by Morgan Rice
Royce slowly shook his head, facing the man proudly.
“We have not come to wage war,” he replied. “But to invite you to wage one with us. As brothers, side by side.”
The knight stared back, clearly perplexed.
“And why would we join in such a war? Against whom?”
“Against the nobles of the south,” Royce replied. “The House of Nors.”
The knight appeared to let his guard down just a little bit, yet still remained very much on edge.
“If we wanted to wage war, we would do so,” he replied. “We wouldn’t need your help. We don’t know you. You have not yet even announced yourself.”
Royce stepped forward, removed his chainmail helmet, held it in his hands, and stared back earnestly at the knight. He stood there, the wind blowing in his face, then finally took a deep breath, his heart trembling to say the words.
“I am Royce,” he said. “Son of King Artis.”
It felt strange to say the words aloud; yet it also felt right. And for the first time in his life, it filled him with a sense of pride.
The soldier blinked, clearly stunned. He examined Royce for several seconds, studying his face, and finally his eyes widened and his face changed entirely. After an eternity, all facing off in a tense silence, the wind ripping through the plains, the knight glanced back at his lines of men, then nodded in acknowledgment.
He raised a lance high in the air.
“Open the gates!” he called out.
The sound of heavy chains groaned through the air, and Royce watched, his heart pounding with excitement, as the thick portcullis was raised. He mounted his horse and began to ride slowly over the bridge, all his men following. The rows of knights lowered their lances as they passed, horses’ hooves clomping over the wood.
As they reached the huge stone arch, though, a group of knights lowered their lances and blocked their way.
“Only a few of you may pass through,” he said. “The rest of your men must wait here.”
“You cannot!” Altos cried out to Royce. “It may be a trap! We cannot protect you inside.”
Royce glanced back and saw his men all looking at him with concern. He then turned and looked back at the open portcullis, the army of waiting knights, and he realized that this was one of the defining moments in his life. His men were looking to him for leadership, and he owed it to them to give it to them.
He nodded.
“I shall go,” he said to his men. “If I die, I shall die with honor, and you shall take up the cause. We must not fear our enemies—especially those who will soon be friends.”
Royce continued to walk his horse, only Mark, Altos, Rubin, Aspeth, Sol and Sovil joining him, the rest of his force remaining behind.
The knights raised their lances, and soon Royce was leading the small group through the stone arch, under the portcullis, and into the mercy of the enemy.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Royce stood in the vaulted chamber, tapered ceilings rising thirty feet, the ancient, stone walls lined with banners of victory, and stared back at a large throne carved of gold. On it sat Lord Jakoben, and behind him stood several dozen knights in gleaming armor, joined by nobles dressed in finery, all staring back with hard faces. They examined Royce and his group with open displeasure, as if an unwelcome guest had invaded their presence.
Lord Jakoben, thin with a pot belly, balding, with gray hair that protruded from the sides and stingy brown eyes, looked like a man who was used to getting what he wanted. He stared back at Royce as if he were ready to have him thrown in shackles.
Royce knew it was risky coming here, and he felt his destiny hanging in the balance. He knew that, with the slightest wrong move, he and his men could be imprisoned forever, if not killed. His men outside these walls, too, who awaited his return, could meet the same fate. He held much responsibility in his hands now.
Yet if he were to free his brothers and his people, this was the chance he had to take; these nobles, after all, were the key to rescuing them.
“King Artis,” Lord Jakoben repeated slowly, the word rolling off his tongue as if it were the first time he had ever heard it. He did not mask his displeasure as he stared back at Royce with hard eyes.
Royce wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps this Lord had hated his father; perhaps his own claim on the throne was tenuous and Royce’s presence here was a threat.
Finally, Lord Jakoben sighed.
“Artis was a hard man,” he said. “A brave man, a proud man, a brilliant warrior, and a great king. His men loved him.”
He shook his head.
“But foolish,” he sighed. “He trusted too much in others. And he ended up assassinated.”
Royce felt a chill as the word reverberated within him. His own father, assassinated. He didn’t wish to think of it. And he felt an instant need for vengeance.
Lord Jakoben stared at Royce, as if summing him up.
“Lore had it that his child was hunted down and drowned in a river.”
“But the body was never found,” said his advisor beside him.
“I see the resemblance in the chin and eyes,” chimed in another advisor.
“It was his father’s death that divided our kingdom,” reminded another advisor, “that has put us under the thumb of this new monarchy. But with a legitimate contender for the throne, we could change all that.”
Royce’s heart pounded as the men studied him, clearly scheming.
Finally, Lord Jakoben leaned forward and stared at Royce.
“If you are who you say are,” he said, “you could serve a purpose. If you are a legitimate contender to the king’s throne, then we may have reason to support you. But if so, how do we know you’ll not turn on us? That you will support those who support you?”
Royce took a deep breath and shook his head.
“I do not wish to be king,” he replied. “I wish only to see my brothers and my people free. Take the title for yourself if you like. Just help us.”
Lord Jakoben stared back, clearly stunned.
“A man who does not wish to be king,” he said slowly, taking it all in. “I have never met one before.”
His advisors all laughed softly, and Royce’s face reddened.
Still, Lord Jakoben nodded.
“A wise answer, nonetheless,” Lord Jakoben added. “One befitting a future king.”
Lord Jakoben appeared in deep thought as he leaned back and rubbed his chin. Finally, he sighed.
“We shall not join you,” he announced.
Royce’s heart fell.
“Not in war, anyway,” he added. “They are nobles and we are nobles. That is not our way to gain the crown.”
Royce saw Lord Jakoben’s men exchange looks, and he wondered.
“The way of lords is the way of lineage,” Lord Jakoben continued. “Of right. Of entitlement. Of birth. You have that lineage. A war needn’t be waged. We can take the throne without bloodshed.”
Royce felt a surge of optimism, wondering where he was going with this.
Lord Jakoben turned and nodded, and as he did, a girl stepped forward from the crowd.
Royce was stunned as he set eyes on her. She was beautiful. About his age, she had long brown hair and eyes, she was tall, fine in form and appearance, and she held herself with poise and grace. She held Royce’s gaze as she stared back with strikingly captivating eyes. Royce felt his heart beat faster; he could not look away.
As she stood beside Lord Jakoben, Royce looked back and forth to them both and realized at once: she was his daughter.
“My daughter, Olivia,” Lord Jakoben announced.
As Royce looked at her, some part of him that had died with Genevieve’s betrayal was slowly being reborn.
“My only daughter,” Lord Jakoben continued. “I have no sons to carry on my lineage.”
He sighed and examined Royce closely.
“If you are who you say you are,” he continued, “if you are Artis’s son, and if you
shall become King, then you shall wed her. And she shall share the throne with you.”
Lord Jakoben nodded, and Olivia took a step toward Royce and held out her hand. He stepped forward and took it; it was so soft, it was nearly weightless. She looked back at him, a kind and gentle look to her eyes.
“My lord,” she said.
“My lady,” he replied.
Royce’s mind spun; it all happening too fast. It would be an arranged marriage, for the sake of power. Yet, as Royce held her hand, he felt there was something more, far more there. He could feel their overwhelming connection. He felt a pang of guilt, thinking of Genevieve—but then he recalled her betrayal, still a fresh wound. And he knew he had to move on.
Lord Jakoben nodded slowly, then looked at Royce.
“We shall all head to Celcus,” he concluded. “You will stand before the monarchy. You will prove your case before all the nobles, all the people, and they shall have no choice but to award you the kingship.”
“But how?” Royce asked, still puzzled.
Lord Jakoben got down from his throne, walked slowly over to Royce, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You shall draw the Sword of Might from the Aleutian Stone.”
The men in the room gasped, as the room fell silent. Royce’s heart beat faster at the words.
“If you can do it,” Lord Jakoben added, “you shall be the one and true King.”
The Aleutian Stone. The thought struck Royce like a knife in the gut. It was a thing of awe, of reverence, of legend. It was, of course, a weapon he had heard of his entire life. Yet it was more than a weapon. It was the heartbeat of their kingdom. It was a sword reserved for royalty, and one needed to be royal to even attempt to draw it. None had succeeded. Never, through the centuries. It had never entered Royce’s mind that he would even have a chance to try.
Especially because to fail at drawing would be by pain of death.
“And if I fail,” Royce said, losing his voice, “they will kill me on the spot.”
Lord Jakoben nodded back.
“True,” he replied. “But then again, if you fail, you were not meant to be king. And then what good is life?”
Royce pondered his words as a heavy silence fell over the room.
“If you truly think you hail from kings,” Lord Jakoben finally continued, “if you believe you have right to be king yourself, then there is only one way to prove it. Draw the sword. If you succeed, you will be our king. You will rule over our people. There will be no contesting it, no war. Your brothers will be free. Your people will be free.”
He leaned forward and examined Royce, and Royce felt all eyes on him.
“You’ve come asking for my help,” Lord Jakoben added. “I am asking you to prove who you are. Your men look to you now. The choice is yours. Do you believe you are who you say you are?”
Royce knew that if he refused, Lord Jakoben’s men would not join him. And without them, his own men could not win. He knew at once that he could not back down, not while his brothers were imprisoned. He would have to enter the lion’s den, risk his life, and draw the sword.
Finally, he nodded.
“I will,” he said.
There came a great cheer in the room, and as it rippled through the room Royce felt himself swept up in something greater than himself, greater than he had ever known. He knew he was about to challenge destiny and find out, for certain, who he really was, who his father was.
And that thought, more than anything, was what scared him the most.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Genevieve stood in the empty castle chamber, pacing the room, distraught. She had been summoned here to this grand room, with its high tapered ceilings and ornate wall tapestries, reserved for visiting nobles, a room she had rarely seen in all her moons here, and as she had entered, her foreboding had deepened. She had, after all, been told by an attendant that her husband, the Duke, wished to see her—and wished to see her here.
It had all been too formal; it could not portend anything good. The tone of the messenger’s voice, the fact that her husband had had someone summon her, the fact that he had chosen this room—all gave Genevieve a feeling of anxiety. Perhaps he had discovered that she had intercepted that scroll. She closed her eyes and hoped that was not the case. The punishment would be drastic. Would he ex-communicate her from the family? Or would he lock her in the dungeons? Torture her? Kill her?
Any of those, she realized, would be a relief. She did not want to be here amongst these people anyway. Her heart longed only for Royce.
Genevieve closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to wipe from her mind the image burned into it from the last time she had seen Royce. His look of absolute betrayal. She felt horrified, racked with guilt. There he had been, ascending from the pits, removing his mask, looking back at her, only to see her standing arm in arm with Altfor. He must have assumed the worst. How could he not? What if he never wanted to see her again?
Tears ran down her cheeks and she let them fall, cursing her situation. Cursing her destiny. Especially because this morning, fate had delivered her another cruel piece of news.
She sobbed and sobbed, trying to wipe it from her mind. But she could not.
This morning, during her bath at the creek, deep in the woods, she had thrown up. With trembling hands she had held the Ukanda leaf, praying, as she held it up to the light, that its color did not change. That she was not with child.
And yet it did.
Genevieve’s heart sank as she recalled the moment when the leaf had turned from green to white, each vein spreading with the new color, like a poison running through her veins. It was like something out of her worst nightmare.
She was with child.
His child.
Altfor’s.
Genevieve sobbed, realizing Altfor’s child was within her, and she hated herself even more. Somehow, in her attempt to fend off the enemy, she had become the enemy.
Now it was too late to turn back. Too late for anything. How could Royce ever want to be with her again?
Genevieve’s despair was interrupted by the sudden slamming of a door, and she flinched and turned to see Altfor marching in, in full armor, two attendants trailing. He did not look happy. Indeed, he had never looked upon her with such coldness, and the look alone made her wither inside. He looked upon her as if she were an enemy in his midst.
Altfor nodded to his attendants and they turned, walked out the door, and closed it behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the vast chamber.
Altfor then strode up to her and didn’t pause before slapping her with all his might.
She cried out. The slap stung more than she could say. He had never raised a hand to her before, and she had never felt such hatred from him.
And yet, at the same time, the pain relieved her. She wanted to feel pain. She wanted to suffer as Royce had suffered.
She stood there and stared back, defiant, feeling alive in person but not in spirit. A part of her was already dead.
“You lied to me,” he snapped. “Why?”
Her first impulse was to defend herself; but she then decided not to. Instead, she stared back, her tears drying up, feeling herself becoming hard and cold.
“Because I did not want you to take my beloved away,” she replied bravely. “You took me from my home. Forced me into this life. Took me as your wife. Took everything from me. And now a messenger comes to me to tell you where Royce is, so you can kill him. And I am supposed to allow that?”
“He did not come to you,” he seethed, “he came looking for me. You intercepted my message. Because of you, Royce got away. You are an enemy to my family. You are an enemy to me.”
He glowered as he stepped closer.
“I want you to know what will become of your beloved Royce,” he whispered cruelly. “He will not get far. I leave now for the Celcus, the capital, to convene with the King. He has agreed to amass the royal army to find your precious Royce. If I have any luck, I will find h
im and kill him myself. And when I find him, because of your actions, instead of a quick death, I will torture him slowly—he and all his men.”
Genevieve glared back, cold and hard, her heart pounding in her chest, trying to calm her rage.
“And you think that will make me love you?” she countered.
He stared back, his eyes filled with hatred; yet he said nothing.
“I will never love you,” she added. “That is the one thing out of your control. And it always will be.”
He stared back as if he might strike her; yet she also saw hurt and disappointment in his eyes.
“Then why did you come to my chamber?” he asked. “After all those moons? Was it not love?”
“It was love,” she said. “But not for you. For Royce. It was to help the man I truly loved.”
He took a deep breath, as if trying to stop himself from hitting her.
“Tell me one reason why I should not kill you right now,” he seethed.
Genevieve took a deep breath too, her hands trembling but refusing to let him see. She knew that now was the time to tell him that she was with child. His child. That would spare her. He would never lay a hand on her again. She would be free from any punishment.
Yet as she stood there, pondering it, she decided she did not want him to know. Because she decided, right then and there, that she would not keep it.
She wanted him to punish her. Even to kill her. Anything would be better than living this life, than living a lie.
So, instead, she stood there and said nothing, except: “I wish you would.”
In the long silence that followed he leaned in close and sneered.
“You will have the worst punishment of all,” he said. “It won’t be the dungeon, or torture, or death. Your punishment will be to stay right here, in this family, in my bed, with me. Amongst the people you hate the most, for the rest of your days. And I shall take great pleasure in knowing how much you hate it—and in your knowing that while you are here, your beloved will be out there, dead.”
