A feast of dragons sr-3

by Morgan Rice

  He cleared his throat.

  “But as fate would have it, my master beat me that night. He beat me every night, from the time I began working there, for thirty years. He was a cruel, horrific man. I accepted it every night. But that night, I’d had enough. Do you see these lashes on my back?”

  He turned and lifted his shirt, and Gwen flinched at the sight: he was covered in lacerations.

  Steffen turned back.

  “I had reached my limit. And that dagger, it was in my hands. Without thinking, I took my revenge. I defended myself.”

  He pleaded with her.

  “My lady, I am not a murderer. You must believe me.”

  Her heart went out to him.

  “I do believe you,” she said, reaching out and clasping his hands.

  He looked up, eyes welling with tears of gratitude.

  “You do?” he asked, like a little boy.

  She nodded back.

  “I did not tell you,” he added, “because I feared you would have me imprisoned for the death of my master. But you have to understand, it was self-defense. And you promised once that if I told you I would not go to jail.”

  “And I still do,” Gwen said, meaning it. “You shall not go to jail. But you must help me find the owner of that dagger. I need to put my father’s killer away.”

  Steffen reached into his waist, and pulled out an object wrapped in a rag. He reached out and handed it to her, placing it in her palm.

  Slowly, she pulled it back, revealing the weapon he had found. As Gwen felt the weight of it in her palm, her heart pounded. She felt a chill. She was holding her father’s murder weapon. She wanted to throw it away, get as far away from it as she could.

  But at the same time, she was transfixed. She saw the stains on it, saw the hilt. She gingerly turned it over every which way.

  “I see no markings on it, my lady,” Steffen said. “Nothing that would indicate its owner.”

  But Gwen had been raised around royal weapons her entire life, and Steffen had not. She knew where to look, and what to look for. She turned it upside down, and looked at the bottom of the hilt. Just in case, just in some off-chance it belonged to a member of the royal family.

  As she did, her heart stopped. There were the initials: GAN.

  Gareth Andrew MacGil.

  It was her brother’s knife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Gwen walked beside Godfrey, her mind reeling from her encounter with Gareth’s dog, with Steffen. She could still feel the scrapes on her knees and elbows, and felt traumatized as she thought how close she had come to dying. She also felt traumatized to think that she had just killed a man. Her hands still shook, as she relived her swinging that iron staff again and again.

  Yet at the same time, she also felt profoundly grateful to be alive, and profoundly grateful to Steffen for saving her life. She had badly underestimated him, underestimated what a good person he was, regardless of his appearance, his role in his master’s murder, which was clearly deserved and self-defense. She was ashamed at herself for judging him based on his appearance. He had found in her a friend for life. When all this was over, she was determined to not let him wallow away in the basement anymore. She was determined to pay him back, to make his life better somehow. He was a tragic character. She would find a way to help him.

  Godfrey looked more concerned than ever as the two of them marched down the castle corridors; he had been aghast as she’d recounted to him the story of her near assassination, of Steffen’s rescue-and of Steffen’s revelation of the dagger. She had brought it to him and Godfrey had examined it, too, and had confirmed it was Gareth’s.

  Now that they had the murder weapon, the two of them knew instantly what they needed to do: before going to the council with this, they had to get the witness they needed. Godfrey had recalled Firth’s involvement, his walking with Gareth on that forest trail, and he figured they needed to corner Firth in first, get him to confess-then, with the murder weapon and a witness, they could bring this to the council and bring down their brother for good. Gwen had agreed, and the two of them had set off to find Firth in the stables, and had been marching ever since.

  As they went, Gwen still held the dagger in her hands, the weapon that had murdered her father, still stained with his blood, and she felt like crying. She missed her father terribly, and it pained her beyond words to think that he had died this way, that this weapon had been thrust into him.

  But her emotions swung from sadness to rage, as she realized Gareth’s role in all of this. This had confirmed her worst suspicions. A part of her had clung to the idea that maybe, after all, Gareth was not as bad as all of this, that maybe he was redeemable. But after this latest attempt on her life, and seeing this murder weapon, she knew that was not the case-he was hopeless. Pure evil. And he was her brother. How did that affect her? After all, she carried his same blood. Did that mean that evil lurked somewhere inside her, too? Could a brother and a sister be so different?

  “I still can’t conceive that Gareth would do all of this,” she said to Godfrey as they walked quickly, side-by-side, twisting their way through the corridors of the castle, heading towards the distant stables.

  “Can’t you?” Godfrey said. “You know Gareth. The throne has been all he’s ever lived for.”

  “But to kill our father, just for power? Just for a title?”

  Godfrey turned and looked at her.

  “You are naive, aren’t you? What else is there? What more can someone want than to be king? Than to have that kind of power?”

  She looked at him, reddening.

  “I think you are the one who is naive,” she said. “There’s a great deal more to life than power. In fact, power, ultimately, is the least attractive thing. Do you think our father was happy? He was miserable ruling this kingdom. All he ever did was complain, and pine for more time with us.”

  Godfrey shrugged.

  “You hold an optimistic view of him. He and I didn’t get along nearly as well. In my mind’s eye, he was as power-hungry as the rest of them. If he wanted to spend time with us, he could have. He chose not to. Besides, I was relieved when he didn’t spend time with me. He hated me.”

  Gwen examined her brother as they walked, and for the first time she realized how different their experience of childhood had been. It was as if he grew up with a different father than she did. She wondered if it was because he was a boy, and she a girl; or if it was just a clash of personalities. As she thought of it, she realized he was right: her father had not been kind to him. She didn’t know why she didn’t fully realize it before, but as she did, she suddenly felt terrible for Godfrey. She understood now why he spent all his time in the tavern. She had always assumed her father disapproved of Godfrey because he wasted his time in the alehouse. But maybe it was more complex than that. Maybe Godfrey sought out the alehouse to begin with because he was the victim of their father’s disapproval.

  “You could never win father’s approval, could you?” she asked, compassionately, beginning to understand. “So then, after a point, you didn’t even bother to try.”

  Godfrey shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, but she could see the sadness in his face.

  “He and I were different people,” he said. “And he could never accept that.”

  As she studied him, she saw Godfrey in a different light. For the first time, she didn’t see him as a slovenly drunk; she saw him as a child with great potential, who was poorly raised. She felt anger at her father for it. In fact, she could even see traces of her father in him.

  “I bet that if he treated you differently, you’d be a different person,” she said. “I think all of your behavior was just a cry for his attention. If he had just accepted you on your own terms, I think that, of all of us, you would have been the most like him.”

  Godfrey looked at her, surprised, then looked away. He looked down with a furrowed brow and seemed to ponder that.

  They continued walking in silence, opening one d
oor after the other down the long, twisting corridors. Finally, they burst out of the castle, into the cool Fall air. Gwen squinted at the light.

  The courtyard was abuzz with activity, the masses excited, bustling to and fro, people drinking in the streets, an early celebration.

  “What’s happening?” Godfrey asked.

  Suddenly, Gwen remembered.

  “The Legion returns home today,” she answered.

  With everything else that had gone on, she had completely forgotten about it. Her heart skipped a beat as she thought again of Thor. His ship would be coming home soon. She ached to see him.

  “It will be a huge celebration,” Gwen added, joyfully.

  Godfrey shrugged.

  “They never accepted me into the Legion. Why should I care?”

  She looked at him, upset.

  “You should care,” she scolded. “Your brother Reese will be returning home. As will Thor.”

  Godfrey turned and looked at her.

  “You like that common boy, don’t you?” he asked.

  Gwen blushed, silent.

  “I can see why,” Godfrey said. “There is something noble to him. Something pure.”

  Gwen thought about that, and realized it was true. Godfrey was more perceptive than she’d realized.

  They marched across the castle grounds, and as they did, Gwen felt the knife burning in her hand, and wanted to throw it as far away from her as she could. She spotted the stables in the distance, and increased their pace. Firth was not far now.

  “Gareth will find some way out of this,” Godfrey said. “You know that, don’t you? He always does.”

  “Not if we get Firth to admit to it, and to be a witness.”

  “And even if so, then what?” Godfrey asked. “Do you really think he’ll step down from the throne that easily?”

  “Of course I don’t. But we will force him. We will get the council to force him. With proof, we can summon the guards ourselves.”

  Godfrey shrugged, skeptical.

  “And even if that should work, even if we should depose him-then what? Then who will rule? One of the nobles might rush to fill the power vacuum. Unless one of us rises to the throne.”

  “Kendrick should rule,” Gwen said.

  Godfrey shook his head.

  “No. You must rule. It was father’s wish.”

  Gwen blushed.

  “But I don’t want to,” she said. “That’s not why I’m doing this. I just want justice for father.”

  “You may, after all, get justice for him. But you must also take the throne. To do otherwise would be to disrespect him. And if you say no, then the next eldest legitimate son is me-and I am not going to rule. Never,” he insisted firmly.

  Gwen’s heart pounded as she thought of it. She could think of nothing she wanted less.

  They crossed the soft grass of the stable ground, and reached the large open-air entrance to the stables. They headed inside, and it was darker in here, as they walked past rows and rows of horses, each more elegant than the next, prancing and neighing as they went. They walked on a floor of hay, the smell of horses filling Gwen’s nose, and continued all the way to the end. They turned down another corridor, then down another, and finally, they came to the place where the King’s family kept their horses.

  They hurried over to Gareth’s corner, saw all of his horses, and Gwen examined the weapons rack against the wall. In the row of daggers, one was missing.

  Gwen slowly unwrapped the dagger, gingerly lifted it and placed it in the spot on the wall. It was a perfect fit. She was breathless.

  “Bravo,” Godfrey said. “But that still doesn’t prove that Gareth used this knife-or that he ordered the murder,” she said. “He could argue that someone stole it.”

  “It doesn’t prove it,” she countered. “But it helps. And with a witness, the case is closed.”

  Gwen wrapped the knife back in its cloth, stored it back in her waistband, and they continued down the stables until they reached the stable caretaker.

  “My liege,” he said, looking up in surprise at the presence of two members of the royal family. “What brings you here? Are you here for your horses? We have no notice.”

  “It’s okay,” Gwen said, laying an assuring hand on his wrist. “We are not here for our horses. We come on a different matter. We’re looking for the stable boy who tends to Gareth’s horses. Firth.”

  “Yes, he’s here today. Check around back. In the hay pile.”

  They hurried down the corridor, out the stables, then went around to the back of the building.

  There, in the large, open space, was Firth, using a pitchfork to shovel piles of hay. There seemed to be a sadness on his face.

  As they approached, Firth stopped and looked up, and his eyes opened wide in surprise. And something else-perhaps fear.

  Gwen could see all that she needed to in that stare. He had something to hide.

  “Did Gareth send you?” Firth asked.

  Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a glance.

  “And why would our brother do that?” Godfrey asked.

  “I’m just asking,” Firth said.

  “No,” Gwen said. “He did not. Were you expecting him to?”

  Firth narrowed his eyes, looking back and forth to the two of them. He slowly shook his head, then fell silent.

  Gwen exchanged a look with Godfrey, then turned back to Firth.

  “We’ve come here on our own,” she said. “To ask you some questions about our father’s murder.”

  She watched Firth carefully and could tell he was nervous. He fidgeted with the pitchfork.

  “Why would you ask me?”

  “Because you know who did it,” Godfrey said flatly.

  Firth stopped fidgeting and looked at him, real fear in his face. He gulped.

  “If I knew that, my lord, it would be treason to hide it. I could be executed for that. So the answer is no. I do now know who did it.”

  Gwen could see how nervous he was, and she took a step closer to him.

  “What are you doing out here, tending hay?” she asked, realizing. “A few months ago, you were always by Gareth’s side. In fact, after he became king, he elevated you, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “He did, my lady,” Firth said meekly.

  “Then why has he cast you out, relegated you to this? Did you two have a falling out?”

  Firth’s eyes shifted, and he swallowed, looking from Gwen to Godfrey.

  He remained silent, though.

  “And what did you two have a falling out about?” Gwen pressed, following her instinct. “I wonder if it had something to do with my father’s assassination? Something to do with the cover up, perhaps?”

  “We did not have a falling out, my lady. I chose to come and work here.”

  Godfrey laughed.

  “Did you?” Godfrey asked. “You were tired of being in the King’s Castle, so you chose instead to come out here and shovel crap in the stables?”

  Firth looked away, reddening.

  “I will ask you just one more time,” Gwen said firmly. “Why did my brother send you here? What did you two argue over?”

  Firth cleared his throat.

  “Your brother was upset that he was unable to wield the Dynasty Sword. That’s all it was. I was a victim of his wrath. It is nothing more, my lady.”

  Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a look. She sensed there was some truth to that-but that he was hiding something still.

  “And what do you know of the missing dagger from Gareth’s stable?” Godfrey asked.

  Firth swallowed.

  “I know nothing of a missing dagger, my Lord.”

  “Don’t you? There are only four on the wall. Where is the fifth?”

  “Perhaps Gareth used it for something. Perhaps it is lost?” Firth said weakly.

  Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a look.

  “It’s funny you should say that,” Gwen said, “because we just spoke to a certain servant who gave us a different account.
He told us about the night of our father’s murder. A dagger was thrown down, into the waste pit, and he saved it. Do you recognize it?”

  She reached down, unwrapped the knife and showed it to him.

  His eyes opened wide, and he looked away.

  “Why do you carry that, my lady?”

  “It’s interesting you should ask,” Gwen said, “because the servant told us something else,” Gwen lied, bluffing. “He saw the face of the man who threw it down. And it was yours.”

  Firth’s eyes opened wider.

  “He has a witness, too,” Godfrey added. “They both saw your face.”

  Firth looked so anxious, it looked as if he might crawl out of his skin.

  Gwen took a step closer. He was guilty, she could sense it, and she wanted to put him away.

  “I will only ask you one last time,” she said, her voice made of steel. “Who murdered our father? Was it Gareth?”

  Firth gulped, clearly caught.

  “Even if I knew something of your father’s murder,” Firth said, “it would do me no good to speak of it. As I said, the punishment is execution. What would I stand to gain?”

  Gwen and Godfrey exchanged a look.

  “If you tell us who was responsible for the murder, if you admit that Gareth was behind it, even if you took some part in it, we will see to it that you are pardoned,” Gwen said.

  Firth looked at her, eyes narrowing.

  “A full pardon?” he asked. “Even if I had some role in it?”

  “Yes,” Gwen answered. “If you agree to stand as witness against our brother, you will be pardoned. Even if you are the one who wielded the knife. After all, our brother is the one who stood to gain from the murder, not you. You were just his lackey.

  “So now tell us,” Gwen insisted. “This is your last chance. We already have proof linking you to the murder. If you remain silent, you will certainly wallow in prison for the rest of your life. The choice is yours.”

  As she spoke, Gwen felt a strength rising through her, the strength of her father. The strength of justice. In that moment, for the first time, she actually felt like she might be able to rule.