by Morgan Rice
Perhaps it was his own guilt that drove him, his unresolved relationship with his father; in some ways, he saw this as his chance to, finally, gain his father’s approval. If he could not have it in life, perhaps he could gain it in death. And if he found his father’s killer, he might also vindicate himself, vindicate what had been thus far of his life.
Godfrey burned, too, with the injustice of it all. He hated the idea of his brother, Gareth, sitting on the throne. Gareth had always been a scheming, manipulative human being, a cold bastard, with no love for anyone but himself. Godfrey had been around shady types all his life, and he could spot one a mile away. He recognized it in Gareth’s eyes, the evil welling up and shining like something from beneath the earth. This was a man who wanted power; who wanted to dominate others. Godfrey knew that Gareth was dirty. And he felt certain that he had something to do with their father’s murder.
Godfrey climbed another flight of steps, turned down a corridor, and felt himself grow cold as he walked down the final corridor leading to his father’s chamber. Walking down it brought back memories, too fresh, of the approach to his father’s chamber; of being summoned by him, chastised by him. He had always hated walking down this final stretch to his chamber.
Yet now, oddly, it brought forth a different sensation: it was like walking the hall of a ghost. He could almost feel his father’s presence lingering here with each step he took.
Godfrey reached the last door, and turned and stood before it. It was a large, arched door, a foot thick, and looked a thousand years old. He wondered how many MacGils had used this door. It was strange to see it here like this, unguarded. Not once in Godfrey’s life had he seen it without guards before it. It was as if, now, no one cared that his father had ever existed.
The door was closed, and Godfrey reached out and grasped its iron handle and pushed it open. It opened within an ancient creak, and he stepped inside.
It was even more eerie in here, in this empty chamber, which still hummed with his father’s vitality. The bed was still made, his father’s clothes still draped across it, his mantle still hung in the far corner, his boots by the fireplace. The window was open, a sudden summer breeze rushed in, and Godfrey felt a chill; he felt his father standing there, right with him. The breeze billowed the linens hanging over the four-poster bed, and he could not but help think it was his father speaking to him. Godfrey felt overwhelmed with sadness.
Gareth walked the room, feeling a chill as he realized this is where his father was murdered. He did not know what he was looking for exactly, but he sensed that here, where it happened, would be the place to start. Perhaps there was some small clue overlooked that could help spark an idea. He assumed that the council had already combed over this room. But he wanted to try. He needed to try, for himself.
But after minutes of scouring, he saw no clues that jumped out at him.
“Godfrey?” came a woman’s voice.
Godfrey spun, caught off guard, not expecting anyone else in here with him. He saw, standing there, his younger sister, Gwendolyn.
“You scared me,” he said, and breathed. “I did not know anyone was in here with me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “The door was open. I did not expect to find you in here, either.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying her. She looked lost, troubled.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same,” she responded. “It’s too early in the day. You must have been driven here. Like myself.”
Godfrey looked in all directions, looking for signs of anyone watching or listening. He realized how paranoid he had become. Slowly, warily, he nodded back.
Godfrey had always cared for Gwen. Of all his siblings, she was the only one that he felt did not judge her. He’d always appreciated how sensitive and compassionate she was. He had always sensed that, of all of his family members, she might be the only one willing to believe in him, to give him a second chance. And he felt he could tell her anything without fear of reprisal.
“You are right,” he responded. “I do feel driven to be here. In fact, I can think of little else.”
“I feel the same,” she said. “His death was too sudden. And too violent. I find it hard to relax, to enjoy life, until I know we’ve caught his murderer. I had a terrible dream. And it drove me here.”
Godfrey nodded. He understood.
He watched Gwendolyn as she walked about the room, taking it all in. He could see the anguish in her face, and he realized how painful this must be for her, too. After all, she was closest to their father. Closer than any of them.
“I thought that perhaps by coming here I might find something,” Godfrey said, as he walked about the room again himself, looking through every corner, under the bed, through every detail. “But nothing is apparent.”
She surveyed the room herself, walking slowly.
“What of these stains?” she asked.
He turned and hurried over to where she was looking. On the floor, against the dark stone, there was the faintest outline of a stain. They walked towards the window, following the trail, and as they entered the sunlight, he could see it more clearly: a bloodstain. He felt a chill. The stains covered the floors, the walls, and he realized they were his father’s.
“It must have been a violent struggle,” she said, following the trail throughout the room.
“Awful,” he said.
“I don’t know exactly what I was hoping to find here,” she said. “But I think perhaps it was a waste of time. I see nothing.”
“Nor do I,” Godfrey said.
“Perhaps there are better places to look,” she said.
“Where?”
She shrugged. “Wherever it is, it’s not here.”
Godfrey felt another cold breeze, and felt a chill that would not leave him. He was overcome with a desire to leave this room, and he could see in Gwen’s eyes that she felt the same.
As one, they turned and headed for the door.
But as Godfrey was heading towards the door, suddenly something caught his eye that made him stop.
“Wait,” he said. “Look here.”
Gwen turned and looked, following him as he walked several steps across the room, towards the fireplace. He reached up, and fingered a blood stain on the wall.
“This stain, it’s not like the others,” he said. “It’s in a different part of the room. And it’s lighter.”
They exchanged a puzzled look as they both examined the wall more closely.
“It could be from the murder weapon,” he added. “Maybe he tried to hide it in the wall.”
Godfrey touched the stones, feeling for a loose one, but he could not find it. Then Gwen stopped and pointed towards the fireplace.
“There,” she said.
He looked, but did not see anything.
“Beside the fireplace pit. Do you see it? That hole in the wall. It’s a chute. A waste chute.”
“What of it?” he asked.
“Those stains, from the dagger. They surround it. Look at the ceiling of the pit.”
They got down on their knees and looked closely, and he was amazed to realize that she was right. The stains led right to the chute.
“The dagger came this way,” she deduced. “He must have thrown it down the chute.”
They both turned and looked at each other, and knew where they had to go.
“The waste room,” he said.
*
Godfrey and Gwendolyn wound their way down the castle’s narrow stone, spiral staircase, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle, deeper in fact than Godfrey had ever been. Just as he was beginning to get dizzy, they reached an iron door. He turned to Gwen.
“This looks like the servants’ quarters,” he said. “I assume the waste room is behind these doors.”
“Try it,” she said.
Godfrey reached up and slammed on the door, and after a wait, he heard footst
eps. Finally, the door opened. A long, solemn face stared back blankly.
“Yes?” asked the older man, clearly a lifelong servant.
Godfrey turned to Gwen, and she nodded back.
“Is this the waste room?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man answered. “And also the prep room for the kitchen. What business have you here?”
Before Godfrey could respond, the man narrowed his eyes, looking at them with sudden recognition.
“Wait a moment,” he added. “Are you the king’s children?” His eyes lit up in deference. “You are,” he answered himself. “What are you doing down here?”
“Please,” Gwen said softly, stepping forward and placing a hand on his wrist. “Let us in.”
The man stepped back and opened the door wide, and they hurried inside.
Godfrey was surprised by this room he had never been in, although it was in the structure he had lived in all his life. They were all in the bowels of the castle, in a vast room, dark, lit by sporadic torches, filled with burning fire pits, with wood prep tables, and huge bubbling cauldrons hanging over pits. Clearly this room was mean to hold dozens of servants. But other than this man, it was empty.
“You’ve come at an odd time of day,” the man said. “We have not yet begun the breakfast preparations. The others will arrive shortly.”
“That’s OK,” Godfrey answered. “We are here for another reason.”
“Where is the waste pit?” Gwen asked, wasting no time.
The man stared back, baffled.
“The waste pit?” he echoed. “But why would you want to know this?”
“Please, just show it to us,” Godfrey said.
The servant stared back, with his long face and sunken cheeks, then finally turned and led them across the room.
They all stopped before a large, stone pit, inside of which was an immense cauldron, one so large it needed to be hoisted by at least two people, and which looked as if it could contain the waste of the entire castle. It sat beneath a chute, which must have led high above. Godfrey could smell it from here, and he recoiled.
Godfrey stepped forward with Gwen and carefully examined the wall surrounding it. But despite their best efforts, they could see no stains, and nothing out of place.
They looked down into the cauldron, but it was empty.
“You’ll find nothing in there,” the servant said. “It’s emptied every hour. On the hour.”
Godfrey wondered if this was all a waste of time. He sighed, and he and Gwen exchanged a disappointed look.
“Is this about my master?” the attendant finally asked, breaking the silence.
“Your master?” Gwen asked.
“The one who is missing?”
“Missing?” Godfrey asked.
The servant nodded.
“He disappeared one night and never came back to work. There are rumors of a murder.”
Godfrey and Gwen exchanged a look.
“Tell us more,” Gwen prodded.
Before he could respond, a rear door opened, on the far side of the chamber, and in walked a man whose appearance stunned Godfrey. He was short, and wide, and most strikingly, his back was deformed, twisted and hunched over. He walked with a limp, and it was an effort for him to lift his head. He ambled over, their way.
The man finally stood before them, looking back and forth between Godfrey and the servant.
“It is a privilege that you should grace us with your presence, my lords,” the hunchback said with a bow.
“Steffen would know far more about the matter than I,” the other servant added, accusingly. Clearly this servant did not like Steffen.
With that, the servant turned and hurried off, crossing the room and disappearing through a back door. Steffen watched him go.
Godfrey and Gwen exchanged a look.
“Steffen, may we speak with you?” Gwen asked, softly, trying to set him at ease.
Steffen stared back at them with twisting hands, looking very nervous.
“I don’t know what he told you, but that one is full of lies. And gossip,” Steffen said, already defensive. “I have done nothing.”
“We never said you did,” Godfrey said, also trying to reassure him. It was clear that Steffen had something to hide, and he wanted to know what it was. He felt that it had something to do with his father’s death.
“We want to ask you about our father, the king,” Gwen said. “About the night he died. Do you recall anything unusual that night? A weapon falling down the waste chute?”
Steffen squirmed, looking at the floor, not meeting their eyes.
“I know nothing of any dagger,” he said.
“Who said anything of a dagger?” Godfrey prodded.
Steffen looked back up guiltily, and Godfrey knew they had caught him in a lie. This man definitely had something to hide. He felt emboldened.
Steffen said nothing in response, but merely toed the floor, continuing to wring his hands.
“I know nothing,” he repeated. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Godfrey and Gwen exchanged a knowing look. They had found someone important. Yet it was also clear he would give them nothing more. Godfrey felt that he had to do something to get him to talk.
Godfrey stepped forward, reached up, and lay a firm hand on Steffen’s shoulder. Steffen looked up, guiltily, like a schoolboy who had been caught, and Godfrey scowled down, tightening his grip and holding it there.
“We know about what happened to your master,” he said, bluffing. “Now, you can either tell us all we want to know about our father’s murder, or we can have you thrown in the dungeon to never see light again. The choice is yours.”
As he stood there, Godfrey felt the strength of his father overcome him, felt, for the first time, the inherent strength that ran in his own blood, the blood of a long line of kings. For the first time in his life, he felt strong. Confident. Worthy. He felt like a MacGil. And for once, he felt his father’s approval.
Steffen must have sensed it. Because finally, after a very long while, he stopped squirming. He looked up, met Godfrey’s eyes, and nodded in acquiescence.
“I won’t go to jail?” he asked. “If I tell you?”
“You will not,” Godfrey answered. “As long as you had nothing to do with our father’s death. This I promise you.”
Steffen licked his lips, thinking, then finally, after a long while, he nodded.
“OK,” he finally said. “I will tell you everything.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Thor sat deep in the boat, lined up with the others on the long wooden benches, both hands on the thick wooden oar as he rowed, Krohn sitting at his feet. He sweated beneath the sun, as he had for days and, breathing hard, wondered when this would ever end. The journey felt endless. At first, their sails had carried them, but then the wind had died abruptly, and all of the boys on the ship had been set to the task of rowing.
Thor sat there, somewhere in the middle of the long and narrow boat, Reese behind him and O’Connor in front, and wondered how much more of this they could stand. He had never engaged in such hard labor for so long, and every muscle in his body shook. His shoulders, wrists, forearms, biceps, his back, his neck and even his thighs—they all felt as if they would give out. His hands trembled, and his palms were raw. A few of the other Legion had already collapsed in exhaustion. This island, whatever it was they were going, felt as if it were on the far side of the world. He prayed for wind.
They were only given a brief break at nighttime, allowed to sleep for just fifteen minute shifts, while others relieved them. As he had lay there in the boat in the black of night, with Krohn curled up beside him, it had been the blackest and clearest night he had ever seen, the entire world filled with sparkling red and yellow stars; luckily, the summer weather had held, and it had not been too cold. The moist breezes of the ocean had cooled him and he had fallen asleep in moments—only to be awakened minutes later. He wondered if this was part of The Hundred, if this wa
s their way of beginning to break them.
He was seriously starting to wonder what else lay in store for them, and whether he could handle it. His stomach growled; last night he had been given tack, a small strip of salted beef, and a small flask of rum to wash it down. He had given half of it to Krohn, who chewed it in one bite then immediately whined for more. Thor felt terrible he had no more to give him. But he hadn’t had a good meal in days himself, and he was already starting to miss the comforts of home.
“How much longer will this go on?” Thor heard a boy, a couple of years older than he, call out to another boy.
“Long enough to kill us all,” another boy called out, breathing hard.
“You’ve been to the island before,” one boy called out to another, an older one, who sat there rowing, somber. “How long until we reach it? How far are we?”
The older boy, tall, muscle-bound, shrugged.
“Hard to say,” he said. “We haven’t even reached the rain wall yet.”
“Rain wall?” the other boy called out.
But the big boy, breathing hard, fell silent again, and the ship slipped back into silence. All Thor could hear, incessantly, was the sound of oars hitting water.
Thor looked down for the millionth time, squinting against the glare of the sun, and marveled at the yellow color of the water. It was clear in places, especially close to the surface, and as he looked, he saw several exotic sea creatures swimming alongside the boat, trailing them, as if trying to keep up. He saw a long, purple snake, nearly the length of the boat, with a dozen heads on it, spaced out all along its body. As they went, its heads extended from the body, up into the open air, razor-sharp teeth opening and closing. Thor could not imagine what it was doing. Was it breathing? Was it trying to catch some insects in the air? Or was it threatening them?
Thor could hardly imagine what sort of strange creatures lay in store where they were going. He tried not to think about it. It was a different part of the world, and anything was possible. Would that be part of the training? He had a sinking feeling that it would.
