A March of Kings (11 page)

“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.