Of course, she did not even know the boy. But she had witnessed what he had done on the jousting lane, had seen what a liking her younger brother had taken to him. She had watched him ever since, sensing there was something special about him, something different from the others. Meeting him had only confirmed it. He was different from all these royal types, from all the people born and bred here. There was something refreshingly genuine about him. He was an outsider. A commoner. But oddly, with a royal bearing. It was as if he were too proud for what he was.
Gwen made her way to the upper balcony’s edge and looked down. Below was spread out the royal court, and she caught a last glimpse of Thor as he was ushered out, Reece by his side. They were surely heading to the barracks, to train with the other boys. She felt a pang of regret, already wondering, scheming, how she could arrange to see him again.
Gwen had to know more about him. She had to find out. For that, she would have to speak to the one woman who knew everything about anyone and everything going on in the kingdom: her mother.
Gwen turned and cut her way back through the crowd, twisting through the back corridors of the castle she knew by heart. Her head spun. It had been a dizzying day. First, the morning’s meeting with her father, his shocking news that he wanted her to rule his kingdom. She was completely caught off guard, had never expected it in a million years. She still could hardly process it now. How could she ever possibly rule a kingdom? She pushed the thought from her mind, hoping that day would never come. After all, her father was healthy and strong, and more than anything, all she wanted was for him to live. To be here with her. To be happy.
But she could not push the meeting from her mind. Somewhere in there, lurking, was the seed planted that one day, whenever that day should come, she would be next. She would succeed him. Not any of her brothers. But her. It terrified her; it also gave her a sense of importance, of confidence, unlike any she’d ever had. He had found her fit to rule—her—to be the wisest of them all. She wondered why.
It also, in some ways, worried her. She assumed it would stir up a huge amount of resentment and envy—her, a girl, being chosen to rule. Already she could feel Gareth’s envy. And that scared her. She knew her older brother to be terribly manipulative and completely unforgiving. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and she hated the idea of being in his sights. She had tried to talk to him after the meeting, but he would not even look at her.
Gwen ran down the spiral staircase, her shoes echoing on the stone. She turned down another corridor, passed through the rear chapel, through another door, past several guards, and entered the private chambers of the castle. She had to speak with her mother, whom she knew would be resting here. Her mother had little tolerance for these long social affairs anymore—she liked to slip out to her private chambers and rest as often as possible.
Gwen passed another guard, went down another hall, then finally stopped before the door to her mother’s dressing room. She was about to open it, but stopped. Behind the door, she heard muted voices, their pitch rising, and sensed something wrong. It was her mother, arguing. She listened closely, and heard her father’s voice. They were fighting. But why?
Gwen knew she should not be listening—but she could not help herself. She reached out and gently pushed open the heavy oak door, grabbing it by its iron knocker. She opened it just a crack and listened.
“He won’t stay in my house,” her mother snapped.
“You rush to judgment when you don’t even know the entire story.”
“I know the story,” she snapped back. “Enough of it.”
Gwen heard venom in her mother’s voice, and was taken aback. She rarely heard her parents fight—just a few times in her life—and had never heard her mother so worked up. She could not understand why.
“He will stay in the barracks with the other boys. I do not want him under my roof. Do you understand?” she pressed.
“It is a big castle,” her father spat back. “His presence will not be noticed by you.”
“I don’t care if it is noticed or not. I don’t want him here. He’s your problem. It was you who chose to bring him in.”
“You are not so innocent, either,” her father retorted.
She heard footsteps, watched her father strut across the room and out the door on the other side, slamming it behind him so hard that the room shook. Her mother stood alone in the center of the room, and began to cry.
Gwen felt terrible. She didn’t know what to do. On one hand, she thought it best to slip away, but on the other, she couldn’t stand the sight of her mother crying, couldn’t stand to leave her there like that. She also, for the life of her, could not understand what they were arguing about. She assumed they were arguing about Thor. But why? Why would her mother even care? Dozens of people lived in the castle.
Gwen couldn’t bring herself to just walk away, not with her mother in that state. She had to comfort her. She reached up and gently pushed the door open.
It creaked, and her mother wheeled, caught off guard. She scowled at her daughter.
“Do you not knock?” she snapped. Gwen could see how upset she was, and felt terrible.
“What’s wrong, Mother?” Gwen asked, walking toward her gently. “I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you arguing with Father.”
“You are right; you shouldn’t pry,” her mother retorted.
Gwen was surprised. Her mother was often a handful, but was rarely like this. The force of her anger made Gwen stop in her tracks a few feet away, unsure.
“Is it about the new boy? Thor?” she asked.
Her mother turned and looked away, wiping a tear.
“I don’t understand,” Gwen pressed. “Why would you care where he stayed?”
“My matters are of no concern to you,” she said coldly, clearly wanting to end the matter. “What do you want? Why have you come here?”
Gwen was nervous now. She wanted her mother to tell her everything about Thor, but she couldn’t have picked a worse moment. She cleared her throat, hesitant.
“I…actually wanted to ask you about him. What do you know of him?”
Her mother turned and narrowed her eyes at her, suspicious.
“Why?” she asked, with deadly seriousness. Gwen could feel her summing her up, looking right through her, and seeing with her uncanny perception that Gwen liked him. She tried to hide her feelings, but knew it was no use.
“I’m just curious,” she said, unconvincingly.
Suddenly, the Queen took three steps toward her, grabbed her arms roughly, and stared into her face.
“Listen to me,” she hissed. “I’m only going to say this once. Stay away from that boy. Do you hear me? I don’t want you anywhere near him, under any circumstance.”
Gwen was horrified.
“But why? He’s a hero.”
“He is not one of us,” her mother answered. “Despite what your father might think. I want you to keep away from him. Do you hear me? Vow to me. Vow to me right now.”
“I will not vow,” Gwen said, yanking her arm away from her mother’s too-strong grip.
“He is a commoner, and you are a Princess,” her mother yelled. “You are a Princess. Do you understand? If you go anywhere near him, I will have him exiled from here. Do you understand?”
Gwen hardly knew how to respond. She had never seen her mother like this.
“Do not tell me what to do, Mother,” she said, finally.
Gwen did her best to put on a brave voice, but deep inside she was trembling. She had come here wanting to know everything; now, she felt terrified. She did not understand what was happening.
“Do as you wish,” her mother said. “But his fate lies in your hands. Don’t forget it.”
With that, her mother turned, strutted from the room, and slammed the door behind her, leaving Gwen all alone in the reverberating silence, her good mood shattered. What could possibly elicit such a strong reaction from her mother and her father?
Who wa
s this boy?
Chapter X
MACGIL SAT IN THE BANQUET hall watching over his subjects, he at one end of the table and King McCloud at the other, hundreds of men from both clans between them. The wedding revelries had been going on for hours until, finally, the tension between the clans had settled down from the day’s jousting. As MacGil suspected, all the men needed were wine and meat—and women—to make them forget their differences. Now they all mingled at the same table, like brothers in arms. In fact, looking them over, MacGil could no longer even tell they were of two separate clans.
MacGil felt vindicated; his master plan was working after all. Already, the two clans seemed closer. He had managed to do what a long line of MacGil kings before him could not: to unify both sides of the Ring, to make them, if not friends, then at least peaceful neighbors. His daughter Luanda was arm-in-arm with her new husband, the McCloud prince, and she seemed content. His guilt lessened. He might have given her away—but he did, at least, give her a queenship.
MacGil thought back to all the planning that preceded this event, recalled the long days of arguing with his advisors. He had gone against the advice of all his counselors in arranging this union. It was not an easy peace and, in time, the McClouds would settle in on their side of the Highlands, this wedding would be long forgotten, and one day they would stir with unrest. He was not naïve. But now, at least, there was a blood tie between the clans—and especially once a child was born, that could not be so easily ignored. If that child flourished, and one day even ruled, a child born of two sides of the Ring, then perhaps, one day, the entire Ring could be united, the Highlands would no longer be a border of contention, and the land could prosper under one rule. That was his dream. Not for himself, but for his descendants. After all, the Ring had to stay strong, needed to stay unified in order to protect the Canyon, to fight off the hordes of the world beyond. As long as the two clans remained divided, they presented a weakened front to the rest of the world.
“A toast,” MacGil shouted, and stood.
The table grew quiet as hundreds of men stood too, raising their goblets.
“To the wedding of my eldest child! To the union of the MacGils and McClouds! To peace throughout the Ring!”
“HEAR HEAR!” came a chorus of shouts. Everyone drank and the room once again filled with the noise of laughter and feasting.
MacGil sat back and surveyed the room, looking for his other children. There, of course, was Godfrey, drinking with two fists, a girl on each shoulder, surrounded by his miscreant friends. This was probably the one royal event he had ever willingly attended. There was Gareth, sitting too closely to his lover, Firth, whispering in his ear; MacGil could see from his darting, restless eyes, that he was plotting something. The thought of it made his stomach turn, and he looked away. There, on the far side of the room, was his youngest son, Reece, feasting at the squires’ table with the new boy, Thor. Thor already felt like a son to him, and he was pleased to see his youngest was fast friends with him.
He scanned the faces for his younger daughter, Gwendolyn, and finally found her sitting off to the side, surrounded by her handmaids, giggling. He followed her gaze, and noticed she was watching Thor. He examined her for a long time, and realized she was smitten. He had not foreseen this and was not quite sure what to make of it. He sensed trouble there. Especially from his wife.
“All things are not what they seem,” came a voice.
MacGil turned to see Argon sitting by his side, watching the two clans dining together.
“What do you make of all this?” MacGil asked. “Will there be peace in the kingdoms?”
“Peace is never static,” Argon said. “It ebbs and flows like the tides. What you see before you is the veneer of peace. You see one side of its face. You’re trying to force peace on an ancient rivalry. But there are hundreds of years of spilled blood. The souls cry out for vengeance. And that cannot be appeased with a single marriage.”
“What are you saying?” MacGil asked, taking another gulp of his wine, feeling nervous, as he often did around Argon.
Argon turned and stared at him with an intensity so strong, it struck panic into MacGil’s heart.
“There will be war. The McClouds will attack. Prepare yourself. All the houseguests you see before you will soon be doing their best to murder your family.”
MacGil gulped.
“Did I make the wrong decision to marry her off to them?”
Argon was silent for a while, until finally he said: “Not necessarily.”
Argon looked away, and MacGil could see that he was finished with the topic. There were a million questions he wanted answered, but he knew his sorcerer would not answer them until he was ready. So instead, he watched Argon’s eyes and followed their gaze to Gwendolyn, then to Thor.
“Do you see them together?” MacGil asked, suddenly curious to know.
“Perhaps,” Argon answered. “There is still much yet to be decided.”
“You speak in riddles.”
Argon shrugged and looked away, and MacGil realized he wouldn’t get any more from him.
“You saw what happened on the field today?” MacGil prodded. “With the boy?”
“I saw it before it happened,” Argon replied.
“And what do you make of it? What is the source of the boy’s powers? Is he like you?”
Argon turned and stared into MacGil’s eyes, again with an intensity that almost made him look away.
“He is far more powerful than me.”
MacGil stared back, shocked. He had never heard Argon speak like this.
“More powerful? Than you? How is that possible? You are the King’s sorcerer—there is no one more powerful than you in all the land.”
Argon shrugged.
“Power does not come in only one form,” he said. “The boy has powers beyond what you can imagine. Powers beyond what he knows. He has no idea who he is. Or where he hails from.”
Argon turned and stared at MacGil.
“But you do,” he added.
MacGil stared back, wondering.
“Do I?” MacGil asked. “Tell me. I need to know.”
Argon shook his head.
“Search your feelings. They are true.”
“What will become of him?” MacGil asked.
“He will become a great leader. And a great warrior. He will rule kingdoms in his own right. Far greater kingdoms than yours. And he will be a far greater king than you. It is his destiny.”
For a brief moment, MacGil burned with envy. He turned and examined the boy, laughing harmlessly with Reece, at a table for squires, the commoner, the weak outsider, the youngest of the bunch. He didn’t imagine how it was possible. Looking at him now, he looked barely eligible to join the Legion. He wondered for a moment if Argon was wrong.
But Argon had never been wrong and never made pronouncements without a reason.
“Why are you telling me this?” MacGil asked.
Argon turned and stared at him.
“Because it is your time to prepare. The boy needs to be trained. He needs to be given the best of everything. It is your responsibility.”
“Mine? And what of his father?”
“What of him?” Argon asked.
Chapter XI
THOR PEELED OPEN HIS EYES, disoriented, wondering where he was. He lay on the floor, on a mound of straw, his face planted sideways, his arms dangling over his head. He lifted his face, wiping the drool from his mouth, and immediately felt a stab of pain in his head, behind his eyes. It was the worst headache of his life. He remembered the night before, the King’s feast, the drinking, his first taste of ale. The room was spinning. His throat was dry, and at that moment he vowed he would never drink again.
Thor looked around, trying to get his bearings in the cavernous barracks. Everywhere were bodies, lying on heaps of straw, the room filled with snoring; he turned the other way and saw Reece, a few feet away, passed out, too. It was then he realized: he was in the barracks.
The Legion’s barracks. All around him were boys his age, about fifty of them.
Thor vaguely remembered Reece showing him the way, in the late hours of the morning, and crashing on the mound of straw. Early morning light flooded in through the open windows, and Thor soon realized he was the only one yet awake. He looked down and saw he had slept in his clothes, and reached up and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He would give anything for a chance to bathe—although he had no idea where. And he would do anything for a pint of water. His stomach rumbled—he wanted food, too.
It was all so new to him. He barely knew where he was, where life would take him next, what the routines were of the King’s Legion. But he was happy. It had been a dazzling night, one of the finest of his life. He had found a close friend in Reece, and had caught Gwendolyn looking at him once or twice. He had tried to speak with her, but each time he approached, his courage failed. He felt a pang of regret as he thought about it. There had been too many people around. If it was ever just the two of them, he would gain the courage. But would there be a next time?
Before Thor could finish the thought, there was a sudden banging on the wooden doors of the barracks, and an instant later, they crashed open, light flooding in.
“To your feet, squires!” came a shout.
In marched a dozen members of the King’s Silver, chainmail rattling, banging on the wooden walls with metal staffs. The noise was deafening, and all around Thor, the other boys jumped to their feet.
Leading the group was a particularly fierce-looking soldier Thor recognized from the arena the day before, the stocky, bald one with the scar on his nose, whom Reece had told him was named Kolk.
He seemed to be scowling right at Thor as he raised a finger and pointed it at him.
“You there, boy!” he screamed. “I said on your feet!”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 66
