by Morgan Rice
“I wish to have a word with you,” Gwen announced, her voice too loud, echoing in this place of politics which she hated. It was eerie, seeing her brother seated there on her father’s throne. She did not like the feeling. It felt wrong. His eyes were hollow, and he looked like he had aged a hundred years. He looked nothing like their father did on that throne. Her father had sat on it naturally, looking noble, gallant, proud, looking as if the throne were meant for him. Gareth sat on it in a way that seemed desperate, overreaching, as if he were sitting in a seat too big for him to fill. Maybe she was picking up her dead father’s feelings, pouring through her. A fury rose within her over what Gareth had done to her father. He had taken him away from her.
At the same time, she was afraid. She knew how vindictive Gareth could be, and knew this would not go well.
Gareth stared back wordlessly. She waited, but he said nothing.
Finally she cleared her throat, her heart pounding, and continued.
“I know that you had father killed,” she said, wanting to get it over with. “I know that Firth did the stabbing. We have the murder weapon. We have the dagger.”
There was a long silence, and Gareth, to his credit, remained expressionless the entire time.
Finally, he let out a short, derisive snort.
“You are a foolish, fanciful, young girl,” he said. “You always have been. No one believes you. No one ever will. You envy me because I sit on the throne instead of you. That is your sole motivation. You speak nonsense.”
“Do I?” she asked.
“You put father up to naming you heir instead of me,” Gareth countered. “You manipulated him in your greed for power. I saw through you ever since you were a child. But it did not work. I am here. And you cannot stand it.”
Gwen shook her head, amazed at how pathetic Gareth was. He projected his own feelings onto everybody else. He was pathological. She shuddered to think she was related to him.
“The people will decide how fanciful I am,” she said. “Did I imagine this weapon in my hand?” she asked, reaching into her waist and extracting the dagger. She held it out for him to see, and his eyes opened wide for the first time.
For the first time, he sat upright, gripping the sides of the throne.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
Finally, he was caught. She could see it in his face, clear as day. She still could hardly believe it. He had killed their father.
“You disgust me,” she said. “You are a pathetic human being. I wish father were here to take his vengeance himself. But he is not. So I will seek justice in his stead. You will be tried and convicted and you will be killed. And our father’s soul will be laid to rest.”
“And how will you do that, exactly?” he asked. “Do you really think the masses will believe you because you found a blood-stained dagger? Anyone could have wielded it. Where is your proof?”
“I have a witness,” she said. “The man who wielded the weapon.”
To her surprise, Gareth smiled.
“Do you mean Firth?” he asked. “Don’t worry: we won’t be hearing much from him.”
Now it was Gwendolyn’s turn to be caught off guard; her heart pounded at the ominous tone of his words.
“What do you mean?” she asked, unsure.
“Firth is long gone from us, I’m afraid. It is so unfortunate that he happened to be executed, just hours ago, isn’t it?” he asked, his smile widening.
Gwendolyn felt her throat go dry at her brother’s words. Was it true? Or was he bluffing? She didn’t know what to believe anymore.
“You are a liar,” she said.
This time, he outright laughed.
“I might be. But I’m a much better liar than anyone else. I knew all about your pathetic little plot, all along. You vastly underestimated me. You always have. I have spies everywhere. I tracked everything you’ve done, every step of the way. I took action when the time was right. Your sole witness is dead, I’m afraid-and your murder weapon is quite useless without him. As for our dear brother, Godfrey-well, there’s a reason he couldn’t meet you here today.”
Gwen’s eyes opened wide in surprise, as she felt that Gareth was telling the truth.
“What do you mean?” she asked, tentatively.
“I’m afraid he had a bad drink last night at the tavern. I’m afraid someone might have poisoned it. He is deathly ill as we speak. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s dead already.”
Gwen felt overcome with panic. Gareth laughed heartily.
“So you see, my dear, it is just you. There is no Godfrey. No Firth. No witness. Just you and your pathetic dagger, which proves nothing.”
Gareth sighed.
“As for your lover, Thor,” he continued, “I’m afraid his time has come, too. You see, this McCloud raid, which I tolerated for a reason, is a trap. Your lover is walking right into it. I’ve paid off men to isolate him, when the time is right. He will be ambushed, and will be quite alone, I assure you. He will be slaughtered by this day’s end, and he will join Firth and Godfrey in heaven-or is it hell?”
Gareth laughed heartily, and she could see how maniacal he was. He looked possessed.
“I hope your soul rots in hell,” she spat, seething with fury.
“It already is, my sister. And there is nothing left you can do touch me. But there is quite a deal still that I can do to touch you. Come tomorrow, you will be out of my hair, too. Primos Livarius Stantos,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”
She stared at him, her heart cold, wondering what hideous plan he had devised.
“It is the legal term for a king’s right to arrange a marriage.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Very good. You always were the learned one. Far more learned than me. But that doesn’t matter now. Because I’ve invoked it-I’ve invoked my right to force you into marriage. I have found a common man, a savage, a Nevarun soldier, the crudest province in the southern reaches of the Ring. They are already sending a contingent of men to fetch their bride. So pack your bags. You are chattel now. And you will never see my face again.”
Gareth laughed hysterically, delighted with himself, and Gwen felt her heart tearing to pieces. She didn’t want to believe any of it. Was he just playing with her mind?
She couldn’t stand to be in front of him for another second. Gwen turned and fled the chamber, running down the corridor, up the spiral staircase, higher and higher, until she reached the parapets.
She ran to the far side, leaned over the edge and looked down over the town square. She had to see if it was true, if Firth was really executed, if everything he said had been a lie.
Gwen reached the edge and looked over, and as she did, her blood ran cold. She clutched her chest, gasping for air.
There, hanging by his neck from a rope, in the center of the square, was Firth. His body dangled, swayed in the wind, and a growing crowd gawked around it.
It was true. It was all true.
Gwen turned and ran to the other end of the parapets, looking East, searching desperately for Thor and the Legion. She spotted them on the horizon, hundreds of them, all on horseback, a great army, kicking up dust. The cloud was growing higher and higher, and she could see Thor among them, galloping with the others, so desperate to earn his glory. She thought of Gareth’s words, of Thor being sent into a trap, sent to be ambushed. And as she watched him gallop away, she knew there was nothing she could do about it.
“NO!”
She screamed out to the heavens, sinking to her knees, wailing, pounding the stone, wishing it were anybody else, anything else. She couldn’t imagine the thought of it. Gareth could kill her, could sell her away, could destroy everything in her life-but she could not imagine the thought of Thor being harmed.
“THOR!” she screamed.
She wished that he could hear her, that he could somehow turn, on the horizon, and return to her.
But her cry was picked up by the wind, carried away, and soon it vanish
ed into nothing.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-2b226e-e265-454b-16b2-b706-ed8f-d313ac
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 01.04.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.24, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Morgan Rice
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