A March of Kings (12 page)

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.