A March of Kings sr-2

by Morgan Rice

  As Kendrick studied the other members of the Silver, many of them older, hardened warriors, all sitting around the table, joking with each other, all with formidable weapons, he felt grateful, as always, to be a member of their ranks. They had accepted him as a true member-and he had earned it. At first, when he was younger, he had been greeted warily; many assumed he was only here because of his father, or that he, being royalty, would look down on them. But slowly, over time, he had earned their respect; he had fought his way up, side by side with them at the hardest battles, and they had come to see he was like them. Eventually, they had accepted him as one of their own. He took great pride in that. Whenever anyone had tried to show him favor for being the King’s son, he had always insisted on being treated as one of the common men. Over time, the men had come to see that he was genuine, and they had come to love him. Over many years, Kendrick knew that he had become the most loved member of the royal family-even more so than his father. He was the only one, in fact, that the Silver respected and treated as a true soldier, in his own right.

  That meant more to Kendrick than anything he had done in this world. All he’d ever wanted was to be a true and respected warrior of the Silver. Looking around, he saw the respect in his brothers in arms’ eyes, and could tell that many of them, especially the younger ones, were beginning to look to him as a leader. Since the death of his father, more than one of them had come up to him and expressed dismay that he had not been chosen to be king. He could feel they wanted him as their leader. But his father clearly had wanted Gwen to rule, and above all, Kendrick felt he must honor his father’s wishes. That was what mattered most to him.

  On the other hand, he resented Gareth’s usurping the throne and worried for the future of the kingdom. Gwen was not strong enough to lead a revolt of the men. If it came down to it, then he would rather rule over Gareth, only for the sake of the well-being of the Ring. When Gwen was older and able, he would gladly hand power to her.

  “What did you think of the ceremony?” asked Atme, sitting beside him, oiling down his axe handle. Atme was a fierce knight with bright-red hair and beard, from the far Eastern corner of the kingdom; Kendrick had fought with him in too many battles. He was a close and trusted friend.

  “What do you think of your younger brother’s being king?” he added.

  Kendrick looked back at him, saw his earnest expression, and saw behind him several more members of the Silver, watching for his response. He could see in their eyes how badly they all wanted him to be King-and how anxious they were for his brother’s rule. No one trusted his brother. That much was obvious.

  Kendrick debated how to respond, how much to say. It was clear from Atme’s use of the term “younger” that he was goading him on. What he wanted to answer was: I think it is horribly unfair. Gareth is unfit to rule. It is a disaster. He will bring our kingdom to its knees. My father never wished for this. He is turning over in his grave, and something must be done.

  But he could not say this. Not to these men. Not now. He would demoralize them, and possibly cause a revolt. He had to think carefully of his next move, of how best to handle the situation. In the meantime, he had to be careful with his words.

  “Time will tell the fate of all things,” he answered, noncommittal.

  The men turned and looked away, nodding, pretending to be satisfied. But he knew that they were not.

  Suddenly, a great crash came through the doors of the hall, and all heads turned as in rushed a dozen of the King’s Guard. Kendrick was surprised that they would burst in like this, into the hall of The Silver, and that they would dare bear arms inside this hall. It was something he had never seen before. The Silver, hardened warriors, all reacted, wheeling, watching.

  The King’s Guard rushed through the room, a dozen of them, and as Kendrick watched, they headed right for him. They wore stern expressions, and Kendrick wondered what was going on. He could detect their urgency and at first wondered if they were coming here with a request for help.

  They stopped before him and one of them, one of his father’s deputies, Darloc, a man who Kendrick recognized and who had been loyal to his father for years, stepped forward with a grim expression.

  “Kendrick of the Clan MacGil of the Western Kingdom of the Ring,” he announced in a formal, grave voice, as he read from a scroll, “I hereby declare that, under law of the King, you are hereby arrested as a traitor to the realm for the assassination of King MacGil.”

  Kendrick’s hair stood on end, and his entire body went cold.

  An outraged gasp spread throughout the room, as his brothers in arms slowly stood from their seats, tense, on edge. A thick silence blanketed the room as everyone watched Kendrick for his reaction.

  Kendrick stood slowly, trying to breathe, to understand. He felt as if his life flashed before him in a single moment.

  Kendrick studied Darloc’s face, lined and grim, and he could see that he was earnest.

  “Darloc,” Kendrick said steadily, forcing himself to keep calm, his voice resonating in the dead-silent room, “you have known me my entire life. You know that these words you read are not true.”

  Darloc’s eye twitched.

  “My liege,” Darloc answered sadly. “I’m afraid that my personal beliefs do not matter. I am but a servant of the King and I am merely carrying out what I have been commanded to. Please forgive me. You are right. I could never believe such slander myself. But my beliefs are subservient to those of the King. I’m afraid I must follow orders.”

  Kendrick stared back at the man, and he could see the solemnity on his face, could see how upset, how conflicted, he was at having to be in this position. He actually felt bad for him.

  Kendrick could hardly conceive the audacity of it: his own brother, accusing him of murdering their father. That could only mean one thing: Gareth was threatened, and had something to hide. He needed a scapegoat immediately, no matter how flimsy. In Kendrick’s mind, that solidified it: Gareth killed him. It made a fresh fire burn within Kendrick-not because he cared about being imprisoned himself, but because he realized that Gareth was the assassin, and he felt compelled to bring him to justice.

  “I am sorry, Kendrick, but I am going to have to take you in,” Darloc said, and motioned to one of his men.

  As the soldier took a step forward, Atme suddenly jumped to his feet and stepped like lightning between the man and Kendrick, drawing his sword.

  “If you wish to touch Kendrick, you will have to go through me,” came his grave voice.

  Suddenly the room was filled with the sounds of swords being drawn, as every member of The Silver, dozens of them, leapt to their feet and confronted the king’s guard.

  Darloc stood there, looking very afraid, and in that moment he must have realized that he had very badly miscalculated coming here. He must have realized that his kingdom was just one move away a full-fledged civil war.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Gwen stood on the sandy shore, as ocean waves crashed too close to her feet, huge, fierce waves, hitting her legs with enough strength to make her wobble. She stood there, losing her footing, as she watched the huge ship set sail before her, Thor standing at its helm, waving. On Thor’s shoulder sat Ephistopheles, who stared back with an ominous look that made Gwen’s blood run cold.

  Thor was smiling, but as she watched, his sword fell from his waist and plummeted into the ocean. Oddly, he seemed not to notice, still smiling and waving, and she felt terrified for him.

  The sea, so calm, suddenly turned rough, its waters turning from a crystal blue to a foaming black; as she watched, their boat was rocked violently, tossed about in the waves. Still Thor stood there, smiling and waving to her as if nothing were happening. She could not understand what was going on. Behind him the skies, clear just a moment before, turned scarlet, the clouds themselves seeming to froth over in rage. Lightning lit up the sky all around, and as she watched, a lightning bolt pierced the sail. In moments, Thor’s ship was aflame. The ship, on fire, gaine
d speed, sailed away, faster and faster, sucked out into the sea on massive currents.

  “THOR!” Gwen shrieked.

  She shrieked again as the ship went up into a ball of flames and was sucked into the dark red sky, disappearing on the horizon.

  She looked down, and a wave crashed before her, up to her chest, knocking her onto her back. She reached out to grab hold of something-but there was nothing. She felt herself getting sucked out into the ocean, faster and faster, the currents consuming her, as another huge wave crashed down, right on her face.

  Gwen shrieked.

  She opened her eyes to see herself standing in her father’s chamber. It was empty and freezing in here, nighttime, the wall lined with torches-too many torches, all lit up, flickering. In the room stood a sole figure, standing on the window ledge, his back to her. She sensed immediately that it was her father. He wore his royal furs, and, on his head, the crown. It seemed bigger than it had ever been.

  “Father?” she asked, as she approached.

  Slowly, he turned and looked at her. She was horrified. His face was half-skeleton, eyes bulging from the sockets, flesh decomposed. He looked at her with a look of horror, of desperation, as he reached out one hand.

  “Why won’t you avenge me?” he moaned.

  Gwen’s breath caught in her chest, horrified as she rushed towards him.

  He started to lean back, and she reached out to grab his hand-but it was too late. He fell slowly, backwards, out the window.

  Gwen shrieked as she ran forward, and stuck her head out to watch. Her father plummeted down into the blackness, falling and falling. The ground gave way, and he seemed to fall into the bowels of the earth. She never heard him hit.

  Gwen heard a rattling noise, and turned and surveyed his empty chamber. There was his crown. It must have fallen off his head, and now it rolled, on its side, across the floor, making a hollow, metallic sound as it did. It rolled in circles, louder and louder, until it finally settled down. It sat there, in the center of the bare stone floor.

  From somewhere, his words rang out again:

  “Avenge me!”

  Gwen woke with a start, sitting upright in bed, breathing hard. She rubbed her eyes and jumped from the mattress, hurrying over to her window, trying to shake herself of the awful nightmare. She took cold water from a small bowl by the window, splashed it on her face several times, and looked out.

  It was dawn, and King’s Court was quiet, the light just beginning to break from the first rising sun. It looked like she was the first one to rise. The dream had been awful, more like a vision, and her heart pounded as she replayed it. Thor, dying on that ship. It had felt like a message, more like she was seeing the future than a dream. Her heart broke, as she felt with certainty that he would soon be dead.

  And then here was that awful image of her father, the decomposed skeleton. His rebuke to her. The images were all so real, she could not go back to sleep. She paced her chamber and hardly knew what to do with herself.

  Without thinking, she crossed her room and began to dress, way earlier than usual. She felt she had to do something. Anything. Whatever she could to find her father’s killer.

  *

  As he walked down the empty castle corridors in the early morning light, Godfrey was sober and alone-both for the first time in years-and it was an unfamiliar feeling. He could not remember how long it had been since he had gone a full day without a drink, or had spent time alone, not surrounded by his drunken friends. His feelings of loneliness, of gravity, were all new to him, and he realized that this is what everyday people must feel like as they lived their normal lives. It was terrible. Boring. He hated it, and he wanted to run back to the alehouse, to his friends, and make it all go away. Real life was not for him.

  But for the first time in his life, Godfrey refused to give into his impulses. He did not know what was overcoming him, but watching his father being lowered into the earth had done something to him; since his death, something had stirred inside him. He was like a cauldron simmering on a low flame; he felt a sense of discontent, of unease, that he never had before. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin. For the first time he turned a harsh light upon himself, reevaluated who he was, how he had lived his life, and how he might spend the rest of it, and when he looked, honestly, in the mirror, he did not like what he saw.

  Godfrey also looked upon his friends with fresh eyes, and could no longer stand the site of their faces. Most of all, his own. For the first time this morning, the taste of ale was rotten to him; for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had a clear head, a presence of mind. He needed to think clearly today, to summon all his wits. Because there was something burning inside him, something he did not fully understand, which was driving him to find his father’s murderer.

  Perhaps it was his own guilt that drove him, his unresolved relationship with his father; in some ways, he saw this as his chance to, finally, gain his father’s approval. If he could not have it in life, perhaps he could gain it in death. And if he found his father’s killer, he might also vindicate himself, vindicate what had been thus far of his life.

  Godfrey burned, too, with the injustice of it all. He hated the idea of his brother, Gareth, sitting on the throne. Gareth had always been a scheming, manipulative human being, a cold bastard, with no love for anyone but himself. Godfrey had been around shady types all his life, and he could spot one a mile away. He recognized it in Gareth’s eyes, the evil welling up and shining like something from beneath the earth. This was a man who wanted power; who wanted to dominate others. Godfrey knew that Gareth was dirty. And he felt certain that he had something to do with their father’s murder.

  Godfrey climbed another flight of steps, turned down a corridor, and felt himself grow cold as he walked down the final corridor leading to his father’s chamber. Walking down it brought back memories, too fresh, of the approach to his father’s chamber; of being summoned by him, chastised by him. He had always hated walking down this final stretch to his chamber.

  Yet now, oddly, it brought forth a different sensation: it was like walking the hall of a ghost. He could almost feel his father’s presence lingering here with each step he took.

  Godfrey reached the last door, and turned and stood before it. It was a large, arched door, a foot thick, and looked a thousand years old. He wondered how many MacGils had used this door. It was strange to see it here like this, unguarded. Not once in Godfrey’s life had he seen it without guards before it. It was as if, now, no one cared that his father had ever existed.

  The door was closed, and Godfrey reached out and grasped its iron handle and pushed it open. It opened within an ancient creak, and he stepped inside.

  It was even more eerie in here, in this empty chamber, which still hummed with his father’s vitality. The bed was still made, his father’s clothes still draped across it, his mantle still hung in the far corner, his boots by the fireplace. The window was open, a sudden summer breeze rushed in, and Godfrey felt a chill; he felt his father standing there, right with him. The breeze billowed the linens hanging over the four-poster bed, and he could not but help think it was his father speaking to him. Godfrey felt overwhelmed with sadness.

  Gareth walked the room, feeling a chill as he realized this is where his father was murdered. He did not know what he was looking for exactly, but he sensed that here, where it happened, would be the place to start. Perhaps there was some small clue overlooked that could help spark an idea. He assumed that the council had already combed over this room. But he wanted to try. He needed to try, for himself.

  But after minutes of scouring, he saw no clues that jumped out at him.

  “Godfrey?” came a woman’s voice.

  Godfrey spun, caught off guard, not expecting anyone else in here with him. He saw, standing there, his younger sister, Gwendolyn.

  “You scared me,” he said, and breathed. “I did not know anyone was in here with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stepping
in and closing the door behind her. “The door was open. I did not expect to find you in here, either.”

  He narrowed his eyes, studying her. She looked lost, troubled.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I could ask you the same,” she responded. “It’s too early in the day. You must have been driven here. Like myself.”

  Godfrey looked in all directions, looking for signs of anyone watching or listening. He realized how paranoid he had become. Slowly, warily, he nodded back.

  Godfrey had always cared for Gwen. Of all his siblings, she was the only one that he felt did not judge her. He’d always appreciated how sensitive and compassionate she was. He had always sensed that, of all of his family members, she might be the only one willing to believe in him, to give him a second chance. And he felt he could tell her anything without fear of reprisal.

  “You are right,” he responded. “I do feel driven to be here. In fact, I can think of little else.”

  “I feel the same,” she said. “His death was too sudden. And too violent. I find it hard to relax, to enjoy life, until I know we’ve caught his murderer. I had a terrible dream. And it drove me here.”

  Godfrey nodded. He understood.

  He watched Gwendolyn as she walked about the room, taking it all in. He could see the anguish in her face, and he realized how painful this must be for her, too. After all, she was closest to their father. Closer than any of them.

  “I thought that perhaps by coming here I might find something,” Godfrey said, as he walked about the room again himself, looking through every corner, under the bed, through every detail. “But nothing is apparent.”

  She surveyed the room herself, walking slowly.

  “What of these stains?” she asked.

  He turned and hurried over to where she was looking. On the floor, against the dark stone, there was the faintest outline of a stain. They walked towards the window, following the trail, and as they entered the sunlight, he could see it more clearly: a bloodstain. He felt a chill. The stains covered the floors, the walls, and he realized they were his father’s.