by Morgan Rice
Altfor turned and stormed out, crossing the chamber and slamming the door behind him.
Unable to hold back any longer, Genevieve broke down and wept. She thought of the baby, his baby, growing within her.
Forgive me, Father, she thought, for what I am about to do.
*
Genevieve ran through the woods, scratched by branches and not caring, her face wet from tears, lungs bursting as she ran with all she had, determined to make it to the glen. As she ran she could not help but replay in her mind Altfor’s words. She thought of living in that castle forever, trapped with that family, trapped with him, of never seeing Royce again.
She’d rather be dead. She would not do it. She would not lead her life that way. She would not answer to any of them.
Royce hated her. She had hoped with all her heart that she could try to find a way to explain it all to him—but now, with the baby coming, Royce would never care for her again. Now she truly had nothing left to live for.
Yet maybe there was a way to set wrongs right.
Genevieve burst into a clearing in the woods, and there, as planned, she saw her sister-in-law, Moira, awaiting her. Genevieve was filled with relief as she ran into her arms.
They embraced, and Genevieve pulled back and looked at her. During all these moons, Moira had become like a sister. They were sisters-in-arms, both trapped in situations they did not want to be in, both equally despising this family, their captors, and both having to play a role.
“Do you have it?” Genevieve asked.
Moira reached inside her shirt and pulled out a small vial filled with yellow liquid.
“A small sip will kill the child,” Moira explained. “Yet you might not ever be able to have children again.”
Genevieve reached out to take it—but before she could grab it, Moira shut her hand in a fist and stared back at her intensely.
“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Moira asked.
Genevieve nodded.
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”
Moira sighed.
“You do realize that the child that grows within you is the key to power? To your becoming queen? He’ll be the firstborn son of the firstborn son, heir to the throne. You’ll be the most powerful amongst all the nobles. You will be untouchable, protected forever. And as queen, you’ll have more ways to save Royce than you can imagine.”
Genevieve shook her head.
“I am done living a lie,” she finally answered, feeling her tears flow. “I want to carry Royce’s child. Not Altfor’s. No power in the world is worth that for me.”
Moira stared back at Genevieve long and hard. Seeing the earnest, determined look in her face, she slowly opened her hand.
Genevieve took the vial and held it up to the light, watching the yellow solution swirl. An awful smell came from it.
Moira stared back at her sadly, long and hard in the silence, as if trying to think of what to say.
“You could have been Queen, Genevieve,” she said finally. “Mother of kings. You could have had it all.”
With those simple words she turned and walked away, leaving Genevieve alone, more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.
Genevieve stood there, shaking, tears falling down her face, holding a vial before her that held both the power of life and of death.
She watched it swirl in the morning light and knew she should bring it to her lips.
And yet for some reason, she could not. She did not know the baby; yet a part of her loved it already.
She stood there, frozen, numb.
And she had no idea what she was going to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Royce rode beside Lord Jakoben, Mark, Altos, Rubin, Sovil and Aspeth at the head of the swelling army, his thousand men joined by several thousand of Lord Jakoben’s, all of them spreading out over the countryside like a weapon of destruction. The sound of horses galloping in his ears merged with the clanging of armor and weaponry, all of them riding east, to Celcus, the capital city of the Kingdom of Sevania, where the King and Queen and royal knights, resided. The time had come to test Royce’s lineage.
It felt surreal. Here Royce was, at the head of an army, not just of peasants and farmers, but now also of warriors, of knights and nobles. It felt as if he were being caught up in something bigger than himself, something he could not stop if he tried. And somehow, he had been placed at its head.
Royce looked out at the rolling hills before him and pondered what lay ahead. The thought of heading to Castle Celcus, into the very lair of his enemy, thrilled him. He was not a man who liked to run from a fight, and he had not liked running. He wished to face his demons head-on, and now, finally, he had a chance to do just that. He would rather die fighting than live running. He felt his cause was just, and he had no reason to have to act like a criminal.
They rode and rode, thundering across the countryside, and as the sun fell low in the sky, the clouds a palette of brilliant reds, finally, in the distance, Royce saw it: there, high up on a hill, shining against the sun, was the magnificent Castle Celcus, sprawled out over the land like an indomitable force. And inside, Royce knew, sat the Sword of Might.
Royce felt a thrill at the sight of it. He felt a tingling in his hands, and he knew he was riding to his destiny. He knew the chances of his emerging alive were slim—and that if he did, he would be King. Either way, on this day his life would change forever.
The more they entered enemy territory, the more surreal it felt. Here he was, riding headlong into the enemy’s lair, the very fort where thousands of soldiers were looking to kill him. What if he were never even afforded a chance to reach the throne room?
A series of horns sounded in the twilight and Royce looked out as they crested a hill to see thousands of soldiers lined up alongside the embankments, their armor shining scarlet in the sunset. They bordered an imposing moat, spanned by a long, narrow bridge, and a huge gaping portcullis. It seemed impossible to approach, must less attack.
At their approach, the horns sounded, and all the soldiers around it assumed a defensive formation, coming close together, lowering visors and lances as Royce and his men rode down the final slope, approaching the gate. Royce slowed, as did the others behind him, to indicate this was no attack charge. He warily eyed the thousands of arrows trained upon them from the parapets and did not want his men dying before they even reached it.
Royce stopped about fifty yards away from the gate, so that no hasty mistakes would be made that could jeopardize his men. His men came to a stop behind him, and he turned and faced them.
“I shall ride forward alone and present my request,” he said. “You shall all wait here. If they attack me, that will give you the chance to ride to freedom.”
Lord Jakoben nodded back his approval.
“A group of us shall join you,” he replied.
Royce left the bulk of his army behind and rode off toward the gate with a small group, Lord Jakoben and several of his men, Mark, Altos, Rubin, Sovil and Aspeth beside him. Aspeth carried a long white flag, a symbol of a peaceful message.
Royce braced himself as he neared, wondering if the King’s men would attack. To his relief, a small contingent of knights left the line of soldiers guarding the bridge and rode out to greet them.
They all came to a stop, horses breathing hard in the silence, and stared, facing each other warily. Royce looked back at Manfor’s brother Altfor, joined by a dozen nobles, smiling back arrogantly, and felt his blood boil.
“I never thought the stars would grant me such luck,” Altfor said with a wide grin. “I had come to Celcus to amass an army to kill you. And you, stupid peasant that you are, have walked right into our arms.”
He grinned and took a step closer.
“Would you really be so stupid to come here when we have soldiers everywhere looking for you?” Altfor asked. “You know we are going to capture and kill you, regardless of what you have to say. But before I do, I want you to know something: G
enevieve is mine forever.”
Royce felt his anger flare, and he involuntarily reached out and grasped the hilt of his sword. As he did, soldiers drew on all sides, the distinctive sound interrupting the silence.
But Royce felt a calming hand on his wrist and looked over to see Lord Jakoben laying a gentle hand on his wrist and shaking his head.
Lord Jakoben scowled at Altfor.
“Mind your tongue, boy,” Lord Jakoben said. “You will speak with respect to the son of a king.”
Altfor looked at the noble as if he were mad, then turned and looked at Royce with a disbelieving look. He scoffed.
“Son of a king!” he laughed. “You mean son of a peasant!”
All of his men laughed, and as Royce’s cheeks burned, it took all of his willpower to remain calm. He had to remind himself he was leading other men now, not just himself.
But Lord Jakoben stared back, deadly serious.
“He is the son of King Artis,” he retorted. “And he’s come to draw the Sword of Might.”
Altfor stared back in disbelief for a few moments. Then slowly his face morphed to scorn.
“Only nobles can attempt to draw the sword,” he countered.
“And so shall he,” Lord Jakoben replied. “To deny him will result in a revolt on your family’s house. Is that something you wish?”
Altfor stared back with a vexed look, seeming stumped. But finally, his frown turned into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Of course you can, try,” he said to Royce. “I cannot think of anything more foolish for you to do. For if you fail—and fail you shall—that shall be by penalty of death. Not that we can’t kill you right now, but I’d like to see you make a fool of yourself before I do. Please,” he said, stepping side and waving his arm as his men parted ways. “Enter. You’ll save us the shackles.”
A horn sounded, and Royce rode forward, joined by his convoy.
As he rode across the drawbridge, horses’ hooves clomping on the wood, heading toward the large stone arch, chains rattled and the portcullis was slowly raised. Altfor rode up close beside him and grinned.
“I want you to know,” he said in a dark voice, “that I’ve had your precious Genevieve. I had her first. And I shall have her forever. You may have freed her from my brother, but not from me.”
Royce felt himself fill with fury. He clenched the hilt of his sword and wanted more than anything to draw and run it through this man’s chest. It took all his willpower to contain himself.
Altfor’s time will come, he told himself.
Royce rode through the open portcullis, beneath the gaping stone arch and into the darkened courtyard of the castle, keeping silent all the while. He would not honor this man with a response. Words were meaningless; he would let the sword speak for him.
They rode on, horses’ hooves clomping on the cobblestone, crossing the stone courtyard, while all around and high up on the parapets, thousands of knights watched warily and hundreds of onlookers gawked, watching Royce’s contingent go. They all seemed to watch in disbelief.
Soaring oak doors were opened for them by a half dozen knights, and Royce and the others dismounted before them. Escorted by a dozen more knights, they all walked inside in a group, led up a spiral stone staircase. More and more knights poured in, escorting them in front and behind. Royce realized there would be no way out of here but victory.
They ascended the stairs and turned down several more corridors, and as they reached the end, another pair of oak doors, guarded by several knights, swung open for them.
Royce looked out in awe as they entered a massive chamber, ceilings over a hundred feet high, the chamber spreading out endlessly in every direction. His heart pounded as he realized where they were.
The throne room.
At the far side of the room sat the King himself, on his throne, surrounded by dozens of knights, clearly having learned of their presence, watching them with interest. Hundreds more knights stood along the walls, as did hundreds of nobles. They all looked over Royce with disdain, as if he were a peasant. Word must have spread that Royce would attempt to draw the sword, for hundreds of peasants crammed in, too, anticipation on their faces. This must, Royce realized, be their favorite sport to watch: the anticipation of a new king—and the death following a failed attempt.
Royce’s heart pounded as he felt the thousands of eyes upon him, knowing this was his moment, the moment that would change everything.
He walked slowly into the room as men parted ways and stared at the massive black boulder of granite sitting in its center. In it sat the sword, lodged deeply inside.
Royce’s heart beat faster at the sight, his palms sweaty. There it was. The Sword of Might. It had been trapped in this rock for centuries—indeed, the entire castle had been built around this rock. It was the very epicenter of their kingdom. Royce knew that whoever could draw that sword would by law hold the right to rule the kingdom.
No one had ever drawn it. The royalties’ claim to legitimacy had been always been weak, since they had never been able to draw it themselves, and only claimed that their ancestors had. It had, indeed, been a source of contention throughout the kingdom, of jockeying for position between rival nobles and monarchs. However firm the nobles would like it to seem, the kingship was always up for grabs. And thus every attempt to draw the sword was perceived as a threat.
That was why, Royce knew, Lord Jakoben was supporting him now. He wanted a chance to knock his rivals from power. To have an alliance with a legitimate kingship. And he was all too happy for Royce to take the chance of drawing it, so that Royce would die if he failed, and not his own people.
The King, a mighty man, barrel chested, with a broad forehead and a stern jaw, beard streaked with gray yet still a warrior in his prime, stood from his throne and walked slowly across the room until he faced Royce on the opposite side of the stone. The room fell deadly silent as he looked Royce over with disdain.
“I would expect nothing less of these peasants,” the King said scornfully, looking over Royce and his friends. “But you, Lord Jakoben,” he added. “You have sworn your allegiance to us. You dare bring this murderer into our castle? The most wanted man in the kingdom?”
Lord Jakoben held his ground.
“My grace,” he replied, speaking loud enough for all to hear. “As you know, every man of noble lineage has a right to try to draw the sword. This is a right bestowed on us by my father and by yours. We are only giving him his right.”
“And when he fails? He shall be killed. And you and your men can be imprisoned with him.”
Lord Jakoben held his ground.
“He shall not fail. For you look now upon King Artis’s son.”
A gasp spread through the crowd, as everyone examined Royce. He felt uncomfortable, hating to be at the center of attention. What if he failed? What if he let all these people down?
“Then let your King step forward and try,” the King said, mocking. “And may he be prepared, when he is unsuccessful, to lose his head.”
“And if he draws it, he shall be King,” Lord Jakoben added.
The King nodded back.
“The law is the law. If he draws, he is King.”
Royce stepped forward and he could feel the room grow silent, all eyes on him.
The entire world melted away. He developed tunnel vision for the sword. This, after all, would be the defining moment of his life.
Royce held out one sweaty palm and slowly reached out for the sword. He stared at it in awe. It was a thing of beauty. He had never been this close to it, had never even seen it before, and it was a magnificent thing. Its metal was black, shining, its hilt gold, inlaid with precious rubies and sapphires. It was immersed deeply in the massive black boulder.
As Royce slowly lowered his hand and wrapped it around the hilt, he felt an incredible energy. It was like fire running up his arm and shoulder. He could almost feel it humming inside him.
This was his moment, he realized. The
moment he had lived for his entire life. And the moment he could die for.
Royce closed his eyes. He tightened his grip on the sword and realized his entire life had been lived for this moment. He had always sensed, all these years since he was a boy, while working those endless days on the farm, that he was someone else, someone special. And now, with thousands of eyes upon him, he could feel it.
Father, he thought, if I am your son, answer me. Be with me. Allow me to be King, as you were. Allow me to instill justice once again.
Royce took a deep breath, and he suddenly pulled the sword back with all his might.
A sound rose through the air that stunned even him. It was the sound of sword slicing through rock, a sound like a great earthquake, as though the entire world were being reborn. Royce looked out in shock and found himself releasing the sword from the rock, raising it high in the air for all to see, light and free above his head.
There came an audible gasp as the entire room of people stood there, frozen, staring.
Finally, the silence was shattered.
“We have our King!” Lord Jakoben called out.
“We have our King!” the peasants in the room repeated, jubilant.
King.
Royce’s world was spinning. The word reverberated through his very soul.
As he held the sword above him, high in his hand, it felt right. More right than anything he had ever felt in his entire life. He was not just a boy anymore.
He was King.
Royce expected to hear the entire room shout out in approval, to see the nobles join in, to accept him as King.
But instead, he looked upon their faces and saw them solemn, grave. Suddenly, the King nodded to his men.
There followed a series of confusing events, happening too quickly, that Royce tried to make sense of: the sound of doors being barred; of hundreds of men panicking; of peasants running; and then, finally, of swords being drawn.
Royce scanned the room, still in a daze, trying to understand what was happening all around him. Before he could determine how to react, he saw from the corner of his eye a dozen knights race forward—and stab his people in the back.
