A Rite of Swords sr-7

by Morgan Rice

  She spotted a sudden commotion from the other side of the courtyard. She looked down and was confused at the sight: at the far end of Silesia, marching through the northern gate, there appeared an army, several thousand men, marching slowly, in perfect formation. At first, she could not understand what she saw. The markings of the army were not of the Empire; in fact, the armor resembled those of the MacGil armies. The colors, though, were different: a deep scarlet and blue, and the standard they carried had an emblem of a lone wolf.

  The main body of the army stopped outside the gates, while a small contingent of a dozen well-dressed officers, bedecked in furs, rode out beyond them, entering Silesia. Clearly, they were coming with a message. Or a warning. Gwen could not tell if they were friendly or hostile. But her gut told her, from the way they carried themselves, that their intentions were hostile.

  She did not understand what was happening, or who these people were. She thought back to all her schooling and remembered seeing that emblem and those colors in a book. She also had a vague memory, as a child, of her father taking them to visit his younger brother, the younger MacGil, in the Upper Isles. Gwen would never forget her time there. She could have sworn that banner, those colors, were flown there.

  Could it be them? Her MacGil cousins? If so, what were they doing here now? Had they come to aid in her defense?

  There had been a time when her father and his younger brother were as close as two brothers could be; but she remembered their falling out, their never speaking again, and she remembered her father warning them all about his brother. She could not imagine why they’d show up now, but for whatever reason, she doubted they had come to help.

  Gwendolyn turned and hurried down the halls. Already they were filling with soldiers who also had spotted the army, the entire castle mobilizing, hurrying down to greet them. She hurried with them, descending the stone spiral staircase, her heart pounding, wondering what could be happening.

  She had a sinking feeling that, whatever it was, it could not be good.

  * * *

  Gwendolyn stood in the center of the Silesian courtyard, flanked by Kendrick, Srog, Brom, Atme, Godfrey, Reece, and a dozen members of the Silver, all of them proudly holding their ground as they awaited the approach of the contingent of soldiers. The men all stood with their hands on the hilts of their swords, weapons at the ready.

  “My lady, shall we summon the army?” Kendrick asked. She could hear the anxiety in his voice.

  She watched the contingent approach, perhaps a dozen men, and did not see any of their hands on their weapons. She sensed that this army might be hostile, but that this contingent was not. Perhaps it was coming with a message—or an offer.

  “No,” she replied. “We have plenty of time for that. Let’s hear them out.”

  “Are those the colors of the other MacGils?” Reece asked aloud. “Of the Upper Isles?”

  “They appear so,” Kendrick said. “But what are they doing here?”

  “Perhaps they have come to abet our cause,” Atme said.

  “Or to prey on us at our weakest,” Godfrey added.

  All the same thoughts raced through Gwendolyn’s mind as she stood there.

  The men came closer, then finally stopped but a dozen feet before them. They dismounted.

  One soldier walked out in front of the others, flanked by four men, looking right at Gwendolyn. He was a large and broad man, covered in the finest scarlet furs, and as he removed his helmet, Gwendolyn recognized his shaggy gray hair and pockmarked face immediately.

  Her uncle: Tirus MacGil.

  Tirus, close to her father’s age, looked much older than the last time she had seen him, as a child. Now his beard was thick with gray, his face bore too many worry lines, and it did not carry the pleasant, carefree nature she remembered. Now his face was stern, humorless. He did not smile as he greeted her, as he used to when she had been a child, laughing in a carefree manner, picking her up and swinging her. Now, he approached with a stiff body, as an adversary might, his jaw locked and his brown eyes expressionless.

  On the one hand, her heart leapt to see him, as he resembled her father so much, it made her miss him dearly. On the other hand, she felt a cold pit in her stomach, brought on by his demeanor and that of his soldiers, as she would when facing any other adversary.

  Tirus stopped a few feet away from her, and stared back coldly. He did not bow or nod his head or offer to kiss her hand, even though she wore the royal mantle of Silesia and he surely must have known that she was queen. It was a sign of disrespect, and she took note.

  “I’ve come to claim what is rightfully mine,” he announced in a loud and booming voice, a voice meant not just for her but for everyone within earshot. “My eldest brother, King MacGil, is dead. By right, the kingship falls to me, his next eldest brother.”

  Gwen reddened. So that was what he was after. She should have known. Her father had warned her.

  She cleared her throat, and addressed him back in an equally confident and formal manner:

  “That is not the law of the Ring, as you very well know,” Gwendolyn replied. “Our common law dictates the kingship fall to the named child of a deceased King.”

  “Your law,” Tirus said. “Not mine. You alter your law as it suits you. We are of the Upper Isles, not the Ring proper, and we have our own law.”

  “My father did not alter any laws,” she corrected, knowing her history all too well. All her years of reading were now paying off. “It has been the same law in use for seven generations of MacGil Kings, authored by Harthen MacGil and acknowledged by the Supreme Council before the formation of King’s Court. If anyone seeks to alter the law, it is yourself.”

  Tirus reddened, clearly not expecting such a scholarly retort, clearly in over his head.

  “You have too much schooling, girl,” he said. “You always have. You are too smart for your own good. But you’ll need more than books to rule a kingdom. Perhaps you know the technicalities of the law. But I come with real life. My eldest brother is dead, and I don’t care what your law says—by right, control of the Ring should fall to me now. I have waited long enough, nearly a lifetime. I’ve come to take what I deserve. Whether your law grants it to me or not.”

  Tirus sighed.

  “Because your father and I were once close,” he added, “I’ve come with a kind and gracious offer. I will give you a chance to peacefully hand over the kingship to me. You have barely held it but a short time—you should not miss it too much. And you are a woman, after all—and a young woman at that. It was never meant for you. You will hand it over to me, and I will take all these responsibilities off your head. You could not possibly know how to rule a country anyway. As your ruler, I will treat you well. You will all have a place in my kingdom. Of course, I and my men will move our court here, and some of you may be displaced. But don’t worry, we shall find you other homes. Your taxes will rise, and you will fight in service to me, but I will be a fair king.”

  “As fair as you are to your people now?” Kendrick asked.

  Tirus turned and gave him a look of seething hatred.

  “Our father took us to visit your lands many times,” Kendrick added. “Children or not, we still had eyes. You were a brutal landlord. Your people hated you. I saw no evidence of the kindness and fairness you boast of.”

  Tirus locked his jaws.

  “You open your mouth when you should listen, boy,” Tirus seethed. “You are barely weaned from your mother’s breast. Let real men like me tell you what the world is like.”

  “You are full of bombast,” Kendrick retorted. “Your fault is that you think yourself greater than you are.”

  Tirus turned purple, clutching the hilt of his sword. Clearly, he was not used to being spoken to this way. He must have been used to everyone deferring to him.

  “And this comes from the bastard son of his father?”

  Now Kendrick reddened.

  “I am the first born of my father. The firstborn son, too.
By right, that would give me the throne. But my father chose to give the throne to Gwendolyn—and I respect his decision. Unlike you, who seeks to seize what is not his.”

  “You are but a bastard,” Tirus said, “and if your father had any sense he would have listened to me and killed you the day of your birth. It was another example of his great foolishness to keep you alive.”

  Kendrick gripped his hilt and took a step forward, and immediately, all the swords were drawn by knights on both sides of the contingents.

  Gwendolyn reached out and lay a hand on Kendrick’s wrist, and he turned and looked at her. She could see the fury in his eyes—she had never seen him so upset. But as he felt her calming hands, he stopped.

  “Another time, brother,” she said, emphasizing the word brother.

  He calmed at her words, and relaxed his guard.

  Gwen turned to Tirus, determined to get this weasel out of her city.

  “Kendrick is my true brother,” she said to Tirus. “He is as pure and true a brother to me as are all my siblings. And if he were to ask me for the kingship, I would gladly give it to him.”

  She sighed.

  “But it was my father’s wish that I should have it, and that is what Kendrick honors. That is what I honor, too, whether I cherish the role or not. You should honor your eldest brother’s wishes, too. He was a good and kind brother to you. Do you think it would please him to witness this now?”

  Tirus stared back, and she could see his jaws continually clenching and unclenching. Clearly, he was in over his head and had not expected it to be this difficult.

  “My brother cared for nothing but the throne,” Tirus said darkly. “And himself.”

  “Is that why you tried to assassinate him?” Godfrey chimed in. “I remember that feast that night, in your castle. The poison meant for our father killed your own son.”

  Tirus turned furious.

  “I would give you a lashing boy, if I could.”

  “It was your father who tried to poison ours,” a soldier, beside Tirus, called out. “That poison killed our brother.”

  “I have only four sons now of the five, thanks to him,” Tirus added.

  Gwendolyn looked closely at four of the soldiers standing beside Tirus, each with raised face visors, and she recognized them from her childhood. Her four cousins. They were all nearly the same age as her siblings, and she was surprised to see them all so grown up. They had become true knights. It was a shame they were sons to this man, because they had been good people once, as close as siblings.

  “And what of your daughter?” Reece asked.

  Tirus glared at him. Perhaps, in that glare, he recalled Reece’s affections for her.

  “She lives, too,” he replied grudgingly.

  “And is a daughter not worth mentioning then?” Gwendolyn asked. “Is that the sort of fairness you envision in your kingdom?”

  Tirus scowled.

  “Women are property,” he replied. “Your father was a fool to name you queen, to try to elevate women to more than what they are.”

  Now it was Gwen’s turn to redden; but she forced herself to keep a calm head.

  “I am Queen,” she said, “and there is nothing you can do about it.”

  Tirus shook his head, and smiled for the first time, more of a sneer.

  “Have you not seen my forces lined up outside your walls? I’ve twice the men you have. All hardened Upper Islemen. All who have lived outdoors their entire lives in the freezing rain and cold, who have slept on rocks, who have tasted no luxuries. All who are deathly loyal to me.”

  “Yet another example of your kindness and fairness?” Godfrey asked wryly.

  Tirus reddened, caught once again.

  “These men will kill upon my command,” he continued. “I have given you a generous offer. I will give it once. Abdicate the throne to me, and I will let all of you will live. Defy me, and our men will crush yours. You have one night to decide. You will give me my answer at sunrise, or you will witness the final destruction of your city, and I will take the Western Kingdom by force.”

  Tirus turned to go, but before he could, Gwendolyn stepped forward and called out:

  “Uncle! You can have my answer now if you like.”

  Tirus stopped and turned back to her, a satisfied look on his face. He smiled, as he clearly prepared to accept her acquiescence.

  “You are but a bully and a coward,” she said. “My father looks down on you in disgrace. Do not ever enter these gates again. If you do, you will be met by an army of swords that will send you back to the Upper Isles in disgrace.”

  His face dropped in shock, clearly not expecting such strength and defiance from a woman. He shook his head disapprovingly.

  “You speak hastily,” he said. “That does not befit a ruler.”

  “Indecision does not befit a ruler, either,” she retorted. “Nor, may I add, do greed and opportunism, especially when directed towards one’s own family.”

  Tirus’ expression darkened.

  “You are a young, foolish girl. Out of courtesy to your father I will give you one night to contemplate your ill-spoken words and have your advisors talk sense into you. I look forward to receiving your apology and surrender in the morning.”

  Tirus turned with his entourage, re-mounted, and they all rode off. As they did, Gwen spotted a look on the faces of some of her cousins, as if they wanted to apologize for their father and be close to her, as they had when they were younger.

  Their contingent soon rode out of view, passing through the gates of Silesia.

  “Lower the gates,” Gwendolyn commanded.

  Several soldiers rushed forward and pulled down the heavy iron portcullis. Soon, all that was left in the silent, inner courtyard were hoof prints in the dust.

  Gwendolyn turned and looked at the others, as they did to her, all of them stunned in the morning silence.

  “You did well,” Kendrick said. “You made our father proud.”

  “He is a pig,” Reece said. “And a liar, and a braggart.”

  “He always sought to dethrone our father,” Godfrey said. “Now that he is dead, and Andronicus on the way out, he sees an opening for the throne.”

  “He has no legal right,” Aberthol said.

  “But he has the men,” Srog observed wisely. “Of course, we can defend. And we will. Our city is meant to withstand a siege. But after the Empire attack, our defenses are severely weakened. He, unfortunately, chose the perfect moment, when we are weak and vulnerable.”

  “What are the odds?” Gwendolyn asked.

  Srog grimaced.

  “We can hold back his ten thousand men,” he said. “For a time. We can kill quite a number of them. But we shall lose most of ours, eventually. Strategically, right now, we cannot afford a war. We need time to rebuild, to heal, to re-fortify. Strategically, the wisest military move would be to accept his offer.”

  “Accept his offer!?” Godfrey said, outraged. “Have we then ousted Andronicus only to live as slaves to someone else?”

  “What of Thor, and Mycoples?” Reece asked. “Are we forgetting them? Thor will return soon, after he has accepted Andronicus’ surrender, and we will have all the might we need to repel our MacGil cousins.”

  “But what if the other MacGils attack before Thor returns?” Srog asked.

  “What if Thor never returns?” Brom asked.

  They all looked at Brom in horror.

  “How can you say such a thing?” Godfrey asked.

  Brom lowered his head.

  “Forgive me. But we must plan for every contingency. Thor is not here right now to defend us. And we can’t plan a battle around absent warriors.”

  Gwendolyn stood there and listened to everyone’s opinion. She had learned from her father never to speak when others were talking, especially when they were giving counsel. It was advice she had taken to heart.

  “I suppose, then, it is a matter of whether we choose liberty and death, or enslavement and life,” Gwendolyn o
bserved. “It is the same question we faced not long ago, with the Empire invasion. And we all know the answer. Life is important; but liberty is more important us than life.”

  There came a grunt of approval from all the men.

  They all turned and headed back to the castle, and as they did, Gwendolyn looked up and watched the skies.

  Thor, she wished silently. Please come back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Gwendolyn hurried down the corridors of the castle, reeling from her encounter with her uncle, debating what to do. She was not the same Gwendolyn she had once been, before her attack by Andronicus. She had been hardened by the world, had taken the worst it could give her, and she no longer feared men’s threats. As she had faced down Tirus defiantly, she had meant every word she’d said. She was prepared to fight to the death. She was tired of running from danger, from fear of men. She wanted to make a stand—and she knew it was what her men wanted as well.

  But at the same time, she also felt a tug of guilt knowing she was not just ruler of the armed forces, but also Queen of the people. The citizens, too, depended on her. Tirus’ forces clearly outnumbered them, and they were better armed, and better rested. They had wisely sat out Andronicus’ invasion on the Upper Isles, and had chosen their timing perfectly: now they arrived well-fed and well-armed, ready to wreak havoc on a besieged and broken city. That was her uncle: opportunistic to the last. It did not surprise her; he had been waiting his entire life for a chance at her father’s throne, and he had found it, right when his brother’s children were most vulnerable.

  Gwendolyn needed someone to discuss this all with, someone outside her regular council of military advisors, someone politically shrewd and experienced in the affairs of men. As she marched through the corridors, she found herself craving, oddly enough, to speak to her mother, the former Queen. She wanted insight into the man who was her uncle, who was, after all, the former Queen’s brother-in-law. She didn’t necessarily want advice; she just wanted someone to sound off to. And since her own toughening, Gwendolyn found herself, in a strange way, relating to her mother more and more.