by Morgan Rice
Thor blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself standing in his village, back home. The streets were deserted. The houses were all deserted, too, the doors and windows open, as if the entire village had left in haste.
Thor walked down the road he remembered, dust swirling all around him, until he arrived at his old house, a small, white clay dwelling, its door wide open.
He walked inside, ducking his head, and there, sitting at the table, his back to him, was his father. Thor walked around, his heart thumping, not wanting to see him again-but at the same time feeling compelled to.
Thor reached the far end of the table, and sat down at the other head, facing his father. His father’s wrists were chained to the wood, with big iron shackles, and he stared sternly back.
“You have killed our king,” his father said.
“I did not,” Thor responded.
“You were never part of this family,” his father said.
Thor’s heart pounded, as he tried to process his father’s words.
“I never loved you!” his father screamed, standing, breaking the shackles. He took several steps towards Thor, the shackles flailing. “I never wanted you!” he shrieked.
He charged Thor, raising his huge hands as if to choke him. Just as his hands closed in on Thor’s throat, Thor blinked.
Thor stood at the head of a ship, a huge, wooden warship, its bow crashing deep into the ocean then rising high, waves crashing all around him. Thor stood at the helm, and before him flew Ephistopheles, still carrying the king’s crown. In the distance there appeared an island, rising out from the sea, covered in a mist. And beyond that, a flame in the sky. The sky was filled with dark purple clouds, the two suns sitting near each other.
Thor heard a horrific roar, and he knew this was the Isle of Mist.
Thor woke with a start. He sat up breathing hard. He looked all around him, wondering.
It had been a dream. He was lying there, in the barracks, in the early light of dawn, the other boys sleeping all around him. His heart pounded as he wiped the sweat from his brow. It had seemed so real.
“I know something of bad dreams, boy,” came a voice.
Thor spun and saw Kolk standing there, not far off, fully dressed, hands on his hips, looking down at the other boys.
“You’re the first to rise,” he said. “That is good. We have a long journey ahead of us. And your nightmares are just the beginning.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gareth stood at his open window, watching dawn break over his kingdom. His kingdom. It felt good to think the words. As of today, he would be King. Not his father, but he. Gareth MacGil. The eighth of the MacGils. The crown would sit on his head.
It was a new era now. A new dynasty. It would be his face on the royal coins, a statue of him outside the castle. In just weeks, his father’s name would be a memory, something relegated to the history books. Now it was his time to rise, his time to shine. It was the day he had looked forward to his entire life.
In fact, Gareth had been up all night, unable to sleep, tossing and turning, pacing the floors, sweating, covered in cold chills. In the few moments he had slept, he had had fast and troubled dreams, had seen the face of his father, staring back at him, reprimanding him, just as it had in life. But now his father could not touch him. Now he was in control. He had opened his eyes from sleep and made the face go away. He was in the land of the living, not his father. He and he alone.
Gareth could hardly conceive all the changes happening around him. As he watched the sky grow warmer, he knew that in just hours, he would wear the crown, the royal robe, wield the royal scepter. All the king’s advisers, all the king’s generals, all the people of his kingdom, would answer to him. He would control the Army, the Legion, the treasury. In fact, there was nothing he could not control, and there was not a single person who would not answer to him. It was the power he had sought, had craved, his entire life. And now it was in his grasp. Not in his sister’s, and not in any of his brothers’. He had managed to make it happen. Perhaps prematurely. But he figured one day it would have been his anyway. Why should he have to wait his entire life, waste his prime, waiting? He should be king in his prime, not as an old man. He had just made it happen a bit sooner.
It was what his father deserved. His entire life he had criticized him, had refused to accept him for who he was. Now Gareth was forcing his father to accept him, from beyond the grave, whether he liked it or not. He was forcing him to have to look down and see his least loved son as ruler, the very son he had never wanted. That was his punishment for withdrawing his love, and for never giving him love to begin with. Gareth didn’t need his love now. Now he had the whole kingdom to love and adore him. And he would squeeze out every ounce of it that he could.
There came a pounding on the door, the iron knocker resonating on the wood, and Gareth turned, already dressed, and strutted to the door. He yanked it open himself, marveling that this would be the last time he would do so. After today, he would sleep in a different room-the King’s chamber-and would have servants around the clock standing in and outside of his door. He would never touch a doorknob again. He would be flocked by a royal entourage, warriors, bodyguards, anything he wanted. He was electrified at the thought of it.
“My liege,” came the chorus of voices.
A dozen of the king’s guard bowed down as the door opened.
One of his advisers stepped forward.
“We have come to accompany you to the crowning ceremony.”
“Very well,” Gareth said, trying to sound composed, trying not to sound as if he had anticipated this moment every day of his life.
He walked forward, raising his chin, already trying to practice the look of a king. He would allow this day to change him, and he would demand that everyone around him look at him differently.
Gareth walked down the red carpet that had been laid out for him along the castle stone floor, dozens of guards lined up along it, awaiting his approach. He walked slowly and deliberately, turning down corridor after corridor, reveling each moment. Everywhere he went guards bowed low.
“My liege,” they said, one after another, like dominoes.
It felt good to hear the words. It felt surreal. It felt as if he were walking in the footsteps that his father had walked just the day before.
As Gareth turned the corner, attendants opened a towering oak door, pulled with all their might on the iron knocker. It creaked open, revealing an immense ceremonial chamber. Gareth had expected a crowd, but he was taken aback by the site before him: there were thousands of the courts finest and most important people, nobles, royalty, hundreds of The Silver, all filling the room, all standing at his presence as the doors opened. They were lined up neatly in pews, dressed in their finest, as they would be for the most important ceremony. Thousands of them turned and faced him, and bowed their heads.
Gareth could hardly believe it. All of these people, all assembled just for him. It was too late now for anyone to stop him. The time had come. In just moments he would be wearing the crown, and that was a line that could never be crossed. His head itched to have it on.
He walked self-consciously down the long aisle, hundreds of feet with a plush red carpet down the middle. At its end sat an altar and a throne. Argon stood there waiting, with several more of the king’s council.
“Hear ye hear ye! All rise in acceptance of the presence of the new King!”
“Hear ye!” came a chorus of shouts, thousands of voices filling the room, rising up to the cathedral ceiling. Music rose up, the sounds of a lute, as Gareth began the ceremonial walk to the throne. As he went, he passed faces that he recognized, and faces he did not. There were people that used to look at him as if he were just another boy, or who used to not look at him at all. Now they all had to pay him respect. Now he demanded all of their attention.
As he went he passed his siblings, standing together. Godfrey, Kendrick, Gwendolyn, and Reese. Beside Reese was that boy, Thor. All o
f them, thorns in his side. No matter. He would do away with them soon enough. As soon as he assumed the throne, as soon as he took power, he would deal with each in his own way. After all, who better than he to know that the worst enemies are those closest to you.
Gareth passed his mother, the Queen, who stared down at him with a disapproving glance. He didn’t need her approval now, or ever again. Now he was her King. Now she would have to answer to him.
Gareth continued to walk, passing everyone, until finally he reached the throne. The music grew louder as he ascended the seven ivory steps, to a platform where Argon was waiting, dressed in his finest ceremonial robes.
Gareth faced him. As he did, the entire room, thousands of people, sat. The music stopped and the room grew deathly still.
Gareth looked at Argon, who stared back at him with such intensity that his translucent eyes seemed to burn right through him. Gareth wanted to look away, but forced himself not to. He wondered again what Argon saw. Did he see the future? Or worse, did he see the past? Had he seen what Gareth had done? And if he had, would he reveal it?
Gareth made a mental note to oust Argon, too. He would oust anyone and everyone who had been close to his father-and who might suspect his guilt.
Gareth braced himself as Argon was about to open his mouth, praying he did not say anything to out him as the assassin.
“As the fates would have it,” Argon announced slowly, “we are all put here on this day to mourn the loss of a great King, and to at the same time acknowledge the crowning of his son. For the law of the Ring dictates the kingship must be passed to the firstborn legitimate son. And that is Gareth MacGil.”
Each and every one of Argon’s words felt like a denunciation to Gareth. Why had he had to qualify it, to use the word legitimate? It was clearly a snub; he was clearly implying that he wished Kendrick could be king instead. Gareth would make him pay for that.
“As sorcerer to the MacGils for seven generations, it is my duty to place the royal crown on you, Gareth, in the hopes that you will carry out the supreme law of the kingship of the Ring. Do you, Gareth, accept this privilege?”
“I do,” Gareth responded.
“Do you, Gareth, vow to uphold and protect the laws of our great kingdom?”
“I do.”
“Do you, Gareth, promise to follow in the footsteps of your father, in all his ways, and in the footsteps of your ancestors, to protect the Ring, to uphold the Canyon, and to defend us from all enemies, internal and external?”
“I do.”
Argon stared at him long and hard, expressionless, then finally reached over, picked up a large bejeweled crown, the one his father wore, raised it high, and slowly placed on Gareth’s head. As he did, he closed his eyes and began to chant, over and over again, in the ancient, lost language of the Ring.
“Atimos lex vi mass primus…”
Argon chanted a deep, guttural chant, and it continued for some time. Finally, he stopped, reached up with his hand, and placed it on Gareth’s forehead.
“By the powers vested in me by the Western Kingdom of the Ring, I, Argon, hereby name you, Gareth, the eighth MacGil King.”
A muted applause rose up in the room, far from enthusiastic, and Gareth turned and faced all of his subjects. They all stood, politely, and Gareth looked over their faces.
He took two steps back and sat in his father’s throne, sinking into it, feeling what it felt like to rest his hands on its well-worn arms. He sat there, staring at his subjects, who looked up at him with hopeful, maybe fearful eyes. He also saw in the crowd those who did not cheer, who looked at him skeptically.
He remembered their faces well, and each of them would pay.
*
Thor walked out of the king’s castle, surrounded by Legion members, as they all filed out from the ceremony they had been forced to watch before their departure. He felt hollowed out. It made him physically sick to stand there and watch Gareth be crowned King. It was surreal. Just hours ago, MacGil had sat there, indomitable, on that throne, wearing that crown, holding that staff. Just hours ago, the entire kingdom had paid tribute to his father. Where had all their loyalty gone?
Of course, Thor understood that a kingdom had to have a ruler, and that a throne could not sit vacant for long. But could it not have sat vacant for just a little longer? Was it the nature of a throne that it could never sit empty for more than a few hours? What was it about a throne, about a kingship, about a title, that always made others rush to fill it? Was Argon right? Would there always be a march of kings? Would it ever end?
As Thor had watched Gareth sit in it, that throne seemed more like a gilded prison than a seat of power. It was not a seat, he realized, that he would ever want for himself.
Thor was reminded of MacGil’s final words, about his destiny being greater than his. He shuddered; he prayed that he had not meant that he would ever be king-not here, not anywhere. Politics did not interest him. Thor wanted to be a great warrior. He wanted glory. He wanted to fight beside his brothers-in-arms, to help others in need. That was all. He wanted to be a leader of men in the realm of battle-but not outside of it. He could not help but feel that every leader who strived for power somehow ended up corrupted in the process.
Thor filtered out with the others, all of them upset that their journey had been delayed in order to pay homage to the new Prince. This day had been declared a national holiday, and now they could not all leave until the next morning. This left another day to do nothing but sit around, mourn the former king and contemplate Gareth’s rise. It was the last thing Thor wanted. He had looked forward to journeying, to crossing the Canyon, to getting on the ship, to having the ocean air clear his senses, to leaving all of this behind and throwing himself into whatever training the Legion had in store for him.
As they exited the castle gates, Reese came up beside him and jabbed him hard in the ribs. Thor turned and saw Reese gesturing off to the side. Thor turned to look-and when he did, he could scarcely believe it.
There, standing off by herself, dressed in a long dress of black silk, stood Gwendolyn. She was looking right at him.
Thor could hardly comprehend it. He had thought that she had not wanted to see him again.
“She wants to speak with you,” Reese said to Thor. “Go to her.”
O’Connor, Elden and the twins, along with several other boys, let out a chorus of oohs and aahs, jostling Thor.
“Lover boy is being summoned!” O’Connor called out.
“Better run to her, before she changes her mind!” Elden said.
Thor, reddening, turned and looked at Reese, trying to ignore the others.
“But I don’t understand. I thought she didn’t want to see me.”
Reese slowly shook his head, smiling.
“I guess she came around,” he answered. “Go to her. We don’t leave until tomorrow. You have time.”
Thor heard a yelp and looked down to see Krohn take off, charging towards Gwendolyn. Thor needed no more prodding: he took off after him, to the mocking calls of his friends. Thor didn’t care. Nothing mattered to him now, as his mind was filled with thoughts of seeing her. He had not realized how badly he had missed her, how deep a pain had sat in his chest, until he saw her again.
Thor followed Krohn as he zigzagged through the crowd, and finally reached her. She stood not far from the entrance to the castle, and he stood before her, jostled by the hundreds of people continue to filter out from the ceremony. She stood there, staring back, solemn. It saddened him to see the great joy that used to light up her face now gone, replaced with a withdrawn look, an aura of mourning. Yet somehow, it made her even more beautiful in the stark morning light. Krohn jumped on her foot, but she held her eyes on Thor’s.
Now that he was standing before her, once again, he hardly knew what to say. He was about to speak, to say something, but she spoke first.
“I’m sorry for my words yesterday,” she said, softly. “About you being a commoner. Being beneath me. I didn
’t mean it. I was just upset. It is unlike me. Forgive me.”
Thor’s heart swelled at her words. He could hardly believe she was being kind to him again.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said.
“I do,” she said. “I didn’t mean those things. Reese told me all those things I heard about you were lies. I was mistaken. I should have known better than to listen to the others. I should have given you a chance.”
She looked at him, her startling blue eyes mesmerizing him, and he found it hard to think straight.
“Will you give me another chance?” she asked.
Thor broke into a wide smile.
“Of course I will,” he said. He looked down and kicked the rocks before him. “In fact, I hadn’t given up hoping that you might change your mind. Because I never changed mine.”
She looked up at him, and for the first time in a while she smiled, a broad smile, and it lifted Thor’s heart. He felt a hundred pounds lighter.
All around them people continued to filter out and they were jostled every which way. She reached out and took his hand, and the feel of her smooth skin electrified him.
“Come with me,” she said.
Thor could feel the looks of those all around them, and he wanted to leave, too.
“Where shall we go?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” she answered.
Without hesitation he followed, she guiding him as they held hands through the crowd, around the side of the castle, and out towards the open fields.
*
Thor and Gwen walked hand-in-hand in the early morning light through fields of flowers, Krohn at their side, the second sun rising, a beautiful summer day blooming around them. They passed through groves of trees, in full bloom with turquoise and white and green flowers, birds of all sorts swooping down around them. Flowers up to their knees, they continued climbing the gentle slope of a hill until finally they reached the top.
