Perhaps that was why they had felt so close. He wondered if they knew.

  “Does anyone else know?” Thor asked tentatively.

  Aberthol shook his head.

  “Nobody,” he said. “The ones who did have all died. Except the former queen and myself. And now, of course, you.”

  “I hate him,” Thor said, seething. “I hate my father. I don’t care who he was; I care only for who he is now. I want to kill him. I will kill him.”

  Aberthol laid a hand on Thor’s shoulder.

  “Whether you kill him or not, it will not change who you are. You must choose to rise above all of these feelings. You must choose to focus on what is positive. After all, your lineage has two strains, of course. Your mother’s blood runs deep in you, and in your case, that is more important than your father’s. You just have to see that, and to embrace it.”

  Thor studied Aberthol.

  “Do you know who my mother is?” he asked, nervously.

  Aberthol nodded back.

  “It is not for me to say. But when you meet her, you will understand. As powerful as Andronicus is, she is far more powerful. And your fate and destiny is linked with hers. Indeed, the entire fate of our Ring is linked to hers. The power of the Destiny Sword is nothing next to the power she can impart to you. You must find her. And you must not delay any further.”

  “I would love to meet her,” Thor said, “but I must destroy Andronicus first.”

  “You will never destroy Andronicus,” he said. “He lives within you. But you can find your mother, and save yourself. Until you meet her, you will never be complete.”

  Aberthol suddenly turned and strutted away, walking off the parapets, his cane echoing as he went.

  Thor turned and looked out at the blackness of Silesia. In the distance, he could hear the howling winds of the Canyon. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the beyond, lay his father. And his mother. Thor needed to see them both.

  His mother, to embrace.

  And his father, to kill.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Luanda stood inside Andronicus’ tent, alone, trembling inside and trying not to show it. She had never been before a man so physically large and imposing, and who exuded such a sinister feeling. She glanced about his tent and saw all the spikes protruding along its edge, each crowned with a severed head, each with eyes open, frozen in a death mask of agony.

  Andronicus purred from somewhere deep in his chest and smiled down at her, clearly feeling at home.

  She cleared her throat and tried to remember why she had come, tried to muster the courage to speak.

  “I’ve come to make you an offer,” she finally managed to say, trying her best to stand proud, to make her voice sound confident. But despite herself, she could hear the tremor in her own voice and hoped she did not give away her fear.

  “You, make me an offer?” he asked.

  He threw his head back and laughed, and the grating sound set her hairs on edge. It was the laugh of a monster, deep and hollow and filled with cruelty.

  Luanda was caught off guard; she had expected to find Andronicus a broken and humbled man, prepared to either flee the Ring or surrender. She had not expected to find him so confident. He seemed more than unafraid—he seemed certain of victory. She could not understand it.

  “Yes,” she said, clearing her throat, “an offer. I can deliver your enemy to you, Thorgrin. In return, you will name me Queen of the Ring, and put me in control of all that is.”

  Andronicus smiled wide, surveying her.

  “Will I?” he asked.

  He stared her up and down, and there came a dark and growling noise from deep within his chest.

  “You would betray your own people, then?” he asked. “Sell them all for the right to rule?”

  He paused, staring right through her; his eyes twinkled, as if perhaps he approved of her.

  “I like you,” he said. “You are a girl after my own heart.”

  “I am the best chance you have,” she said defiantly, mustering her old confidence. “You are surrounded. And with his dragon and his Destiny Sword, Thor is decimating your armies. If you reject my offer, then by tomorrow Thor will have wiped out all your men. If you accept it, then by tomorrow, Thor will be in your custody.”

  He examined her.

  “And just how do you propose to deliver Thorgrin to me?” he asked.

  She had been expecting this question, and she breathed deep, prepared.

  “They trust me,” she replied. “I am a MacGil. I am family. I will send them a message telling them I have brokered a truce. That you have agreed to surrender. That Thorgrin must come alone to accept your surrender. When he does, you can capture him.”

  Andronicus surveyed her.

  “And why would they trust a traitor like you?” Andronicus asked.

  She reddened, insulted by his words.

  “They will trust me, because I’m family. And I am not a traitor. The Ring is mine by right. I am firstborn.”

  Andronicus shook his head.

  “Family, most of all, are least to be trusted.”

  She bunched her fists, defiant, feeling her plan slipping away.

  “They will trust me,” she said, “because they have no reason not to. And because they are a trusting people. And most of all, because it makes sense: they, of course, believe you will surrender. Who would think otherwise? You are completely surrounded. Half your men have been wiped out. Your surrender would be expected. My message should come as no surprise to them.”

  “And when Thor arrives here,” he said, “just how do you propose I capture him? He who, as you say, has wiped out half my men?”

  Luanda shrugged.

  “That is not my problem. I will deliver the lamb to slaughter. I am sure you have your own ways of treachery.”

  Andronicus looked her up and down, and as he did, she felt her heart pounding. Luanda wanted to be queen so bad she could taste it. Even more, she wanted to one-up her little sister; there was a small part of her that felt bad—but there was a much bigger part of her that felt entitled, that felt bad for herself. She could not imagine living in a kingdom where her little sister ruled over her, and if that meant selling out her own people, so be it. After all, they didn’t deserve it after what they had done to her.

  Luanda shivered as Andronicus stepped closer, reached out and lay his long claws on her shoulder. She felt his slimy palms run over her bare skin, run up and down her throat.

  “King MacGil should be proud of his issue,” he said. “Yes, very proud indeed.”

  He sighed.

  “I will accept your offer. And you will have your queenship.”

  Luanda’s heart was pounding so fast, it was all a blur as she was ushered out of the tent, two guards coming up behind her and herding her out. The next thing she knew she was back outside, in the cold night, Bronson coming up beside her as they walked quickly away, back through the camp and towards their horses.

  “What happened!?” Bronson asked impatiently.

  Luanda walked quickly, her heart thumping, trying to gather her thoughts—and trying to figure out how best to word it to Bronson. She knew she had to say the right things if she were going to manipulate Bronson successfully.

  “It went very well,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Andronicus has agreed to surrender.”

  Bronson looked at her, puzzled.

  “I have a hard time believing that,” he replied. “He agreed to surrender? As easily as that?”

  Luanda wheeled on Bronson and put on her fiercest face a
nd voice, desperate to convince him.

  “Andronicus is outnumbered,” she said coldly. “In another day he will be dead. He was grateful for the chance. I was right. You were wrong. He has conditions: his army must be allowed to leave the Ring unharmed. He will forfeit himself as a prisoner. And he will surrender only to Thor, and to Thor alone. He has asked us to bring our offer to Thor at once, before the attack at dawn. This is our chance to make peace, to save lives, and to oust his men once and for all.”

  Bronson stared back at her, and she could see his mind working, see him thinking it through. He was smart, but not nearly as smart as her, and his gullible streak worked in her favor.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess that sounds like a fair offer. All he’s asking for is for his men to leave safely. As you say, it will spare a lot of lives on both sides, and liberate the Ring. It sounds reasonable. I can’t imagine that Thor and Gwendolyn would not want to agree to this. You have done well to serve the Ring as you have. What you have done here is selfless. You have saved many lives, and your family will be proud. You were right, and I was wrong.”

  Inside, Luanda smiled. She had deceived him.

  “Go then,” she urged. “Be our messenger. Deliver the message to Thor and the others. I will await you here. Ride throughout the night and don’t stop until you deliver them the good news. The fate of the Ring now rests on your shoulders.”

  She waited, hopeful. She knew, being the chivalrous fool that he was, that if she appealed to his sense of honor and duty, he would be blind to reason.

  Bronson nodded solemnly, mounted his horse, and took off at a gallop, racing through the night.

  She watched his horse disappear into the blackness, and she smiled openly at the night.

  Finally, she would be Queen.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Steffen felt his palms go raw as he stood before the huge mill, pushing on the wooden crank with all the other laborers. It was backbreaking labor, what he was used to, and it made him blot out the worries of the world. He had been given just enough grain and water to get by, sleeping on the floor like an animal with all the other indentured servants. It was not a life: it was an existence. The rest of his life, as it had been once before, would be filled with labor and pain and monotony.