by Morgan Rice
She shrugged.
“Since my father’s death, she’s a different person. I don’t recognize her anymore. She hasn’t spoken a word to anyone. She just stares. I think a part of her died with him. I can’t imagine her rousing to stop us. And if she does, I no longer care. I am my own person. I will find a way. I will leave this place if I have to.”
Thor was surprised.
“You would leave the royal court? For me?”
She looked at him and nodded, and he could see the love in her eyes. He could see that it was true, and his heart swelled with gratitude.
“But where could we go?” he asked.
“Anywhere,” she said. “As long as I am with you.”
His heart soared at her words. He couldn’t believe she had said that, because he had been thinking the same exact thing.
“Isn’t it funny,” she said softly, “how certain people come into your life at a certain time? You, coming into my life just as my father died. It is strange. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here. And to think I almost lost you, and over a silly misunderstanding.”
“I often wonder that myself,” Thor answered. “What if I hadn’t met Argon that day in the forest? What if I had not tried to come to King’s Court, to join the Legion? What if I had never met you? How would my life be different?”
A long, comfortable silence fell between them.
“It’s hard to fathom that in a day you will be so far from here,” she said. “On a ship, on an ocean, in a distant land, under a different sky.”
She sat up and turned and looked to him, fierceness in her eyes.
“Do you promise that you will come back for me?” she asked, with a sudden urgency. He could see how deeply she felt things. But it did not scare him—he was the same way.
He looked at her with equal seriousness.
“I promise,” he answered.
“Vow to me,” she said. “Vow that you will come back. That you will not leave me here. That, no matter what, you will return for me.”
She held out her hands, and Thor took hers, and looked into her eyes with a seriousness to match hers.
“I vow,” he answered. “I will come back for you. No matter what.”
She looked into his eyes for a long time, then leaned in and kissed him. It was a long, passionate kiss, and he reached up and held her cheeks, pulling her close. He tried to ingrain in his memory the feel of her skin, the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair, tied to hold it in his mind so that even in a hundred days, he would not forget it. But his new powers arose within him, and a sixth sense was whispering to him. It was telling him, even in this moment, even at the height of his greatest joy, that something dark would come between them. And that the vow he had just made might cost him his life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Erec rode from the rising of the first sun to the time the second crossed the sky when the country path widened, gradually became finer, smoother, the rough holes less frequent. Its jagged rocks were replaced by fine pebbles, then these replaced by smooth, white shells, and Erec knew he was, finally, approaching a city. He started to see people pass him on foot, carrying goods and wares, sheltering their heads with wide hats from the summer heat. The road become more and more populated, people passing him in both directions on this glorious summer day, some leading oxen or riding on carts. Judging from the number of days he had ridden, Erec assumed he was nearing Savaria, the stronghold of the South. It was a city famed for its fine women, its strong wine and its magnificent horses, one that Erec had heard much about, but had never had a chance to visit. It was famed, also, for its annual jousting competition, the prize for the winner being the bride of his choice. Women gathered from all over the Ring hoping to be picked, and knights of fame and honor poured in from all the provinces, hoping to win.
Erec figured it would be a good place to begin his Selection year. He did not expect to find his bride here, so soon, but he thought, at the very least, it would keep his jousting skills sharp. Being the king’s hand, the finest knight in the kingdom, Erec had no doubt he could defeat any adversary. It was not hubris, just knowledge of his own skills compared to others. It had been years since he had been defeated by anyone. Whether he could find his bride was a different story.
Erec climbed a hill and as he reached its peak saw, spread out below him, a great city, with castles, parapets, spires, steeples and a brook running before it. It was framed by an ancient wall, as thick as two men. Savaria. It was a beautiful city, quaint, not nearly the size of King’s Court, yet still substantial. It was built low to the ground, its buildings all made of stone, with slate roofs and smoke rising from chimneys. As Erec stopped on his horse, taking in the site, he spotted a lookout, high up on one of the towers, a boy dressed in the red and green colors of the South. The boy jumped to his feet, waved frantically towards Erec, and blew a long trumpet. It was the official greeting of the King’s Guard, and as Erec watched, the metal gate beyond the drawbridge was raised. There was an excited shout, and two horses came galloping out towards him.
It occurred to Erec that members of The Silver rarely journeyed this far South, and that the arrival of one would be hailed as a major event—especially one coming right from King’s Court. And the fact that it was Erec—the most celebrated of all The Silver, and the King’s champion—would create an even greater stir. He could already see, even from here, the excitement in the boy’s eyes, the gathering crowd on the towers, the anticipation in the soldiers galloping out to greet him.
The soldiers pulled to a stop before him, their horses breathing hard, and greeted him with smiles from behind the friendly red beards of the Savarians.
“My Liege,” one of them called out. “A great honor to have you here! We have had no visitors from King’s Court in years.”
“What brings you to us?” asked the other. “Is it the festival?”
“It is,” Erec responded. “It is my Selection Year, and I’m afraid I’ve been too picky.”
The soldiers both laughed in response.
“That I can understand,” one of them said. “I failed to choose by my year, as well, and also failed to find one during my Selection year. Thus I was assigned a bride. I lament it to this day!” he said with a hearty laugh. “Not a day passes when she doesn’t nag me to death, that she does not remind me that I did not choose her!”
Erec laughed.
“My selection year comes up next season,” said the other soldier. “I hope to find someone before then.”
“Well I’ve just begun my journey,” Erec said. “I don’t know that I will find my bride here. But I would like to see your city. And I will join the tournament.”
“Very well, my Liege,” one of them said good-naturedly. “Our Duke will be thrilled at your presence. It would be a great honor if we can accompany you. You must understand that the arrival of the King’s hand is a major event! You will be treated like royalty within our gates!”
Erec laughed.
“I am hardly royalty,” he said, humbly. “I am just another knight.”
“Hardly, my liege,” the other said. “We’ve heard tales of your conquests far and wide.”
“I just perform my duty to the king. Nothing else. But that said, I would be honored for you to accompany me. Let us to the Duke!”
The three of them turned and began trotting down the road, to the looks of wonder of the growing crowd, amassing along the roadway to catch a glimpse of Erec.
As they rode through the massive arched stone gate of Andalusia, Erec was struck by the throngs of people that came out to see him. They rode into the city center, a wide stone plaza, framed by ancient stone walls, and as they did, the Duke rode out to greet him, flanked by a dozen men. Approaching with them were dozens of women, dressed in their finest, standing before Erec, hoping to catch his eye. Each was more beautiful than the next. Erec could hardly believe it. All this attention, just for him. It made him feel more famous than he felt entitled to.
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As the Duke approached, Erec remembered him—he had met him once, at King’s Court, at a royal event. He was a tall and lean man, with a perfectly straight posture and a gallant look. Beside him, Erec was happy to see, was one of his brothers-in-arms, a member of The Silver, a man Erec had fought with on many occasions; they had been in the same year in the Legion, and seeing him brought back old memories. They had gotten into trouble together one too many times. Brandt. With his warm, green eyes and blond beard, Brandt looked exactly as he had when Erec had last seen him years ago.
Brandt’s face lit up in a smile as he jumped down from his horse along with the Duke. Erec jumped down from his, and Brandt hurried up to him.
“Erec, you son of a mother’s whore!” Brant called out with a hearty laugh. “I never thought I’d see you more than a hair’s breadth from King’s court!”
Brandt embraced him heartily.
“And I never thought I’d see you either, old friend.”
“We are thrilled to have you here!” the Duke said, embracing him with a hearty clasp of the forearm. “It has been many years since we last met. You are most welcome here. Having you here is like having the King himself!
“GUARDS!” the Duke turned and yelled over his shoulder.
Several guards rushed forward.
“Prepare the banquet hall! We shall all have a glorious feasts tonight, in honor of our brother Erec!”
“Here here!” came a happy cheer from the crowd.
“And what brings you here?” Brandt asked. “Has the King sent you this way?”
“He has not, I’m afraid. I am on a…personal mission this time.”
Brandt examined him, bunching his eyebrows; then his face lit up.
“Don’t tell me,” Brandt said. “You dog! You made it to your Selection year! You didn’t choose anyone, did you? You son of a whore! I knew it! I knew you wouldn’t! You were always more interested in swords than ladies. I never understood what you were waiting for. Half the women in King’s Court threw themselves at your feet.”
Erec laughed.
“I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for either, my friend. But you are right, and here I am. I thought I might join your tournament.”
“Oh!” they both yelled out.
“Will you compete, then?” the Duke asked. “In that case, our games are already over! For who could defeat you in battle?”
“I can give him a run for his money!” Brandt called out. “In fact, last I remember, I was beating you on the Legion’s field.”
Erec laughed.
“Were you, then?” Erec asked.
“Yes, we were ten years old. And you didn’t stand a chance!” Brandt yelled.
Erec laughed.
“I haven’t beat you since then—but then again, no one has, so I don’t feel so bad. But I can always have a second chance now, can’t I?” Brandt asked with a laugh.
Brandt draped an arm around Erec and turned and led him through the crowd, on foot, towards the castle. The Duke and his men fell in beside them.
“Out of the way, you Ruffians!” Brandt called out good-naturedly. “We have a real member of The Silver here!”
Erec laughed. It was good to see his old friend again.
“You might be the better fighter, but I can still drink you under the table!” Brandt said as they went.
“We shall have to see about that,” Erec said.
“Your joining our competition shall be news indeed,” the Duke said. “Most of all for these ladies. Look at them. Every single one stares at you. After all, they’ve come from all corners of the Ring to find a husband—and you will be the most eligible of all!”
“At tonight’s feast,” Brandt added, “you will get to see them up close. They will all be there. You will have your choice. You will name one tonight, I hope! Yes, that will make our games much, much more interesting!”
As they continued through the crowd, past the dozens of women, past the other knights trying to catch a glimpse of their new competition, Erec was happy to be at his old friend’s side, and he felt very welcome. He looked forward to the night’s festivities, especially after a hard day’s ride. He also felt overwhelmed: he wasn’t sure he was ready to pick a bride tonight.
But as he passed one beautiful woman after the next, he could not help but feel that tonight would be the night when everything changed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Godfrey sat before the bar in the small tavern early in the day, the drinks already getting to his head. This had been the worst week he could remember. First, there was his father’s death and funeral; then, there was his brother Gareth’s crowning ceremony. He needed a drink. After all, what better way to toast a brother he hated? What better way to say goodbye to a father who had hated and disapproved of him his entire life?
As Godfrey sat there, flanked on either side by two of his drinking fellows, Akorth, a towering, burly fat man past his prime, with a wild red beard, and Fulton, a thin, older man with a voice that was way too raspy and a face prematurely aged by drink, Godfrey found himself surprised by his own feelings of despair. He had always thought that the day his father died would be a day of rejoicing, the day that the oppressor had finally been lifted off his shoulders, the day that he was finally free to drink, to live his way of life, without repercussions. In a way, it was. He felt some sense of relief, of liberation, no longer having his father around to disapprove of him. He felt freer to spend his life as he wished, to drink all day long without fear of recrimination.
But at the same time, to his surprise, he felt an unexpected feeling of remorse. There must have been something deep within him, something he had suppressed, something even he didn’t realize, which bubbled up within him. He could hardly believe it, but he had to admit that a part of him was sad that his father was dead. A part of him actually wished he were still alive, and wished, more than anything, that he could have his approval. That just for one moment, his father would accept him for who he was, on his own terms. Even if he were nothing like him.
Oddly enough, Godfrey did not feel free, either. He had always expected that the day his father died, he would feel free to drink even more, to lock himself in the tavern with his friends. But now that he was dead, oddly, Godfrey no longer felt as much of a desire to drink. There was something inside him he had never experience before, some desire to go out and do something. Something responsible, he did not know what. It was weird, but there was a part of him that actually felt what it was like to be in his father’s shoes.
“Another!” Akorth shouted to the bartender, who hurried over with three new casks of ale, the foam bubbling over, and slipped one into Godfrey’s hands.
Godfrey lifted it to his mouth and drank long and hard, gulping it all down, feeling it rush to his head. He looked around and noticed that they were the only three in the bar, and he was not surprised, given it was still morning. He already wanted this day to end.
Godfrey looked down, saw the soil on his shoes from his father’s burial, and felt the sadness re-igniting within him. He could not get the image out of his head of his father’s body being lowered into the earth. It made him think of his own mortality, of how he had spent his life, and how he would spend the rest of it. More than anything, it made him realize how he had wasted his life. He was still young, only eighteen, but a part of him felt it was too late, that he was who he was. Was it, really? Or was there still any hope for him to turn his life around? To become the son his father always wanted him to be?
“Do you think it’s too late for me?” he asked Akorth, turning towards him as he set down his cask. Akorth finished a cask with one hand then raised a fresh cask with another. He finally set it down and let out a loud belch.
“What do you mean?”
“To become an upstanding citizen. A warrior. Or anything worthwhile. If I ever wanted to. Something along those lines.”
“You mean, do something responsible and worthwhile with your life?” he asked.
&nbs
p; “Yes.”
“You mean, to become one of them?” Fulton chimed in.
“Yes,” Godfrey said. “If I wanted to. Do you think it’s too late?”
Akorth let out a huge laugh, shaking the bar with it, slamming his palm on the table.
“All this business really got to you boy, didn’t it?” Akorth bellowed. “It scares me to hear you speak this way. Why would you want to be one of them? I couldn’t think of anything more boring.”
“You live the good life in here, with us,” Fulton said. “We have our whole lives ahead of us. Why waste time being responsible, when you can waste time drinking?”
Fulton screamed with laughter at his own joke, and Akorth joined in.
Godfrey turned back, looked down at his cask, and wondered if they were right. A part of him agreed with them: after all, that was the line he had always taken, the way he had always rationalized his existence. But he could not deny that a new part of him was starting to wonder if maybe there was something else. If maybe he’d had enough of all of this.
Most of all, what burned inside him was a sense of anger. And, oddly, a desire for vengeance. Not just against his father, but against his father’s killer. Maybe it was just a desire to understand. He wanted—he needed—to know who killed his father. Who would want his father dead? Why? How had they got past all the guards? How could they not remain caught?
Godfrey turned over and over in his mind all the possibilities, all the people that might want him dead. For some reason, he kept thinking of his brother. Gareth. He kept thinking of that meeting, the one he had left so abruptly, with all his siblings, when his father had named a successor. He had heard that after he’d left, his father had named Gwendolyn. It was actually probably the only wise choice of his father’s life—and probably the only thing Godfrey respected him for. Godfrey despised Gareth: he was an evil, plotting schemer. It was the wisest thing his father had ever done to cut him out of kingship. And yet now, look where they were. Gareth was crowned.
