Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within

by J. L. Doty

Morgin sighed, shook his head. “Yes and no. I rather like her, but I don’t think she knows I exist. I mean we’re friends, but not in that way. And besides, I didn’t even know about it until last month. I never really thought about marriage.”

  France had a faraway look in his eyes. “There was this lady once. Got it in her head that we was gonna get married, her an’ me. Sure took me by surprise.”

  “And you got out of it?”

  “Ya,” France said. “I got out of it. Is that what you want? To get out of it? Tell me, how old are you?”

  “Twenty.”

  “And the little lady?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Well now. Seems to me yer parents done you right. From what I seen of the little lady she’s awful pretty, and she’s got a smart head on her shoulders too.”

  “I know,” Morgin said. “Mother says that’s one of the reasons she consented to this marriage. She says she wants her sons to marry intelligent women, not mindless child bearers.”

  “Well, lad. Remember that being part of the family you’re part of, you’d have to get married sometime anyway. Better her than someone else, eh?”

  Morgin nodded.

  “And look at yer brother. When they come up with a bride for ol’ JohnEngine, bet she’ll be some old crone of a she-bat, twice his age and with a tongue like fire. But she’ll have money, or land, or soldiers, or something yer grandmother wants. You can bet on that.”

  “But it’s all happening so fast.”

  “That’s part of being a prince, lad.”

  “I ain’t no prince,” Morgin said hotly.

  “No. You ain’t no prince. And you ain’t much of a swordsman neither. But that don’t mean you can start talkin’ like me. Yer mother’ll have me hide fer teachin’ ya improper speakin’.”

  “But what am I going to do?”

  France shrugged. “Well lad. Let’s see what yer options are. One: you can flat refuse to marry the little lady. That’d shame her, her family too. And it probably wouldn’t work anyway.”

  Morgin shook his head. “I could never do that.”

  “Two: you could just run away. Give up everything you got here. And if you feel that strongly about it, I’ll go with ya, lad.”

  Morgin shook his head again.

  “Okay. Three: I suppose you could insult the little lady’s father, or even Wylow. That’s it! Insult the great Lord Wylow, leader of clan and head of House Inetka, make ‘im so pissed-off they won’t sign no marriage contract. But you’d likely end up challenged to a duel. And I’d hate to lose you, lad.”

  “Seems to me I have to marry her.”

  France shook his head. “You got the wrong attitude. You don’t have to do nothin’. If yer really set against it, go talk to yer parents. They’re soft touches. They’ll smooth things over so ya don’t have to marry the poor girl and nobody’s feelings are hurt.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “No. You can’t, can you? ‘cause you want to marry her, but you’re worried about how she feels. Well you remember this: you’re a son of the greatest house of the greatest of the Lesser Clans. She’ll be real happy about that. And I’m sure she knows her place when it comes to marriage. She’ll come around.”

  Just then one of the kitchen maids walked by, a shapely young woman who seemed to have an eye for France. Morgin had been watching her pursue him for some days now, though the swordsman obviously thought it was he who was doing the pursuing.

  France’s head turned slowly as she walked past, his eyes locked to the sway of her hips. He stood. “Well lad. You best run along now. Get cleaned up fer yer ladylove. All this sword practicin’s made me a mite hungry. Think I’ll head over to the kitchen and see if I can’t hunt me down a bite to eat.”

  He walked away quickly, his attention now fully on the charms of the kitchen maid.

  Morgin watched France go and thought carefully about Rhianne. Rhianne had always been more of a fantasy than a reality, until Roland had told him about the negotiated marriage contracts only the month before. He and AnnaRail and Olivia had been negotiating with Rhianne’s parents for some time now, and neither she nor Morgin had been informed of the situation until the negotiations were complete. Morgin had always known he’d have no say in the choice of his wife, but now that the situation was upon him . . .

  The Inetkas arrived later that afternoon. Not merely Rhianne and her family, but Wylow too, and Annaline and her husband SandoFall, and a large retinue that threw all of Elhiyne into a panic. Morgin tried to get Rhianne alone, but other than a short greeting when she first arrived, at which she seemed rightfully ill at ease, he had little chance to see or speak to her. And then Olivia had some tasks for him and he didn’t see Rhianne again until the banquet that evening, and even there the formality of the occasion came between them.

  Olivia and Wylow sat that evening in the central positions of the long banquet table, with Morgin and Rhianne to either side of them. They were separated by only a few feet, but with the leaders of the two clans between them it might as well have been the entire length of the hall. Dinner lasted an eternity, and too the short ceremony that followed, though several times Rhianne flashed him a friendly smile. But the twinkle that normally sparked within her eyes was gone that night, and he understood that she needed time to adjust.

  The betrothal ceremony began with Olivia and Wylow, each of whom stood and gave a short speech then signed both copies of the contract. Next, the parents of both betrothed stepped forth and signed, smiling and happy, congratulating one another on making such an excellent match. Olivia then turned and handed the pen to Morgin. She said simply, “Sign, grandson.”

  Morgin did so quietly, saying nothing, glad to speed the ceremony in any way possible. Then it was Rhianne’s turn, and she too signed quickly.

  The festivities were short lived since most of the Inetkas were tired from their long journey. A few clansmen wanted to celebrate all night, JohnEngine among them. He got quickly drunk, then went off with the others to do some wenching in the village.

  When the banquet finally came to an end Morgin and Rhianne were suddenly left to their own devices. “We have to talk,” he said. “Alone.”

  She smiled, though again it was forced, and there was a shyness in her that he’d never seen before. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s find some place to talk.”

  He led her to Roland’s study, took some moments to light a lamp, was glad for the time it gave them both to think without an uncomfortable silence stretching out between them. When the lamp was lit he closed the door.

  She walked casually past him, pretended to look at the scrolls that lined the walls, and the uncomfortable silence that he’d hoped to avoid filled the room nevertheless. When he could take it no longer, he said, “I’ll be a good husband. I promise.”

  She turned to face him, smiled a little less woodenly. “I know you will. You’re a good man, Morgin. And I’ll make you a good wife. I . . .” The thought died on her lips. She closed her mouth, lowered her eyes.

  All he could think about in that moment was how she was so incredibly beautiful, and so sad. “Does the thought of marriage to me bother you so much?”

  “Oh no,” she said, but she turned away from him to look at the books again. “No. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it? It’s been on your face all evening.”

  The room stood quiet and still for a long moment. He heard her sniffle, but with her back to him he could not be sure she was crying. He watched the back of her shoulders rise as she took a deep breath. They were bare shoulders, exposed by a low cut gown that achieved its purpose magnificently; shoulders that were soft, smooth, and lightly olive in hue.

  “I am eighteen years of age,” she said finally. “The fourth of four daughters of a rather minor lord of the least powerful of the Lesser Clans. As such my prospects at marriage have always been quite limited. My mother made me aware of that when I was young. She taught me that beauty was easily had, and just as easily l
ost. She taught me that if I ever hoped to marry well, I must improve my prospects by improving my mind. She taught me to read, to write, to manage a large household. I’ve learned to keep accounts and tally goods. I’ve learned much, so that some lord might find me useful beyond the bedroom.”

  She turned suddenly to face him. Her eyes were red, though she managed not to cry. “Oh Morgin! You and I, we are too alike: no birthright and little power. Don’t you see?” she pleaded. “Together we can only compete for mediocrity.”

  She suddenly buried her face in her hands. “Oh what am I saying? It’s done. The contracts are signed and the marriage will be.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “I will make you a good wife. I promise. But all my life I have been prepared for marriage as a piece of property is prepared for sale. And when your family petitioned for a marriage contract, my father saw it as a stroke of incredibly good fortune. An Elhiyne! He couldn’t have hoped for more. But you must understand. My mother and I had prepared for something far different. We . . .”

  Her voice trailed away into nothingness. It left a painful, lonely stillness. “I had hoped to marry a great lord,” she whispered into the stillness.

  “But I can be a great lord,” he said. “I am an Elhiyne. I may never be one of the clan’s leaders, but I am an Elhiyne.”

  She turned away from him then, as if she couldn’t say what followed to his face. “My mother was born of one of the oldest families in Inetka, and forced to marry far beneath her caste. You must understand. The blood of my family has been in the clans for centuries. And you—” But there she stopped, unable to say more.

  It took him a moment to realize the implication in her words, and anger crawled up his throat. “And mine hasn’t?” he demanded.

  “It’s just that . . .” she stuttered. “I can’t . . . I need time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to adjust, to get used to the idea.”

  The room felt suddenly cold. “To get used to what idea?”

  “That I’m . . . That you’re . . .” Her voice trailed away, softly disappearing into the stillness of the room.

  “That I’m what?” he exploded. He grabbed her by the shoulders, spun her to face him and shook her violently. “Finish it. Say it. I’m the bastard whoreson, am I not? That’s what you were about to say, isn’t it? That’s what bothers you so much, that the sweet pure blood of your almighty family might be contaminated by that of a mongrel off the streets.”

  “No, Morgin,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean that. Not that.”

  “Liar,” he screamed. “I thought you were different from the rest, but you’re no better than any of them.” He shook her violently, gripped her shoulders so tightly she winced, pulled her face close to his. “Damn you!” he growled. “If you don’t want me, then I’ll not have you.” He pushed her away, saw her fall to the floor in a flurry of petticoats, turned away from her and ran out of the room.

  Morgin’s eyes were filled with glimpses of servants scurrying out of his way as he stormed through the halls of Elhiyne. He paid no heed to direction, nor did he care, but without consciously intending to he approached Olivia’s audience chamber. She would be there, with Malka and Marjinell and his parents, entertaining Wylow and Rhianne’s parents privately.

  Avis wanted to announce him, but Morgin brushed him aside and burst into the chamber. They all turned toward him instantly, but he was conscious only of Olivia, and her eyes. And before any of them could speak he snarled, “She doesn’t want to marry me.”

  “What?” Wylow asked sharply.

  Morgin turned to the Inetka leader. “She doesn’t want to marry a bastard whoreson.”

  Edtoall looked angrily at Matill. “This is your doing, woman. You’ve been filling her head with those fantasies of yours again.” He looked at Morgin. “Pay no attention to her, lad. She will marry you.”

  Morgin turned his anger on Edtoall. “But I’ll not have her,” he shouted. “If she thinks her blood is too good for me she can damn well marry whomever she pleases.”

  “Morgin,” Olivia cried. “Be still.”

  Morgin looked at the old witch defiantly. “Since she does not want me, I’ll not have her.”

  Olivia dismissed him with a slash of her hand. “The choice is not yours.”

  “Nor hers,” Wylow added.

  “Morgin,” AnnaRail said softly. “You’re having a lover’s quarrel. Such quarrels end as quickly as they are begun.”

  “We’re not lovers,” he snarled, surprised that he could raise his voice even to AnnaRail. “And I’ll not marry her.”

  “Enough of this,” Olivia commanded. “Edtoall. Matill. I suggest you speak with your daughter. And I shall have words with my grandson.”

  She looked like a statue of ice as she said, “Come, AethonLaw. We will speak in the Hall of Wills.”

  Roland spoke quickly, “I’ll come too.”

  “No,” the old witch barked flatly. “My grandson and I will discuss this matter alone.”

  Morgin followed her through a small door that gave private access to the great council hall. It was an enormous room, the largest in the castle, and Morgin knew exactly why Olivia chose to speak with him there. The central floor where he would stand was lower than the periphery, which was raised above it by three stone steps. And the dais upon which Olivia would stand was raised above all else by six steps. He would be doubly reduced, and she could stand over him, giving orders and commands. He resolved not to be intimidated, and took his stand in the center of the Hall, far from the dais. The distance between them helped to de-emphasize the elevation of her position.

  “Now what is this I hear?” she demanded.

  “She doesn’t want to marry me. And I’ll not have her if she is forced.”

  Olivia shook her head as if, for once, she honestly wanted to understand. “But why? She’s a woman. She knows her place when it comes to marriage. Is it you? Have you done something?”

  “I’ve done nothing. It’s her. She says her blood has been in the clans for centuries, and it’s beneath her to marry a whoreson.”

  “Foolish young girl!” Olivia cursed. “Stupid! Idiotic! Ahhh! Children! Both of you. The contracts are signed. You will be wed, and that is the end of it. I command it.”

  Morgin’s spoke only one word: “No.”

  Olivia froze. Her stillness was so complete she could have been formed of stone, but Morgin saw the anger building in her eyes, and in them the godlight shone.

  “Too much depends upon this marriage,” she said. “The Inetkas need our influence and we need their support. We could do without this marriage, because ordinarily you and the girl are of little import. But to default on signed contracts would make Inetka our enemy. It would split the Lesser Council, and BlakeDown would love that, for he has always sought to take my place, to lead the Lesser Clans. And since that dog PaulStaff will, as always, support him, he could succeed this time. No, grandson. You will marry your foolish young girl. You will marry her whether you choose to or not.”

  “No,” Morgin said flatly.

  Olivia’s eyes widened. “We have given you much, Rat. You owe this to Elhiyne.”

  “No.”

  Her magic formed visibly about her. “Do not defy me. You cannot win.”

  Morgin watched the air about her begin to glow with a soft radiance. He could see her power building, encompassing her. She seemed to grow, to expand. The Great Hall felt suddenly reduced. It became difficult to breathe. Sweat dripped down his brow. She was suffocating him with her power, trying to intimidate him.

  Morgin would not have believed such power was possible had he not seen it with his own soul. He felt small, puny, a thing to be brushed aside before that which stood over him, and then her magic enclosed him, shrank in upon him. He knew fear and terror, and for just an instant he stood back in the market square, Rat the thief, running blindly, harried on all sides.

  But then he stood again in the Hall of Wills, and he realized he was no longe
r Rat, no longer the scurrying, terrorized guttersnipe. He was a wizard. He could withstand Olivia’s magic. He did not know how, but he knew he could hold it back, prevent her from forcing him to her will.

  He summoned all of his strength and power, called it to him, felt it coalesce within him, then released it, let it swell outward. It pushed the old woman’s will back, forced her to retreat.

  “AARRUUGGHHHH!” she screamed. She suddenly threw her hand high in the air, and it glowed, for the fires of magic were cupped within her palm. But giddy with his own success he no longer feared her. Never again could she harm him, and so he struck, advanced against her retreat.

  “You impudent whelp,” she cried, and hurled the raw power in her hand directly at him. It arced across the room, aimed at his soul, but he didn’t fear it, did not move or retreat. He stood in his newfound confidence, prepared to withstand it, an orb of flaming, crackling power that he knew he could defeat.

  Time slowed as his magic came fully upon him. He stepped beyond the universe of mortal men, and his own universe narrowed to that single, monstrous spark of Olivia’s power. But it did not halt as it should have when he commanded, nor did it slow, and he suddenly knew fear again. Rat’s terror struck at him, and as Olivia’s power splashed across his soul, he knew defeat.

  ~~~

  Roland burst into the Hall of Wills to find chaos within. The tapestries on the walls were in flames, debris scattered about the floor. The ceiling high above was blackened and charred. Morgin lay lifeless and still in the center of the floor, his head thrown back at an odd angle, his back arched and rigid, with his eyes wide and unseeing. Beyond Olivia’s dais, the only place in the room that remained un-scorched was a small, gray oval of stone floor surrounding Morgin.

  AnnaRail brushed past Roland and ran to Morgin. Roland moved to help Olivia. The old woman sat upon her throne, stunned but conscious, staring blankly at Morgin’s lifeless body. Roland reached her only an instant before Malka and Marjinell. The Hall filled quickly with servants who moved to extinguish the flaming tapestries.