Only the Worthy (4 page)

He nodded with
resignation.

“I have lived
for many sun cycles,” he replied. “If I can delay them from finding you, to
give you a chance for safety, I will gladly give up what remains of my life.
Now go! Head for the river! Find a boat and flee from here! Quickly!”

He yanked her
before she had a chance to think, and before she knew it he was leading her to
the rear entrance of his fort. He pulled back a tapestry to reveal a hidden
door carved into the stone. He leaned against it with all his might and it
opened with a scraping sound, releasing ancient air. A burst of cold air rushed
into the fort.

Barely had it
opened than he pushed her and her baby out the back.

Rea found
herself immersed in the snowstorm, stumbling down a steep, snowy riverbank,
clutching her baby. She slipped and slid, feeling as if the world were
collapsing beneath her, barely able to move. As she ran, lightning struck an
immense tree close to her, lighting up the night, and sent it crashing down too
close to her. The baby screamed. She was horrified: never would she have
believed that lightning could strike in a snowstorm. This was indeed a night of
omens.

Rea slipped
again as the terrain grew steep, and this time she landed on her butt. She went
flying, and she cried out as the slope took her all the way down toward the
riverbank.

She breathed
with relief to reach it and realized if she hadn’t slid all this way, she
probably could not have made the run. She glanced back uphill, shocked at how
far she had come, and watched in horror as the knights invaded Fioth’s fort and
set it ablaze. The fire burned strongly, even in the snow, and she felt an
awful wave of guilt, knowing the old man had died for her.

A moment later
knights burst out the back door, while more horses galloped around it. She
could see they’d spotted her, and without pausing raced for her.

Rea turned and
tried to run, but there was nowhere left to go. She was in no condition to run,
anyway. All she could do was drop to her knees before the riverbank. She knew
she would die here. She had reached the end of her rope.

Yet hope
remained for her baby. She looked out and saw a tangle of sticks, perhaps a
beaver’s nest, so thick it resembled a basket. Driven by a mother’s love, she
thought quickly. She reached over and grabbed it and quickly placed her baby
inside it. She tested it, and to her relief, it floated.

Rea reached out
and prepared to shove the basket into the calm river’s waters. If the current
caught it, it would float away from here. Somewhere down river. How far, and
for how long, she did not know. But some chance of life was better than none.

Rea, weeping,
leaned down and kissed her baby’s forehead. She leaned back and shrieked with
grief. Hands shaking, she removed the necklace from around her neck and placed
it around her baby’s.

She clasped her
hands over both of his.

“I love you,”
she said, between sobs. “Never forget me.”

The baby
shrieked as if he understood, a piercing cry, rising even above the new clap of
thunder and lightning, even above the sound of approaching horses.

Rea knew she
could wait no longer. She gave the basket a push, and soon, the current caught
it. She watched, sobbing, as it disappeared into the blackness.

She had no
sooner lost sight of it than the clanging of armor appeared behind her—and she
wheeled to find several knights dismounting, but feet away.

“Where’s the
child?” one demanded, his visor lowered, his voice cutting through the storm.
It was nothing like the visor of the man who had had her. This man wore red
armor, of a different shape, and there was no kindness in his voice.

“I…” she began.

Then she felt a
fury within her—the fury of a woman who knew she was about to die. Who had
nothing left to lose.

“He’s gone,” she
spat, defiant. She smiled. “And you shall never have him.
Never
.”

The man groaned
in anger as he stepped forward, drew a sword, and stabbed her.

Rea felt the
awful agony of steel in her chest, and she gasped, breathless. She felt her
world becoming lighter, felt herself immersed in white light, and she knew that
this was death.

Yet, she felt no
fear. Indeed, she felt satisfaction. Her baby was safe.

And as she
landed face-first in the river, the waters turning red, she knew it was over.
Her short, hard life had ended.

But her boy
would live forever.

*

The peasant
woman, Mithka, knelt by the river’s edge, her husband beside her, the two
frantically reciting their prayers, feeling no other recourse during this
uncanny storm. It felt as if the end of the world were upon them. The blood red
moon was a dire omen in and of itself—but appearing together with a storm like
this, well, it was more than uncanny. It was unheard of. Something momentous,
she knew, was afoot.

They knelt there
together, gales of wind and snow whipping their faces, and she prayed for
protection for their family. For mercy. For forgiveness for anything she may
have done wrong.

A pious woman, Mithka
had lived many sun cycles, had several children, had a good life. A poor life,
but a good one. She was a decent woman. She had minded her business, had looked
after others, and had never done harm to anyone. She prayed that God would
protect her children, her household, whatever meager belongings they had. She
leaned over and placed her palms in the snow, closed her eyes, and then bent
low, touching her head to the ground. She prayed to God to show her a sign.

Slowly, she
lifted her head. As she did, her eyes widened and her heart slammed at the
sight before her.

“Murka!” she
hissed.

Her husband
turned and looked at it, too, and both knelt there, frozen, staring in
astonishment.

It couldn’t be
possible. She blinked several times, and yet there it was. Before them, carried
in the water’s current, was a floating basket.

And in that
basket was a baby.

A boy.

His screams
pierced the night, rose even above the storm, above the impossible claps of
thunder and lightning, and each scream pierced her heart.

She jumped into
the river, wading in deep, ignoring the icy waters, like knives on her skin,
and grabbed the basket, fighting her way against the current and back toward
shore. She looked down and saw the baby was meticulously wrapped in a blanket,
and that he was, miraculously, dry.

She examined him
more closely and was astonished to see a gold pendant around his neck, two
snakes circling a moon, a dagger between them. She gasped; it was one she
recognized immediately.

She turned to
her husband.

“Who would do
such a thing?” she asked, horrified, as she held him tight against her chest.

He could only
shake his head in wonder.

“We must take
him in,” she decided.

Her husband
frowned and shook his head.

“How?” he
snapped. “We cannot afford to feed him. We can barely afford to feed us. We
have three boys already—what do we need with a fourth? Our time raising
children is done.”

Mithka, thinking
quick, snatched the thick gold pendant and placed it in his palm, knowing,
after all these years, what would impress her husband. He felt the weight of
the gold in his hand, and he clearly looked impressed.

“There,” she
snapped back, disgusted. “There’s your gold. Enough gold to feed our family
until we’re all old and dead,” she said sternly. “I am saving this baby—whether
you like it or not. I will not leave him to die.”

He still
frowned, though less certain, as another lightning bolt struck above and he
studied the skies with fear.

“And do you
think it’s a coincidence?” he asked. “A night like this, such a baby comes into
this world? Have you any idea who you are holding?”

He looked down
at the child with fear. And then he stood and backed away, finally turning his
back and leaving, gripping the pendant, clearly displeased.

But Mithka would
not give in. She smiled at the baby and rocked him to her chest, warming his
cold face. Slowly, his crying calmed.

“A child unlike
any of us,” she replied to no one, holding him tight. “A child who shall change
the world. And one I shall name: Royce.”

PART TWO

17 Sun Cycles later

Royce stood atop
the hill, beneath the only oak tree in these fields of grain, an ancient thing
whose limbs seemed to reach to the sky, and he looked deeply into Genevieve’s
eyes, deeply in love. They held hands as she smiled back at him, and as they
leaned in and kissed, he felt in awe and gratitude that his heart could feel
this full. As dawn broke over the fields of grain, Royce wished that he could
freeze this moment forever.

Royce leaned
back and looked at her. Genevieve was gorgeous. In her seventeenth year, as he
was, she was tall, slim, with flowing blond hair and intelligent green eyes, a
smattering of freckles across her dainty features. She had a smile that made
him happy to be alive, and a laugh that put him at ease. More than that, she
had a grace, a nobility, that far outmatched their peasant status.

Royce saw his
own reflection in her eyes and he marveled that he looked as if he could be
related to her. He was much bigger, of course, tall even for his age, with
shoulders broader than even his older brothers’, a strong chin, a noble nose, a
proud forehead, an abundance of muscle which rippled beneath his frayed tunic,
and light features, like hers. His longish blond hair fell just before his
eyes, while his hazel-green eyes matched hers, albeit a shade darker. He’d been
blessed with strength, and with a skill with the sword that matched his
brothers’, though he was the youngest of the four. His father had always joked
that he had fallen from the sky, and Royce understood: he shared not his
brothers’ dark features or average frame. He was like a stranger in his own
family.

They embraced,
and it felt so good to be hugged so tightly, to have someone who loved him as
much as he did her. The two of them had, in fact, been inseparable since they
were children, had grown up together playing in these fields, had vowed even
back then that on the summer solstice of their seventeenth year, they would
wed. As children, it had been a deadly serious vow.

As they’d aged,
year after year, they had not grown apart as most children do, but only closer
together. Against all odds, their vow turned from a childish thing to something
stronger, solemn, unbreakable, year after year after year. Their lives, it
seemed, were never destined to grow apart.

Now, finally,
unbelievably, the day had arrived. Both were seventeen, the summer solstice had
arrived, they were adults now, free to choose for themselves, and as they stood
there, beneath that tree, watching the sun rise, they each knew, with giddy
excitement, what that meant.

“Is your mother
excited?” she asked.

Royce smiled.

“I think she
loves you more than I, if that is possible,” he laughed.

Genevieve’s
laugh reached his soul.

“And your
parents?” he asked.

Her face
darkened, just for a flash, and his heart fell.

“Is it me?” he
asked.

She shook her
head.

“They love you,”
she replied. “They just…” she sighed. “We are not wed yet. For them it could
not come soon enough. They fear for me.”

Royce
understood. Her parents feared the nobles. Unwed peasants like Royce and Genevieve
had no rights; if the nobles chose, they could come and take their women away,
claim them for themselves. Until, that is, they were married. Then they would
be safe.

“Soon enough,” Genevieve
said, her smile brightening.

“Are they
relieved because it’s me, or because, once wed, you’ll be safe from the
nobles?”

She laughed and
mock hit him.

“They love you
as the son they never had!” she said.

He caught her
arms and kissed her.

“Royce!” cried a
voice.

Royce turned to
find his three brothers striding up the hill, in a large group, Genevieve’s
sisters and cousins climbing up with them. They all held sickles and
pitchforks, all of them ready for the day’s labor, and Royce took a deep
breath, knowing the time for parting had come. They were peasants, after all,
and they could not afford to take an entire day off. The wedding would have to
wait for sunset.

It did not
bother Royce to work on this day, but he felt bad for Genevieve. He wished he
could give her more.

“I wish you
could take the day off,” Royce said.

She smiled and
then laughed.

“Working makes
me happy. It takes my mind off things. Especially,” she said, leaning in and
kissing his nose, “of having to wait so long to see you again today.”

They kissed, and
she turned with a giggle and linked arms with her sisters and cousins and was
soon bounding off to the fields with them, all of them giddy with happiness on
this spectacular summer day.

Royce’s brothers
came up behind him, clasping his shoulders, and the four of them headed their
own way, down the other side of the hill.

“Come on,
loverboy!” Raymond said. The eldest son, he was like a father to Royce. “You
can wait until tonight!”

His two other brothers
laughed.

“She’s really
got him good,” Lofen added, the middle of the bunch, shorter than the others
but more stocky.

“There’s no hope
for you,” Garet chimed in. The youngest of the three, just a few years older
than Royce, he was closest to Royce, yet also felt their sibling rivalry the
most. “Not even married yet, and already he’s lost.”

The three
laughed, teasing him, and Royce smiled with them as they all headed off, as
one, for the fields. He took one last glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse
of Genevieve disappearing down the hill. His heart lifted as she, too, looked
back one last time and smiled at him from afar. The smile restored his soul.

Tonight, my
love,
he thought.
Tonight.

*

Genevieve worked
the fields, raising and swinging her sickle, surrounded by her sisters and
cousins, a dozen of them, all laughing out loud on this auspicious day, as she
worked halfheartedly. Genevieve stopped every few hacks to lean on the long
shaft, look out at the blue skies and glorious yellow fields of wheat, and
think of Royce. As she did, her heart beat faster. Today was the day she had
always dreamt of, ever since she was a child. It was the most important day of
her life. After today she and Royce would live together for the rest of their
days; after this day, they would have their own cottage, a simple one-room
dwelling on the edge of the fields, a humble place bequeathed to them by their
parents. It would be a new beginning, a place to start life anew as husband and
wife.

Genevieve beamed
at the thought. There was nothing she had ever wanted more than to be with
Royce. He had always been there, at her side, since she was a child, and she
had never had eyes for anyone else. Though he was the youngest of his four
brothers, she had always felt there was something special about Royce,
something different about him. He was different from everyone around her, from
anyone she had ever met. She did not know how, exactly, and she suspected that
he did not either. But she saw something in him, something bigger than this
village, this countryside. It was as if his destiny lay elsewhere.

“And what of his
brothers?” asked a voice.

Genevieve
snapped out of it. She turned to see Sheila, her eldest sister, giggling, two
of her cousins behind her.

“After all, he
has three! You can’t have them all!” she added, laughing.

“Yes, what are
you waiting for?” her cousin chimed in. “We’ve been waiting for an
introduction.”

Genevieve
laughed.

“I
have
introduced you,” she replied. “Many times.”

“Not enough!”
Sheila answered as the others laughed.

“After all,
should not your sister marry his brother?”

Genevieve
smiled.

“There is
nothing I would like more,” she replied. “But I cannot speak for them. I know
only Royce’s heart.”

“Convince them!”
her other cousin urged.

Genevieve laughed
again. “I shall do my best.”

“And what will
you wear?” her cousin interjected. “You still haven’t decided which dress you
shall—”

A noise suddenly
cut through the air, one which immediately filled Genevieve with a sense of
dread, made her let go of her sickle and turn to the horizon. She knew before
she even fully heard it that it was an ominous noise, the sound of trouble.

She turned and
studied the horizon and as she did, her worst fears were confirmed. The sound
of galloping became audible, and over the hill, there appeared an entourage of
horses. Her heart lurched as she noticed their riders were clothed in the
finest silks, as she saw their banner, the green and the gold, a bear in the
center, heralding the house of Nors.

The nobles were
coming.

Genevieve
flushed with ire at the sight. These greedy men had tithe after tithe from her
family, from all the peasants’ families. They sucked everyone dry while they
lived like kings. And yet still, it was not enough.

Genevieve
watched them ride, and she prayed with all she had that they were just riding
by, that they would not turn her way. After all, she had not seen them in these
fields for many sun cycles.

Yet Genevieve
watched with despair as they suddenly turned and rode right for her.

No
, she willed
silently.
Not now. Not here. Not today.

Yet they rode
and rode, getting closer and closer, clearly coming for her. Word must have
spread of her wedding day, and that always made them eager to take what they
could, before it was too late.

The other girls gathered
around her instinctively, coming close. Sheila turned to her and clutched her
arm frantically.

“RUN!”” she
commanded, shoving her.

Genevieve turned
and saw open fields before her for miles. She knew how foolish it would be—she
would not get far. She would still be taken—but without dignity.

“No,” she
replied, cool, calm.

Instead, she
tightened her grip on her sickle and held it before her.

“I shall face
them head-on.”

They looked back
at her, clearly stunned.

“With your
sickle?” her cousin asked doubtfully.

“Perhaps they do
not come in malice,” her other cousin chimed in.

But Genevieve
watched them come, and slowly, she shook her head.

“They do,” she
replied.

She watched them
near and expected them to slow—yet to her surprise, they did not. In their
center rode Manfor, a privileged noble in his twentieth year, whom she
despised, the duke of the kingdom, a boy with wide lips, light eyes, golden
locks, and a permanent sneer. He appeared as if he were constantly looking down
on the world.

As he neared, Genevieve
saw he wore a cruel smile on his face, as he looked over her body as if it were
a piece of meat. Hardly twenty yards away, Genevieve raised her sickle and
stepped forward.

“They shall not
take me,” she said, resigned, thinking of Royce. She wished more than anything
that he was at her side right now.

“Genevieve,
don’t!” Sheila cried.

Genevieve ran
toward them with the sickle high, feeling the adrenaline course through her.
She did not know how she summoned the courage, but she did. She charged forward,
raised the sickle, and slashed it down at the first noble that came for her.

But they were
too fast. They rode in like thunder, and as she swung, one merely raised his
club, swung it around, and smashed the sickle from her hand. She felt an awful
vibration through her hands and watched, hopeless, as her weapon went flying,
landing in the stalks nearby.

A moment later,
Manfor galloped past, leaned down, and backhanded her across the face with his
metal gauntlet.

Genevieve cried
out, spun around from the force of it, and landed face first in the stalks,
stung by the searing pain.

The horses came
to an abrupt stop, and as the riders dismounted all around her, Genevieve felt
rough hands on her. She was yanked to her feet, delirious from the blow.

She stood there,
wobbly, and looked up to see Manfor standing before her. He sneered down as he
raised his helmet and removed it.

“Let go of me!”
she hissed. “I am not your property!”

She heard cries
and looked over to see her sister and cousins rushing forward, trying to save
her—and she watched in horror as the knights backhanded each one, sending them
to the ground.

Genevieve heard
Manfor’s awful laughter as he grabbed her and threw her on the back of his
horse, binding her wrists together. A moment later he mounted behind her,
kicked, and rode off, the girls shrieking behind her as she rode further and
further away. She tried to struggle but was helpless to fight back as he held
her in a vise-like grip.