by Morgan Rice
“And what of the sword now?” Conval asked.
Reese turned and looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The Dynasty Sword. Now that the king is dead, the next MacGil will have a chance to try to wield it. I hear that Gareth is being crowned. Is that true?”
All the boys around the fire, even the older ones, grew quiet and looked at Reese.
Reese slowly nodded.
“It is,” he said.
“That means Gareth will get to try,” O’Connor said.
Reese shrugged.
“According to tradition, yes. If he chooses to.”
“Do you think he’ll be able to wield it?” Elden asked. “Do you think he is the One?”
Reese snorted in derision.
“Are you kidding? He’s my brother by blood only. Not by choice. I have nothing to do with him. He is not the One. He is not even a King. He is barely a prince. If my father were alive, he would never be king. I would bet my life that he would be unable to wield that sword.”
“And then how shall that look to the other kingdoms, if our new king should try and fail?” Conval asked. “Another failed MacGil king? It will make us seem weak.”
“Are you saying that my father was a failure?” Reese snapped, on edge.
“No,” Conval said, backing down. “I didn’t meant that. I’m just saying that our kingdom will look weak if our new king fails to wield the sword. It could invite attack by others.”
Reese shrugged.
“There is nothing we can do. When the right time comes, one day, a MacGil will wield that sword.”
“Maybe it will be you,” Elden said.
All the others turned and stared at Reese
“After all,” Elden added, “you are the king’s other true son.”
“So is Godfrey,” Reese answered. “He is also older than me.”
“But Godfrey would never rule. And after Gareth, that leaves you.”
“None of that matters,” Reese said. “Gareth is king now. Not me.”
“Maybe not for long,” said one of the other boys, a deep voice from somewhere in the crowd.
“What do you mean?” Reese asked into the night, searching out the face.
But only silence came in return, as the others looked away.
“There are rumors of a revolt,” Elden said finally. “Gareth is nothing like you. Nothing like us. He has made many enemies. Especially among the Legion, and among the Silver. Anything can happen. You might one day find yourself King.”
Reese reddened.
“I would only wish to be king if it were legitimate. Not under those circumstances. Not because of my father’s early death, and not because Gareth was betrayed. Besides, my eldest brother Kendrick would be far better than me.”
“But he is not eligible,” said O’Connor.
“Well then there is also my sister, Gwendolyn. That was my father’s final wish.”
“For a girl to rule?” someone yelled out in surprise. “That would never happen.”
“But that was his wish,” Reese insisted.
“But he shall not get his wish now, shall he?” someone remarked.
Slowly, Reese shook his head.
“For better or for worse, we’re all in Gareth’s hands now,” he said.
“Who knows what we shall return to in a hundred days?” Elden remarked.
The group fell silent, as they all stared into the flames.
Thor sat there, thinking. The mention of Gwendolyn’s name left a pit in his stomach. He turned and whispered to Reese.
“Your sister,” he said. “Did you see her, after the funeral?”
Reese looked at Thor, and slowly nodded.
“We spoke. I cleared your name. She knows you had nothing to do in the brothel.”
Thor felt a great sense of relief, felt his stomach relax for the first time in days. He was overwhelmed with gratitude towards Reese.
“Did she say she wants to see me again?” Thor asked, hopefully.
Reese shook his head.
“I’m sorry, my brother,” he said. “She is a proud one. She does not like to admit when she’s wrong. Even if she is.”
Thor turned and looked back into the flames, and slowly nodded. He understood. He felt a hollowness in his stomach, but it gave him strength. There would be a long hundred days ahead of him, and it would be best if he had nothing left to care for.
*
Thor stood in the king’s chamber, over his bed, the room dark save for a single torch at the far end that flickered slowly. Thor took three slow steps, knelt down beside the king, and held his hand. His eyes were closed. He looked peaceful. He was cold and still, and Thor could feel that he was dead.
MacGil’s crown still sat on his head, and as Thor watched, Ephistopheles suddenly flew into the room, swooped down through an open window, and landed on the king’s head. She grabbed the crown in her mouth, and flew away with it. She screeched as she flew out the window, her huge wings flapping, carrying the crown far into the sky.
Thor looked back at MacGil, and saw that now, in his place, lay Gareth. Thor quickly withdrew his hand, as he saw that Gareth’s hand was that of a snake; he looked up and saw that Gareth’s face was transforming, mixed with that of a cobra. He had scaly skin, and a tongue which flickered out at him. Gareth smiled an evil smile, his eyes flashing yellow.
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 of 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, t
hen 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.
