A   M A R C H   O F
K I N G S

(Book #2 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

Morgan Rice

About
Morgan Rice

Morgan
Rice is the #1 Bestselling author of THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, a young adult series
comprising eight books, which has been translated into six languages.

Morgan
is also author of the #1 Bestselling THE VAMPIRE LEGACY, a young adult series
comprising two books and counting.

Morgan
is also author of the #1 Bestselling ARENA ONE and ARENA TWO, the first two
books in THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY, a post-apocalyptic action thriller set in the
future.

Morgan
is also author of the #1 Bestselling epic fantasy series THE SORCERER’S RING,
comprising two books and counting.

Morgan
loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.morganricebooks.com to stay in
touch.

Select
Acclaim for Morgan Rice

“Rice
does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a
great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the
setting….Nicely written and an extremely fast read.”

--Black
Lagoon Reviews (regarding Turned)

“An
ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an
interesting twist…Refreshing and unique, has the classic elements found in many
Young Adult paranormal stories. The series focuses around one girl…one
extraordinary girl!...Easy to read but extremely fast-paced....Recommended for
anyone who likes to read soft paranormal romances. Rated PG.”

--The
Romance Reviews (regarding Turned)

“Grabbed
my attention from the beginning and did not let go….This story is an amazing
adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There
is not a dull moment to be found.”

--Paranormal
Romance Guild {regarding Turned}

“Jam
packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this
one and fall in love all over again.”

--vampirebooksite.com
(regarding Turned)

“A
great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble
putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular
that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens.”

--The
Dallas Examiner {regarding Loved}

“A
book to rival TWILIGHT and VAMPIRE DIARIES, and one that will have you wanting
to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and
vampires this book is the one for you!”

--Vampirebooksite.com
{regarding Turned}

“Morgan
Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller….This would
appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the
vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you
shocked.”

--The
Romance Reviews {regarding Loved}

Books by Morgan Rice

THE
SORCERER’S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book
#1 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

A FEAST OF DRAGONS (Book #3 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

THE
SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1 of the Survival Trilogy)

ARENA TWO (Book #2 of the Survival Trilogy)

THE
VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1 in the Vampire Journals)

LOVED (Book #2 in the Vampire Journals)

BETRAYED (Book #3 in the Vampire Journals)

DESTINED (Book #4 in the Vampire
Journals)

DESIRED (Book #5 in the Vampire
Journals)

BETROTHED (Book #6 in the Vampire Journals)

VOWED (Book #7 in the Vampire Journals)

FOUND (Book #8 in the Vampire Journals)

THE
VAMPIRE LEGACY

RESURRECTED (Book #1 of the Vampire
Legacy)

CRAVED (Book #2 of the Vampire Legacy)

Copyright
© 2013 by Morgan Rice

All
rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any
form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the
prior permission of the author.

This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.

This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places,
events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

“Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me
clutch thee.

I have thee not, and yet I see thee
still.”

—William Shakespeare

Macbeth

CHAPTER ONE

King MacGil stumbled into his chamber, having had
way too much to drink, the room spinning and his head pounding from the night’s
festivities. A woman whose name he did not know clung to his side, one arm
draped around his waist, her shirt half-removed, leading him with a giggle
towards his bed. Two attendants closed the door behind them and disappeared
discreetly.

MacGil did not know where his queen was, and on
this night he did not care. They rarely shared a bed anymore, she often
retiring to her own chamber, especially on nights of feasts, when the meals
went on too long. She knew of her husband’s indulgences, and she did not seem
to care. After all, he was king, and MacGil kings had always ruled with
entitlement.

But as MacGil aimed for bed the room spun too
fiercely, and he suddenly threw this woman off. He was no longer in the mood
for this.

“Leave me!” he commanded, and shoved her away.

The woman stood there, stunned and hurt, and the
door opened and the attendants returned, each grabbing one arm and leading her
out. She protested, but her cries were muffled as they closed the door behind
her.

MacGil sat on the edge of his bed and rested his
head in his hands, trying to get his headache to stop. It was unusual for him
to have a headache this early, before the drink had time to wear off, but
tonight was different. It had all changed so quickly. The feast had been going
so well; he had been settling in with a fine choice of meat, a strong cask of
wine, when that boy, Thor, had to surface and ruin everything. First it was his
intrusion, with his silly dream; then his knocking his goblet out of his hands.

Then that dog had to appear and lap it up, and drop
dead in front of everyone. MacGil had been shaken ever since. The realization had
stuck him like a hammer: someone had tried to poison him. To assassinate him.
He could hardly process it. Someone had snuck past his guards, past his wine
and food tasters. He had been a breath away from being dead, and it still shook
him.

He recalled Thor’s being taken away, to the
dungeon, and he wondered again if it had been the right command. On the one
hand, of course, there was no way the boy could have known that goblet was
poisoned unless he himself had poisoned it, or was somehow complicit in the
crime. On the other hand, he knew Thor had deep, mysterious powers, too
mysterious, and perhaps he had been telling the truth: maybe he had indeed
envisioned it in a dream. Maybe he had, in fact, saved his life, and maybe
MacGil had sent to the dungeon the one person truly loyal.

MacGil’s head pounded at the thought, as he sat
there rubbing his too-lined forehead, trying to work it all out. But he had
drank too much on this night, his mind was too foggy, his thoughts swirled, and
he could not get to the bottom of it all. It was too hot in here, a sultry
summer night, his body overheated with hours of food and drink, and he felt
himself sweating.

He reached over and threw off his mantle, then his
outer shirt, dressed in nothing but his undershirt, and reached up and wiped
the sweat off his brow, then his beard. He leaned back and pulled off his huge,
heavy boots, one at a time, and curled his toes as they hit the air. He sat
there and breathed hard, trying to regain his equilibrium. His belly had grown
today, and it was burdensome. He kicked his legs up and lay back, resting his
head on the pillow. He sighed and looked up, past the four posters, to the
ceiling, and tried to get the room to stop spinning.

Who would want to kill him? he wondered, yet again.
He had loved that boy, Thor, like a son, and a part of him sensed that it could
not be him. He wondered who else it could be, what motive he might have—and most
importantly, if he would try again. Was he safe? Had Argon’s pronouncements
been right?

MacGil felt his eyes grow heavy, as he sensed the
answer just outside of his mind’s grasp. If his mind was just a little clearer,
maybe he could work it all out. But his mind was not there. He would have to
wait for the light of morning to summon his advisers, to launch an
investigation. The question in his mind was not who wanted him dead—but who did
not want him dead. His court, he
knew, was filled with people who craved his throne. Ambitious generals; maneuvering
councilmembers; power-hungry nobles and lords; spies; old rivals; assassins
from the McClouds— and maybe even from the Wilds. Perhaps, even closer than
that.

MacGil’s eyes fluttered as he began to fall into
sleep; but something caught his attention which kept them open. He detected
movement, and looked over to see that his attendants were not there. He blinked,
confused. His attendants never left him alone. In fact, he could not remember
the last time he had been alone in this room, by himself. He did not remember
ordering them to leave. Even stranger: his door was wide open.

At the same moment MacGil heard a noise from the far
side of the room, and turned and looked. There, creeping along the wall, coming
out of the shadows, into the torchlight, was a tall, thin man, wearing a black
cloak and hood, pulled over his face. MacGil blinked several times, wondering
if he were seeing things. At first he was sure it was just shadows, flickering
torchlight playing tricks on his eyes.

But a moment later the figure was several paces
closer and approaching his bed quickly. MacGil tried to focus in the dim light,
to see who it was; he began instinctively to sit up, and being the old warrior
he was, he reached for his waist, for a sword, or at least a dagger. But he had
undressed long ago, and there were no weapons to be had. He sat, unarmed, on
his bed.

The figure moved quickly now, like a snake in the
night, getting ever closer, and as MacGil sat up, he got a look at his face.
The room still spun, and his drinking prevented him from seeing clearly, but
for a moment, he could have sworn it was the face of his son.

Gareth.

MacGil’s heart flooded with sudden panic, as he
wondered what he could possibly be doing here, unannounced, so late into the
night.

“My son?” he called out.

MacGil saw the deadly intent in his eyes, and it
was all he needed to see—he started to jump out of bed.

But the figure moved too quickly. He leapt into
action, and before MacGil could raise his hand in defense, there was the
gleaming of metal in the torchlight, and fast, too fast, there was a blade puncturing
the air—and plunging into his heart.

MacGil shrieked, a deep dark cry of anguish, and
was surprised by the sound of his own scream. It was a battle scream, one he
had heard too many times. It was the scream of a warrior mortally wounded.

MacGil felt the cold metal breaking through his
ribs, pushing through muscle, mixing with his blood, then pushing deeper, ever
deeper, the pain more intense than he had ever imagined, as it seemed to never
stop plunging. With a great gasp, he felt hot, salty blood fill his mouth, felt
his breathing grow hard. He forced himself to look up, at the face behind the
hood. He was surprised: he had been wrong. It was not the face of his son. It
was someone else. Someone he recognized. He could not remember who, but he knew
it was someone close to him. Someone who looked like his son.

His brain wracked with confusion, as he tried to
put a name to the face.

As the figure stood over him, holding the knife,
MacGil somehow managed to raise a hand and push it into the man’s shoulder,
trying to get him to stop. He felt a burst of the old warrior’s strength rise
up within him, felt the strength of his ancestors, felt some deep part of him
that made him king, that would not give up. With one giant shove, he managed to
push back the assassin with all his might.

The man was thinner, more frail, than MacGil
thought, and he went stumbling back with a cry, tripping across the room. MacGil
managed to stand, and with a supreme effort, he reached down and yanked the
knife from his chest. He threw it across the room and it hit the stone floor with
a clang, skidding across it, and slammed into the far wall.

The man, whose hood had fallen back around his
shoulders, scrambled to his feet and stared back, wide-eyed with terror, as MacGil
began to bear down on him. The man turned and ran across the room, stopping
only long enough to grab the dagger before he fled.

MacGil tried to chase him, but the man was too
fast, and suddenly the pain rose up, piercing his chest. He felt himself grow
weak.

MacGil stood there, alone in the room, and looked
down at the blood pouring from his chest, into his open palms. He sank to his
knees.

He felt his body grow cold, and leaned back and tried
to call out.

“Guards,” came his faint cry.

He took a deep breath, and with supreme agony,
managed to muster his deep voice. The voice of a once-king.

“GUARDS!” he shrieked.

He heard footsteps come running, from some distant
hallway, slowly getting closer. He heard a distant door open, sensed bodies
getting closer to him. But the room spun again, and this time it was not from
drink.

The last thing he saw was the cold stone floor,
rising up to meet his face.

CHAPTER TWO

Thor grabbed the iron knocker of the immense wooden
door before him and pulled with all his might. It opened slowly, creaking, and revealed
before him the king’s chamber. He took a step in, feeling the hairs on his arms
tingle as he crossed the threshold. He could feel a great darkness here, lingering
in the air like a fog.

Thor took several steps into the chamber, hearing
the crackle of the torchlight on the walls as he made his way towards the body,
lying in a heap on the floor. He already sensed that it was the king, that he
had been murdered, that he, Thor, had been too late. Thor could not help but
wonder where all the guards were, why no one was here to rescue him.

Thor’s knees grew weak as he took the final steps
to the body; he knelt on the stone, grabbed his shoulder, already cold, and
pulled.

There was MacGil, his former king, lying there,
eyes wide open, a knife plunged into his chest. It sat there, rigid, like a
sword thrust into a stone.

Thor looked up and suddenly saw the king’s attendant
standing over him. He held a large, bejeweled goblet, the one that Thor
recognized from the feast, made of solid gold and covered in rows of rubies and
sapphires, and he reached out, while staring at Thor, and poured it slowly onto
the king’s chest. The wine splashed all over Thor’s face.

Thor heard a screeching, and turned to see his
falcon, Ephistopheles, perched on the king’s shoulder; she licked the wine off
his cheek.

Thor heard a noise and turned to see Argon,
standing over him, looking down sternly. In one hand he held the crown,
shining. In another, his staff.

Argon walked over and placed the crown firmly on
Thor’s head. Thor could feel it, its weight digging in, fitting snugly, its
metal hugging his temples. He looked up at Argon in wonder.

“You are King now,” Argon pronounced.

Thor blinked, and when he opened his eyes, before
him stood all the members of the Legion, of the Silver, hundreds of men and
boys crammed together into the chamber, all facing him. As one, they all knelt,
then bowed down to him, their faces low to the ground.

“Our King,” came a chorus of voices.

Thor woke with a start. He sat upright, breathing
hard, looking all about him. It was dark in here, and humid, and he realized he
was sitting on a stone floor, his back to the wall. He squinted in the
darkness, saw iron bars in the distance, and beyond them, a flickering torch. Then
he remembered: the dungeon. He had been dragged down here, after the feast.

He remembered that guard, punching him in the face,
and realized he must have been out, he didn’t know how long. He sat up,
breathing harder, trying to wash away the horrific dream. It had seemed so
real. He prayed that it wasn’t true, that the king wasn’t dead. The image of that
dagger in his chest stuck in his mind. Had Thor really saw something? Or was it
all just his imagination?

Thor felt someone kick him on the sole of his foot,
and looked up to see a figure standing over him.

“It’s about time you woke up,” came the voice. “I’m
waiting hours.”

In the dim light Thor made out the face of a
teenage boy, about his age. He was thin, short, with hollow cheeks and
pockmarked skin—yet there seemed to be something kind and intelligent behind
his green eyes.

“I’m Merek,” he said. “Your cellmate. What you in
for?”

Thor sat upright, trying to get his wits about him.
He leaned back against the wall, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to
remember, to piece it all together.

“They say you tried to kill the king,” Merek
continued.

“He did try to kill him, and we’re going to tear
him to pieces if he ever gets out from behind those bars,” snarled a voice.

A chorus of clanking erupted, tin cups banging against
metal bars, and Thor looked to see the entire corridor filled with cells,
grotesque-looking prisoners sticking their heads to the bars and, in the
flickering torchlight, sneering out at him. Most were unshaven, with missing
teeth, and some looked as if they’d been down here for years. It was a
horrifying sight, and Thor forced himself to look away. Was he really down
here? Would he be stuck down here, with these people, forever?

“Don’t worry about them,” Merek said. “It’s just
you and me in this cell. They can’t get in. And I could care less if you poisoned
the king. I’d like to poison him myself.”

“I didn’t poison the King,” Thor said, indignant. “I
didn’t poison anyone. I was trying to save him. All I did was knock over his
goblet.”

“And how did you know the goblet was poisoned?” screamed
a voice from down the aisle, eavesdropping. “Magic, I suppose?”

Their came a chorus of cynical laughter from up and
down the cell corridor.

“He’s psychic!” one of them yelled out, mocking.

The others laughed.

“No, it was just a lucky guess!” another bellowed,
to the delight of the others.

Thor glowered, resenting the accusations, wanting
to set them all straight. But he knew it would be a waste of time. Besides, he
didn’t have to defend himself to these criminals.

Merek studied him, with a look that was not as
skeptical as the others. He looked as if he were debating.

“I believe you,” he said, quietly.

“You do?” Thor asked.

Merek shrugged.

“After all, if you’re going to poison the King, would
you really be so stupid to let him know?”

Merek turned and walked away, a few paces over to
his side of the cell, and leaned back against the wall and sat down, facing
Thor.

Now Thor was curious.

“What are you
in for?” he asked.

“I’m a thief,” Merek answered, somewhat proudly.

Thor was taken aback; he’d never been in the
presence of a thief before, a real
thief. He himself had never thought of stealing, and he had always been amazed
to realize that some people did.

“Why do you do it?” Thor asked.

Merek shrugged.

“My family has no food. They have to eat. I don’t
have any schooling, or any skills of any kind. Stealing is what I know. Nothing
major. Just food mostly. Whatever gets them through. I got away with it for
years. Then I got caught. This is my third time caught, actually. Third time’s
the worst.”

“Why?” Thor asked.

Merek was quiet, then slowly shook his head. Thor
could see his eyes well up with tears.

“The king’s law is strict. No exceptions. Third
offense, they take your hand.”

Thor was horrified. He glanced down at Merek’s hands;
they were both there.

“They haven’t come for me yet,” Merek said. “But
they will.”

Thor felt terrible. Merek looked away, as if
ashamed, and Thor did, too, not wanting to think about it.

Thor put his head in his hands, his head
killing him, trying to piece together his thoughts. The last few days felt like
a whirlwind; he could hardly believe how much had happened, so quickly. On the
one hand, he felt a sense of success, of vindication: he’d seen the future, had
seen MacGil’s poisoning, and had saved him from it. Perhaps fate, after all,
could be changed, perhaps destiny could be bent. Thor felt a sense of pride: he
had saved his king.

On the other hand, here he was, in the
dungeon, unable to clear his name. All his hopes and dreams were shattered, any
chance of joining the Legion gone. Now he would be lucky if he didn’t spend the
rest of his days down here. It pained him to think that MacGil, who had taken
Thor in like a father, the only real father he had ever had, thought Thor
actually tried to kill him. It pained him to think that Reese, his best friend,
might believe that he’d tried to kill his father. Or even worse, Gwendolyn. He
thought of their last encounter, of her thinking he frequented the brothels,
and felt as if everything good in his life had been pulled out from under him.
He wondered why this was all happening to him. After all, he had only wanted to
do good.

Thor didn’t know what would become of
him; he didn’t care. All he wanted now was to clear his name, for people to
know that he hadn’t tried to hurt the king; that he had genuine powers, that he
really saw the future. He didn’t know what would become of him, but he knew one
thing: he had to get out of here. Somehow.

Before Thor could finish the thought, he
heard footsteps, heavy boots clomping their way down the stone corridors; there
came a rattling of keys, and moments later, there came into view a burly jail
keeper, the man who had dragged Thor here and punched him in the face. At the
sight of him Thor felt the pain well up on his cheek, felt aware of it for the
first time, and felt a physical revulsion.

“Well, if it isn’t the little pip who
tried to kill the King,” the warder scowled, as he turned the iron key in the
lock. After several reverberating clicks, he reached over and slid back the cell
door. He carried shackles in one hand, and a small axe hung from his waist.

“You’ll get yours,” he sneered at Thor,
then turned to Merek, “but now it’s your turn, you little thief. Third time,”
he said with a malicious smile, “no exceptions.”

He suddenly dove for Merek, grabbed him
roughly, yanked one arm behind his back, clamped down the shackle, then clamped
the other end into a hook on the wall. Merek screamed out, tugging wildly
against the shackle, trying to break free; but it was useless. The warder got
behind him and grabbed him, held him in a bear hug, took his free arm, and
placing it down on a stone ledge.

“This will teach you not to steal,” he
snarled.

He reached back, removed the axe, and
raised it high above his head, his mouth open wide, his ugly teeth sticking out
as he snarled.

“NO!” Merek screamed.

Thor sat there, horrified, transfixed as
their warder brought down his weapon, aiming for Merek’s wrist. Thor realized
that in moments, this poor boy’s hand would be chopped off, forever, for no other
reason than his petty thievery for food, to help feed his family. The injustice
of it burned inside him, and he knew that he could not allow it. It just wasn’t
fair.

Thor felt his entire body growing hot,
and then felt a burning inside, rising up from his feet and coursing through
his palms. He didn’t know what was happening to him, but he felt time slow
down, felt himself moving faster than the man, felt every instant of every
second, as the man’s axe hung there in mid-air. Thor felt a burning energy ball
in his palm, and reached back and hurled it at his warder.

He watched in amazement as a yellow ball
went flying from his palm, through the air, lighting up the dark cell as it
left a trail—and went right for the warder’s face. It hit him in his head, and
as it did, he dropped his axe and went flying across the cell, smashing into a
wall and collapsing. Thor saved Merek a split second before the blade reached
his wrist.

Merek looked over at Thor, wide-eyed.

The warder shook his head and began to rise,
to head for Thor. But Thor felt the power burning through him, and as the warder
reached his feet and faced him, Thor ran forward, jumped into the air, and
kicked him in the chest. He felt a power he had never known rush through his
body, and heard a cracking noise, as his kick sent the large man flying back through
the air, smashing against the wall, and down into a heap on the floor, truly
unconscious this time.

Merek stood there, shocked, and Thor
knew exactly what he had to do. He grabbed the axe, hurried over, held his
shackle up against the stone, and chopped it. A great spark flew through the
air, as the chain-link was severed. Merek flinched, then raised his head and
looked at the chain dangling down to his feet, and realized he was free.

He stared back at Thor, open-mouthed.

“I don’t know how to thank
you,” Merek said. “I don’t know how you did that, whatever it is, or who you
are—or what you are—but you saved my
life. I owe you one. And that is something I do not take lightly.”

“You owe me nothing,” Thor
said.

“Wrong,” Merek said,
reaching out and clasping Thor’s forearm. “You’re my brother now. And I will
repay you. Somehow. Someday.”

With that, Merek turned, hurried
out the open cell door, and ran down the corridor, to the shouts of the other prisoners.

Thor looked over, saw the
unconscious guard, the open cell door, and knew he had to act, too. The shouts
of prisoners were growing louder.

Thor stepped out, looked
both ways, and decided to run the opposite way of Merek. After all, they couldn’t
catch them both at once.

CHAPTER THREE

Thor ran through the night, through the chaotic
streets of King’s Court, amazed at the commotion around him. The streets were
more crowded than ever, throngs of people hurrying about in an agitated stir.
Many carried torches, lighting up the night, casting stark shadows on faces,
while the castle bells tolled incessantly. It was a low ring, coming once a minute,
and Thor knew what that meant: death. Death bells. And there was only one
person in the kingdom for whom the bells would toll on this night: the king.

Thor’s heart pounded as he wondered. He
saw that dagger from his dream flash before his eyes. Had it been true?

He had to know for sure. He reached out
and grabbed a passerby, a boy running the opposite direction.

“Where are you going?” Thor demanded. “What
is all this commotion?”

“Haven’t you heard?” the boy shot back, frantic.
“Our king is dying. Stabbed. Mobs are forming outside King’s Gate, trying to
get the news. If it’s true, it’s terrible for us all. Can you imagine? A land
without a king?”

With that, the boy shoved Thor’s hand off
and turned and ran back into the night.

Thor stood there, his heart pounding,
not wanting to acknowledge the reality all around him. He could hardly believe
it. His dreams, his premonitions—they were more than fancies. He had seen the
future. Twice. And that scared him. His powers were deeper than he knew, and
seemed to be getting stronger with each passing day. Where would this all lead?

Thor stood there, trying to figure out
where to go next. He had escaped, but now he had no idea where to turn. Surely within
moments the royal guards—and possibly all of King’s Court—would be out looking
out for him. The fact that Thor escaped would just make him seem more guilty. But
then again, the fact that MacGil was stabbed while Thor was in prison—wouldn’t that
vindicate him? Or would it make him seem like part of a conspiracy?

Thor couldn’t take any chances. Clearly,
the kingdom wasn’t in the mood to hear rational thought—it seemed that everyone
around him was out for blood. And he would probably be the scapegoat. He needed
to find shelter, some place to go where he could ride out the storm and clear
his name. The safest place to go, he knew, would be far from here. He should
flee, take refuge in his village—or even farther, as far from here as he could
get.

But Thor did not want to take the safest
route; it was not who he was. He wanted to stay here, to clear his name, and to
keep his position in the Legion. He was not a coward, and he did not run. Most
of all, he wanted to see MacGil before he died, assuming he was still alive. He
needed to see him. He felt
overwhelmed with guilt that he hadn’t been able to stop the assassination. Why
had he been doomed to see the king’s death if there was nothing he could do
about it? And why had he envisioned him being poisoned when he was, in fact,
stabbed?

As Thor stood there, debating, it came
to him: Reese. Reese was the one person he could trust not to turn him into the
authorities, maybe even to give him safe harbor. He sensed that Reese would
believe him. He knew that Thor’s love for his father was genuine, and if anyone
had a chance of clearing Thor’s name, it would be Reese. He had to find him.

Thor took off at a sprint through the
back alleys, twisting and turning against the crowd, as he ran away from King’s
Gate, towards the castle. He knew where Reese’s room was—on the eastern wing,
close to the outer city wall—and he only hoped that Reese was inside. If he
was, maybe he could catch his attention, help him find a way into the castle.
Thor had a sinking feeling that if he lingered here, in the streets, he would soon
be recognized. And when this mob recognized him, it would tear him to bits.

As Thor turned down street after street,
his feet slipping in the mud of the cool summer night, he finally reached the
stone wall of the outer ramparts. He stuck close, running alongside it, just
beneath the eyes of the watchful soldiers who stood every few feet.

As he neared Reese’s window, he reached
down and picked up a smooth rock. Luckily, the one weapon they had forgotten to
strip him of was his old, trusted sling, and he extracted it from his waist,
placed the stone, reached back, and hurled it.

With his flawless aim, Thor managed to
send the stone flying over the castle wall and perfectly into the open-air
window of Reese’s room. Thor heard the stone clack into the inner wall, then
waited, ducking low along the wall to escape detection by the King’s guards,
who flinched at the noise.

Nothing happened for several moments,
and Thor’s heart dropped, as he wondered if Reese was not in his room after
all. If not, Thor would have to flee this place; there was no other way for him
to gain safe harbor. He held his breath, his heart pounding, as he waited, watching
the opening by Reese’s window.

After what felt like an eternity, Thor
was about to turn away, when he saw a figure lean his head out the window, brace
both palms on the windowsill, and look around with a puzzled expression.

Thor stood, darting out several steps
away from the wall, and waved one arm high.

Reese looked down and noticed him. Reese’s
face lit up in recognition, visible in the torchlight even from here, and, Thor
was relieved to see joy on his face. That told him all he needed to know: Reese
would not turn him in.

Reese signaled for him to wait, and Thor
hurried back to the wall, squatting low just as a guard turned his way.

Thor waited for he did not know how
long, ready at any moment to flee from the guards, until finally Reese
appeared, bursting through a door in the outer wall, breathing hard as he
looked both ways and spotted Thor.

Reese hurried over and embraced him.
Thor was overjoyed. He heard a squeaking, and looked down to see, to his
delight, Krohn, bundled up in Reese’s shirt. Krohn nearly jumped out of the
shirt as Reese reached down and handed him to Thor.

Krohn leapt into Thor’s arms as Thor
hugged him back, whining and squealing and licking Thor’s face.

Reese smiled.

“When they took you away, he tried to
follow you, and I took him to make sure he was safe.”

Thor clasped Reese’s forearm, in
appreciation. Then he laughed, as Krohn kept licking him.

“I missed you too, boy,” Thor laughed,
kissing him back. “Quiet now, or the guards will hear us.”

Krohn quieted, as if he understood.

“How did you escape?” Reese asked,
surprised.

Thor shrugged. He did not quite know
what to say. He still felt uncomfortable speaking about his powers, which he
did not understand. He didn’t want others to think of him as some kind of
freak.

“I got lucky I guess,” he responded. “I
saw an opportunity and I took it.”

“I’m amazed a mob did not tear you apart,”
Reese said.

“It’s dark,” Thor said. “I don’t think anyone
recognized me. Not yet, anyway.”

“Do you know that every soldier in the
kingdom is looking for you? Do you know that my father has been stabbed?”

Thor nodded, serious. “Is he okay?”

Reese’s face fell.

“No,” he answered, grim. “He is dying.”

Thor felt devastated, as if it were his
own father.

“You know I had nothing to do with it,
don’t you?” Thor asked, hopeful. He didn’t care what anyone else thought, but
he needed his best friend, MacGil’s youngest son, to know that he was innocent.

“Of course,” Reese said. “Or else I
would not be standing here.”

Thor felt a wave of relief, and clasped
Reese on the shoulder gratefully.

“But the rest of the kingdom will not be
so trusting as I,” Reese added. “The safest place for you is far from here. I will
give you my fastest horse, a pack of supplies, and send you far away. You must
hide out, until this all dies down, until they find the true killer. No one is
thinking clearly now.”

Thor shook his head.

“I cannot leave,” he said. “That would
make me seem guilty. I need others to know I did not do this. I cannot run from
my troubles. I must clear my name.”

Reese shook his head.

“If you stay here, they’ll find you. You’ll
get imprisoned again—and then executed—if not killed by a mob first.”

“That is a chance I must take,” Thor
said.

Reese stared at him long and hard, and
his look changed from one of concern to one of admiration. Finally, slowly, he
nodded.

“You are proud. And stupid. Very stupid.
That is why like you.”

Reese smiled. Thor smiled back.

“I need to see your father,” Thor said. “I
need to have a chance to explain to him, face-to-face, that it wasn’t me, that
I’d nothing to do with it. If he decides to sentence me, then so be it. But I
need one chance. I want him to know. That is all I ask of you.”

Reese stared back earnestly, summing up
his friend. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded.

“I can get you to him. I know a back way.
It leads to his chamber. It’s risky—and once you’re in, you will be on your
own. There is no way out. They’ll be nothing I can do for you then. It could mean
your death. Are you sure you want to take that chance?”

Thor nodded back with deadly
seriousness.

“Very well then,” Reese said, and suddenly
reached down and threw a cloak at Thor.

Thor caught it and looked down in
surprise; he realized Reese must have planned for this all along.

Reese smiled as Thor looked up.

“I knew you’d be dumb enough to want to
stay. I’d expect nothing less from my best friend.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Gareth paced his chamber, reliving the
events of the night, flooded with anxiety. He could hardly believe what had
happened at the feast, how it had all gone so wrong. He could hardly comprehend
that that stupid boy, that outsider, Thor, had somehow caught onto his poison plot—and
even more, had managed to actually intercept the goblet. Gareth thought back to
that moment when he saw Thor jump up, knock down the goblet, when he heard the
goblet hit the stone, watched the wine spill out on the floor, and saw all his
dreams and aspirations spill out with it.

In that moment, he had been ruined. Everything
he’d lived for had been crushed. And when that dog lapped up the wine and
dropped dead—he knew he was finished. He saw his whole life flash before him,
saw himself discovered, sentenced to life in the dungeon for trying to kill his
father. Or worse, executed. It was stupid. He should have never gone through with
the plan, never visited that witch.

Gareth had, at least, acted quickly,
taking a chance and jumping to his feet and being the first to pin the blame on
Thor. Looking back, he was proud of himself, at how quickly he had reacted. It
had been a moment of inspiration, and to his amazement, it seemed to have worked.
They had dragged Thor off, and afterwards, the feast had nearly settled down
again. Of course, nothing was the same after that, but at the very least, the
suspicion seemed to fall squarely on the boy.

Gareth only prayed that it stayed that
way. It had been decades since an assassination attempt on a MacGil, and Gareth
feared there would be an inquiry, that they would end up looking more deeply
into the deed. Looking back, it had been foolish to try to poison him. His
father was invincible. He should have known that. He had over-reached. And now
he could not help feel as if it were only a matter of time until the suspicion
fell on him. He would have to do whatever he could to prove Thor’s guilt, and
have him executed before it was too late.

At least Gareth had somewhat redeemed
himself: after that failed attempt, he had called off the assassination. Now,
Gareth felt relieved. After watching the plot fail, he had realized that there
was a part of him, deep down, that did not want to kill his father after all,
that did not want to have his blood on his hands. He would not be King. He
might never be king. But after tonight’s events, that was okay with him. At
least he would be free. He could never handle the stress of going through all
of this again, the secrets, the covering up, the constant anxiety of being
found out. It was too much for him.

As he paced and paced, the night growing
late, finally, slowly, he began to calm. Just as he was beginning to feel
himself, preparing to settle in for the night, there came a sudden crash, and
he turned to see his door burst open. In burst Firth, wide-eyed, frantic, rushing
into the room as if he were being chased.

“He’s dead!” Firth screamed. “He’s dead!
I killed him. He’s dead!”

Firth was hysterical, wailing, and Gareth
had no idea what he was talking about. Was he drunk?

Firth ran throughout the room,
shrieking, crying, holding up his hands—and it was then that Gareth noticed his
palms, covered in blood, his yellow tunic, stained red.

Gareth’s heart skipped a beat. Firth had
just killed someone. But who?

“Who
is dead?” Gareth demanded. “Who do you speak of?”

But Firth was hysterical, and could not
focus. Gareth ran to him, grabbed his shoulders firmly and shook him.

“Answer me!”

Firth opened his eyes and stared, with the
eyes of a wild horse.

“Your father! The King. He’s dead! By my
hand!”

At his words, Gareth felt as if a knife had
been plunged into his own heart.

He stared back, wide-eyed, frozen,
feeling his whole body go numb. He released his grip, took a step back, and
tried to catch his breath. He could see from all the blood that Firth was
genuine. He could not even fathom it. Firth? The stable boy? The most
weak-willed of all his friends? Killed his father?

“But…how is that possible?” Gareth
gasped. “When?”

“It happened in his chamber,” Firth said.
“Just now. I stabbed him.”

The reality of the news began to sink in,
and Gareth regained his wits; he noticed his open door, ran to it, and slammed
it shut, checking first to make sure no guards had seen. Luckily, the corridor
was empty. He pulled the heavy iron bolt across it.

He hurried back across the room. Firth
was still hysterical, and he needed to calm him. He needed answers.

He grasped him by the shoulders, spun him,
and back-handed him hard enough to make him stop. Finally, Firth focused on
him.

“Tell me everything,” Gareth ordered
coldly. “Tell me exactly what happened. Why did you do this?”

“What do you mean why?” Firth asked,
confused. “You wanted to kill him. Your poison didn’t work. I thought I could help
you. I thought that was what you wanted.”

Gareth shook his head. He grabbed Firth by
the shirt and shook him, again and again.

“Why did you do this!?” Gareth screamed.

Gareth felt his whole world crumbling.
He was shocked to realize that he actually felt remorse for his father. He
could not understand it. Just hours ago, he’d wanted more than anything to see
him poisoned, dead at the table. Now the idea of his being killed struck him
like the death of a best friend. He felt overwhelmed with remorse. A part of
him had not wanted him to die after all—especially not this way. Not by Firth’s
hand. And not by a blade.

“I don’t understand,” Firth whined. “Just
hours ago you tried to kill him yourself. Your goblet plot. I thought you would
be grateful!”

To his own surprise, Gareth reached back
and smacked Firth across the face.

“I did not tell you to do this!” Gareth
spat. “I never told you to do this.
Why did you kill him? Look at you. You are covered in blood. Now we are both
finished. It is only a matter of time until the guards catch us.”

“No one saw,” Firth pleaded. “I slipped
between the shifts. No one spotted me.”

“And where is the weapon?”

“I did not leave it,” Firth said proudly.
“I’m not stupid. I disposed of it.”

“And what blade did you use?” Gareth
asked, his mind spinning with the implications. He went from remorse to worry;
his mind raced with every detail of the trail that this bumbling fool might
have left, every detail that might lead to him.

“I used one that could not be traced,” Firth
said, proud of himself. “It was a dull, anonymous blade. I found it in the
stables. There were four others just like it. It could not be traced,” he
repeated.

Gareth felt his heart drop.

“Was it a short knife, with a red handle
and a curved blade? Mounted on the wall beside my horse?”

Firth nodded back, looking doubtful.

Gareth glowered.

“You fool. Of course that blade is
traceable!”

“But there were no markings on it!” Firth
protested, sounding scared, his voice trembling.

“There are no markings on the blade—but
there is a mark on the hilt!” Gareth yelled. “Underneath! You did not check
carefully. You fool,” Gareth said, stepping forward, reddening. “The emblem of
my horse is carved underneath it. Anyone who knows the royal family well can
trace that blade back to me.”

He stared at Firth, who seemed stumped.
He wanted to kill him.

“What did you do with it?” Gareth
pressed. “Tell me you have it on you. Tell me that you brought it back with you.
Please.”

Firth swallowed.

“I disposed of it carefully. No one will
ever find it.”

Gareth grimaced.

“Where, exactly?”

“I threw it down the stone chute, into
the castle’s chamber pot. They dump the pot every hour, into the river. Do not
worry, my lord. It’s deep in the river by now.”

The castle bells suddenly tolled, and
Gareth turned and ran to the open window, his heart flooded with panic. He
looked out and saw all the chaos and commotion below, mobs surrounding the
castle. Those bells tolling could only mean one thing: Firth was not lying. He
had killed his father. He could scarcely believe it.

Gareth felt his body grow icy cold. He
could not conceive that he had set in motion such a great evil. And that Firth,
of all people, had executed it.

There came a sudden pounding at his door,
and as it burst open, several royal guards rushed in. For a moment, Gareth was
sure they would arrest him.

But to his surprise, they stopped and
stood at attention.

“My Lord, your father has been stabbed.
There may be an assassin on the loose. Be sure to stay safe in your room. He is
gravely injured.”

The hair rose on the back of Gareth’s
neck at that last word.

“Injured?” Gareth echoed, the word
nearly sticking in his throat. “Is he still alive then?”

“He is, my lord. And god be with him, he
will survive, and tell us who did this heinous act.”

With a short bow the guard hurried from
the room, slamming closed the door.

A rage overwhelmed Gareth and he grabbed
Firth by his shoulders, drove him across the room and slammed him into a stone
wall.

Firth stared back, wide-eyed, looking
horrified, speechless.

“What have you done?” Gareth screamed. “Now
we are both finished!”

“But…but….” Firth stumbled, “…I was sure
he was dead!”

“You are sure of a lot of things,”
Gareth said, “and they are all wrong!”

A thought occurred to Gareth.

“That dagger,” he said. “We have to retrieve
it, before it’s too late.”

“But I threw it away, my lord,” Firth
said. “It is washed away in the river!”

“You threw it into a chamber pot. That
does not mean it is yet in the river.”

“But it most likely is!” Firth said.

Gareth could stand this idiot’s bumbling
no longer. He burst past him, running out the door, Firth on his heels.

“I will go with you. I will show you
exactly where I threw it,” Firth said.

Gareth stopped in the corridor, turned and
stared at Firth. He was covered in blood, and Gareth was amazed the guards had
not spotted it. It was lucky. He was more of a liability than ever.

“I’m only going to say this once,”
Gareth growled. “Get back to my room at once, change your clothes, and burn
them. Get rid of any traces of blood. Then disappear from this castle. Stay
away from me on this night. Do you understand me?”

Gareth shoved him back, then turned and ran.
He sprinted down the corridor, ran down the spiral stone staircase, going down
level after level, towards the servant’s quarters.

Finally, he burst into the basement, to
the turned heads of several servants. They had been in the midst of scrubbing
enormous pots and boiling pails of water. Huge fires roared amidst brick kilns,
and the servants, wearing stained aprons, were drenched in sweat.

On the far side of the room Gareth
spotted an enormous chamber pot, filth hailing down from a chute and splashing
in it every minute.

Gareth ran up to the closest servant and
grabbed his arm desperately.

“When was the last pot emptied?” Gareth
asked.

“It was taken to the river just minutes
ago, my lord.”

Gareth turned and raced out the room, sprinting
down the castle corridors, back up the spiral staircase, and bursting out into the
cool night air.

He ran across the grass field, breathless
as he sprinted for the river.

As he neared it, he found a place to
hide, behind a large tree, close to the shore. He watched two servants raise
the huge iron pot and tilt it into the rushing current of the river.

He watched until it was upside down, all
of its contents emptied, until they turned back with the pot and trekked back
towards the castle.

Finally, Gareth was satisfied. No one
had spotted any blade. Wherever it was, it was now in the river’s tides, being
washed away into anonymity. If his father should die on this night, there would
be no evidence left to trace the murderer.

Or would there?

CHAPTER FIVE

Thor followed on Reese’s heels, Krohn
behind him as they weaved their way through the back passageway to his father’s
chamber. Reese had brought him through a secret door, hidden in one of the stone
walls, and as Reese held a torch, they walked single file in the cramped space,
working their way through the inner guts of the castle in a dizzying array of
twists and turns. They ascended a narrow, stone staircase, which led to another
passageway. They turned, and before them was another staircase. Thor marveled
at how intricate this passage was.

“This passageway was built into the castle
hundreds of years ago,” Reese explained in a whisper as they went, breathing
hard as he climbed. “It was built by my father’s great-grandfather, the third
MacGil king. He had it built after a siege—it’s an escape route. Ironically, we
were never under siege since, and these passageways haven’t been used in
centuries. They were boarded up and I discovered them years ago. I like to use
them from time to time. I can get around the castle and no one knows where I am.
When we were younger, Gwen and Godfrey and I would play hide and seek in them.
Kendrick was too old, and Gareth didn’t like to play with us. No torches, that
was the rule. Pitch black. It was terrifying at the time.”

Thor tried to keep up as Reese navigated
the passage with a stunning display of virtuosity, obvious that he knew every
step by heart.

“How do you possibly remember all these
turns?” Thor asked in awe.

“You get lonely growing up as a boy in
this castle,” Reese continued, “especially when everyone else is older, and you’re
too young to join the Legion, and there’s nothing else to do. I made it my
mission to discover every nook and cranny of this place.”

They turned again, went down three stone
steps, turned through a narrow opening in the wall, then went down a long
stairwell. Finally, Reese brought them to a thick, oak door, covered in dust.
He leaned one ear against it and listened. Thor came up beside him.

“What door is this?” Thor asked

“Shhh,” Reese said.

Thor grew quiet, as he hunched over and
put his ear against the door, listening. Krohn stood there behind him, looking
up.

“It is the back door to my father’s
chamber,” Reese whispered. “I want to hear who’s in there with him.”

Thor listened, his heart pounding, to
the muffled voices behind the door.

“Sounds like the room is full,” Reese
said.

Reese turned and gave Thor a meaningful
look.

“You will be walking into a firestorm. His
generals will be there, his council, his advisers, his family—everyone. And I’m
sure every one of them will be on the lookout for you, his supposed murderer.
It will be like walking into a lynching mob. If my father still thinks you did
it, you’ll be finished. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Thor swallowed hard. It was now or
never. His throat went dry, as he realized this was one of the turning moments
of his life. It would be easy to turn back now, to flee. He could live a safe
life somewhere, far from King’s Court. Or he could pass through that door and
potentially spend the rest of his life in the dungeon, with those cretins—or
even executed.

He breathed deep, and decided. He had to
face his demons head-on. He could not back away.

Thor nodded. He was afraid to open his
mouth, afraid that if he did, he might change his mind.

Reese nodded back, with a look of
approval, then pushed the iron handle and leaned his shoulder into the door.

Thor squinted in the bright torchlight
as the door flew open. He found himself standing in the center of the king’s
private chamber, Krohn and Reese beside him.

There were at least two dozen people crammed
in around the king, who lay on his bed; some stood over him, others knelt. Surrounding
the king were his advisers and generals, along with Argon, the Queen, Kendrick,
Godfrey—even Gwendolyn. It was a death vigil, and Thor was intruding on his
family’s private affair.

The atmosphere in the room was somber, the
faces grave. MacGil lay propped up on pillows, and Thor was relieved to see
that he was still alive—at least for now.

All the faces turned at once, startled at
Thor’s and Reese’s sudden entrance. Thor realized what a shock it must have
been, with their sudden appearance in the middle of the room, coming out of a
secret door in the stone wall.

“That’s the boy!” someone from the crowd
yelled, standing and pointing at Thor with hatred. “He’s the one who tried to
poison the king!”

Guards bore down on him from all corners
of the room. Thor hardly knew what to do. A part of him wanted to turn and
flee, but he knew he had to face this angry mob, had to have his peace with the
king. So he braced himself, as several guards ran forward, reaching out to grab
him. Krohn, at his side, snarled, warning his attackers.

As Thor stood there, he felt a sudden
heat rise up within him, a power surging through him; he raised one hand, involuntarily,
and held out a palm and directed his energy towards them.

Thor was amazed as they all stopped in
mid-stride, feet away, as if frozen. His power, whatever it was, welling within
him, kept them at bay.

“How dare you march in here and use your
sorcery, boy!” Brom yelled, drawing his sword. “Was trying to kill our king once
not enough?”

Brom approached Thor with his sword
drawn; as he did, Thor felt something overcome him, a feeling stronger than he’d
ever had. He simply closed his eyes and focused. He sensed the energy within Brom’s
sword, its shape, its metal, and somehow, he became one with it. He willed it
to stop in his mind’s eye.

Brom stood frozen in his tracks,
wide-eyed.

“Argon!” Brom spun and yelled. “Stop this
sorcery at once! Stop this boy!”

Argon stepped from the crowd, and slowly
lowered his hood. He stared back at Thor with intense, burning eyes.

“I see no reason to stop him,” Argon
said. “He has not come here to harm.”

“Are you mad? He’s nearly killed our
King!”

“That is what you suppose,” Argon said. “That
is not what I see.”

“Leave him be,” came a gravelly, deep
voice.

Everyone turned as MacGil sat up. He
looked over, very faint. It was clearly a struggle for him to speak.

“I want to see the boy. He is not the
one that killed me. I saw the man’s face, and it was not him. Thor is innocent.”

Slowly, the others relaxed their guard,
and Thor relaxed his mind, letting them go. The guards backed away, looking at
Thor warily, as if he were from another realm, and slowly put their swords back
in their scabbards.

“I want to see him,” MacGil said. “Alone.
All of you. Leave us.”

“My King,” Brom said. “Do you really
think that is safe? Just you and this boy alone?”

“Thor is not to be touched,” MacGil
said. “Now leave us. All of you. Including my family.”

A thick silence fell over the room as
everyone stared at each other, clearly unsure what to do. Thor stood there, rooted
in place, hardly able to process at all.

One by one the others, including the
King’s family, filed from the room, as Krohn left with Reese. The chamber, so
filled with people but moments before, suddenly became empty.

The door closed. It was just Thor and the
king, alone in the silence. He could hardly believe it. Seeing MacGil lying there,
so pale, in such pain, hurt Thor more than he could say. He did not know why,
but it was almost as if a part of him were dying there, too, on that bed. He
wanted more than anything for the king to be well.

“Come here my boy,” MacGil said weakly,
his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Thor lowered his head and hurried to the
king’s side, kneeling before him. He held out a limp wrist, and Thor reached
up, took his hand, and kissed it.

Thor looked up and saw MacGil smiling
down weakly. Thor was surprised to feel hot tears flooding his own cheeks.

“My liege,” Thor began, all in a rush,
unable to keep it in, “please believe me. I did not poison you. I knew of the
plot only from my dream. From some power of which I know not of. I only wanted to
warn you. Please, believe me—”

MacGil held up a palm, and Thor fell
silent.

“I was wrong about you,” MacGil said. “It
took my being killed by another man’s hand to realize it wasn’t you. You were
just trying to save me. Forgive me. You were loyal. Perhaps the only loyal
member of my court.”

“How I wish I had been wrong,” Thor said.
“How I wish that you were safe. That my dreams were just illusions; that you were
never assassinated. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’ll survive.”

MacGil shook his head.

“My time has come,” he said to Thor.

Thor
swallowed, hoping it wasn’t true but sensing that it was.

“Do you know who did this terrible act, my lord?”
Thor asked the question that had been burning through his mind since he’d had
the dream. He could not imagine who would want to kill the king, or why.

MacGil looked up at the ceiling, blinking with
effort.

“I saw his face. It is a face I know well. But for
some reason, I cannot place it.”

He turned and looked at Thor.

“It doesn’t matter now. My time has come. Whether
it was by his hand, or by some other, the end is still the same. What matters
now,” he said, and reached out and grabbed Thor’s wrist with a strength that
surprised him, “is what happens after I’m gone. Ours will be a kingdom without
a king.”

MacGil looked at Thor with an intensity that Thor
did not understand. Thor did not know precisely what he was saying, what, if
anything, he was demanding of him. He wanted to ask, but he could see how hard
it was for him to catch his breath, and did not want to risk interrupting him.

“Argon was right about you,” he said, slowly
releasing his grip. “Your destiny is far greater than mine.”

Thor felt an electric shock through his body at the
king’s words. His destiny? Greater than the King’s? The very idea that the King
would even bother to discuss Thor with Argon was more than Thor could
comprehend. And the fact that he would say that Thor’s destiny was greater than
the King’s—what could he possibly mean? Was the king just being delusional in
his final moments?

“I chose you…I brought you into my family for a
reason. Do you know what that reason is?”

Thor shook his head, wanting desperately to know.

“Don’t you know why I wanted you here, only you, in
my final moments?”

Thor racked his brain, desperately trying to
understand. But he had no idea.

“I’m sorry, my liege,” he said, shaking his head. “I
do not know.”

MacGil smiled faintly, as his eyes began to close.

“There is a great land, far from here. Beyond the Wilds.
Beyond even the land of the Dragons. It is the land of the Druids. Where your
mother is from. You must go there to seek the answers.”

MacGil’s eyes opened wide and he stared at Thor with
an intensity that Thor could not comprehend.

“Our kingdom depends on it,” he added. “You are not
like the others. You are special. Until you understand who you are, our kingdom
will never rest at ease.”

MacGil’s eyes closed and his breathing grew
shallow, each breath coming out with a gasp. His grip slowly weakened on Thor’s
wrist, and Thor felt his own tears welling up. His mind was spinning with
everything the king had said, as he tried to make sense of it all. He could
barely concentrate. Had he heard it all correctly?

MacGil began to whisper something, but it was so quiet,
Thor could barely make it out. Thor leaned in close, bringing his ear to MacGil’s
lips.

The king lifted his head one last time, and with
one final effort said:

“Avenge me.”

Then, suddenly, MacGil stiffened. He lay there for
a few moments, then his head rolled to the side as his eyes opened wide,
frozen.

Dead.

“NO!” Thor wailed.

His wail must have been loud enough to alert the
guards, because a moment later, he heard a door burst open behind him, heard
the commotion of dozens of people rushing into the room. In the corner of his
consciousness he understood there was motion all around him. He dimly heard the
castle bells tolling out, again and again. The bells pounded, matching the
pounding of the blood in his temples. But it all became a blur, as moments
later the room was spinning, he fainting, heading for the stone floor in one
great collapse.

CHAPTER SIX

A gust of wind struck Gareth in the face and he
looked up, blinking back tears, into the pale light of the first rising sun.
The day was just breaking, and yet at this remote spot, here on the edge of the
Kolvian Cliffs, there were already gathered hundreds of the king’s family,
friends, and close royal subjects, hovering close, hoping to participate in the
funeral. Just beyond them, held back by an army of soldiers, Gareth could see the
thousands of masses pouring in, watching the services from a distance. The
grief on their faces was genuine. His father was loved, that was certain.

Gareth stood with the rest of the immediate family,
in a semi-circle around his father’s body, which sat suspended on planks over a
pit in the earth, ropes around it, waiting to be lowered. Argon stood before the
crowd, wearing the deep-scarlet robes he reserved only for funerals, his
expression inscrutable as he looked down at the King’s body, the hood covering
his face. Gareth tried desperately to analyze that face, to decipher how much
Argon knew. Did Argon know that he murdered his father? And if so, would he tell
the others—or let destiny play out?

To Gareth’s bad luck, that annoying boy, Thor, had
been cleared of guilt; obviously, he could not have stabbed the king while he
was in the dungeon. Not to mention that his father himself had told all the
others that Thor was innocent. Which only made things worse for Gareth. A council
had already been formed to look into the matter, to scrutinize every detail of his
murder. Gareth’s heart pounded as he stood there with the others, staring at
the body about to be lowered into the earth; he wanted to be lowered with it.

He knew it was only a matter of time until the
trail led to Firth—and when it did, he would be brought down with him. He would
have to act quickly to divert the attention, to pin the blame on someone else.
Gareth wondered if those around him suspected him. He was likely just being
paranoid, and as he surveyed the faces, he saw none looking at him. There stood
his brothers, Reese, Godfrey, Kendrick, his sister, Gwendolyn, his mother, her
face wrought with grief, looking catatonic; indeed, since his father’s death, she
had been like a different person, barely able to speak. He’d heard that when she’d
received the news something had happened within her, some sort of paralysis.
Half of her face was frozen; when she opened her mouth, the words came out too slow.

Gareth examined the faces of the King’s council behind
her—his lead general, Brom and the Legion head, Kolk, stood in front, behind whom
stood his father’s endless advisers. They all feigned grief, but Gareth knew
better. He knew that all of these people, all of the councilmembers and
advisers and generals—and all of the nobles and lords behind them—barely cared.
He recognized on their faces ambition. Lust for power. As each stared down at
his father’s corpse, he felt that each wondered who might be next to grab the
throne.

It was the very thought that Gareth was having.
What would happen in the aftermath of such a chaotic assassination? If it had
been clean and simple, and the blame pinned on someone else, then Gareth’s plan
would have been perfect—the throne would fall to him. After all, he was the
first-born, legitimate son. His father had ceded power to Gwendolyn, but no one
was present at that meeting except for his siblings, and his wishes were never
ratified. Gareth knew the council, and knew how seriously they took the law. Without
a ratification, his sister could not rule.

Which, again, led to him. If due process took its
course—and Gareth was determined to make sure it did—then the throne would have
to fall on him. That was the law.

His siblings would fight him, he had no doubt. They
would recall their meeting with their father, and probably insist that Gwendolyn
rule. Kendrick would not try to take power for himself—he was too pure-hearted.
Godfrey was apathetic; Reese was too young. Gwendolyn was his only real threat.
But Gareth was optimistic: he didn’t think the council was ready for a woman—much
less a teenage girl—to rule the Ring. And without a ratification from the king,
they had the perfect excuse to pass her over.

The only real threat left in Gareth’s mind was
Kendrick. After all, he, Gareth, was universally hated while Kendrick was loved
among the common men, among the soldiers. Given the circumstance, there was
always the chance of their wanting to hand the throne to Kendrick. The sooner
Gareth could take power, the sooner he could use his powers to quash Kendrick.

Gareth felt a tug at his hand, and looked down to
see the knotted rope burning his palm. He realized they had begun lowering his father’s
coffin; he looked over and saw his other siblings, each holding a rope like he,
slowly lowering it. Gareth’s end tilted, as he was late lowering, and he
reached out and grabbed the rope with his other hand until finally it leveled
out. It was ironic: even in death, he could not please his father.

Distant bells tolled, coming from the castle, and Argon
stepped forward and raised a palm.

“Itso ominus
domi ko resepia…”

The lost language of the Ring, the royal language,
used by his ancestors for a thousand years. It was a language his private
tutors had drilled into him as a boy—and one he would need as he assumed his royal
powers.

Argon suddenly stopped, looked up, and stared right
at Gareth. It sent a chill through Gareth’s spine, as Argon’s translucent eyes
seemed to burn right through him. Gareth’s face flushed, and he wondered if the
whole kingdom was watching, and if any knew what it meant. In that stare, he felt
that Argon knew of his involvement. And yet Argon was mysterious, always
refusing to get involved in the twists and turns of human fate. Would he stay quiet?

“King MacGil was a good king, a fair king,” Argon
said slowly, his voice deep and unearthly.

“He brought pride and honor to his ancestors, and riches and peace to this
kingdom unlike any we’ve ever known. His life was taken prematurely, as the Gods
would have it. But he left behind a legacy deep and rich. Now it is up to us to
fulfill that legacy.”

Argon paused.

“Our kingdom of the Ring is surrounded by threats
deep and ominous on all sides. Beyond our Canyon, protected only by our energy
shield, lie a nation of savages and creatures that would tear us apart. Within
our Ring, opposite our Highlands, lies a clan that would do us harm. We live in
unmatched prosperity and peace; yet our security is fleeting.

“Why do the gods take someone away from us in his
prime—a good and wise and fair king? Why was his destiny to be murdered this
way? We are all merely pawns, puppets in fate’s hand. Even at the height of our
power, we can end up beneath the earth. The question we must grapple with is
not what we strive for—but who we strive to be.”

Argon lowered his head, and Gareth felt his palms
burning as they lowered the coffin all the way; it finally hit the ground with
a thud.

“NO!” came a shriek.

It was Gwendolyn. Hysterical, she ran for the edge
of the pit, as if to throw herself in; Reese ran forward and grabbed her, held
her back. Kendrick stepped up to help.

But Gareth felt no sympathy for her; rather, he
felt threatened. If she wanted to be under the earth, he could arrange that.

Yes, indeed, he could.

*

Thor stood just feet away from King MacGil’s body as
he watched it lowered into the earth, and felt overwhelmed by the site. Perched
on the edge of the highest cliff of the kingdom, the king had chosen a
spectacular place to be buried, a lofty place, which seemed to reach into the
clouds themselves. The clouds were tinged with orange and greens and yellows
and pinks, as the first of the rising suns crawled its way higher into the sky.
But the day was covered with a mist that would not rise, as if the kingdom
itself were mourning. Krohn, beside him, whimpered.

Thor heard a screech, and looked up to see Ephistopheles,
circling high above, looking down on them. Thor was still numb; he could hardly
believe the events of the last few days, that he was standing here now, in the
midst of the king’s family, watching this man he had grown so quickly to love
be lowered into the earth. It seemed impossible. He had barely begun to know him,
the first man that had ever been like a real father, and now he was being taken
away. More than anything, Thor could not stop thinking of the king’s final
words.

You are not
like the others. You are special. And until you understand who you are, our
kingdom will never rest at ease.

What had he meant by that? Who was he, exactly? How
was he special? How did the king know? What did the fate of the kingdom have to
do with Thor? Had he just been delirious?

There is a
great land, far from here. Beyond the Empire. Beyond even the land of the
Dragons. It is the land of the Druids. Where your mother is from. You must go
there to seek the answers.

How had MacGil known about his mother? How had he
known where she lived? And what sort of answers did she have? Thor could not
stop thinking about her. He had always assumed she was dead. The idea that she
could be alive electrified him. He felt determined, more than ever, to seek her
out, to find her. To find the answers, to discover who he was, why he was
special.

As a bell tolled and MacGil’s corpse began to
lower, Thor wondered about the cruel twists and turns of fate; why had he been
allowed to see the future, to see this great man killed—yet made powerless to
do anything about it? In some ways, he wished he had never seen any of this, had
never known in advance what would happen; he wished he had just been an
innocent bystander like the rest, just woken one day to learn that the king was
dead. Now he felt as if he were a part of it. Somehow, he felt guilty, as if he
should have done more.

Thor wondered what would become of the kingdom now.
It was a kingdom without a king. Who would reign? Would it be, as everyone speculated,
Gareth? Thor could not imagine anything worse.

Thor scanned the crowd and saw the stern faces of
the nobles and lords, gathered here from all corners of the Ring; he knew them
to be powerful men, from what Reese had told him, in a restless kingdom. He
could not help wondering who the killer could be. In all those faces, it seemed
as if everyone were suspect. All of these men would be vying for power. Would
the kingdom splinter into parts? Would their forces be at odds with each other?
And what would become of he, Thor? And of the Legion? Would it be disbanded? Would
the army be disbanded? Would The Silver revolt if Gareth was named king?

And after all that had happened, would the others
truly believe that Thor was innocent? Would he be forced to return to his village?
He hoped not. He loved everything he had; he wanted more than anything to stay
here, in this place, in the Legion. He just wanted everything to be as it was,
wanted nothing to change. The kingdom, just days ago, had seemed so substantial,
so permanent; MacGil had seemed like he would hold the throne forever. If something
so secure, so stable could suddenly collapse—what hope did that leave for the
rest of them? Nothing felt permanent to Thor anymore.

Thor’s heart broke as he watched Gwendolyn try to
jump into the grave with her father. As Reese held her back, attendants came
forward and began shoveling the mound of dirt into the pit, while Argon
continued his ceremonial chanting. A cloud passed in the sky, blotting out the
sun for a moment, and Thor felt a cold wind whip through on this warm summer
day. He heard a whining, and looked down and saw Krohn at his feet, looking up.

Thor hardly knew what would become of anything
anymore, but he knew one thing: he had to talk to Gwen. He had to tell her how
sorry he was, tell her how distraught he was, too, over her father’s death, tell
her that she was not alone. Even if she decided to never see him again, he had
to let her know that he had been falsely accused, that he hadn’t done anything
in that brothel. He needed a chance, just one chance, to set the record
straight, before she dismissed him for good.

As the final shovelful of dirt was thrown on the
king and the bells tolled again and again, finally, the crowd rearranged
itself: rows of people stretched as far as Thor could see, winding their way
along the cliff, each holding a single black rose, lining up to pass the fresh
mound of dirt that marked the king’s grave. Thor stepped forward, knelt down,
and placed his rose on the already growing pile. Krohn whined.

As the crowd began to disperse, people milling
about in every direction, Thor noticed Gwendolyn break free from Reese’s grip
and run, hysterical, away from the grave.

“Gwen!” Reese called out after her.

But she was inconsolable. She cut through the thick
mob and ran down a dirt trail along the cliff’s edge. Thor could not stand to
see her like that; he had to try to speak with her.

Thor burst through the crowd himself, Krohn at his
heels, weaving this way and that as the crowd grew thick, trying to follow her
trail, to catch up with her. Finally, he broke free from the outskirts and spotted
her running, far away from the others.

“Gwendolyn!” he screamed out.

She kept running, and Thor chased after her,
running double speed, Krohn yelping alongside him. Thor ran faster and faster,
until his lungs burned, and finally, he managed to close the gap between them.

He grabbed one of her arms, stopping her.

She wheeled, her eyes red, flooded with tears, her
long hair clinging to her cheeks, and threw his hand off.

“Leave me be!” she screamed. “I don’t want to see
you! Ever again!”

“Gwendolyn,” Thor pleaded, “I did not kill your
father. I had nothing to do with his death. He said so himself. Don’t you
realize that? I was trying to save him, not to hurt him.”

She tried to flee, but he held her wrist and did
not let her go. He could not let her go—not this time. She struggled against
him, but did not try to run anymore. She was too busy, weeping.

“I know you didn’t kill him,” she said. “But that
doesn’t make you any better. How dare you come and try to speak with me after you
humiliated me in front of all the others? Especially now, of all times.”

“But you don’t understand. I didn’t do anything at
that brothel. It was all lies. None of it is true. Someone is trying to slander
me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“So then are you telling me you did not go to that
brothel?”

Thor hesitated, unsure what to say.

“I did. I went with all the others.”

“And are you saying you did not enter a room with
some strange woman?”

Thor looked down, embarrassed, unsure how to
respond.

“I suppose I did, but—”

“No buts,” she interrupted. “You admit it then. You’re
disgusting. I want nothing more to do with you.”

Her face transformed from distraught to furious.
She stopped her crying, as her expression changed to one of rage. She got very
calm, got close to him, and said.

“I never want to see your face. Never again. Do you
understand me? I don’t know what I was thinking to spend any time with you at
all. My mother was right. You are just a commoner. You are beneath me.”

Her words stung him to his very soul. He felt as if
he’d been stabbed.

He let go of her wrist, took several steps back.
Perhaps Alton had been right after all. Perhaps he had just been another
plaything for her.

He turned without another word and headed away from
her, Krohn at his side, and for the first time since he had arrived, he wondered
if there were anything left for him here.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Gwendolyn stood there, at the edge of
the cliff, watching Thor walk away, and feeling more torn apart by anguish than
she ever had. First her father; now Thor. It was a day unlike any she had ever
had. She could not even describe the unfathomable grief that tore her part at
the thought of her father being dead. Dead by some assassin’s hand, taken away
from her without even a moment’s notice. It just wasn’t fair. He was the light
of her life, and some stranger had taken him away from her for good.

When Gwen had discovered the news, she
had wanted to die herself. Last night had been like one long nightmare, and
this morning, like the peak of it. As his body went into the earth, she had wanted
to leap in with him, and never come out.

When Gwen burst from the crowd, she had
even been thinking about jumping over the edge of the cliff herself. Until Thor
arrived.

Seeing him, in some strange way, snapped
her out of it, had made things better, had taken her mind off her
father—although in another way, it had also made things far worse. She was still
furious with him, still burned with anger for his making a fool of her in that
brothel. She had taken a chance by being with a commoner, and he had proved everyone
right about her recklessness. Including her mother. She felt shamed beyond what
she could imagine.

And now the gall of him, to show up here,
to try to make things right, while he himself admitted that he had been there, with
that woman. The thought of it was enough to make her sick.

As she watched Thor hurry off, down the
trail, away from the cliff, Krohn beside him, despite herself she felt a sense
of longing, of despair; she wondered how things could get any worse. She looked
out over the endless expanse, over the dips and valleys of the Kolvian Cliffs,
looking westward over the kingdom. She knew that somewhere, farther than she
could see, lay the Highlands, and beyond that the McCloud’s kingdom. She
wondered if her sister was already over there, with her new husband, if she
were enjoying her life. She was lucky to be far from here.

But then again, her sister had never
been that close with their father, and she wondered if she would even care if
she heard news of his demise. She, Gwen, of all of them, had been the closest
to him. Reese and Kendrick had been close, too, and she could see how hard it hit
them. Godfrey had hated their father, though now, looking at him, she was
surprised to see his upset, too. And then there was Gareth. He still looked as
cold and emotionless as ever, even with their father’s death. He had looked preoccupied.
As if his eyes were already on the power he so desperately wanted to seize.

The thought of it made her shudder. She remembered
her father’s fateful speech, his assigning the rule of the kingdom to her for
some far-off day, for a day she was sure she would never see. She remembered her
vow to him, her promise that she would rule. And now, here she was, the kingdom
plopped into her hand. Would they make her rule? She hoped not. How could she?
And yet, she had vowed to her father that she would. What was to become of her?

“There you are,” came a voice.

Gwen turned to see Reese, standing a few
feet away, looking at her with concern.

“I was worried for you.”

“What did you think, I was going to
jump?” she snapped back at him, too harsh. She didn’t mean for it to come out
that way, but she was reeling, barely able to control herself.

“No, of course not,” Reese said. “I was
just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I am
your older sister. I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Reese said,
defensive. “I just want you know…you’re not the only one who’s suffering. I
loved father, too.”

Gwen thought about that. She saw the
tears in his eyes and knew that he was right; she was being selfish. Their
father’s death was hurting them all.

“I am sorry,” she said softly. “I know
you did. And I know he loved you, too. Very much. In fact, I think he saw
himself most in you.”

Reese looked up at her with a hopeful,
sad look. He looked so lost, her heart broke for him. Who would raise him now? she
wondered. He was fourteen, not a boy, but hardly a man. This was the time a boy
needed his father the most, needed a man to model after. Since the news of his
death, her mother had been nearly catatonic, withdrawn, not present for any of
them. Her older sister was gone; Gareth was never present; Godfrey lived in the
alehouse; and Kendrick lived on the battlefield. Gwen felt that it fell on her
to be Reese’s mother and father.

“You are going to be fine,” she said,
gaining courage herself as she said it. “We are all going to be fine.”

“Did I see Thor come this way?” Reese asked.

The thought of it made Gwen’s stomach
turn.

“He did,” she answered flatly. “And I sent
him on his way.”

“What do you mean?” Recessed asked
warily. “I thought you two were close.”

She grunted.

“Not anymore. Not after what he did.”

“What did he do?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“As if to tell me you don’t know? As if
to tell me the whole kingdom does not know what a fool he has made of me?”

“A fool? What are you talking about?”
Reese asked, sounding genuinely curious.

She studied him and could see he
genuinely did not seem to know, which surprised her. She had imagined that the
whole kingdom knew, and was making fun of her behind her back. Maybe it was not
as bad as she had imagined; maybe it was not as bad as Alton had said.

“I heard all about his exploits at the
brothel. His time with those women,” she said.

Reese’s face dropped.

“And who did you hear this from?”

Gwen paused, suddenly not so sure of
herself.

“Why, Alton, of course.”

Reese grinned.

“And you believed it?”

Gwen stared back, feeling a flutter in
her chest, beginning to wonder if she had made some sort of awful mistake.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I was there with him that day,” Reese
said. “In the brothel. We all were. The entire Legion. After the hunt. He did
nothing wrong. It was more tavern than brothel. In fact, I was by his side when
the women came out. He had been surprised to discover there were any women
there at all. He had, in fact, tried to flee. The men shoved him forward. He
did not go forward willingly.”

“But still, he went forward,” Gwen said
accusingly.

Reese shook his head adamantly.

“You have been misinformed. Thor did
nothing. He reached the landing and passed out. He hit the floor before a woman
could lay a hand on him. He did not touch any woman, I assure you. Alton was
lying to you. It was Alton that made a fool of you. Your pride remains intact.”

Gwen felt her whole body flush at his
words. She felt overwhelmed with relief, but also with shame. She had been
wrong about Thor. She thought of her harsh words to him. She had never meant to
call him a commoner; she had not known why she’d said that. She sounded so haughty,
so arrogant; she was disgusted with herself.  How could she have been so cruel?

“What did you say to him exactly?” Reese
asked.

Gwen lowered her chin.

“Something stupid. Very, very stupid. Something
I did not mean.”

Gwen felt overwhelmed; she reached in
and gave Reese a hug, and he hugged her back. She cried over his shoulder.

“I miss our father,” she said.

“I know,” Reese said over her shoulder, his
words muffled. “I miss him, too.”

Reese pulled back and looked at her.

“I will talk to Thor. Whatever you said,
I will try to smooth it over.”

Gwen slowly shook her head, unsure.

“Some things cannot be taken back,” she
said softly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gareth walked with his brothers,
Kendrick, Godfrey and Reese, and with his sister, Gwen, into the huge castle
hall, packed with hundreds of the king’s men, who milled about in an agitated
way. The small group of them were ushered through the crowd, as knights from
all provinces of the Ring reached out to offer condolences as they went.

“We loved your father, sire,” said a
knight to Gareth, a burly man he had never met. “He was a great king.”

Gareth did not know these men—and he did
not care to know them. He did not want their sympathy. It was a sympathy he did
not share. Now that he had time to reflect on it, to let the reality of it sink
in, he was glad his father was dead. His father had never held any love for
him, and while the night before Gareth had initially been torn over it, he was
beginning to feel differently about the matter. He now felt a great sense of relief—even
victorious—that his assassination plot had succeeded. Although he had not
actually killed him himself, and although he had not even died in the way he
had planned, at least he had set the plan into motion. Without him, none of
this would have ever happened.

Gareth looked around at these knights, at
this great crowd, so chaotic, and was shocked to realize that he was
responsible for all this. He had single-handedly changed the lives of all of
these men, whether they knew it or not.

The
group of siblings was ushered through the crowd by several attendants, as they
headed for the distant hall, where the king’s council was waiting to meet with
them all. Gareth felt a knot in his chest as they marched forward, wondering
what lay in store for them. Of course, they had to name a successor. They could
not leave the kingdom to go on without one, like a ship without a rudder.
Gareth hoped that they would name him. Who else could they name?

Maybe they would use the meeting to
name his sister as ruler. He
looked at his siblings all around him, their faces set, grim and silent, and
wondered if they would fight for the throne. They probably would;
they all hated him, and after all, their father had made it clear that he
wanted Gwen to rule. This was the one moment in his life that he really needed
to fight. If he walked out of this meeting successful, he would walk out as
ruler of the kingdom.

Yet he also wondered, with a sinking
feeling, if maybe he was walking into a setup. Maybe they were summoning him to
accuse him, in front of everyone, to present evidence that he had killed his
father; maybe they would drag him off to be executed. His emotions swayed from
optimism to anxiety, as he marveled at what drastic outcomes the meeting could
have.

Finally they made it through the crowd,
who were clearly waiting to hear the rulings of the council, and were ushered
through an open arched door, promptly closed behind them by four guards.

Spread out before them was the grand,
semi-circular table of the council, behind which sat the advisers to the king—in
the same place they had sat for hundreds of years. It was strange to walk in here and not
see his father seated on that throne. The huge, carved throne sat empty, for
the first time in his life. The councilmembers faced it, as if waiting for a ruler
to drop down from the sky and lead them.

The group of them walked down the center
of the room, Gareth’s heart thumping, between the two halves of the semi-circular
table, and found themselves, as they turned, standing before the dozen
councilmembers. They all stared back, grim, and Gareth could not help but wonder
if this were an inquisition. Seated with them, in a dainty throne off to the
side, flanked by her attendants, was his mother. She watched over the
proceedings with a blank face, and looked frozen in shock.

Seated at the center of the table was Aberthol, the
oldest of the bunch, a scholar and historian, mentor of kings for three
generations, looking
positively ancient, etched with wrinkles, wearing his long, regal purple robe which
he had probably worn since the days when his father was a boy. Being the
eldest, and the wisest, the other council members clearly looked to him to lead
the proceedings. He was flanked by Brom, Kolk, Owen, the treasurer, Bradaigh, his
adviser on external affairs; Earnan, his tax collector; Duwayne, his adviser on
the masses; and Kelvin, the representative of the nobles. It was a formidable group of men, and
Gareth examined them all, trying to see if any were preparing to condemn him. None
seemed to stare at him directly.

Aberthol cleared his throat as he looked
down at a scroll, then looked up silently at the group of siblings.

“Our council wishes to begin by
extending our sincerest condolences for the death of your father. He was a
great man, and a great king. His presence in this chamber, and in this kingdom,
will be sorely missed. I think it’s fair to say that this kingdom will never be
the same without him. I had known him since the time he could walk, I counseled
his father before him, and he was a dear friend to me. We will do everything in
our power to find his assassin.”

Aberthol slowly surveyed them, and
Gareth tried not to be paranoid as he saw him looking at him.

“I have known the lot of you since you
were born; I am certain that your father is very proud of you. As much as we
would like to give you time to mourn, there are pressing matters of ruling this
kingdom that must be addressed. Which is why we have summoned you here today.”

He cleared his throat.

“The most pressing matter is our inquiry
into your father’s assassination. We will gather a commission to investigate
the cause and manner of his death, and to bring the killer to justice. Until we
do, I think it is safe to say that no member of this kingdom will sit at ease.
Including myself.”

Gareth could have sworn he saw his eyes
stop at him, and he wondered if he were giving him a message. He looked away,
trying not to let his mind go there. Gareth’s mind raced, as he scrambled to
come up with a plan to divert attention away from him. He needed to frame a
killer, and he needed to do it quickly.

“In the meantime, we sit in a kingdom without
a king. It is a restless empire, and this is not a safe place to be. The longer
we lack a ruler, the longer others may conspire to seize power, to overthrow
the royal court. I needn’t tell you that there are many men that would like to
have the throne.”

He sighed.

“The law of the Ring holds that the kingship
must pass to the firstborn son of the father. In this case, it pains me to add,
the firstborn legitimate son—with no
offense meant to you, Kendrick.”

Kendrick bowed his head.

“None taken, sire.”

“That would mean then,” Aberthol said,
clearing his throat, “that the kingship must pass to Gareth.”

Gareth felt a thrill at his words. He felt
a rush of power beyond what he could describe.

“But my Liege, what of our sister,
Gwendolyn?” Kendrick shot back.

“Gwendolyn?” Aberthol asked, surprise in
his voice.

“Before our father died,” Kendrick
continued, “he told us it was his wish that Gwendolyn should succeed him.”

Gareth’s face burned red, as the entire
council turned and stared at Gwendolyn. She looked down to the ground, distraught,
maybe even embarrassed. He assumed she was just putting on a show of humility.
She probably wanted to rule even more than he.

“Is this true, Gwendolyn?” Aberthol
asked.

“It is, my lord,” she answered softly,
still looking down. “It is what my father wished. He made me vow to him that I
would accept. And I vowed. I wish I hadn’t. I can think of nothing I want less.”

An excited and disturbed gasp spread amongst
the council members, as they turned to each other, clearly caught off guard.

“A woman has never ruled the kingdom,” Brom
said, agitated.

“Much less a young girl,” Kolk added.

“If we were to hand over the kingship to
a girl,” Kelvin said, “surely the nobles would rebel, would vie for power. It
would put us in a position of weakness.”

“Not to mention the McClouds,” Bradaigh added. “They would attack. They would test
us.”

Aberthol raised a hand, and slowly, they
all quieted. He sat there, looking down at the table, lowering his hand, his palm
flat on it, and looked like an ancient tree, rooted to the place.

“Whether the king wished for it or not,
it is not for us to say. That is not the issue here. The law is the issue. And
legally speaking, our late king’s most unusual choice of an heir was never
ratified. And without ratification, it is not law.”

“But it would have been ratified at the
next council meeting!” Kendrick said.

“Perhaps,” Aberthol responded, “but to
his bad fortune, that meeting had not yet come. Thus, we have no written
record, and no ratification into law.”

“But we have witnesses!” Kendrick yelled
out, impassioned.

“It is true!” Reese yelled out. “I was
there!”

“As was I!” Godfrey yelled.

Gareth held his tongue, even as the
others looked at him. Inside, he was burning with rage. He felt as if his
dreams of being king were crumbling all around him. He despised his siblings
more than ever, who all seemed to gang up on him.

“I’m afraid that witnesses alone do not
suffice when it comes to a matter as important as the kingship,” Aberthol said.
“All official decrees must be ratified by the council. Without this, they
cannot become law. Which means the law must stand as it always has, for
centuries of MacGil kings: the eldest, the firstborn, must inherit. I am sorry,
Gwendolyn.”

“Mother!” Kendrick yelled, pleading,
turning towards the Queen. “You know father’s wishes! Do something! Tell them!”

But the queen sat there, hands folded in
her lap, staring into space. She was in a catatonic state, and she was
inscrutable.

After several moments of silence,
Kendrick finally turned back to the council.

“But it is not right!” he yelled. “Whether
ratified or not, it was the king’s will. Our father’s will. You all served him.
You should respect that. Gareth should not rule. Gwendolyn should.”

“My dear brother, please, it is OK,”
Gwen said softly to Kendrick, laying a hand on his wrist.

“And who is to say that I should not rule?” Gareth finally
yelled back, seething, unable to take it anymore. “I am the king’s firstborn
son, after all. Unlike you,” he spat to Kendrick.

Gareth’s face burned with anger, and he
immediately regretted it. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut, should
have waited and let it seem as if the kingship fell to him unwanted. But he was
unable to contain himself. He could tell by the look in Kendrick’s eyes that he’d
hurt him with his words. He was glad that he did.

“Suffice all of this say,” Aberthol said
slowly, “that the law is the law. I am sorry. But Gareth, son of King MacGil,
in accordance with the ancient law of the Ring, I hereby proclaim you to be the
eighth MacGil king of the Western Kingdom of the Ring. Hear ye all here
assembled: do you hear our proclamation?”

“Hear ye!” came the response.

An iron staff was slammed, and a
metallic ring boomed through the room.

Gareth flinched, feeling his whole body
shake. With that boom, he felt himself transported.

With that sound, he was King.

He could not believe it.

He was King.

CHAPTER NINE

King McCloud rode at the head of the small military
contingent, dressed in his battle gear, wearing the distinctive burnt-orange armor
of the McClouds. A tall, stout man, twice as wide as any other, there was
little fat on him; with a short, cropped red beard, long hair mostly gray, a wide
nose, crushed in from too many battles, and an even wider jaw, he was a man who
feared nothing in life. He was already, having just reached his fiftieth year,
famed as the most aggressive and brutal McCloud that had lived. It was a reputation
he cherished.

McCloud was a man who had always squeezed from life
whatever it could give him. And what it would not give him, he would take. In
fact, he liked to take, more than to receive; he enjoyed making others
miserable, and enjoyed ruling his kingdom with an iron fist. He enjoyed showing
no mercy, keeping his soldiers in line with a discipline unlike any McCloud had
ever wielded. And it worked. His dozen men rode behind him now in perfect
order, and none would ever dare speak back to him, or do the smallest thing
against his will. That included his son, the prince, who rode close behind him,
and a dozen of his best archers, who rode behind his son.

McCloud and his men had been riding hard all day.
They had breached the Eastern Crossing of the Canyon early in the morning, and his
small armed contingent had continued east, charging without a break through the
dusty plains of the Nevari, on guard for an ambush. They rode and rode, as the
second sun rose and slipped. Now, finally, covered in dust from the plains, McCloud
spotted the Ambrek Sea on the horizon.

The galloping of horses filled his ears and now, the
smell of the ocean air reached him. It was a cool summer afternoon, the second
sun long in the sky, casting shades of turquoise and pink on the horizon.
McCloud felt his hair being blown back in the wind, and looked forward to arriving
on the shore. It had been years since he had seen the ocean: it was too risky
to venture here lightly given that they had to breach the Canyon and then ride fifty
miles in unprotected territory. Of course, the McClouds had their own fleet of
ships in the waters, as the MacGils had on their side of the Ring—but still, it
was always a risky business, being beyond the energy shield of the Canyon.
Every now and again the Empire took out one of their ships, and there was
little the McClouds could do about it. The Empire vastly outnumbered them.

But this time, it was different. A McCloud ship had
been intercepted at sea by the Empire, and usually, the Empire took the McClouds
for ransom. McCloud had never paid a single ransom, something he was proud of;
instead, he always let the Empire kill his men. He refused to embolden them.

But something had shifted, because this time they
had freed his men and sent the ship back with a message: they wanted to meet
with McCloud. McCloud assumed it could be only about one thing: breaching the
Canyon. Invading the Ring. And partnering with them to take down the MacGils. For
years, the Empire had been trying to convince the McClouds to allow them to
breach the Canyon, the energy shield, to let them inside the Ring so that they
could conquer and dominate the last remaining territory on the planet. In
returned, they promised a sharing of power.

The question burning in McCloud’s mind was this:
what was in it for him? How much would the Empire be willing to give him? For
years, he had turned down their overtures. But now, things were different. The
MacGils had grown too strong, and McCloud was beginning to realize that he might
not ever achieve his dream of controlling the Ring without foreign help.

As they neared the beach, McCloud glanced over his
shoulder at his son’s new bride, riding with him, his trophy wife from the
MacGils. How stupid MacGil had been to give his daughter away. Had he really
thought this would cause peace between them? Did he think McCloud was that soft,
that dumb? Of course, McCloud had accepted the bride, just as he would accept a
herd of cattle. It was always good to have possessions, to have bargaining
chips. But that didn’t make him ready for peace. If anything, it emboldened
him. It made him want to take over the MacGil side of the Ring even more, especially
after that wedding, after entering King’s Court and seeing their bounty. McCloud
wanted it all for himself. He burned
to have it all for himself.

They rode onto the sand, the horses’ hooves
sinking, his weight shifting, as the group of them neared the water’s edge. The
cool mist struck McCloud in the face, and it felt good to be back here, on this
shore he hadn’t seen for years. Life had made him too busy as a King; it was on
days like this that he resolved to give up all of his duties, to spend more
time living again.

Above the waves, in the distance, he could already
see the caravan of black Empire ships: they sailed with a yellow flag, with an
emblem of a black shield in its center, two horns protruding from it. The
closest was hardly a hundred yards from shore, anchored, clearly awaiting their
arrival. Behind it sat two dozen more. McCloud wondered; was this just a show
of strength? Or was the Empire going to ambush them? This was the chance he
took. McCloud hoped it was the former. After all, killing him would do no good:
it would not help them breach the Canyon, which was what they really wanted. This
was why McCloud only brought a dozen men with him: he figured it would make him
seem stronger. Though he did bring a dozen of his best archers, all with poisoned
arrows at the ready, in case something should happen.

McCloud stopped at the water’s edge and his men
stopped around him, their horses breathing hard. He dismounted and the others
followed, huddled close around him. The Empire must have spotted them, because
McCloud saw a small wooden boat lowered down its side, towards the water,
inside it at least a dozen of those savages. They were preparing to come ashore.
McCloud looked at those sails and felt his stomach turn: he hated dealing with
these savages, these creatures who he knew would gladly betray him, would gladly
breach the Canyon and override both sides of the Ring if they could.

McCloud’s men gathered close around him.

“At any sign of trouble, light your arrows and let
them fly. Aim for their sails. You can set the whole fleet on fire with a dozen
arrows each.”

“Yes, sire,” came the chorus of voices.

His son, Devon, stood at his side, while his newfound
wife, the MacGil woman, next to him, looking nervously at the water. It had
been McCloud’s idea to bring the woman here. He wanted to instill fear in her.
He wanted her to know that she was McCloud property now, that she relied on
them and them solely for her safety. He wanted her to learn that her father and
his kingdom were far behind, and that she would never return.

It was working. She stood there, terrified,
practically clinging to Devon’s side. Devon, the stupid son that he was,
reveled in it. He didn’t realize the value in any of this. To McCloud’s
disgust, it even looked like he was smitten by the girl.

“What do you think they want from us?” Devon asked
him, coming up close.

“What else could they want?” McCloud snapped. “Stupid
boy. To open the gates to the Canyon.”

“Will you let them? Will you make a deal with them,
father?”

McCloud turned and glared at his boy, sending his
wrath through his eyes, until finally his boy looked away.

“I never discuss my thoughts with anyone. You will
know my decision when I make it. In the meantime, stand and watch. And learn.”

They all stood there in the thick silence as the
Empire boat neared shore. It was still several minutes away, rowing hard
against the waves, which crashed outward, towards the sea, in these strange
currents of the Ambrek. They broke about a hundred yards out, and one had to
fight them, to get over them, to make it to shore. It made McCloud happy he was
not rowing: he remembered from his youth what hard work it was, as he watched
the boat crest and crash in wave after wave.

Suddenly, McCloud heard the galloping of a horse.
It made no sense: there was supposed to be no one within miles of him, and he
was immediately on guard. His men spun, too, and they all drew their swords and
bows, as they prepared for an attack. McCloud had feared this: had it all just
been a trap?

But as he watched the horizon, he did not see an
army approach; he was confused by what he saw. It was a single horse, galloping
over the plains, raising a cloud of dust, and continuing to ride right onto the
beach, right for them. The man who rode was one of his: dressed in orange, with
the blue stripes of a messenger across his shoulders.

A messenger, racing towards them, in this barren
place. He must have followed them all the way from the kingdom. McCloud
wondered: what could be so urgent that his people would send him a messenger
here, in this place? It must be significant news.

The messenger rode right up to them and dismounted
from his horse while it had barely stopped. He stood there, reeling hard,
gasping for air, took several steps toward McCloud, and kneeled down before
him, bowing his head

“My liege, I bring you news from the kingdom,” he
said, gasping.

“What is it, then?” McCloud snapped, impatient,
checking back over his shoulder at the Empire ship, rowing its way closer. Why,
now, of all moments, had this messenger had to come? At the moment when he most
needed to stand on guard against the Empire?

“Quickly, out with it!” McCloud yelled.

The messenger stood, breathing hard.

“My liege, the MacGil king is dead.”

A surprised gasp erupted from his men—most of all,
from McCloud himself.

“Dead?” he asked, uncomprehending. He had just left
him, a king at the height of his power.

“Murdered,” the messenger replied. “Stabbed to
death in his chamber.”

A horrible shriek arose beside him, and McCloud
turned to see the MacGil daughter, wailing, flailing her arms hysterically.

“NO!” she screamed. “My father!”

She was shrieking and flailing, and Devon tried to
stop her, to grab her arms, but she could not be pacified.

“Let me go!” she cried. “I must go back. Right now!
I must see him!”

“He’s dead,” Devon said to her.

“NO!” she wailed.

McCloud could not afford to have the Empire see one
of their women screaming, out of control. Nor did he want her to give away the
news. He had to quiet her.

McCloud stepped forward and punched the woman across
the face, so hard, he knocked her out. She collapsed into Devon’s arms—and he
looked up at his father, horrified.

“What have you done?” Devon called out. “She is my
bride!” he snapped, indignant.

“She is my property,” McCloud corrected. He glared
at his son long enough, until his son looked away.

McCloud turned back to the messenger.

“Are you certain he’s dead?”

“Quite certain, sire. Their entire side of the Ring
mourns. His funeral was this morning. He is dead.

“What’s more,” the messenger added, “they have already
named a new king. His firstborn son. Gareth.”

Gareth, McCloud thought. How perfect. The weakest
of the lot, the one who would make the worst king. McCloud could not have asked
for better news.

McCloud nodded slowly, rubbing his beard, taking it
all in. This was opportune news, indeed. MacGil, his rival, dead, after all
these decades. He could hardly believe it. Assassinated. He wondered by whom.
He would like to thank the man. He was only sorry he had not thought of it
himself. He of course had tried to send assassins over the years, had tried to
infiltrate the court, but had never been successful. And now, one of MacGil’s
own men had succeeded where he could not.

This changed everything.

McCloud turned back, took several steps towards the
sea, and watched the Empire boat get closer and closer. It crested the waves, and
was now hardly thirty yards from shore. MacGil stepped towards the water and
stood there alone, several feet away from the others, hands on his hips,
thinking. This news would change his meeting with the Empire. With MacGil dead,
and with that weakling as king, the MacGils would be vulnerable. Now, indeed,
would be the perfect time to attack. Now they might not even need the help of
the empire.

The boat came to shore, and McCloud stepped back as
it reached the sand, his men flanking him. There were at least a dozen Empire men
inside, rowing hard, all savages, all dressed in the bright red loincloths of
the Wilds. As they all stood, he saw how huge and imposing they were. McCloud
was a huge man himself—but even so, each of these savages was at least a head
taller than he, with broad shoulders, muscles rippling on their red skin. They
had huge jaws, like an animal, their eyes sat too far apart, and their noses
were sunken into their skin in a small triangle. With narrow lips, long fangs,
and curled yellow horns coming from their bald heads, McCloud had to admit to
himself that he felt afraid. These were monsters.

Their leader, Andronicus, stood at the rear of the
boat, and he was even taller than the others. He was a specimen. Nearly twice
as tall as McCloud, his yellow eyes flashed as he smiled an evil smile, showing
rows of sharp teeth. In two strides, he jumped from the boat, and stood there
on the shore. He wore a shining necklace, its rope of gold, and on it hanging
the shrunken heads of his enemies. He reached up and fingered it, and his hands,
like the others, ended in three sharp claws.

As he jumped onto the sand, his men jumped out
around him, forming a semi-circle with their leader in the middle.

Andronicus. McCloud had heard stories of this man.
He had heard of his cruelty, his barbarism, his iron control over the entire Empire,
every single province except the Ring. McCloud had never fully believed the
stories of how imposing he was, not until now, as he stood before him. He felt
it himself. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt in
danger, even with his men around him. He regretted calling this meeting.

Andronicus stepped forward and brought his arms out
wide to his sides, palms up, claws glistening, and smiled a wide smile, more of
a snarl, a gurgling sound like a snarl coming from the back of his throat

“Greetings,” he said, his voice impossibly deep. “We
send you a gift from the Wilds.”

He nodded, and one of his men stepped forward and
held out a large, bejeweled chest. It sparkled in the late afternoon sun, and McCloud
looked down at it and wondered.

The attendant pulled back the lid and reached in,
and held out the severed head of a man. McCloud was horrified as he looked down
at it: the man looked to be in his fifties, eyes wide open in a death stare,
with a bushy black beard, blood still dripping from what was left of his
throat. McCloud stared at it, and wondered. He looked up at Andronicus and
tried to seem unaffected.

“Is it a gift?” McCloud demanded. “Or a threat?”

Andronicus smiled.

“Both,” he answered. “In our kingdom, it is a
ritual to give as a gift the severed head of one of your enemies. It is said
that if you drink the blood from the throat, while it is still fresh, it will
give you the power of many men.”

The attendant reached out and McCloud grabbed the
bloody, matted hair of the skull, and held it out. The look of it disgusted him,
but he did not want to tip his hand to these savages. He calmly reached back
and handed it to one of his people, without looking at it again.

“Thank you,” he said.

Andronicus smiled wider, and McCloud had the
uncanny feeling that he was seeing right through him. He felt off guard.

“Do you know why we have called this meeting?” Andronicus
asked.

“I can guess,” McCloud answered. “You need our help
to access the Ring. To cross the Canyon.”

Andronicus nodded, his eyes twinkling with
something like excitement and lust.

“We want this very badly. And we know that you can
provide this for us.”

“Why don’t you go to the MacGils?” McCloud asked
the question that had been burning on his mind. “Why choose us?”

“They are closed-minded. Unlike you.”

“But why do you think we are different?” McCloud
asked, testing him, wanting to know how much he knew.

“My spies tell us that you and the MacGils do not
get along. You want control of the Ring. But you know by now that you will
never have it. If this is truly what you want, then you need a powerful ally to
help you gain it. You will let us into the Ring. And we will help you gain the
other half of the kingdom.”

McCloud studied him, wondering. Andronicus’ eyes
were inscrutable, large and yellow and flashing; he had no idea what he was
thinking.

“And what’s in it for you?” McCloud asked.

Andronicus smiled.

“Of course, once our army helps you overtake the Ring,
then the Ring will be part of the Empire. You will be one of our sovereign
territories. You will have to answer to me, but you will be free to run it as
you wish. I will allow you to rule all of the Ring. You will keep all the spoils
for yourself. We both win.”

McCloud studied him, rubbing his beard.

“But if I gain all the spoils and can rule it as I
wish, what do you gain?”

Andronicus smiled.

“The Ring is the only kingdom on this planet that I
do not control. And I do not like things that I cannot control.” Suddenly, his
smiled turned into a grimace, and McCloud had a glimpse of his fierceness. “It
sets a bad example for the other kingdoms.”

As the waves crashed all around them and the sun
dipped lower, McCloud stood there, thinking. It was the answer he had expected.
But he still didn’t have the answer to the question burning most in his mind.

“And how do I know I can trust you?” McCloud asked.

Andronicus smiled wide.

“You don’t,” he answered.

The honesty of his answer surprised McCloud, and,
ironically, made him trust him even more.

“But we, too, don’t know if we can trust you,” he
added. “After all, our armies will be vulnerable inside the Ring. You could seal
off the Canyon once we were inside. You could ambush our men. We must trust
each other.”

“But you have far more men than we do,” McCloud
answered.

“But every life is precious,” Andronicus said.

Now McCloud knew that he was lying. Did he really
expect him to believe that? Andronicus had millions of soldiers at his
disposal, and McCloud had heard stories of his sacrificing entire armies,
millions of men, to gain a small piece of ground, just to make a point. Would
he do the same to betray McCloud? Would he let McCloud control the Ring, and
then, one day, when he wasn’t expecting it, kill him, too?

McCloud thought it over. Before today, it had been
a chance he’d be willing to take: after all, it would enable him to control the
entire Ring, to oust the MacGils, and the way McCloud saw it, he could betray
the Empire first, use their men to conquer the Ring, then re-activate the
shield, and kill the Empire men stuck inside.

But after today, after hearing that MacGil was
dead, that Gareth was the new king, McCloud felt differently. He might not need
the Empire after all. If only he had received this message sooner, before he’d
agreed to this meeting. But McCloud didn’t want to completely alienate the
Empire either; they might come in useful, at some later date. He had to stall
them, to buy time while he tried his new strategy.

He reached up and stroked his beard, pretending to
consider the offer, as the waves crashed all around him and the sky turned
purple.

“I am grateful for your offer, and I will consider it
thoroughly.”

Andronicus suddenly stepped forward, so close that
McCloud could smell his awful breath, as he scowled down. He wondered if he had
offended him, and had an impulse to reach down for his sword. But he was too
nervous to do so. He felt this man could tear him in two if he chose.

“Don’t think too long,” he seethed, all his humor
gone. “I don’t like a man who needs time to think. And my offer will not stand
long. If you do not let us in, we will find a way in. And if we find a way in
our own, we will crush you. Keep that in mind as you consider the possibilities.”

McCloud glowered, reddening. No one ever spoke to
him this way.

“Is that a threat?” McCloud asked. He wanted to
sound confident, but despite himself, he found his voice shaking.

A deep, throaty sound rippled through Andronicus’
chest, then up through his throat. At first McCloud thought it was a cough—but
then he realized it was a laugh.

“I never threaten,” he said down to McCloud. “You
will come to learn that about me very, very well.”

CHAPTER TEN

Thor walked with his head down, downcast, kicking
pebbles on the road. Krohn walked at his side and Ephistopheles circled somewhere
high above, as he made his way slowly to the Legion barracks. Since the
funeral, his encounter with Gwen, he felt deflated. The pain of watching MacGil
being lowered into the earth took something out of him—as if a part of him sank
into the earth with him. The king had taken him under his wing, had shown him
kindness, had given him Ephistopheles, had been the only father figure he’d
ever had. He felt as if he owed him something, that it had been his responsibility
to save him, and somehow, he had failed. As the bells had tolled, Thor felt as
if they tolled the announcement of his failure.

Then there was his encounter with Gwen. She hated
him now, that much was obvious. Nothing he could say would change her mind. Even
worse, her true thoughts came out today: she felt he was beneath her. A
commoner. It seemed Alton had been right all the while. The thought of it crushed
him. First he had lost the king; then he had lost the girl he had grown to
love.

As he walked back towards the Legion, he realized it
was the one thing left that he could cling to here. He cared not for his village,
or his father, or his brothers. Without the Legion and Reese—and Krohn—he did
not know what he would have left.

Krohn yelped and Thor looked up and saw the
barracks before him. The king’s banner flew at half mast, and he could already see
dozens of boys sulking, and could tell the mood was somber. It was a day of
mourning here. The king, their leader, had been murdered, and worse, no one
knew who did it, or why. There also seemed to be an air of expectancy. Would
the armies be disbanded? The Legion with it?

Thor saw the wary looks of the boys as he walked
through the large, arched stone gate. They were stopping and staring at him. He
wondered what they thought of him. Just the night before he’d been thrown into
the dungeon, and Thor was sure that the rumor had spread that he had something
to do with poisoning the king. Did these boys know that he was vindicated? Did
they still suspect him? Or did they think he was a hero for trying to save him?

From their looks, he could not tell. But he did
know that the tension in the air was thick, and he could tell that he clearly
had been a subject of conversation.

As Thor entered the large wooden structure of the
barracks, he noticed dozens of boys stuffing their clothes and various objects
into canvas sacks. It looked, oddly, as if the Legion were packing up. Was it
disbanding? he wondered, in a sudden panic.

“There you are,” came a voice he recognized.

He turned to see O’Connor standing there, smiling
in his typical good-natured way, his bright red hair and freckles framing his
face. He reached out and clasped Thor’s forearm.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in days. Are you
okay? I heard you were thrown in the clink. What happened?”

“Hey look, it’s Thor!” yelled a voice.

Thor turned to see Elden hurrying towards him, a
good-natured smile on his face, embracing him. Thor was still amazed at Elden’s
attitude towards him, ever since he had saved his life across the Canyon, especially
when he recalled the hostile greeting Elden had once given him.

Coming up beside him were the twins, Conval and
Conven.

“Glad to have you back,” Conven said, embracing
Thor in a hug.

“And I,” Conval echoed.

Thor was relieved to see them all, especially as he
realized that they did not assume he had anything to do with the murder.

“It’s true,” Thor responded, looking at O’Connor,
not sure which question to answer first. “I was thrown into the dungeon. At
first they thought I had something to do with the king’s poisoning. But after
he was killed, they realized I had nothing to do with it.”

“So they let you free?” O’Connor asked.

Thor thought about that, not quite sure how to
respond.

“Not exactly. I escaped.”

They all looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Escaped?” Elden asked.

“Once I was out, Reese helped me. He brought me to
the king.”

“You saw the king before he died?” Conval asked,
shocked.

Thor nodded back.

“He knows I am innocent.”

“What else did he say?” O’Connor asked.

Thor hesitated. He felt funny telling them about
what the king said about his destiny, about being special. He didn’t want to
seem like he was boasting, or seem delusional, or cause envy. So he decided to
omit that part and just tell them how it ended.

Thor looked him in the eye. “He said: avenge me.”

The others looked at the floor, grim.

“Do you have any idea who did it?” O’Connor asked.

Thor shook his head.

“As much as you do.”

“I would love to catch him,” Conven said.

“As would I,” Elden added.

“But I don’t understand,” Thor said, looking
around, “what is all this packing? It seems as if everyone is getting to leave.”

“We are,” O’Connor said. “Including you.”

O’Connor reached over, grabbed a canvas sack, and
threw it at Thor. It hit Thor hard in the chest, and he grabbed it before it hit
the ground.

“What do you mean?” Thor asked, puzzled.

“The Hundred starts tomorrow,” Elden answered. “We
are all preparing.”

“The Hundred?” Thor asked.

“Do you know nothing?” Conval asked.

“It seems we have to teach this young one
everything,” Conven added.

Conven stepped forward and draped an arm across Thor’s
shoulder.

“Don’t worry, my friend. There’s always much to
learn in the Legion. The Hundred is the Legion’s way of making us all hardened
warriors—and weeding us out. It is a rite of passage. Every year, at
summertime, they send us for a hundred days of the most grueling training you’ll
ever know. Some of us will return. Those who do are granted honors, weapons, and
a permanent place in the Legion.”

Thor looked around, still puzzled. “But why are you
packing?”

“Because the Hundred is not here,” Elden explained.
“They ship us off. Literally. Far from here. We must journey across the Canyon,
into the Wilds, across the Tartuvian Sea, and all the way to the Isle of Mist.
It is a hundred days of hell. We all dread it. But we must go through it, if we
are to stay in the Legion. Our ship sails tomorrow, so pack quickly.”

Thor looked down at the sack in his hand,
unbelieving. He could hardly imagine packing up what few things he had,
crossing the Canyon into the Wilds, boarding a ship, and spending a hundred
days on an island with all the Legion members. The thought of it excited him; it
also terrified him. He’d never been on a ship, had never been across the sea. He
loved the idea of advancing his skills, and he hoped he would make it and not
be weeded out.

“Before you pack, you should report to your knight,”
Conven said. “You are squire to Kendrick now that Erec is gone, aren’t you?”

Thor nodded back. “Yes, is he here?”

“He was outside with some of the other Knights,” he
answered. “He was preparing his horse, and I know he was looking for you.”

As Thor stood there, his mind reeling, the thought
of the Hundred excited him more than he could say. He wanted to be tested, to
be pushed to the extreme, to see if he was as good as the others. And if he
made it back—and he felt sure he would—he would return a stronger warrior.

“Are you sure that I’m included, that I’m allowed
to come, too?” Thor asked.

“Of course you are,” O’Connor said. “Assuming, of
course, your knight doesn’t need you here. You need his permission.”

“Ask him,” Elden said, “and be quick of it. There
is much to do to prepare, and you’re already far behind. The ships will not
wait. And whoever does not go, cannot stay in the Legion.”

“Try the armory,” O’Connor said. “I saw Kendrick there
just an hour ago.”

Thor needed no prodding. He turned and ran from the
barracks, out the door and across the fields, heading for the armory, Krohn
yelping and running at his heels.

In moments he reached it, breathing hard, and there
was Kendrick. He stood there alone, inside the armory, looking up at a wall of halberds.
He looked pensive, intense, lost in thought. Thor felt as if he had intruded on
private time, and felt guilty for interrupting.

Kendrick turned, and his eyes were red from crying.
Thor thought of his father’s funeral, remembered Kendrick lowering him into the
ground, and felt terrible.

“Forgive me, sire,” Thor said, catching his breath.
He could see Kendrick’s grief and felt bad for intruding. “I’m sorry to have
disturbed you. I will leave.”

As Thor turned to leave, his voice rang out.

“No. Stay. I would like to speak with you.”

Thor turned back and waited, quiet, feeling
Kendrick’s pain. Kendrick waited a long time in the silence, examining the
weaponry.

“My father, he loved you very much,” Kendrick said.
“He barely knew you, but I could see his love for you. It was real.”

“Thank you, sire. I loved your father, too.”

“The people in this kingdom, and in the royal
court, they have never considered me to be his true son. Just because I was the
son of another mother.”

Kendrick turned to Thor, a determination in his
eyes.

“But I am
his son. As much as any of the others. He was a father to me. My only father.
My father by blood. Just because we don’t share the same mother, that doesn’t
make me any less,” Kendrick reflected, reaching out and feeling the tip of a
blade mounted on the wall, his eyes misty.

“I didn’t know him long,” Thor said, “but from what
I saw, I could see his love for you, and his approval for you. It seemed to me to
be as real and as strong as it was for any of the others.”

Kendrick nodded, and Thor could see the
appreciation in his eyes.

“He was a good man. He could be a hard man, and a
tough man. But he was a good man, always fair. Our kingdom will not be the same
without him.”

“I wish you could be king,” Thor said. “You would
be the best one to rule.”

Kendrick looked at the blade.

“Our kingdom has its law. And I must abide by it. I
feel no envy for my brother, Gareth. The law dictates that he should rule, and
he will. I do feel upset for my sister, who was passed over. That was not my
father’s wish. But for myself, I feel no regret. I don’t know if Gareth will be
a good King. But that is the law, and the law is not always fair. It is
uncompromising: that is its nature.”

Kendrick turned to Thor and examined him.

“And why have you come here?” he asked.

“Since Erec has left, I am told that I have been
assigned to be your squire now. It is a great honor, sire. I can think of no
finer knight.”

“Ah, Erec,” Kendrick said, looking off, glassy-eyed.
“The finest knight we have. He’s off for his Selection year, is he? Yes, I am
pleased to have you as my squire, though I’m sure it will not last long. He’ll
be back. He can never leave King’s Court for long.”

Kendrick’s expression suddenly morphed to one of
understanding.

“So then you are coming to me to ask for permission
to leave for The Hundred, are you?” he asked.

“Yes, sire. If that is okay with you. If it is not,
I understand, and I am here to serve your needs.”

Kendrick shook his head.

“Every young Legion member must go through The Hundred.
It is a rite of passage. Selfishly, I would like you here, but I will not hold
you back. Go. You’ll come back a stronger warrior and a far better squire.”

Thor was overwhelmed with gratitude towards Kendrick.
He was about to ask him more about what lay in store with The Hundred when suddenly,
the door to the armory burst open.

Thor and Kendrick turned to see Alton standing
there, dressed in his royal finest, flanked by two guards of the royal court.

“There he is!” Alton screamed, pointing a haughty
finger at Thor. “He’s the one who struck me at the feast last night! A commoner,
can you imagine? He struck a member of the royal family. He has violated our
law. Arrest him!”

The two guards began to walk towards Thor, when
Kendrick stepped forward and extracted his sword from his scabbard. The sound
of the metal resonated in the armory, and as Kendrick stood there, fierce, holding
his sword drawn before him, the two guards stopped in their tracks.

“Come any closer and you will pay the price,”
Kendrick threatened.

Thor could hear in his voice something deep and
dark, a tone he had never heard before; the guards must have sensed it, too,
because they dared not move.

“I am a
member of the royal family,” Kendrick corrected. “An immediate member. You, Alton, are not. You are son to a third
cousin to the king. You guards will answer to me before you do to this pretender.
And Thor is my squire. He is not to be touched. Not now or ever.”

“But he broke the law!” Alton whined, bunching his
fists like a baby. “A commoner cannot strike royalty!”

Kendrick smiled.

“In this case, I am very glad he did. In fact if I
were there, I would have struck you myself. Whatever it is that you did, I’m
sure you deserved it—and a lot more.”

Alton scowled, turning red.

“I suggest you guards leave now. Or if you prefer,
come closer, and pay the price. I’m itching to use my sword, actually.”

The two guards gave each other a wary look, them
both turned, re-sheathed their swords, and strutted out the armory. Only Alton
was left there, standing alone, watching in frustration as the guards left.

“I would suggest you follow them quickly, before I
find a good use for this blade in my hands.”

Kendrick took a step forward, and Alton suddenly turned
and ran out the door.

Kendrick, smiling, re-sheathed his sword and turned
to Thor.

Thor was overwhelmed with gratitude, and he felt indebted
to Kendrick, once again.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Thor said.

Kendrick took a step forward and laid a hand on his
shoulder.

“You already have. Just seeing the look on that pip’s
face actually made my day.”

Kendrick laughed and Thor laughed, too. Then
Kendrick looked at him with all seriousness.

“My father did not take people under his wing
lightly. He saw something great in you. I see it, too. You will make us proud.
Go to The Hundred and excel. Go and become the warrior that I know you will be.”

*

Thor walked in the summer fields outside the Legion’s
compound, Krohn beside him, late in the day, the second sun dropping, filling
the sky with spectacular pinks and oranges and purples. Krohn whined in delight
as Thor led him deeper and deeper into the fields, giving him a chance to run,
to play, to chase animals and to catch his dinner. Krohn carried an Ursutuay in
his mouth now, a strange creature about the size of a rabbit, with purple fur
and three heads, which he had proudly caught but minutes before.

Krohn was getting bigger and bigger before his
eyes, now nearly twice the size from when he’d found him, and he was getting
more of a desire to run and move about. Krohn was also becoming more playful,
and he demanded that Thor take him farther and farther, and run with him. If
Thor didn’t run with him as much as he wanted, Krohn would nip playfully at
Thor’s ankles, and not let him alone until Thor chased him. Then, Krohn would
take off with a delighted squeal, until Thor got tired of chasing him.

As the day had grown long, Thor had wanted a break
from the barracks, from all the frantic preparations. He was all packed now, as
was everybody else, and it felt as if they were counting down the hours until
they left the Ring. Thor didn’t know exactly when they were leaving, but he was
told it would be within the next day or two. The mood in the barracks was tense
and edgy, filled with anxiety for the trip to come and mourning for the king.
It was like a time of great change had swept through them suddenly.

Thor wanted one last chance to be alone before the
trip, to clear his head, still swimming with the death of the king, and with his
encounter with Gwendolyn. His mind drifted to thoughts of Erec, of where he
must be now. Would he ever return? He thought of how temporary life could be: everything
seemed so permanent, but it rarely was. It made him feel more alive, and less
alive, at the same time.

“Nothing is as it seems,” came a voice.

Thor wheeled, and was shocked to see Argon,
standing there, dressed in his scarlet robe, holding a staff and looking out to
the distant horizon, into the vast expanse of the open sky. Thor, as always,
wondered how Argon had appeared here so suddenly. Thor looked at him, and felt both
a sense of dread and excitement.

“I was searching for you, after the funeral,” Thor
said. “There are so many questions I have for you. Even before the death. But I
could not find you.”

“I do not always wish to be found,” Argon said. His
eyes were shining, a light blue.

Thor stared at him, wondering how much Argon was
seeing right now. Did he see the future? Would he tell him if he did?

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Thor said, “for The Hundred.”

“I know,” Argon answered.

“Will I return?” Thor asked, dying to know.

Argon looked away.

“Will I still be in the Legion? Will I pass the
test? Become a great warrior?”

Argon stared back, expressionless.

“Many questions,” he said, and turned and looked
away. Thor realized he was not going to respond to any of them.

“If I told you your future, it might affect it,” Argon
added. “Every choice you make, that is what creates it.”

“But I saw MacGil’s future,” Thor said. “In that dream.
I saw that he was going to die. And yet I tried to help and it did no good.
What was the point of my seeing it? What was the point of all that? I wish I’d
never known.”

“Don’t you?” Argon asked. “But your knowing
affected destiny. He was meant to be poisoned. You prevented that.”

Thor stared back, puzzled. He had never thought of
that.

“But he was killed anyway,” Thor said.

“But not by poison. By dagger. And you don’t know
what effect that small change will have on the destiny of this kingdom.”

Thor thought about that, his head hurting. It was
too much for him to comprehend. He didn’t fully understand what Argon was
hinting at.

“The King wanted to see me before he died,” Thor
continued quickly, eager for answers. “Why me? Of all people? And what did he mean,
when he spoke of my mother? Of my destiny being greater than his? Were these
just the words of a dying man?”

“I think you know they were far more than that,” Argon
replied.

“So then it’s true?” Thor asked. “My destiny is
greater even than his? How is that possible? He was a king. I am nothing.”

“Are you, then?” Argon asked back.

Argon took several steps forward, standing feet
away from Krohn, and stared down at him. Krohn whined, and turned and ran away.
Thor felt a chill, as Argon stared right through him.

“God does not choose the arrogant for his will. He
chooses the humble. The least likely. Those overlooked by everyone else. Have
you not considered this? All of your days farming, tending your father’s sheep
in your village. This is a warrior’s—a true warrior’s—foundation. Humility.
Reflection. This is what forges a warrior. Did you never sense it? That you were
greater than what you were? That you were meant for something else?”

Thor thought, and realized that he had sensed it.

“Yes,” Thor responded. “I felt that…maybe I was
meant for greater things.”

“And now that they arrive, you still don’t believe
it?” Argon asked.

“But why me?” Thor asked. “What are my powers? What
is my destiny? Where did I come from? Who was my mother? Why must everything in
life be such a riddle?”

Argon slowly shook his head.

“One day, you will discover these things. But you
have much to learn first. You must first become who you are. Your powers are
deep, but you know not how to wield them. A mighty river flows within you, but
it still lingers beneath the surface. You must bring it forward. You will learn
much in your hundred days. But remember, that will be just the beginning.”

Thor looked up at Argon, wondering how much he saw.

“I feel guilty to live,” Thor said. He wanted desperately
to tell Argon what was on his mind, the one person who could understand. “The king
is dead, and yet I am alive. I feel that his death is on my head. And it hurts
to go on.”

Argon turned and looked at him.

“One king dies and another follows. That is the way
of the world. A throne is not meant to sit empty. Kings will flow, like a
river, through our Ring. All will seem permanent, and all will be fleeting.
Nothing in this world—not you, not I—can stop the current. It is a parade of
puppets, in the service of fate. It is a march of kings.”

Thor sighed, looking out at the horizon for a very
long time.

“The ways of the universe are inscrutable,” he finally
continued. “You will not understand them. Yes, it hurts to go on. But we must.
We have no choice. And remember,” he said, smiling at Thor with a smile that
terrified him, “one day, you will join MacGil, too. Your time here is but a
flash. Don’t let life weigh you down with fear and guilt and regret. Embrace
every moment of it. Do you understand me? The best thing you can do for MacGil
now is to live. To really live. Do you
understand me?”

Argon reached out and grabbed Thor by the
shoulders, and it felt like two fires burning through his arms. He stared down with
such intensity, Thor finally had to turn his head, and blink his eyes shut.

He raised up his hands to protect his eyes, and
then suddenly, he felt nothing. He looked up. Argon was gone. Vanished.

Thor stood there alone in the field, turning in
every direction. He saw nothing but the open sky, the open plains, and the
howling of the wind.

*

Thor sat around the fire on the cool summer night,
staring into the flames silently with the other Legion members as the wood
cracked and popped. He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the night sky,
and in the distance, countless stars twinkled red and orange. Thor wondered, as
he often did it, about distant worlds out there. He wondered if there were
planets that weren’t divided by canyons, seas that weren’t protected by
dragons, kingdoms that were not divided by armies. He wondered about the nature
of fate and destiny.

The fire crackled, and he looked over at the
roaring flames, around which sat his brothers-in-arms, hunched over, arms
resting on their knees, looking somber and on-edge. Some of them roasted pieces
of meat on sticks.

“Want one?” came a voice.

Thor turned and saw Reese, sitting beside him,
holding out a stick wrapped in a white, gooey substance. He looked around and
saw that they were being passed around to other boys around the fire.

“What is it?” Thor asked, as he took it and touched
the white mass. It was sticky.

“Sap from the Sigil Tree. You roast it. Wait until
it turns purple. It’s delicious. And it will be the last tasty thing you have
in a while.”

Thor watched the other boys holding their sticks into
the fire, watched as the white substance hissed. He held his out, too, into the
flames, and was amazed as the substance bubbled over, then turned colors. It
turned all the colors of the rainbow before it turned purple.

He pulled it out and tasted it, and was amazed at
how good it was. It was sweet and chewy, and he took bite after bite.

Seated on his other side, chewing happily, were Elden,
O’Connor, and the twins. As Thor looked around, he realized that the Legion fell
into natural cliques. With the ages ranging from 14 to 19, and with nearly a
hundred boys in the Legion, there were a dozen boys in each age range. The 19
year olds barely acknowledged the 14-year-olds, and each year seemed to stick
to itself. Looking at the faces of the 19 year olds, Thor could hardly conceive
how much older they looked, like full-grown men, compared to the boys his age.
They looked almost too old to even still be in the Legion.

“Are they coming, too?” Thor asked Reese. He did
not need to ask where. The Hundred was on everyone’s mind this night, and no
one seemed to think or talk of anything else.

“Of course,” Reese answered. “Everyone goes. No
exceptions. Every age range.”

“The only difference,” Elden interceded, “is that
when they return, they are done with the Legion. It only goes to 19. And then
they graduate.”

“And then what?” Thor asked.

“If they make it through their final Hundred,”
Reese answered, “then they go before the King, and the King chooses which
become Knights. Then, if they are chosen, the kingdom places them in posts for
patrol duty throughout the kingdom. They have to do two years of rotation. Then
they return to King’s Court, and are eligible to join The Silver.”

“Is it possible that they wouldn’t pass the Hundred?
After all these years?” Thor asked.

Reese furrowed his brow.

“It is different for every age and every year. I
know stories of many who have not made it, at any age.”

The group of boys fell silent, as Thor stared into
the flames, wondering what lay ahead of them. After a long while, there was a
commotion, and the boys turned to see Kolk marching into the center of the
circle, his back to the flames, flanked by two warriors. Kolk scowled down at
the boys, slowly pacing, looking each one in the eye as he went.

“Rest up, and eat up,” he said. “This will be the
last time you do. From here on, you’re no longer boys, but men. You’re about to
embark on the hardest hundred days of your life. When you return—if you return—those
of you who return will finally be worth something. Now, you’re nothing.”

Kolk continued pacing, walking slowly, looking as
if he wanted to strike fear into each and every one of them.

“The Hundred is not a test,” he continued. “It is
not practice. It is real. What you do here, the sparring, the training—that is
practice. But in the next hundred days, that is all gone. You will be entering
a war zone. We are crossing the Canyon, will be beyond the shield, trekking for
miles through the Wilds, into unguarded territory. We will be boarding ships,
and crossing the Tartuvian Sea. We will be in enemy waters, far from the coast.
We will be going to an island that is unmanned and unprotected from attack, in
the heart of the Empire. We could be ambushed any time. There will be enemy forces
all around us. And dragons lurk not far from there.

“Without fail, there will be battle. A few of us
warriors will accompany you, but mostly you will be on your own. You will be
men, forced to fight real men’s battles. Sometimes to the death. This is how
you learn battle. Each year, some of you will die. Some will be injured
permanently. Some will drop out from fear. And the select few who return—those
are the ones who merit joining the Legion. If you are too scared to go, don’t
show up tomorrow. Every year at this night, a few of you will pack up and
leave. If that is you, I hope you do. We don’t want cowards joining us.”

With that, Kolk turned and stormed away, his men
following.

A low whisper spread among the boys, as they looked
solemnly at each other. Thor could see fear on many of their faces.

“Is it really that bad?” O’Connor asked a boy
sitting beside him. The boy was older, maybe 18, and he stared into the flames,
his wide jaw locked in a grimace.

He nodded.

“It is different every time,” he said. “I’ve had
many of my brothers not come back with me. Like he said, it’s real. The best
advice I can give you is to prepare for life-and-death. But I’ll tell you one
thing: if you make it back, you’ll be a better warrior than you ever thought
you could be.”

Thor wondered if he could make it. Was he tough
enough? How would he react when faced with real life and death combat? How
could they sustain a hundred days of it? And what he would be like when he came
back? He sensed that he would not return the same person. None of them would.
And they would all be in it together.

He looked at Reese’s face, and saw how distracted
he was, and realized he was weighed down by something else. His father.

“I’m sorry,” Thor said to him.

Reese did not look at him, but slowly nodded, his
eyes welling, looking down at the ground.

“I just want to know who did it,” Reese said “I
just want to know who killed him.”

“As would I,” Elden echoed.

“And we,” the twins echoed.

“Did he tell you anything?” Reese asked Thor. “In
those last minutes with him? Did he tell you who did it?”

Thor could sense the others all looking at him. He
tried to remember exactly what the king said.

“He told me he saw who did it. But he could not
remember his face.”

“But was it someone he knew?” Reese pressed.

“He said it was,” Thor said.

“But that hardly narrows it down,” O’Connor said. “A
king knows more people than we ever will.”

“I’m sorry,” Thor added. “He didn’t tell me
anymore.”

“But you were in there with him for minutes before
he died,” Reese pressed. “What else did he say to you?”

Thor hesitated, wondering how much to tell Reese.
He didn’t want to make him envious or jealous, or cause jealousy among the
other boys. What could he possibly say? That the king said his destiny was
greater than his? That would only stir the envy and hatred of everyone else.

“He did not say much,” Thor said. “He was mostly
silent.”

“But then why did he want to see you? You
specifically? Right before he died? Why did he not want to see me?” Reese
pressed.

Thor sat there, not knowing how to respond. He
realized how bad Reese must have felt, being his son, and having his father choose
to see someone else in his final moments. He did not know what to say to
comfort him, and had to think of something fast.

“He wanted me to tell you how much he cared for you,”
Thor lied. “I think it was easier for him to tell a stranger.”

Thor felt Reese examining him to see if he was
lying.

Finally, Reese turned and looked away, seeming
satisfied. Thor felt bad not telling the complete truth. He hated to lie, and
he never did. But he did not know what else to say. And he did not want to hurt
his friend’s feelings.

“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,
then 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.

Thor was reminded of MacGil’s final words, about
his destiny being greater than his. He shuddered; he prayed that he had not
meant that he would ever be king—not here, not anywhere. Politics did not
interest him. Thor wanted to be a great warrior. He wanted glory. He wanted to fight
beside his brothers-in-arms, to help others in need. That was all. He wanted to
be a leader of men in the realm of battle—but not outside of it. He could not
help but feel that every leader who strived for power somehow ended up
corrupted in the process.

Thor filtered out with the others, all of them upset
that their journey had been delayed in order to pay homage to the new Prince. This
day had been declared a national holiday, and now they could not all leave until
the next morning. This left another day to do nothing but sit around, mourn the
former king and contemplate Gareth’s rise. It was the last thing Thor wanted. He
had looked forward to journeying, to crossing the Canyon, to getting on the
ship, to having the ocean air clear his senses, to leaving all of this behind
and throwing himself into whatever training the Legion had in store for him.

As they exited the castle gates, Reese came up
beside him and jabbed him hard in the ribs. Thor turned and saw Reese gesturing
off to the side. Thor turned to look—and when he did, he could scarcely believe
it.

There, standing off by herself, dressed in a long
dress of black silk, stood Gwendolyn. She was looking right at him.

Thor could hardly comprehend it. He had thought
that she had not wanted to see him again.

“She wants to speak with you,” Reese said to Thor. “Go
to her.”

O’Connor, Elden and the twins, along with several
other boys, let out a chorus of oohs and aahs, jostling Thor.

“Lover boy is being summoned!” O’Connor called out.

“Better run to her, before she changes her mind!” Elden
said.

Thor, reddening, turned and looked at Reese, trying
to ignore the others.

“But I don’t understand. I thought she didn’t want
to see me.”

Reese slowly shook his head, smiling.

“I guess she came around,” he answered. “Go to her.
We don’t leave until tomorrow. You have time.”

Thor heard a yelp and looked down to see Krohn take
off, charging towards Gwendolyn. Thor needed no more prodding: he took off
after him, to the mocking calls of his friends. Thor didn’t care. Nothing
mattered to him now, as his mind was filled with thoughts of seeing her. He had
not realized how badly he had missed her, how deep a pain had sat in his chest,
until he saw her again.

Thor followed Krohn as he zigzagged through the
crowd, and finally reached her. She stood not far from the entrance to the castle,
and he stood before her, jostled by the hundreds of people continue to filter
out from the ceremony. She stood there, staring back, solemn. It saddened him
to see the great joy that used to light up her face now gone, replaced with a
withdrawn look, an aura of mourning. Yet somehow, it made her even more
beautiful in the stark morning light. Krohn jumped on her foot, but she held
her eyes on Thor’s.

Now that he was standing before her, once again, he
hardly knew what to say.  He was about to
speak, to say something, but she spoke first.

“I’m sorry for my words yesterday,” she said,
softly. “About you being a commoner. Being beneath me. I didn’t mean it. I was
just upset. It is unlike me. Forgive me.”

Thor’s heart swelled at her words. He could hardly
believe she was being kind to him again.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said.

“I do,” she said. “I didn’t mean those things.
Reese told me all those things I heard about you were lies. I was mistaken. I
should have known better than to listen to the others. I should have given you
a chance.”

She looked at him, her startling blue eyes
mesmerizing him, and he found it hard to think straight.

“Will you give me another chance?” she asked.

Thor broke into a wide smile.

“Of course I will,” he said. He looked down and
kicked the rocks before him. “In fact, I hadn’t given up hoping that you might
change your mind. Because I never changed mine.”

She looked up at him, and for the first time in a
while she smiled, a broad smile, and it lifted Thor’s heart. He felt a hundred
pounds lighter.

All around them people continued to filter out and
they were jostled every which way. She reached out and took his hand, and the
feel of her smooth skin electrified him.

“Come with me,” she said.

Thor could feel the looks of those all around them,
and he wanted to leave, too.

“Where shall we go?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” she answered.

Without hesitation he followed, she guiding him as
they held hands through the crowd, around the side of the castle, and out towards
the open fields.

*

Thor and Gwen walked hand-in-hand in the early
morning light through fields of flowers, Krohn at their side, the second sun
rising, a beautiful summer day blooming around them. They passed through groves
of trees, in full bloom with turquoise and white and green flowers, birds of
all sorts swooping down around them. Flowers up to their knees, they continued
climbing the gentle slope of a hill until finally they reached the top.

From up top, the view was magnificent. Thor turned,
and had a sweeping view of the King’s Court in every possible direction. It was
a clear blue and yellow sky, a wisp of cloud sitting gently on the horizon.

Affecting Thor even more than the sweeping vista
was the site he saw as he turned the other way: King MacGil’s burial plot. Set
against the dramatic Kolvian Cliffs was a fresh mound of dirt, a long pole marking
it, with a circle at the end and a falcon within it, the symbol of their
kingdom. There came a screech high up in the air, and as Thor watched,
Ephistopheles swooped down and landed on the tip. She perched there, stared out
at Thor and Gwen, and raised her wings and screeched again. She then lowered
her wings and settled comfortably on the pole.

Thor and Gwen exchanged a puzzled look.

“The actions of animals will always be a mystery to
me,” Thor said.

“They sense things,” she said. “They see things we
do not.”

Thor marveled that they were the only two here, at
this fresh grave site. The thought of it pained him. But a day ago, the king
could have commanded anyone he wanted, could have summoned thousands of people
at his whim; now that he was dead, there was not a single person here to pay
homage.

Gwen knelt down and gently placed the bunch of turquoise
flowers she had picked along the way. Thor knelt beside her, smoothing the
rocks away from the mound of dirt. Krohn walked up between them, lay down on
the mound of dirt, lowered his chin, and whimpered.

As Thor knelt there, the only sound that of the
whipping wind, he felt an overwhelming sense of grief. Yet, in a strange way,
he also felt comforted. This was where he wanted to be. With MacGil. With Gwen.
Not in the court, watching the prince be crowned. Not anywhere else.

“He knew his death was coming,” she said.

Thor glanced over and saw Gwen, staring down at the
grave, was tearing up.

“He sat me down, just days ago, and kept talking
about his death. It was strange. It upset me. I told him to stop. But he wouldn’t.
Not until I promised him.”

“Promised him what?” Thor asked.

Gwen, silent, wiped a tear, arranging the flowers
perfectly on her father’s mound of dirt. After a longtime, she finally leaned
back, and sighed.

“He made me vow that if he died, I would rule his
kingdom.”

She turned and looked at Thor, her beautiful blue
eyes wet, lit up in the morning sun, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen,
and he was shocked to realize her words were true.

“You? Rule the kingdom?” he asked, stunned.

Her face darkened.

“Do you not think I’m able?” she demanded.

Thor stammered.

“No—no—of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. I—I
was just surprised. I had no idea.”

Her expression softened.

“I was surprised, too. It was not something I
wanted. But I told him I would. He would not stop until I vowed.”

“So…then I don’t understand,” Thor said, confused. “Why
was Gareth crowned? Why not you?”

She looked back down towards her father’s grave.

“My father’s wish was never ratified. The Council
would not abide by it.”

“But that is not fair,” Thor yelled out, feeling
the indignity of it rising within. “It was not what your father wanted!”

She shrugged.

“Is just as well,” she said. “It is truly not
something I want.”

“But it is not just that Gareth should be the one
to rule.”

She sighed, wiping back a tear, collecting herself.

“They say that each kingdom gets the king that it
deserves,” she said.

Her words lingered in the air, and as Thor really
thought about that, he realized that Gwen was much wiser than he thought. He
realized in that moment what a good ruler she would, in fact, make. It upset
him all the more that she was passed over, that her father’s wish was ignored.

“But I do worry for our kingdom,” she said, “our
half of the Ring. The McClouds—when they hear that Gareth is crowned—they will
be emboldened. It will embolden all of our enemies. Gareth is not a ruler, and
they all know that. We will be vulnerable.”

Thor wondered about all the ramifications of the
King’s assassination. They seemed endless.

“But what bothers me most of all, is not knowing
who killed him,” she said. “I must know. I cannot rest until I do. I feel that
my father’s soul will not rest, either. Justice must be done. I don’t trust
anyone in this court. There are too many spies, and everyone lies. In fact, you’re
the only one I can really trust—and that is because you are an outsider. Along
with my brothers, Kendrick and Reese. Other than that, I trust no one.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted him
killed?” Thor asked.

“I have many ideas. And many leads to pursue. I
will pursue each one of them, and I will not stop until I find his killer.”

Gwen was looking at her father’s grave as she said
it, and Thor felt the conviction in her words, felt that she would find out who
did it.

After a long while, Gwen stood. Thor rose, too, and
they stood there together, side by side, looking down at the grave.

“I want to get far away from here,” Gwen said. “I
want to leave this place. A part of me wants to never come back. I hate all of
this. I don’t know where it will all end. But I feel that it must all end tragically.
In death. Betrayal. Assassination. I hate this court. I hate being royalty. I
wish I could live a simple life. In fact, I wish my father had been a farmer. Then,
he would still be alive. And that would mean more to me than the entire kingdom.”

Thor, feeling her pain, reached out his hand and
held hers. She did not pull away.

“I will be far from here myself, soon,” he said.

She turned and looked to him, and he could see fear
in her eyes.

“What do you mean?” she asked, urgently.

“Tomorrow we all embark, the entire Legion. The Hundred.
We sail for training, for a distant isle. I won’t be back until the Fall.
Assuming I make it back at all.”

Gwen looked crestfallen. She slowly shook her head.

“Life can be so cruel,” she said. “Everything at once.”
She suddenly looked determined. “When does the ship sail?”

“In the morning.”

She clasped his hand.

“That gives us a day together,” she said, a smile forming.
“Let’s make the most of it.”

Thor smiled back.

“But how?” he asked.

She smiled wider.

“I know the perfect place.”

She turned and led him away, and the two of them
took off, holding hands, running back through the fields, Krohn beside them.
Thor had no idea where she was taking him, but as long as he was with her,
nothing else mattered.

*

As Thor and Gwendolyn strolled through fields of
flowers, up and down gentle hills, he marveled at how good it felt to be with
her. He sensed her joy, too. It wasn’t the joy she used to wear, that
over-ebullient laugh and smile that lit up everything around her. That had been
replaced by something more somber, more austere, since the death of her father.

They walked through fields bursting with color, a
rainbow of pinks and greens and purples and whites, and Krohn ran around them,
in circles, yelping and jumping, seeming even more happy than they. Finally
they came to a large hill, and as they reached its top, Gwen stopped, and Thor did,
too. He stopped, awestruck at the sight before him: there, on the horizon, sat
a huge lake, made of a white-blue water, clearer than any water he had ever
seen, sparkling beneath the sun. It was surrounded by towering mountains, and
their cliffs looked alive, sparkling all different colors in the morning
sunlight.

“The Lake of the Cliffs,” she said. “It is ancient.
It is a hidden lake; no one ever comes here. I discovered it when I was a
child. I had too much time on my hands, and I would explore. Do you see that
small island, there?” she asked, pointing.

Thor squinted into the sun, shimmering off the
lake, and he saw it. A small island sat in the center of the lake, far from
shore.

“It is where I would escape as a child. I would
take that small boat, there,” she said, pointing to a weathered rowboat on
shore, “and row out myself. Sometimes I would spend entire days on it, far from
everyone. It was a place where no one could get to me. It is the only place
left for me that is pure.”

She turned and looked at Thor, and he looked at
her. Her eyes were glowing, all different shades of blue, and they seemed truly
alive for the first time since her father had died.

“I would like to take you there,” she said. “I
would like to share it with you.”

Thor felt deeply touched, closer to her than he
ever had.

“I would love to,” he said.

She took his hand, and leaned in, and he leaned in,
too, and their lips met. It was a magical kiss, the sun emerging from behind a
cloud as they did, and he felt his entire being warm over. Her lips were
smooth, and he reached up and felt her cheek, which was even smoother.

They held the kiss for a long time, until finally
she pulled away and smiling, took his hand.
The two of them began to walk down the hill, sloping gently down towards
the shore of the lake, towards the small boat that sat there, waiting.  Thor could hardly wait.

*

Thor rowed the small boat as Gwendolyn sat opposite
him, across the tranquil white-blue waters of the lake, and as they crossed it,
he rowed them right up onto the sandy shore of the small island, its sand
sparkling red. Thor jumped out, pulled the boat up safely, then reached out and
took Gwen’s hand and helped her off. Krohn leapt out with an excited yelp, and
began running on the sand.

Thor took Gwen’s hand, and she lead the way as the
two of them began hiking on the small island, the sand quickly giving way to a
small field of grass and flowers. The island was alive with the sound of
swaying trees, towering, exotic trees which leaned all the way over, the summer
breezes rocking them left and right. As they swayed they dropped down small,
white flower petals, falling like snow all around them. Gwen was right: this
place was magical.

Gwen giggled, her spirits clearly lifted to be
here; she took Thor’s hand and led him on a small trail through the winding
green paths. He could tell from how she walked that she knew every inch of this
island by heart, and he wondered where she was taking him.

They twisted and turned, up-and-down trails, Thor
ducking his head here and there to avoid branches, until finally she lead them to
a small clearing, hidden by trees, in the center of the island. Thor was surprised
to see that in its center sat the ruins of a small, crumbling stone structure,
its walls still standing, but its inside hollowed out long ago. It was open to
the elements on all sides, and its floor was comprised of a thick, soft moss.
Inside there was a small mound of earth which curved gently upward, providing a
small, naturally inclined bed.

Gwen led Thor, and they lay down on it, beside each
other, their backs resting on the slope, looking up at the sky. Krohn ran over
and lay down beside Gwen, and as she giggled and petted him, Thor was starting
to wonder if Krohn liked Gwen more than he. As Thor leaned back, resting his
head in his palms on the soft moss and looked up, high above him Thor could see
the two suns, the bright turquoise and yellow sky, trees swaying in the wind,
white flower petals falling. The sound of the breezes whipped through the
place, and he felt for a moment like they were the only ones left. He felt as
if they had escaped from the worries of the world, that they were in a safe,
protected place, a place where no one could touch them. He felt more relaxed
than he’d ever had, and wanted to never leave.

Beside them, he felt fingers on his, and looked
over to see Gwen’s hand. They locked fingers, and the touch of her skin made him
feel even more deeply at ease. He felt that everything was right in the world.

As they lay there in the silence, feeling ever more
deeply relaxed, he thought of his having to leave the following day—and the
thought pained him. As excited as he had been to go, now, the thought of
leaving Gwen upset him. With all that had gone on, with her father’s death, with
their misunderstanding and their reconciliation, finally, he felt like they
were in a good place. He wondered if leaving would upset that. And he wondered
what things would be like a hundred days from now, and whether she would still
care for him.

“I wish I did not have to leave you tomorrow,” he
said. He found himself nervous to say it, hoping he did not sound too
desperate.

But to his surprise, she turned and looked right at
him, her face alight with a smile.

“I was hoping you would say that,” she said. “I have
been able to think of nothing else since you told me. The idea of your leaving
pains me in a way I cannot describe. Seeing you again was the one thing that gave
me solace.”

She squeezed his hand, leaned in and kissed him,
and he kissed her back. They kissed for a long time, then lay side-by-side
again.

“And what of your mother?” Thor asked. “Will she
still forbid your seeing me?”

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.

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.

“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.

Something tugged away at Godfrey, something that
would not disappear, that made him wonder more about him. There was some look
of hate in Gareth’s eyes, something he had spotted since he was a child. He
couldn’t help but wonder if Gareth had something to do with their father’s
murder. In fact, a part of him felt sure that he did. He did not know why. And
he knew that no one would take him seriously, he, Godfrey, the drunk.

Still, a part of him felt compelled to find the
answer. Maybe if for no other reason than to make amends to his father, to make
up for his wasted life. If he could not have his father’s approval in life,
perhaps he could gain it in death.

Godfrey sat there, rubbing his head, trying to
think, trying to get to the bottom of something. Something weighed on the dark
corners of his consciousness, some message, persistently nagging at him. It was
an image; maybe a memory. But he could not recall precisely of what. He knew,
though, that it was important.

As he sat there, racking his brain, drying to drown
out the laughter of the others, suddenly, it came to him. The other day. In the
forest. He had spotted Gareth. With Firth. The two of them, walking. He
remembered thinking at the time that it was strange. And he remembered that
they had no answer for where they were going, or where they had been.

He suddenly sat upright, electrified. He turned to Akorth.

“Do you remember the other day, in the wood? My
brother, Gareth?”

Akorth furrowed his brow, clearly trying to summon it
through his drunken haze.

“I remember seeing him walking with that lover boy
of his!” Akorth mocked.

“Hand-in-hand, I suspect!” Fulton chimed in, then
burst into laughter.

Godfrey tried to concentrate, in no mood for their
jokes.

“But do you recall where they were coming from?”

“Where?” Akorth asked, perplexed.

“You asked them, and they didn’t tell you,” Fulton
said.

An idea was solidifying in Godfrey’s brain.

“Odd, isn’t it? The two of them walking there, in
the middle of nowhere? Do you remember what he was wearing? A cloak and a hood
on a hot summer day? Walking so fast, as if he was heading somewhere? Or coming
from somewhere?”

Godfrey was convincing himself as he spoke.

Akorth looked at him, puzzled.

“What is it you’re trying to put together?” he asked.
“Because if you’re asking me to figure it out, you’ve come to the wrong man, my
friend. I would just tell you that if you want to get to the bottom of
something, drink another ale!” he shouted, and roared with laughter.

But Godfrey was serious. He was focused. This time,
he would not be distracted.

“I think he was going somewhere,” Godfrey added,
thinking out loud. “I think they were both going somewhere. And I think it was
with ill intent.”

He turned and stared at his two friends.

“And I think it has something to do with my father’s
death.”

Akorth and Fulton finally stopped and looked at
him, the smiles dropping from their faces.

“That’s quite a leap,” Akorth said.

“Are you accusing your brother and his lover of
killing the King?” Fulton asked.

The bartender stopped in his tracks and stared,
too.

Godfrey sat there, working it out, his mind reeling,
feeling electrified, feeling a sense of purpose, of mission. It was a feeling he
wasn’t used to.

“That is exactly what I’m saying,” he finally
responded.

“That’s dangerous talk,” the bartender warned. “Your
brother is king now. Someone hears you say that, you can go to the clink.”

“My father
is King,” Godfrey corrected, steel in his voice, feeling himself overcome with
a new strength. “My brother Gareth just had a crown put on his head. He is not
a king. He is a prince, just like I. And a failed one at that.”

The bartender slowly shook his head and looked
away.

“Where were they going? What is out there, in that
wood?” Godfrey asked Akorth with a sudden urgency, grasping his wrist.

“Calm down, my good man, there’s no need to get
upset—”

“I said, what is out there?” Godfrey demanded, shouting.

Akorth stared back at him with a look he had never
seen before. One of shock. And maybe, even, of respect.

“What’s gotten into you? I don’t have answers for
you. I have no idea.”

“Wait a minute, there is something out there,” Fulton said.

Godfrey turned and looked at him.

“Not there, exactly. But near there. Blackwood. A
few miles away. There are rumors of a witch’s cottage.”

“A witch’s cottage?” Godfrey repeated, slowly. The
thought of it hit him like a spear.

“Yes. So the rumor goes. Do you think that’s where
they were going?”

Godfrey stumbled up from his barstool, knocking it
over, and hurried across the room. His two friends jumped up, too, hurrying
after him.

“Where are you going?” Akorth called out. “Have you
lost your mind?”

Godfrey yanked open the door, the harsh morning light
hitting his face, making him feel alive for the first time in he did not know
how long. He stopped and turned and looked inside the ale house one final time.

“I’m going to find my father’s murderer.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Steffen cowered beneath the whip of his master,
bending over and bracing himself as he was lashed across the back yet again. He
braced his hands over the back of his head, trying to shield the worst of the
blow.

“I ordered you to remove the chamber when
it was full! Now look at the mess you’ve made!” his master screamed.

Steffen hated to be yelled at. Born
deformed, his back twisted in a permanent hunch, looking prematurely old, he
had been yelled at from the time he was a child. He had never fit in with his
siblings, with his friends, or with anyone. His parents had tried to pretend he
didn’t exist, and when he was just old enough, they found a reason to kick him
out of the house. They had been embarrassed by him.

Since then, it had been a hard, lonely
life for Steffen, left to fend for himself. After years of working odd jobs, of
begging in the streets when he needed to, he had finally found a job in the
bowels of the king’s castle, toiling with the other servants in the room of the
chamber pots. His task, for years, was to wait until the huge, iron chamber pot
was filled with sewage from the floors above, then carry it out while it was
overflowing, with the help of another servant. They took it out the back door
of the castle, across the fields, to the river’s edge, and dumped it in.

It was a job he had over the years
learned to do well, and as his posture was ruined before he arrived, the
lugging of the pot could not have affected it anymore. Of course, the stench of
the waste was unbearable, though, over time, he had learned to block it out. He
had taught his mind go to other places, to escape in fantasy, to imagine vivid
alternate worlds and to convince himself that he was anywhere but here. Steffen’s
one gift in life had been a great imagination, and it didn’t take much to send him
off to another realm. His other great gift was observation. Everyone
underestimated him, but he heard and saw everything, and he took it all in like
a sponge. He was much more sensitive and perceptive than people realized.

Which was why, the other day, when that dagger
had come tumbling down the stone chute, into the chamber pot, Steffen had been
the only one to take notice. He heard the slightest difference in the splash,
something landing in the water that sounded not human, but metal. He’d heard
the tiniest bit of a clang as it settled to the bottom—and he had known
immediately that something was wrong. Something was different. Somebody had dropped
something down the chute, something he wasn’t supposed to. Either it was an
accident, or, more likely, it was on purpose.

Steffen waited for a moment when the
others weren’t looking and stealthily approached the pot, held his nose, rolled
up one sleeve, and reached in up to his shoulder. He fished around until he had
found it. He had been right: there was something there. It was long and metal,
and he grasped it and pulled it up. He could feel, before it even reached the
surface, that it was a dagger. He extracted it quickly, glanced it over, made
sure no one was looking, and bundled it in a rag and hid it behind a loose
brick.

Now that things had quieted down, he
looked around, made sure no one was looking, and when he felt sure the coast
was clear, he hurried over to the brick, loosened it, unwrapped the weapon and studied
it. It was a dagger unlike any he had ever seen, certainly not one for the
lower classes. It was an aristocratic thing, a piece of art. Very valuable, and
expensive.

As he held it up to the torchlight, turning
it every which way, he noticed stains on it, stains which would not come out.
He realized, with a shock, that they were blood stains. He remembered back to
when the blade had fallen down and realized that it had come down on the same night
of the assassination of the King. His hands shook as he realized he might be
holding the murder weapon.

“How stupid are you?” shrieked his
master, as he whipped him again.

Steffen hunched over and quickly wrapped
up the blade, keeping his back to his boss, hoping and praying he had not seen
it. He had left the chamber pot untended while examining the blade, and it had overflowed.
He had not expected his master to be so close.

Steffen took the beating, as he did every
day, whether he did a good job or not. He clenched his jaw, hoping it would end
soon.

“If
that pot overflows again, I will have you kicked out of here! No, worse, I will
have you chained and thrown in the dungeon. You stupid deformed hunchback! I
don’t know why I put up with you!”

His master, a fat, pockmarked man with a
lazy eye, reached up and beat him again and again. Usually, the blows ended;
but tonight he seemed to be in a particularly belligerent mood and the blows
just kept getting worse. They never seemed to end.

Finally, something inside Steffen snapped.
He could stand it no longer.

Without thinking, Steffen reacted: he grasped
the hilt of the dagger, spun around and plunged it into his master’s rib cage.

His master let out a horrified gasp as
his eyes bulged in his head. He stood there, frozen, looking down in wonder.

Finally, the blows stopped.

Now Steffen was furious. All the pent up
anger he’d felt over the years came pouring out.

Steffen grimaced, grabbed his master by
the throat, and squeezed it with one hand. With the other, he pushed the blade in
deeper and slowly dragged it higher, cutting him up through the sternum, all
the way to his heart. Hot blood poured out over his hand and wrist.

Steffen was shocked at what he had summoned
the courage to do—and he reveled in every second of it. For years he had been
abused by this man, this horrible creature, who had beaten him like his play
thing. Now, finally, he had vengeance. After all those years, all those abuses.

“This is what you get for beating me,”
Steffen said. “Do you think you’re the only one with power here? How do you
like it now?”

His master hissed and gasped, and
finally collapsed into a heap on the floor.

Dead.

Steffen looked at him, lying there, just
the two of them down here this late in the night, the dagger protruding from
his heart. Steffen looked both ways, satisfied the room was empty, then extracted
the dagger and wrapped it back in its rag, and stashed it back in its hiding
place, behind the brick. There was something about that blade, some evil energy
to it, that had goaded him to use it.

As Steffen stood there, looking at the
corpse of his master, he was suddenly overwhelmed with panic. What had he done?
He had never done anything like that in his life. He did not know what had
overcome him.

He bent over, hoisted his master’s
corpse, heaved it over his shoulder, then leaned forward and dropped it into
the chamber pot. The body landed with a splash, as the filthy water spilled
over its sides. Luckily the pot was deep, and his corpse sank beneath the rim.

On the next shift, Steffen would carry
the pot out with his friend, a man so down and drunk, he never had any idea
what was in the pot, a man who always turned away from it, holding his nose from
the stench. He wouldn’t even realize that the pot was heavier than usual as the
two of them carried it to the river and dumped it. He wouldn’t even notice the
mass in the night, the body floating away, down the current.

Down, Steffen hoped, towards hell.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Gareth sat on his father’s throne, in
the vast council chamber, in the midst of his first council meeting, and
inwardly, he trembled. Before him, in the imposing room, seated around the semi-circular
table, sat a dozen of his father’s counselors, all seasoned veterans, all
staring back at him with gravity and doubt. Gareth was in over his head. The
reality of it all was starting to sink in. This was his father’s throne. His
father’s room. His father’s affairs. And above all, his father’s men. Each and
every one of them loyal to his father. Gareth secretly wondered if they all
suspected him of having murdered him. He told himself he was just being
paranoid. But he felt increasingly uncomfortable, staring back at them.

Gareth also, for the first time, felt the
real weight of what it was like to rule. All the burdens, all the decisions,
all the responsibilities, were on his head. He felt woefully unprepared. Being
king was what he’d always dreamed of. But ruling the kingdom, on a daily,
practical level, was something he had not.

The council had been going over various
matters with him for hours, and he’d had no idea of how to decide on each one.
He could not help but feel as if each new matter was raised secretly as a
rebuke to him, as a way to foil him, to highlight his lack of knowledge. He realized
too quickly that he did not have the acumen or judgment of his father, or the experience
to rule this kingdom. He was woefully unqualified to be making these decisions.
And he knew, even as he made them, that all of his decisions were bad ones.

Above all, he found it hard to focus,
knowing the investigation was still ongoing into his father’s murder. He could
not help but wonder if, or when, it might lead back to him—or to Firth, which
was as good as leading to him. He could not rest easy on the throne until he
knew he held it securely. He prepared to set into motion a plan to frame
someone else. It was risky. But then again, so was murdering his father.

“My Liege,” another council member said,
each one looking more grave than the next. It was Owen, his father’s treasurer,
and he looked down at the table as he spoke, squinting at a long scroll. The
more he unrolled it, the longer it seemed to get.

“I’m afraid our treasury is near
bankrupt. The situation is grave. I warned your father of this, but he did not
take action. He did not want to raise a new tax on the people, or the Lords.
Frankly, he did not have a plan. I presume he thought that somehow it would all
work out. But it has not. The army needs to be fed. Weapons need to be repaired.
Blacksmiths need to be paid. Horses need to be tended, and fed. And yet our
treasury’s nearly empty. What do you propose we do, my lord?”

Gareth sat there, his mind swimming,
wondering what to do. He had absolutely no idea.

“What would you propose?” Gareth asked back.

Owen cleared his throat, looking
flustered. It seemed as if this were the first time a king had asked him his
opinion.

“Well…my liege…I…um… I had proposed to
your father that we raise a tax on the people. But he had thought it a bad
idea.”

“It is
a bad idea,” Earnan chimed in. “The people will revolt with any new taxes. And
without the power of the people, you have nothing.”

Gareth turned and looked at the teenage
boy seated to his right, not far from him.
Berel, a friend of his, who he had grown up with, someone his own age;
he was an aristocrat with no military training, but who was as ambitious and
cynical as he. Gareth had brought in a small group of his own advisers, his
friends, to help balance out the power here, and to have some advisers his own
age. A new generation. It had not gone over well when they had arrived with
Gareth, upsetting the old guard.

“And what do you think, Berel?” he
asked.

Berel leaned forward, arching an
eyebrow, and without pausing, said, in his deep, confident voice: “Tax them. Tax
them triple. Make the people feel the yoke of your new power. Make them fear
you. That is the only way to rule.”

“And how would you know what it means to
rule?” Aberthol called out to Berel.

“Excuse me my liege, but who is this
person?” Brom called out, equally indignant. “We are the King’s Council. And we
never sanctioned any new councilmen.”

“The
Council is mine to do with as I wish,” Gareth chided back. “This is one of my
new advisers. Berel. And I like his idea. We will tax the people triple. We
will fill our coffers, and even more, we will make the people suffer under the
burden of it. Then they will understand that I am King. And that I am to be
feared—even more so than my father.”

Aberthol shook he said.

“My Liege, I would caution against such
a harsh response. Everything in moderation. Such a move is rash. You will
alienate your subjects.”

“My
subjects,” Gareth spat. “That is exactly what they are. And I will do with them
as I wish. This matter is ended. What other matters are before me?”

The council members turned to each other
and exchanged troubled glances.

Suddenly, Brom rose.

“My Liege, with all respect, I cannot
sit on a council that does heed our advice. I sat on this council for years for
your father, and I am here to serve you out of deference to him. But you are
not my King. He was. And I shall not serve on any council that does not pay
homage and respect to its original councilmembers. You have brought in these
young outsiders who know nothing of ruling a kingdom. I will not be a part of this
facade. I hereby resign from this council.”

Brom scraped back his chair, got up and
marched from the room, yanking open the door and slamming it behind him. The
hollow sound echoed in the chamber, reverberating again and again.

Inwardly, Gareth’s heart was pounding.
He felt the deck of cards crumbling around him. Had he gone too far?

“Never mind,” Gareth said. “We do not
need him. I will bring in my own adviser on military affairs.”

“Do not need him, my Lord?” Aberthol
echoed. “He is our greatest general, and was your father’s best adviser.”

“My father’s advisers are not my advisers,” Gareth threatened. “It is
a new era. Is there anyone else here unhappy with this arrangement? If so, you
can leave now.”

Gareth’s heart pounded as he sat there
expecting the others to walk out, too.

To his surprise, none did. They all looked
frozen in shock. He felt he had to assert his authority, had to make this
kingdom his own.

Sweating now, Gareth just wanted this
meeting, which had already gone on for hours, over with.

“Any other news, or can we finish?” he
asked, peremptorily.

“My Liege, there is another important
matter,” Bradaigh said. “News of your father’s death has spread to all corners
of the Ring, and has reached the McClouds. Our spies inform us that they are meeting
with a contingent from the Wilds. The rumor is that they intend to attack,
either alone or with the Empire in tow. They may allow them to breach the
Eastern Crossing of the Canyon. I suggest we mobilize our forces, and double
our patrols of the Highlands.”

Gareth sat there, rooted in place, unsure
what to do. He had never had any skill when it came to military affairs, and the
thought of the McClouds invading terrified him.

“The McClouds will not let the Empire breach
the Canyon,” he said. “That would imperil them, too. They might attack, though,
even with my sister as their new Princess. Maybe we should not wait. Maybe we
should attack them first.”

“Attack them unprovoked?” Kelvin asked. “And
spark an all-out war?”

Gareth considered the possibilities,
resting his hand on his chin, wondering when this would all be over. He wanted
to be outside; he did not want to think any more of these affairs. And he
wanted to get off his mind his most pressing concern—the investigation into his
father’s murder.

“I will consider what to do,” Gareth
said curtly. “In the meantime, I must raise a much more pressing matter,
concerning the murder of my father. It has been brought to my attention that
the assassin has been found.”

“What!?”

“What my Lord?”

“Who? How?!”

The councilmembers all yelled out at
once, some of them standing in shock and outrage.

Gareth smiled inwardly, realizing he had
them exactly where he wanted them. He turned and nodded towards Firth, who,
standing on the outskirts of the room, walked across it, holding something
small in his palm. Firth made a show of reaching out and handing it to Gareth, and
as he did, Gareth held it up so that the others could see. He leaned forward on
his throne and held out the small vial.

“Sheldrake Root. The same root used in
the first attempt to poison my father at that night’s feast. As you can see, this
vial is nearly empty. This vial was found in the killer’s chamber, on that very
night.”

“But who is the killer, my Lord?” Aberthol
yelled out.

“It pains me to say,” Gareth pronounced
slowly, doing his best to feign sadness, “that it is my eldest brother. My Lord’s
firstborn son. Kendrick.”

“What!”

“An outrage!”

“It can’t be!” they yelled back.

“Oh, I’m afraid it is,” Gareth replied. “We
have gathered ample evidence. As we speak, I’m sending our men to arrest him.
He will be imprisoned and tried for the death of my father.”

The council broke out in outraged
mumbling.

“But Kendrick was the most loved of your
father!” Duwayne yelled out. “And the most loyal of all.”

“It must be a mistake,” Bradaigh yelled.

“And our own committee is still
investigating the matter!” Kelvin shouted.

“You can call off the investigation,”
Gareth responded. “It is concluded.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Firth said,
stepping forward. “He has a motive. Kendrick was the firstborn son. He was
passed over. He must have had a vendetta, and must have pined for the throne
himself.”

The councilmen turned and exchanged
troubled, skeptical glances.

“You are wrong,” Aberthol said. “Kendrick
is not ambitious. He is a loyal warrior.”

The councilmen debated with each other,
and as Gareth watched them, he smiled inwardly. This was exactly what he’d
wanted: to plant doubt in their minds. He had achieved his vision. He had found
a scapegoat, planted evidence, and gave himself cover to imprison him. He would
not give him a trial. He would let the kingdom know that the matter had been
settled, quickly and easily. And in the process, he would remove one more
threat from the crown.

Gareth sat back, satisfied with himself,
and watched and enjoyed the chaos spreading before him. He was beginning to
realize that it suited him, after all, being King.

It suited him very well.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Thor marched amidst the huge contingent of Legion
members, Krohn at his heels, Reese, O’Connor, Elden and the twins at his side,
all of them heading down a wide, dirt road which never seemed to end. They had
been marching for hours, heading towards the distant Canyon, preparing for
their first leg of the journey to the Tartuvian Sea. Thor had made it back in
time from his night with Gwen, had awakened with the dawn and arrived first
thing in the morning at the barracks; he’d joined the others as they were
rising, prepared all his things, grabbed his sack, his sling, his weapons, and
left with the others just in time.

Thor could hardly believe he was embarking on this
journey with all these boys, on his way to what he knew would be the most
challenging hundred days of his life—on his way to leaving boyhood behind and
becoming a man. His heart pounded with anticipation. He could feel the excited buzz
in the air, and also the tension. Some boys walked with a bounce in their step,
but others kept silent, and wore scared expressions. When Thor had arrived, he
heard reports that two Legion members had fled during the night, apparently too
scared to embark on The Hundred. He was glad that none of his newfound friends
had left.

Thor might have been flooded with anxiety, too,
but, luckily, he was also preoccupied, his mind swimming with other things. Gwendolyn.
His night with her lingered over him like a cloud; he could not shake the image
of her face, the sound of her voice, her energy. It was as if she were with him
right now. It had been a magical day and night, the best of his entire life.
His heart soared as he thought of her; knowing that she existed made him feel
as if everything would be all right in the world, no matter what happened during
the Hundred. As long as he had her, he had reason to survive, and reason to
return. He felt that would carry him through.

They had mourned together for her father, and
having her at his side had brought him a sense of peace and solace he hadn’t
had before; being able to share it with her had somehow made it all the more
bearable. It had also made them closer. He closed his eyes and saw that lake
she had taken him to, its white and blue waters, that island, so secluded from
the world; it was the most magical place he had ever been. He remembered their looking
up at the stars, all night long, she lying in his arms. She had slept like
that, in his arms, all night long. Neither of them had taken off their clothes,
but they had kissed all night, and she had finally curled up in a ball, and lay
her head on his chest. It was the first time a girl had slept in his arms. At
some points during the night she had cried, and he knew she was thinking of her
father.

He had awakened at the first light of dawn, a
beautiful red light blanketing the horizon with the first rising sun, and all
had felt right in the world. He had awakened with her still in his arms, the
feel of her on his chest, the warmth of her, the complete perfect stillness of
the summer morning; there was a light breeze, the trees swaying above him, and
all had felt perfect in the world. It was the first time he’d ever awakened
feeling a true sense of comfort, of belonging, of love. For the first time, he
felt wanted by somebody, and that
meant more to him than he could say.

They had parted ways sadly early in the morning, Thor
needing to rush back to the Legion before they left. She had cried quietly,
tears dripping down her cheek, and had leaned in and hugged him—and would not
let go for a long time.

“Vow to me again,” she had whispered, “that you will
return.”

“I vow,” he’d said.

He could still remember the look in her teary eyes
as she looked back at him in the early morning light, filled with such hope and
longing. That look sustained him now. Even now he saw those eyes, as he walked
on this road with all of his Legion brothers.

“I’m not looking forward to crossing the Canyon
again,” came a voice.

Thor snapped out of it, looked over, and saw Elden,
a few feet away, anxiety on his face. In the distance was the outline of the
bridge. The Eastern Crossing of the Canyon. Hundreds of soldiers were lined up
along it.

“Nor I,” O’Connor added.

“It will be different this time,” Reese said. “We
go as a group. We are in the Wilds only for a short bit, and then we are at the
ships. Is a direct route to the ships. We do not venture deep into their
territory before we hit the ocean.”

“Still, we’re beyond the Canyon, and anything could
happen,” Conval said.

The group fell silent, and Thor listened to the
sound of hundreds of boots crushing rocks, of Krohn panting beside him, of horses,
being walked next to some of the warriors, clomping; he could smell the horses
from here, the sweat of men afraid. Thor was not afraid. He was excited.
Nervous, maybe. And overwhelmed with longing for Gwendolyn.

“Just think, when we return, next season, we will all
be different men,” O’Connor said. “None of us will be the same.”

“If we
return,” Reese corrected.

Thor took a good look at all the boys and men
around him, and he thought about that. Nothing would ever be the same. He felt
the world constantly changing around him, every minute of every day; it was so
hard to hold onto anything. He wanted to freeze all of this, but even as he
did, he knew that he could not.

*

They finally reached the base of the Western
Crossing of the Canyon, and the group of them paused before stepping onto the
bridge. Thor could see the look of wonder and fear in the eyes of his fellow
Legion members. He remembered when he had first seen it, and he understood how
they felt. Even now, looking at it for his second time, it inspired the same
sense of awe and fear and wonder in him: the bridge spanned forever,
disappearing from site, and the drop-off below was bottomless. Although the
bridge was lined with hundreds of the King’s soldiers, it felt as if the first
step onto the bridge was a step of no return.

They all proceeded onto the bridge,
marching silently forward, and as they did, Thor felt the stakes raised. No
longer was this another training exercise; now they were leaving the actual
protection of the Ring. Now they would be real warriors, out there in the Wilds,
where anyone could kill them at any moment. Now, it was life or death.

Everybody came a little bit closer to
each other as they marched, and Thor could see the others clenching up,
tightening their hands on their swords, everybody more on edge. Howling winds
whipped at them from every direction, and more than one of them looked over the
edge, then quickly pulled back. Despite himself, Thor looked, too, and
immediately wished he hadn’t: he saw a plunge down to nothingness, ending in a
mist. He swallowed hard, and wondered for the millionth time about the power of
this place. Krohn whined, and came in close to Thor, rubbing against his
ankles.

They marched and marched, and the span
over the Canyon felt like it would last forever.

Thor heard a distant screech, and looked
up to see Ephistopheles, high up, circling. She dove down, lower and lower,
until finally she dove down right for Thor. Thor lowered his canvas sleeve and raised
one arm, hoping that she would land on it. But instead she dove right at him, and
as she got close, he could see she was carrying something in her claw. It
looked like a scroll. As she neared, she opened her talons and let it drop; it
flew through the air, landing near Thor’s feet. She screeched, flapped her
wings, and flew off again.

Krohn ran over to it, picked it up in
his mouth and brought it to Thor. Thor bent down, curious, and took the piece
of parchment.

“What is it?” Reese asked.

“A message, perhaps?” O’Connor remarked.

Thor held it close as he opened it,
slowly unrolling it, feeling protective of whatever it was. Clearly, it was a
message just for him. Before he’d even finished unrolling it, he spotted the
handwriting, and knew who it was from. He held it even closer, guarding it
jealously. It was from Gwen.

He read with trembling hands as he walked:

Many days will pass until
we see each other again. It is possible we may not see each other at all. I
cannot begin to tell you how this makes me feel. I cannot stop thinking of you.
I’m with you, on your journeys, wherever it is you go. Know that you hold my
heart in your hands. Do not hold it lightly. Think of me. And return to me.

Yours in love,

Gwendolyn

“What is it?” Elden asked.

“What message do you hold?” Conval
prodded.

But Thor rolled up the scroll and tucked
it away in his pocket, not sure that he wanted the others to know.

“Is it from my sister?” Reese asked
softly.

Thor waited until the others were not
watching, then nodded back.

Reese nodded, then turned back to the
road.

“She has fallen for you, my friend. I
hope that you treat her well. She is delicate. And I care for her very much.”

Thor’s heart beat faster as he read her message
again in his mind. It was strange, because he had been thinking of little else
but her, and to receive an actual message from her, dropped down from the sky,
made his thoughts seem to manifest into reality. He loved her more than he
could say, and in a sense, he was already counting the days until his return. For
the first time in a long time, he felt he had something strong to hold onto.

Thor did not know how much time had
passed when they finally stepped off the bridge and stepped onto the soil on
the far side of the Canyon. But he felt it like an electric jolt, felt the
leaving of the Ring, beyond the protection of the energy shield. He immediately
felt unprotected.

The others must have felt it too,
because he could see them all tense up, hands on their weapons, as they looked
all about them in wonder. Strange animal noises rose up as they followed the
path as one, into a deep and dark wood.

Kolk stepped forward and faced the group.

“You’ll stay together, close as a group,
your weapons drawn. We will move as one through this wood. It will be many
miles until we hit the ocean. Our ships are waiting and ready to board, our men
guarding them. The Empire’s army is camped too far to cause any trouble. But
there could be isolated attackers. Stay alert.”

One hour after another passed as the
path narrowed, the sky darkened, and they marched deeper into the twisting
trails of the dark wood. Foreign animal noises persisted all around them, and
Thor felt always on guard. There came occasional scrambling in the branches,
and he and his brothers flinched more than once, but nothing ever attacked
them.

Hours more passed, and finally the wood
broke open: in the distance Thor could see, with great relief, and with a sense
of awe, the crashing waves of the Tartuvian Sea. He heard them from here, and could
already feel the change in the air. There was a wide open plain between here and
there, and no sign of the enemy as far as he could see. He breathed a sigh of
relief.

A huge, wooden ship sat there, sails
fluttering high in the air, waiting for them, surrounded by the King’s Men,
standing guard.

“We made it!” O’Connor said.

“No we didn’t,” Elden said. “We reached
the ships, that is all. We still have to cross the ocean. That will be much
worse.”

“I hear that the island is many days’
sail away,” Conval said. “The waves of the Tartuvian are supposedly stronger
than a man can stand, its weather awful, and the sea filled with monsters and
hostile ships. Our journey has not yet even begun.”

Thor looked at the ships, standing proud
on the horizon, their sails gleaming white as the second sun broke free from
the clouds, and he felt the thrill of excitement. Already, the Ring was behind them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Erec sat at the table of honor in the large
banquet hall, filled with hundreds of guests of the Duke. He had not expected
his arrival here to cause such fanfare, and was a bit overwhelmed by all the
attention. He knew he was an important person in the kingdom, especially
because of his relationship with the King, but he had not anticipated the extent
to which the Duke would roll out the red carpet for him. It was their second
day of feasting in celebration of Erec’s arrival and in anticipation of the
tournament to come. Erec was stuffed with good food and wine. He knew that if
he didn’t compete soon, his skills might not be as sharp.

As
Erec leaned back on the deep cushions and looked around, he observed knights
from all corners of the Ring, all dressed in different-colored attire, speaking
with different accents, using different mannerisms. They all looked like formidable
warriors, and while the Duke was confident Erec would beat them all, Erec took
nothing for granted. It was part of his training. While the servants re-filled
his goblet with wine, he only sipped at it. The tournament was tomorrow, and he
wanted to be in a good space. After all, he felt that his actions, and his performance,
reflected on the King. And that was something he took very seriously.

Whether he would find a bride here was a
different matter entirely. He smiled to himself at the thought of it. The last
two days, it seemed that every fine woman in the kingdom had been introduced to
him. Indeed, as he looked about the room, he saw dozens of beautiful women
seated throughout, and could not help but notice that most of them looked his
way. He seemed to also draw the jealousy of the other men in the room, who
competed for their attention. But Erec himself did not feel jealous or
competitive. He had been introduced to all of them, and had been impressed by them
all, each more beautiful, more fine mannered, dressed more elaborately, than
the next. He felt honored to have met them all, but he had decided long ago to
choose his bride based on his gut instinct. And for whatever mysterious reason,
he had not felt that certain feeling when meeting any of them. He did not mean
to be picky. He felt certain that these women would all be great for someone; he
just did not feel that they were right for him.

“Erec of the Southern Island Province of
the Ring, may I introduce to you Dessbar, of the Second Province of the Lowlands,”
the Duke said to Erec, as he turned to meet yet another fair maiden. The parade
of introductions seemed to never end. This one was beautiful, too, dressed in
white silk from head to toe, and she curtsied and smiled a gracious smile.

“It is a pleasure, my Lord.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Erec said,
standing out of courtesy and kissing her fingertips.

“Dessbar comes from Emerald Plains, and
from a noble family of the East. Her mother is third cousin to the Queen. She
is of noble blood. She would make a fine match,” the Duke said.

Erec nodded graciously, not wanting to
offend her, or the Duke.

“I can tell that she is of a fine
lineage,” Erec said with a short bow. “It is a great privilege to meet you.”

With that, he kissed her hand again, and
seated himself. She looked somewhat disappointed, as if she wanted to talk to
him more; the Duke did, too.

But Erec did not feel whatever it was he
was supposed to feel when he met this woman. And he wanted to approach finding
his wife with the same discipline he did battle—with a single-minded focus and intensity.

The feast went on, deep into the night,
and Erec was glad to at least be in the company of his old friend, Brandt,
seated on his right. They’d been sharing battle stories for half the night, and
as the fires grew long and people filtered from the hall, they were still
recounting stories.

“Remember that hill?” Brandt asked. “When
it was just the four of us, on patrol? Up against the entire company of McClouds?”

Erec nodded. “Too well.”

“I swear, if it wasn’t for you, I would be
dead.”

Erec shook his head. “I got lucky.”

“You never get lucky,” Brandt said. “You’re
the finest knight in the kingdom.”

“It is true,” the Duke echoed, seated on
his other side. “I fear for any knight who comes against you tomorrow.”

“I’m not so sure,” Erec said, humbly. “You
seem to have a vast array of warriors gathered here.”

“That’s true, there are,” the Duke said.
“They’ve descended on us from all corners of the Ring. It seems that every man
wants the same thing in this world: a fine woman. God knows why. Once we get
one, we can’t wait to get rid of her!”

The men all laughed.

“Tomorrow will certainly be a site,” the
Duke added. “But I have no doubt in you.”

“The only problem is,” Brandt chimed in,
“is that the winner chooses a bride. Knowing you, you may choose no one—and
offend every woman here!”

Erec shook his head.

“I mean no offense,” he said. “I
suppose…I suppose I just have not found her yet.”

“Are you telling me that not a single
woman here suits you?” the Duke asked, surprised. “You have met some of the
finest women this court has to offer. Any man here would die for some of
them—and tomorrow, some of them just might.”

“I mean no offense, my lord,” Erec said.
“I do not consider myself more worthy than any of them. On the contrary, surely
they are all more worthy than I. It is just that…well, I feel that I will know
her when I see her. I don’t want to be hasty.”

“Hasty!” Brandt yelled. “You’ve had
twenty five years! How much more time do you want!?”

They all laughed.

“Just make a choice,” Brandt added, “and
be weighed down with a bride and join the rest of our miserable lot. After all,
misery loves company! And our kingdom must populate!”

The group laughed again, and as Erec
looked away, somewhat embarrassed by all the talk, his eyes froze. He happened
to see, across the room, a serving girl, perhaps eighteen, with long, blonde
hair, and large, almond green eyes. She wore a simple servant’s attire, hardly
better than rags, as she went down the tables, person to person, filling vessels
with wine. She kept her head down, never making eye contact, and was more
humble than anyone Erec had ever seen. She was huddled with the other serving
girls, and they worked hard. No one paid them any attention. They were of the
servant class, and here, in court, class distinctions were treated very
seriously: servants were treated as if they did not exist. Her clothes were
soiled, and her hair looked as if it had not been washed in days. She looked dejected.

And yet the second Erec saw her, it was
as if he had been struck by lightning. Erec sensed something exuding from her
which was special. She had a proud, even a regal, quality. Something told him
that she was different than the others.

As she came closer, filling each goblet,
he caught a good look at her face as she turned, and his breath stopped. He had
never felt this way before, not upon meeting anyone, not even any royalty. It
was the feeling he had been hoping to feel his entire life. The feeling he did
not know if he was ever capable of feeling.

She was magnificent. He could hardly speak.
He had to know who she was.

“Who is that woman?” Erec asked the
Duke, nodding.

The Duke and several others turned excitedly
to follow his gaze.

“Which do you mean? Esmeralda? With the
blue gown?”

“No,”
Erec said, pointing. “Her.”

They all followed his glance in silence
and confusion.

“Do you mean the servant girl?” ___
asked.

Erec nodded.

The Duke shrugged.

“Who knows? Just another servant,” he
said dismissively. “Why do you ask? Do you know her?”

“No,” Erec answered, his voice catching
in his throat. “But I wish to.”

The girl came closer, and reached their
group, and bent down to fill Erec’s goblet. He was so mesmerized, he forgot to
raise it.

Finally, she looked up at him. As she
did, so close, as her eyes met his, he felt his whole world melt away.

“My Lord?” she asked, staring back at
him. Her eyes froze in his, and seemed to widen, too. She, too, seemed captivated
by him. It was as if they were meeting again.

“My Lord?” she repeated, after several
seconds. “Shall I fill your goblet?”

Erec stared at her, forgetting his
manners, too dumbfounded to speak. After several seconds of staring back at
him, finally, she moved on. She turned and checked back over her shoulder a few
times as she went, looking at him.

Then finally, she set down the pitcher, turned,
and ran from the hall.

Erec stood, watching her.

“I must know her,” Erec said to the
Duke.

“Her?”
the Duke asked, in shock.

“But she’s a servant girl. Why would you
want to know her?” Brandt asked.

Erec stood, electrified, knowing for the
first time exactly what he wanted.

“She is the one I want. She is the one I
will fight for.”

“Her!?”
Brandt asked, stunned, standing beside him.

The Duke stood, too.

“You could choose any woman in the
kingdom, on both sides of the Ring. You could choose a princess. A lord’s
daughter. A woman with a dowry as wide as the kingdom. And you would choose her?
A servant girl?”

But their words hardly phased Erec. He
watched, mesmerized, as she fled from the hall, out a side room.

“Where is she going?” he demanded. “I
must know.”

“Erec, are you sure about this?” Brandt asked.

“You are making a grave mistake,” the
Duke added. “And you would snub all the women here, all of high royalty.”

Erec turned to him, earnest.

“I aim to snub no one,” he answered. “But
that is the woman I am going to marry. Will you help me find her?”

The Duke nodded to his attendant, who
ran off, on the mission.

He raised a hand and clasped Erec’s shoulder,
and broke into a hearty smile.

“It is true what they say about you, my
friend. You do not defer to what others think. And that is, I think, what I
love about you best.”

The Duke sighed.

“We will find you this servant girl. And
we will make a match!”

A cheer rose up around Erec, as others
clasped him on his back. But he paid attention to none of it. His mind was only
on one thing: that girl. He felt, without a doubt, that he had found the love
of his life.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gareth stood there, in his father’s ruling chamber,
looking out through the open window over King’s Court, like his father used to
love to do. His father used to stroll out, onto the parapets, but Gareth felt
no need to do that. He was perfectly happy, standing here, indoors, at the edge
of the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and looking out over his
people from the shadows.

His people. They
were his people now. He could hardly
believe it.

He stood there, rooted in place, the crown securely
on his head as it had been since the ceremony. He would not take it off. He
also wore his father’s white and black mantle, even in the summer heat, and clutched
in his hand his father’s long, golden scepter. He was beginning to feel like a
king—a real king—and he loved the feeling. All his subjects, as he walked, bowed
to him. To him, not to his father. It
made him feel a rush of adrenaline unlike any he had felt before. All eyes were
turned to him, all hours of the day.

He had really done it. He had managed to kill his
father, to cover up the crime, and to wipe out all obstacles between him and
the kingship. They had all fell for it. And now that they had crowned him,
there was no turning back. Now there was nothing they could do to change it.

Yet now that Gareth was King, he scarcely knew what
to do. All his life he had dreamt of this moment; now that he’d achieved it, he
did not know what was next. His first impression was that being king was
lonely. He had stood here, alone in this room for hours, watching the court. Down
below, in the lower chambers, his counsel awaited him for a meeting. He had
decided to make them wait. In fact, he enjoyed making them wait. He was King,
and he could make anyone wait that he wanted to, for as long as he wanted.

As he had stood here, watching over his people, he
had pondered how to solidify and secure his power. To start with, he would have
Kendrick imprisoned, then, executed. It was too much of a risk to have Kendrick
alive, the firstborn, the most loved of his family. He smiled as he thought of
the guards already on their way to take Kendrick in.

Then he would have Thor killed. He, too, was a
threat, given how close he had been to his father; who knew what his father had
told him while on his deathbed? Perhaps he had even identified Firth. Gareth
was pleased with himself for setting into motions plans for his assassination;
he had wisely paid off a Legion member to do the trick. Once they reached the
Isle of Mist, he would ambush Thor and finish him off. He was assured that Thor
would not return.

When Thor and Kendrick were out of the way, he would
turn to Gwendolyn. She, too, posed a threat. After all, his father’s last wish
was for her to rule. As long as she was alive, the possibility of revolt
lingered.

Finally, most importantly, was the one issue that loomed
on his mind most: the Dynasty Sword. Would he attempt to wield it? If he could,
it would set him apart from every MacGil king that had ever ruled. It would
make all the people love him, for all time. It would mean that he was the chosen one, the one destined
to rule. It would validate him, and it would secure his throne forever. Gareth
had dreamt his whole life of the moment when he would wield it, from the time
he was a boy. A part of him felt certain that he could.

Yet another part of him was not so sure.

The door to his chamber suddenly barged open, and
Gareth turned, wondering who could be so impudent as to barge in on the king.
His face fell as he saw that it was Firth, strutting in past the guards, who
gave Gareth a befuddled look. Firth had grown too brazen since Gareth had
become crowned—he acted as if he ruled the kingdom with him. Gareth resented
him barging in like this, and wondered if he had made a mistake in elevating
him, in making him his adviser. Yet at the same time, he had to admit that he
was happy to see him. A part of him was tired of being alone. And he hardly
knew who he could be friends with, now that he was King. He seemed to have
isolated everyone in his life.

Gareth nodded to the guards, who closed the door
behind Firth.  Firth crossed the room,
and embraced Gareth. He leaned back and tried to kiss him, but Gareth turned
away.

Gareth wasn’t in the mood for him. He’d interrupted
his thoughts.

Firth looked hurt, but then quickly smiled.

“My Liege,” he said, stretching out the word. “Don’t
you love being called that? It’s so becoming of you!” Firth clapped his hands
in delight. “Can you believe it? You are King. Thousands of subjects stand
waiting for your every beck and call. There is nothing we cannot do!”

“We?”
Gareth asked, darkly.

Firth hesitated.

“I mean…you, my lord. Can you imagine? Anything you
want. Right now, everyone awaits your decision.”

“Decision?”

“About the sword,” Firth said. “The whole kingdom
is whispering. That’s all they’re talking about. Will you attempt to wield it?”

Gareth studied him. Firth was more perceptive than
he thought; maybe it was good having him as an adviser.

“And what would you suggest I do?”

“You have
to do it! If you don’t, you will be perceived as too weak to even try. They
will assume that means you are not meant to be king. Because, in their eyes, if
you truly felt entitled, then you would certainly try to hoist it.”

Gareth thought about that. There was some truth to
his words. Maybe he was right.

“Besides,” Firth said, smiling, coming up beside
him, linking arms and walking with him towards the window. “You are meant to be king. You are the one.”

Gareth turned and looked at him, already feeling
aged.

“No I’m not,” he said, honestly. “I took the
throne. It was not handed to me.”

“That does not mean you’re not meant to have it,” Firth
said. “We are only given what we are meant to have in this life. For some, destiny
is handed to them; others need to take it for themselves. That makes you
greater, my lord, not lesser. Think about it,” he said, “you’re the only MacGil
to have taken a throne, who didn’t sit back and have it lazily handed to him.
Does that mean something to you? It does to me. To me, it means that you, and
you alone of all the MacGils are the one meant to wield the sword, to rule
forever. And if you do, just imagine: all the peoples, from all corners of the Ring
and beyond will bow down to you, forever. You will unite the Ring. No one would
ever doubt your legitimacy.”

Firth turned and looked at him, his eyes shining
with excitement and anticipation.

“You have to try!”

Gareth pulled away from Firth, crossing the room. He
thought about it, wanting to take it all in. Firth had a point. Maybe he was destined to be king. Maybe he had
underestimated himself; maybe he had just been too hard on himself. After all,
his father was meant to die—or else he would not have died. Maybe it all
happened this way because Gareth was meant to be the better king. Yes, maybe
his killing his father was for the good
of the kingdom.

Gareth heard a shout, and he turned and looked out
over King’s Court and saw the parade passing below, the celebration for the new
King, the banners being hoisted. He saw his soldiers marching in formation. It
was a beautiful, perfect summer day. As he looked down, he could not help
feeling as if all of this had been destined. Like Firth said: if he was not
meant to be king, he would not be king. He would not be standing here right
now.

He knew this was the most important decision of his
entire kingship, and it was one he would have to make now. He wished that Argon
were here now, to offer him counsel, but he also sensed that Argon hated him, and
even if he gave him advice, he wondered if it would be the right advice.

Gareth sighed, then finally turned from the window.
The time had come to make the first major decision of his kingship.

“Summon the guards,” he ordered Firth, as he turned
and walked for the door. “Prepare the dynasty chamber.”

He stopped and turned to Firth, who stood there,
staring back excitedly.

“I am going to wield the sword.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

King McCloud sat on his horse on the peak of the
Highlands, flanked by his son, his top generals, and hundreds of his men, as he
looked down greedily at the MacGil’s side of the Ring. On this summer day a
warm breeze pushed back his long hair, and he peered down at their lush land
with envy. It was the land he’d always wished for, the land his father and his
father before him had always wanted, the choicer side of the Ring, with more
fertile land, deeper rivers, richer soil, and purer water. His side of the
Highlands, the McCloud side of the Ring, had been adequate, maybe even good.
But it wasn’t choice. It wasn’t the MacGil side. He didn’t have the very best
vineyards, the richest milk, the brightest rays of the sun. And McCloud, as his
father before him, was determined to change that. The MacGils had enjoyed the
better half of the Ring for long enough; now it was time for the McClouds to
have it.

As McCloud sat at the very top of the Highlands, eyeing
the MacGil side for the first time since he was a boy, he felt optimism. The
fact that he was even able to be up this high told him everything he needed to
know. In the past, the MacGils had always guarded the Highlands so carefully
that the McClouds could not even find a single way to pass through—and certainly
could not sit on the high ground. Now his men had cleared it with only the
slightest skirmish. The MacGils were truly not expecting an attack from their
ancient adversaries. It was either that or, McCloud supposed, the new MacGil king
was weak, unprepared. Gareth. He’d met him on several occasions. He was nothing
like his father. To think that the kingdom was now in his hands was laughable.

McCloud knew an opportunity when he saw it—and this
one was once in a lifetime, one that could not be passed by. It was a chance to
strike the MacGils hard, once and for all, deep in their territory, before they
had had a chance to reconvene from the death of the king. McCloud was gambling
that they would still be reeling, still unsure how to react under the rule of
this novice king. Thus far, he had been right.

McCloud speculated even further, reasoned that MacGil’s
assassination pointed to a division within the MacGil dynasty. Someone had
executed him, and had gone about it very well. There were chinks in the armor,
all down the chain. That meant weakness. Division. All excellent signs. All
pointing to a fractured kingdom. All pointing to the McClouds, after centuries,
finally having their chance to crush them once and for all, and to control the
entire Ring.

McCloud smiled at the thought of it, as close to a
smile as he could come, the slightest bit at the corner of his mouth, barely
moving his thick, stiff beard. All around him, he could feel his men watching
him as he watched the horizon, looking to him for the first sign of what to do,
how to act. What he saw below pleased him immensely. There were small villages,
spread out in bucolic hills, smoke rising from chimneys, women hanging clothes
out to dry, children playing. There were entire fields of sheep, farmers
harvesting fruits—and most importantly, no patrols in sight. The MacGils had
become sloppy.

His smile broadened. Soon, those would be his women. Soon, those would be his sheep.

“ATTACK!” McCloud shrieked.

His men let out a cheer, a battle cry, all of them
on horses, raising their swords high.

As one, they all charged, hundreds of them, down
the mountain. McCloud went first, as he always did, the wind in his hair, his
stomach dropping as he stormed down the steep descent. And as he kicked his
horse mercilessly, galloping faster, ever faster, he had never felt so alive.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kendrick sat in the Hall of Arms on a
long, wooden bench, seated beside dozens of his brothers in arms, members of The
Silver. He studied his sword as he sharpened it. His spirits were broken. His
father’s passing had hurt him more than he could say. As long as he had lived,
the way that the word perceived his relationship with his father had troubled
him. MacGil was his true father. He knew that, deep in his heart. He treated
him like a true father, and he knew that to MacGil he was a true son. His true
firstborn son. Yet for the eyes of all the world, he was illegitimate. Why?
Only because his father chose another woman to be his queen.

It was unfair. He had accepted his role
as bastard and had played the good son out of respect for his father. He had
dutifully repressed his feelings his entire life. But now that his father was
dead, and especially now that Gareth was named King, something within Kendrick
could no longer accept the status quo. Something inside him fumed. It was not
that he wanted to be king; it was just that he wanted the rest of the world to
acknowledge that he was MacGil’s first born, that he was legitimate—as much as
any of his half-siblings.

As MacGil sat there, sharpening his
sword with the stone, again and again, making a high-pitched noise that cut
through the room, he thought about all the things left unsaid to his father. He
wished he had more time, wished he’d had a chance to tell him how grateful he
was for raising him as one of his own. To tell him that no matter what the
world thought, he was his true father, and he his true son. To tell him the
words he had never spoken: that he loved him.

His father had been taken away from him
too soon, and without warning.

Kendrick sharpened the sword harder,
digging the stone into it, as rage rose up within him. He would find his father’s
murderer. And he would kill him himself. He was determined. Many suspects
floated in his head, and hour to hour he pondered one after the next. The one
he pondered most of all, unfortunately, was the one he was most afraid to think
of. The one closest to him. His younger half-brother, Gareth.

Deep down he could not help but wonder
if Gareth was behind it somehow. He remembered that meeting, Gareth’s rage at being
skipped over for Gwendolyn. Raised with him, only a few years apart, he knew,
too well, Gareth’s devious nature; as long as he had known him, Gareth had envied
Kendrick, being older, being firstborn. He had viewed Kendrick as an obstacle.
He felt that Gareth would stop at nothing to have the kingship.

Kendrick sharpened the sword as he
pondered other suspects; there were many enemies his father had accumulated,
enemies of the state, enemies he had conquered in battle; rival lords. These
hit less close to home and were easier to dwell on. He hoped it was one of
them. And he would explore each one. But no matter how hard he tried to think
of others, again and again he found himself returning to his half-brother.

Kendrick sat back and looked around at
the other Silver, all maintaining their weapons on this dreary day. The summer
sun had been replaced by sudden fog and showers. The day after the summer
solstice always brought great change, was always considered a day of
maintenance, in preparation for the new season. It was also the day the Legion
left for The Hundred. Kendrick recalled his new squire, Thor, leaving, and he
smiled; he had taken a liking to the boy, and expected great things of him.

As Kendrick studied the other members of
the Silver, many of them older, hardened warriors, all sitting around the table,
joking with each other, all with formidable weapons, he felt grateful, as
always, to be a member of their ranks. They had accepted him as a true member—and
he had earned it. At first, when he was younger, he had been greeted warily;
many assumed he was only here because of his father, or that he, being royalty,
would look down on them. But slowly, over time, he had earned their respect; he
had fought his way up, side by side with them at the hardest battles, and they
had come to see he was like them. Eventually, they had accepted him as one of
their own. He took great pride in that. Whenever anyone had tried to show him favor
for being the King’s son, he had always insisted on being treated as one of the
common men. Over time, the men had come to see that he was genuine, and they had
come to love him. Over many years, Kendrick knew that he had become the most
loved member of the royal family—even more so than his father. He was the only
one, in fact, that the Silver respected and treated as a true soldier, in his
own right.

That meant more to Kendrick than
anything he had done in this world. All he’d ever wanted was to be a true and
respected warrior of the Silver. Looking around, he saw the respect in his brothers
in arms’ eyes, and could tell that many of them, especially the younger ones,
were beginning to look to him as a leader. Since the death of his father, more
than one of them had come up to him and expressed dismay that he had not been chosen
to be king. He could feel they wanted him as their leader. But his father clearly
had wanted Gwen to rule, and above all, Kendrick felt he must honor his father’s
wishes. That was what mattered most to him.

On the other hand, he resented Gareth’s
usurping the throne and worried for the future of the kingdom. Gwen was not
strong enough to lead a revolt of the men. If it came down to it, then he would
rather rule over Gareth, only for the sake of the well-being of the Ring. When
Gwen was older and able, he would gladly hand power to her.

“What did you think of the ceremony?” asked
Atme, sitting beside him, oiling down his axe handle. Atme was a fierce knight
with bright-red hair and beard, from the far Eastern corner of the kingdom;
Kendrick had fought with him in too many battles. He was a close and trusted friend.

“What do you think of your younger
brother’s being king?” he added.

Kendrick looked back at him, saw his
earnest expression, and saw behind him several more members of the Silver,
watching for his response. He could see in their eyes how badly they all wanted
him to be King—and how anxious they were for his brother’s rule. No one trusted
his brother. That much was obvious.

Kendrick debated how to respond, how much
to say. It was clear from Atme’s use of the term “younger” that he was goading
him on. What he wanted to answer was: I
think it is horribly unfair. Gareth is unfit to rule. It is a disaster. He will
bring our kingdom to its knees. My father never wished for this. He is turning
over in his grave, and something must be done.

But he could not say this. Not to these
men. Not now. He would demoralize them, and possibly cause a revolt. He had to
think carefully of his next move, of how best to handle the situation. In the
meantime, he had to be careful with his words.

“Time will tell the fate of all things,”
he answered, noncommittal.

The men turned and looked away, nodding,
pretending to be satisfied. But he knew that they were not.

Suddenly, a great crash came through the
doors of the hall, and all heads turned as in rushed a dozen of the King’s Guard.
Kendrick was surprised that they would burst in like this, into the hall of The
Silver, and that they would dare bear arms inside this hall. It was something
he had never seen before. The Silver, hardened warriors, all reacted, wheeling,
watching.

The King’s Guard rushed through the
room, a dozen of them, and as Kendrick watched, they headed right for him. They
wore stern expressions, and Kendrick wondered what was going on. He could
detect their urgency and at first wondered if they were coming here with a
request for help.

They stopped before him and one of them,
one of his father’s deputies, Darloc, a man who Kendrick recognized and who had
been loyal to his father for years, stepped forward with a grim expression.

“Kendrick of the Clan MacGil of the Western
Kingdom of the Ring,” he announced in a formal, grave voice, as he read from a
scroll, “I hereby declare that, under law of the King, you are hereby arrested
as a traitor to the realm for the assassination of King MacGil.”

Kendrick’s hair stood on end, and his
entire body went cold.

An outraged gasp spread throughout the
room, as his brothers in arms slowly stood from their seats, tense, on edge. A
thick silence blanketed the room as everyone watched Kendrick for his reaction.

Kendrick stood slowly, trying to
breathe, to understand. He felt as if his life flashed before him in a single
moment.

Kendrick studied Darloc’s face, lined
and grim, and he could see that he was earnest.

“Darloc,” Kendrick said steadily, forcing
himself to keep calm, his voice resonating in the dead-silent room, “you have
known me my entire life. You know that these words you read are not true.”

Darloc’s eye twitched.

“My liege,” Darloc answered sadly. “I’m
afraid that my personal beliefs do not matter. I am but a servant of the King
and I am merely carrying out what I have been commanded to. Please forgive me.
You are right. I could never believe such slander myself. But my beliefs are
subservient to those of the King. I’m afraid I must follow orders.”

Kendrick stared back at the man, and he could
see the solemnity on his face, could see how upset, how conflicted, he was at
having to be in this position. He actually felt bad for him.

Kendrick could hardly conceive the
audacity of it: his own brother, accusing him of murdering their father. That
could only mean one thing: Gareth was threatened, and had something to hide. He
needed a scapegoat immediately, no matter how flimsy. In Kendrick’s mind, that
solidified it: Gareth killed him. It made a fresh fire burn within Kendrick—not
because he cared about being imprisoned himself, but because he realized that
Gareth was the assassin, and he felt compelled to bring him to justice.

“I am sorry, Kendrick, but I am going to
have to take you in,” Darloc said, and motioned to one of his men.

As the soldier took a step forward, Atme
suddenly jumped to his feet and stepped like lightning between the man and Kendrick,
drawing his sword.

“If you wish to touch Kendrick, you will
have to go through me,” came his grave voice.

Suddenly the room was filled with the
sounds of swords being drawn, as every member of The Silver, dozens of them,
leapt to their feet and confronted the king’s guard.

Darloc stood there, looking very afraid,
and in that moment he must have realized that he had very badly miscalculated
coming here. He must have realized that his kingdom was just one move away a
full-fledged civil war.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Gwen stood on the sandy shore, as ocean
waves crashed too close to her feet, huge, fierce waves, hitting her legs with
enough strength to make her wobble. She stood there, losing her footing, as she
watched the huge ship set sail before her, Thor standing at its helm, waving.
On Thor’s shoulder sat Ephistopheles, who stared back with an ominous look that
made Gwen’s blood run cold.

Thor was smiling, but as she watched, his
sword fell from his waist and plummeted into the ocean. Oddly, he seemed not to
notice, still smiling and waving, and she felt terrified for him.

The sea, so calm, suddenly turned rough,
its waters turning from a crystal blue to a foaming black; as she watched,
their boat was rocked violently, tossed about in the waves. Still Thor stood
there, smiling and waving to her as if nothing were happening. She could not
understand what was going on. Behind him the skies, clear just a moment before,
turned scarlet, the clouds themselves seeming to froth over in rage. Lightning
lit up the sky all around, and as she watched, a lightning bolt pierced the sail.
In moments, Thor’s ship was aflame. The ship, on fire, gained speed, sailed
away, faster and faster, sucked out into the sea on massive currents.

“THOR!” Gwen shrieked.

She shrieked again as the ship went up
into a ball of flames and was sucked into the dark red sky, disappearing on the
horizon.

She looked down, and a wave crashed
before her, up to her chest, knocking her onto her back. She reached out to
grab hold of something—but there was nothing. She felt herself getting sucked
out into the ocean, faster and faster, the currents consuming her, as another
huge wave crashed down, right on her face.

Gwen shrieked.

She opened her eyes to see herself
standing in her father’s chamber. It was empty and freezing in here, nighttime,
the wall lined with torches—too many torches, all lit up, flickering. In the
room stood a sole figure, standing on the window ledge, his back to her. She
sensed immediately that it was her father. He wore his royal furs, and, on his
head, the crown. It seemed bigger than it had ever been.

“Father?” she asked, as she approached.

Slowly, he turned and looked at her. She
was horrified. His face was half-skeleton, eyes bulging from the sockets, flesh
decomposed. He looked at her with a look of horror, of desperation, as he
reached out one hand.

“Why won’t you avenge me?” he moaned.

Gwen’s breath caught in her chest, horrified
as she rushed towards him.

He started to lean back, and she reached
out to grab his hand—but it was too late. He fell slowly, backwards, out the
window.

Gwen shrieked as she ran forward, and
stuck her head out to watch. Her father plummeted down into the blackness,
falling and falling. The ground gave way, and he seemed to fall into the bowels
of the earth. She never heard him hit.

Gwen heard a rattling noise, and turned
and surveyed his empty chamber. There was his crown. It must have fallen off
his head, and now it rolled, on its side, across the floor, making a hollow,
metallic sound as it did. It rolled in circles, louder and louder, until it
finally settled down. It sat there, in the center of the bare stone floor.

From somewhere, his words rang out again:

“Avenge me!”

Gwen woke with a start, sitting upright
in bed, breathing hard. She rubbed her eyes and jumped from the mattress,
hurrying over to her window, trying to shake herself of the awful nightmare.
She took cold water from a small bowl by the window, splashed it on her face
several times, and looked out.

It was dawn, and King’s Court was quiet,
the light just beginning to break from the first rising sun. It looked like she
was the first one to rise. The dream had been awful, more like a vision, and
her heart pounded as she replayed it. Thor, dying on that ship. It had felt
like a message, more like she was seeing the future than a dream. Her heart
broke, as she felt with certainty that he would soon be dead.

And then here was that awful image of
her father, the decomposed skeleton. His rebuke to her. The images were all so
real, she could not go back to sleep. She paced her chamber and hardly knew
what to do with herself.

Without thinking, she crossed her room
and began to dress, way earlier than usual. She felt she had to do something.
Anything. Whatever she could to find her father’s killer.

*

As he walked down the empty castle corridors in the
early morning light, Godfrey was sober and alone—both for the first time in
years—and it was an unfamiliar feeling. He could not remember how long it had
been since he had gone a full day without a drink, or had spent time alone, not
surrounded by his drunken friends. His feelings of loneliness, of gravity, were
all new to him, and he realized that this is what everyday people must feel
like as they lived their normal lives. It was terrible. Boring. He hated it,
and he wanted to run back to the alehouse, to his friends, and make it all go
away. Real life was not for him.

But for the first time in his life, Godfrey refused
to give into his impulses. He did not know what was overcoming him, but watching
his father being lowered into the earth had done something to him; since his
death, something had stirred inside him. He was like a cauldron simmering on a
low flame; he felt a sense of discontent, of unease, that he never had before. He
felt uncomfortable in his own skin. For the first time he turned a harsh light
upon himself, reevaluated who he was, how he had lived his life, and how he might
spend the rest of it, and when he looked, honestly, in the mirror, he did not
like what he saw.

Godfrey also looked upon his friends with fresh
eyes, and could no longer stand the site of their faces. Most of all, his own. For
the first time this morning, the taste of ale was rotten to him; for the first
time in as long as he could remember, he had a clear head, a presence of mind.
He needed to think clearly today, to summon all his wits. Because there was
something burning inside him, something he did not fully understand, which was
driving him to find his father’s murderer.

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 footsteps. 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 was 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.

One of the boys, a tall, frail boy who Thor
recognized from the playing fields, suddenly leaned over on his oar and
collapsed, about ten feet away. He slumped sideways, then fell with a thud onto
the wooden floor. It was the boy from the exercise with the shields, the one
who had been afraid to do it, who had been made to run extra laps. Thor had
felt bad for him; he still did.

Without thinking, Thor stopped rowing, jumped from
his seat and rushed to his side. He was dimly aware that it was against the
rules for him to leave his seat, but he just reacted, seeing his fellow Legion
member in trouble. He turned him over, looked at his face. His face was too
red, his skin burnt from the sun, and his lips too dry and chapped. He was
alive, but his breathing was shallow.

“Get up!” Thor urged, shaking him.

The boy’s eyes fluttered.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he answered weakly.

“Get up!” Thor whispered urgently. “Get up quickly!
Before they see you!”

“THORGRIN!” screamed Kolk.

Thor felt a hard boot kick in the small of his
back, and went flying forward, face first, onto the floor of the boat. The wood
stung his face and palms as he hit.

“WHAT DO YO THINK YOU’RE DOING!?”

Thor was indignant, red-faced with rage, but he
held himself from doing anything rash. He turned and looked up.

“He collapsed!” Thor protested. “I was just helping—”

“You NEVER leave your seat! For ANY reason! We don’t
baby each other here. If he falls, let him fall!” Kolk screamed, standing over
Thor, hands on his hips. Thor felt a fresh hatred for the man. What stung more
than the kick was being yelled at in front of the other boys. It hurt his
pride, and Thor vowed revenge. Sometimes, as a commander, Kolk was just too
harsh.

Krohn came running to his side, and snarled back at
Kolk.

At the site of him, Kolk seemed to be wary of
coming any closer. Instead, he pointed a shaking finger towards his seat.

“Now get back there!” he screamed, “Or I’ll throw
you off this boat myself!”

Thor rose to one knee, when suddenly he spotted something
over Kolk’s shoulder that made him freeze.

“LOOK OUT!” Thor screamed, pointing.

Kolk spun, but it was already too late. Thor had no
choice: he dove forward, and tackled Kolk, knocking him down to the ground—and
just in time.

A split second later there was a resounding boom,
and a cannonball came flying through the air, right for them. It soared across
the deck of the ship, just passing where Kolk had been standing; it nearly
grazed his head as he hit the deck. It singed the top railing, and there was the
sound of wood splintering; miraculously, it did not do serious damage to the
ship, as the cannonball sailed by and landed with a huge splash in the water.

Because of Thor’s warning, all the other Legion
members ducked just in time. As one, they, on the floor, raised their heads and
looked out.

There, on the horizon, rowing towards them, was a huge
black ship. It sailed with a yellow flag, with an emblem of a black shield in
its center, two horns protruding from it.

“Empire ship!” Kolk screamed.

It was closing in fast, its large cannon pointed
right at them, and manned with at least a hundred soldiers. The ships were
unequally matched: theirs was larger, had a cannon, and was packed with more
soldiers. Worse, their ship was manned with Empire savages—huge, overflowing
with muscles, with red skin and horns sticking from their bald heads, large
yellow eyes, a small triangle for noses, and impossibly wide jaws, with rows of
razor-sharp teeth, and two large fangs sticking out on either end. They were
formidable creatures, and they stood on the deck, wielding swords and
salivating at the sight of their ship.

“MAN THE GALLEYS!” Kolk screamed, re-gaining his
feet.

The boys broke into action. Thor hardly knew what
was happening, or what he was supposed to do, but the older boys seemed to fall
into place.

“ARCHERS TO THE FRONT!” Kolk screamed. “Prepare
your arrows! All others set the arrows aflame!”

All around Thor, the older boys, more disciplined,
hurried forward to the edge of the ship as they grabbed bows and arrows from
racks off the side of the ship. The younger Legion members raced to their side,
grabbing rags, dipping them in oil, wrapping them onto the end of the arrows,
and lighting them on fire.

Thor wanted to help. He saw an archer kneeling,
with no one helping him, and he rushed into action. He ran to his side, dipped
a rag in oil, tied it to his arrow, and lit it as he placed it on the string.
The boy immediately pulled back and fired, as did dozens of others around him.

The arrows, alight with flames, sailed through the
air; most fell short, hissing as they landed in the sea, while about a dozen of
them landed on the enemy ship. But they landed on the decks, falling short of
the huge canvas sails, missing their marks. The savages, well-trained,
immediately pounced on them and put them out. The first volley had done no
damage.

The Empire, on the other hand, adjusted its cannon
and fired again.

“DOWN!” screamed Kolk.

Thor, heart pounding, hit the deck face first with
all the others—and pulled Krohn down with him. There came another boom, and another
cannonball went flying past—again grazing the ship, though this time, with a
cracking noise, it managed to take out a good chunk of the railing, wood
splintering and sending it like missiles over Thor’s head.

“BACK TO THE BOWS!” Kolk yelled.

The archers took their places again, and Thor rushed
over to help, lighting an arrow and handing it to an archer, who immediately
placed it on the string and let it fly. The boat was closer, and this time they
had more luck. The Empire ship, fearless, came in fast, not worried about
closing the gap, hardly fifty yards away. They must have figured they could
overtake them so quickly, the arrows would do no harm.

That was their big mistake. This time, several
dozen of the flaming arrows hit the sails; while the savages put some of them
out, enough of them caught. In moments, their sails were in flames.

“GET DOWN!” Kolk yelled.

Thor looked up just in time to see the savages
standing on the edge of the railing, holding huge spears, and throwing them
right at their ship.

Thor dove down, pulling Krohn, his heart pounding, as
spears whizzed through the air all around him and he heard them puncturing the
wood.

He heard a scream, and turned to see one of his
brothers, an older boy he did not know, scream out, clutching his arm,
punctured by a spear and gushing blood. Thor quickly surveyed the others and
saw that, luckily, none of the others seemed badly hurt, or worse, dead. Most
had managed to take cover in time.

Thor looked back up and saw the Empire ship was
even closer. Now maybe thirty yards away, he could see the yellows of the
savages’ eyes. Their ship was engulfed in flames, but their warriors seemed
hardly to care. They were rowing twice as hard, preoccupied with reaching their
ship and apparently, taking it over. Krohn barked and snarled at the foreign
ship.

“THE SPEARS!” Kolk yelled, as he ran over and
grabbed one himself. “HURL THEM BACK!”

All around Thor the boys jumped into action,
hurrying over to grab the spears stuck in the wood. Thor rushed over and grabbed
one himself, yanking it out of the wood. It was thick and long and was stuck surprisingly
deep; it took all his might to get it out.

But he did. He ran to the edge of the ship, and
surveyed his target. Beside him, Reese and Elden hurled spears, and Thor
watched as they fell short, landing in the water. All around him the boys spears
fell short. Very few hit the ship, and those that did missed their targets.

Thor set his sights on a single, thick rope, high
up on the enemy ship, holding the main mast in place. He closed his eyes and
focused, feeling an energy rise up within him, feeling his body grow warm. He
tried to let his energy force take over, guide him, control him.

Thor took several steps forward, leaned back, and
hurled the spear through the air.

He watched as it went flying, and felt a swell of
pride as he sensed that it was on course.

It was a perfect strike.

The spear sliced the main rope in half, and it
snapped with a resounding noise. As it did, their burning sail began to topple,
then came crashing down, landing vertically across the ship, and engulfing the
entire deck in flames.

Screams rang out from the savages, as many were
caught on fire. Moments later their ship started rocking violently, and then it
turned sideways and capsized, bodies jumping off into the water.

The Legion members let out a shout, victorious, and
Thor wondered if anyone had seen the throw that he’d made.

“Nice one,” someone said, and a boy he did not
recognize patted him on the back.

Thor turned and saw others looking at him in
admiration, and he felt his pride swell. He felt a sense of victory. He had at
first been terror-stricken stricken to see that Empire ship, to realize they
were really in hostile territory. But now that they had defeated it, he felt
that anything was possible. He felt that, if they could withstand this, they
could withstand anything.

Just then, there came a shout: “EMPIRE FLEET!”

Thor looked up and saw one of the Legion high up on
the mast, looking out and pointing at the horizon.

Thor ran to the railing with the others and looked out.
His heart dropped: there, on the horizon, sat an entire fleet of Empire ships.

Thor’s heart pounded in his chest. There was no way
they could defeat this many ships. And no way they could escape back to the Ring
in time. They were finished.

“THE RAIN WALL!” someone else yelled out.

Thor turned in the other direction, and saw, on the
horizon, what looked like a wall of water. It was unlike anything he had ever
seen. It was a perfectly clear day, clear skies all around them—and yet, on the
horizon there sat a straight wall of rain. It didn’t move, but just sat there,
like a waterfall in the middle of nowhere.

“What is it?” Thor asked Reese, standing beside
them.

“It’s the boundary to the other side. To the
Dragon’s Sea.”

“TO THE OARS! ROW FOR THE RAIN WALL!” Kolk yelled,
frantically. It was the first time Thor heard fear in his voice.

Thor raced back to his spot, rowing with all he
had, as did everyone around him. Their ship started moving quickly, right for
the wall, and as they got closer, strong current sucked them in, towards it,
like a whirlpool. Thor looked back and saw the Empire ships bearing down on
them.

“And what of the Empire ships?” Thor called out to
Reese.

Reese, in front of him, shook his head.

“They won’t follow. Not through the rain wall.”

“But why?” Thor asked.

“It’s too dangerous. They wouldn’t risk it. Beyond
that wall, there lies a sea of monsters.”

Thor looked down at the water, and wondered.

“But if it’s too dangerous for them, what hope is
there for us?”

Reese shook his head.

“It’s the only way. We have no choice.”

As they neared the rain wall Thor heard the great
roar of water hitting water, felt the spray even from here, and looked back to
see the Empire ships had stopped the chase.

Thor felt relieved to be rid of them, but scared
for what lay before them. Krohn whined. As Thor’s body became doused in freezing
water, as his world became a blur, he grabbed onto the mast for dear life, as
did all the other boys around him. In
moments he was doused with water, spraying down so hard it sent him flying
across the ship. He tried to grab on, but he could not, as he lost his grip and
slipped all the way across the deck. Water filled his eyes, his ears, his nose,
and as he reached out, flailing, as he tried to breathe, water filling his
lungs, he could not help but wonder: if these waters were too dangerous for the
Empire, what sort of creatures could possibly lie beyond?

NOW
AVAILABLE!

A FEAST OF DRAGONS

(Book #3 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

“A breathtaking
new epic fantasy series. Morgan Rice does it again! This magical saga reminds
me of the best of J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, Rick Riordan, Christopher
Paolini and J.R.R. Tolkien. I couldn’t put it down!”

--Allegra Skye,
Bestselling author of SAVED

A FEAST OF
DRAGONS (Book #3 in the Sorcerer's Ring) takes us deeper into Thor’s epic
journey to becoming a warrior, as he journeys across the Sea of Fire to the
dragon’s Isle of Mist. An unforgiving place, home to the most elite warriors of
the world, Thor’s powers and abilities deepen as he trains. His friendships
deepen, too, as they face adversities together, beyond what they could imagine.
But as they find themselves up against unimaginable monsters , The Hundred
quickly goes from training session to a matter of life or death. Not all will
survive.

Along the way,
Thor’s dreams, along with his mysterious encounters with Argon, will continue
to plague him, to press him to try to learn more about who he is, who his
mother is, and what the source of his powers are. What is his destiny?

Back in the
Ring, matters are getting much worse. As Kendrick is imprisoned, Gwendolyn
finds it landing on her to try to save him, to save the Ring by bringing down
her brother Gareth. She hunts for clues for her father’s murderer along with
her brother Godfrey, and along the way, the two of them will become much
closer, united in their cause. But Gwendolyn finds herself in mortal danger as
she presses too deep, and she may be in over her head.

Gareth attempts
to wield the Dynasty Sword and learns what it means to be King, becoming drunk
with the abuse of power. He rules ruthlessly, becoming paranoid. As the noose
tightens on the king’s assassin, the McClouds attack deeper into the Ring, and
King’s Court finds itself in an increasingly precarious position.

Gwendolyn pines
for Thor’s return, for them to be together, for their love to blossom. But with
powerful forces in their way, it is questionable if that chance will ever come.

Will Thor
survive The Hundred? Will King’s Court collapse? Will MacGil’s murderer be
found? Will Gwendolyn end up with Thor? And will Thor finally learn the secret
of his destiny?

With its
sophisticated world-building and characterization, A FEAST OF DRAGONS is an
epic tale of friends and lovers, of rivals and suitors, of knights and dragons,
of intrigues and political machinations, of coming of age, of broken hearts, of
deception, ambition and betrayal. It is a tale of honor and courage, of fate
and destiny, of sorcery. It is a fantasy that brings us into a world we will
never forget, and which will appeal to all ages and genders. It is nearly
70,000 words. Book #4 in the series will be published soon.

“Grabbed my
attention from the beginning and did not let go….This story is an amazing
adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There
is not a dull moment to be found.”

--Paranormal
Romance Guild {regarding Turned}

“Jam packed
with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. Get your hands on this one and
fall in love all over again.”

--vampirebooksite.com
(regarding Turned)

“A great plot,
and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at
night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will
immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens.”

--The Dallas
Examiner {regarding Loved}

Books by Morgan Rice

THE SORCERER’S RING

A QUEST OF HEROES (Book
#1 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

A MARCH OF KINGS (Book #2 in the Sorcerer’s Ring)

A FEAST OF DRAGONS (Book #3 in the
Sorcerer’s Ring)

THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY

ARENA ONE: SLAVERSUNNERS (Book #1 of the Survival Trilogy)

ARENA TWO (Book #2 of the Survival Trilogy)

THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS

TURNED (Book #1 in the Vampire Journals)

LOVED (Book #2 in the Vampire Journals)

BETRAYED (Book #3 in the Vampire Journals)

DESTINED (Book #4 in the Vampire
Journals)

DESIRED (Book #5 in the Vampire
Journals)

BETROTHED (Book #6 in the Vampire Journals)

VOWED (Book #7 in the Vampire Journals)

FOUND (Book #8 in the Vampire Journals)

THE VAMPIRE LEGACY

RESURRECTED (Book #1 of the Vampire
Legacy)

CRAVED (Book #2 of the Vampire Legacy)

Please visit
Morgan’s site, where you can join the mailing list, hear the latest news, see
additional images, and find links to stay in touch with Morgan on Facebook,
Twitter, Goodreads and elsewhere:

www.morganricebooks.com