by Morgan Rice
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gwendolyn stood before her mother’s chamber, her arm raised before the large, oak door, hesitating as she grabbed the iron knocker. She remembered the last time she had seen her mother, how badly it had went, the threats from both sides. She recalled her mother’s forbidding her to see Thor again and her vowing to never see her again. They had both wanted what they wanted, at whatever cost. That was how it had always been between them. Gwen had always been her daddy’s girl, and that had provoked her mother’s wrath and jealousy.
Gwen was sure when she walked out on her that day that she would never see her again. Gwen considered herself a tolerant, forgiving person, but she also had her pride. She was like her father that way. And once someone wounded her pride, she would never talk to them again, under any circumstance.
And yet here she was, holding the cold, iron knocker, preparing to slam it, to ask her mother permission to speak with her and to plead for her help in freeing Kendrick from prison. It shamed her to find herself in this position, having to humble herself to approach her mother, to speak to her again—and no less, doing so in the context of needing her help. It was like conceding to her mother that she had won. Gwen felt torn to bits, and wished that she were anywhere but here. If it weren’t for Kendrick, she would never give her the time of day again.
No matter what her mother said, Gwen would never change her mind when it came to Thor. And she knew her mother would never let that go.
But then again, since the death of her father, her mother had truly been a different person. Something had happened within her. Perhaps it had been a stroke—or perhaps it was something psychological. She hadn’t spoken a word to anyone since that fateful day, had been in a nearly catatonic state, and Gwen didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps her mother would not even be able to speak with her. Perhaps this was all a waste of time.
Gwen knew she should pity her—but despite herself, she was unable to. Her mother’s new condition had been convenient for her—she was finally out of her hair, finally did not need to live in fear of all her vindictiveness. Before this happened, Gwen felt certain that she would begin to feel pressure from all sides to never see Thor again, to find herself married off to some cretin. She wondered if her father’s death had truly changed her. Maybe it had humbled her, too.
Gwen took a deep breath and raised the knocker and slammed it, trying to think only of Kendrick, her brother who she loved so much, wallowing away in the dungeon.
She slammed the iron knocker again and again, and it resounded loudly in the empty corridors. She waited what felt like forever, until finally a servant opened the door and stared back cautiously. It was Hafold, the old nurse who had been her mother’s attendant as long as she could remember. She was older than the Ring itself, and she stared back at Gwen disapprovingly. She was more loyal to her mother than anyone she knew; they were like the same person.
“What do you want?” she asked, curt.
“I’m here to see my mother,” Gwen responded.
Hafold stared back disapprovingly.
“And why would you want to do that? You know your mother does not wish to see you. I presume you made it quite clear that you do not wish to see her, either.”
Gwen stared back at Hafold, and it was her turn to give a disapproving stare. Gwen was feeling a new strength overcoming, her father’s strength rising through her, and she felt less of a tolerance for all of these overbearing, authoritative types who wielded their disapproval on the younger generation like a weapon. What gave them all the right to be so superior, so disapproving of everyone and everything?
“It is not your place to question me, and it is not my place to have to explain myself to you,” Gwen said back firmly. “You are a servant to this royal family. I am royalty, lest you forget. Now move out of my way. I am here to see my mother. I am not asking you—I am telling you.”
Hafold’s face fell in surprise; she stood there, wavering, then stepped out of the way as Gwen stormed past her.
Gwen took several steps into the room and as she did, she spotted her mother, seated at the far end of the chamber. She could see the broken chess pieces, still lying on the floor, the table on its side. Gwen was surprised to see her mother had left it that way. Then she realized that her mother probably wanted it as a reminder. Maybe it was a reminder to punish her. Or maybe their argument had gotten to her, after all.
Gwen saw her mother seated there, in her delicate yellow velvet chair, beside the window, facing out, the sunlight hitting her face. She wore no makeup, she was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and her hair looked as if it had not been done in days. Her face looked old, sagging, lines etched where Gwen had not noticed them before. Gwen could hardly believe how much she had aged since her father’s death—she barely recognized her. She could feel what a toll her father’s death had taken on her, and despite herself, she felt some compassion for her. At least they had shared one thing in common: a love for her father.
“Your mother is not well,” came Hafold’s harsh voice, walking up beside her. “It will not do for you to disturb her now, whatever matter it is that you’ve come to inquire—”
Gwen spun.
“Leave us,” Gwen commanded.
Hafold stared back, horrified.
“I will not leave your mother unattended. It is my duty to—”
“I said leave us!” Gwen screamed, pointing at the door. Gwen felt stronger, harsher than she ever had, and she could actually hear the authority of her father’s voice coming through.
Hafold must have recognized it, too, must have recognized that this was no longer the young girl she had been accustomed to knowing. Her eyes open wide in surprise, and maybe fear, and she scowled, turned, and hurried from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Gwen crossed the room and locked the door; she did not want any more spies in here to hear what she was about to say.
She turned and went back to her mother’s side. To Gwen’s upset, her mother had not flinched, had not reacted to any of it; she remained seated there, staring out the window. She wondered if she could even speak anymore, if this was just a waste of time.
Gwen knelt by her side, reached up and placed a hand on hers, gently.
“Mother?” she asked, using her gentlest voice.
To Gwen’s disappointment, there came no response. She felt her heart shattering. She did not know why, but she felt a tremendous sadness overcoming her. And somehow, for the first time, she felt herself able to understand her mother—and even to forgive her.
“I love you, mother,” she said. “I’m sorry for all that has happened. I really am.”
Despite herself, Gwen felt tears well up. She did not know if she was crying for the loss of her father, or for the lost chance of a relationship between her and her mother, or for all the pent-up grief she had felt since she and had her mother had fought. Whatever it was, it all came out now, and Gwen cried and cried.
After what felt like forever, nothing but her crying to fill the silence of the vast, empty chamber, to Gwen’s surprise, her mother turned and looked at her. Her face was expressionless, her icy blue eyes wide open, but Gwen saw a quiver of something, thought she could see some part of her coming back to life.
“Your father is dead,” her mother said.
The words came out like a grim proclamation, and even though she knew they were true, they were painful for Gwen to hear.
Gwen nodded slowly back.
“Yes he is,” she responded.
“And nothing can bring him back,” her mother added.
“Nothing,” Gwen agreed.
Her mother turned back to the window. She sighed.
“I never thought it would end like this,” she said.
And then she fell silent again, staring out at a distant cloud passing by.
After it went on for too long, after Gwen feared she might be losing her again, Gwen reached up and squeezed her wrist.
“Mother,” she urge
d, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “I need your help. Your son, Kendrick, lies wallowing in the dungeon. He was put there by your other son, Gareth. He’s been accused of father’s murder. You know that Kendrick would not commit this murder. Kendrick is set to be executed. You must not let this happen.”
Gwen knelt there, squeezing her mother’s hand, waiting urgently for a response.
She waited what felt like forever. She was about to give up hope, when suddenly her mother’s eyes flickered.
“Kendrick is not my son,” she said, matter-of-factly, still watching the sky. “He is your father’s boy. Of another woman.”
“That is true,” Gwen said, nervous. “But you raised him as your own. Your husband loved him as a son. You know that. And, whether he was true or not, Kendrick always viewed you as a mother. He has no one else. As you said, our father is dead. It is left to you to defend him. If you do nothing, if you do not act, on the morrow, he will be dead—for a murder he did not commit. The murder of your husband. His execution would stain your husband’s memory.”
Gwen felt proud of herself for laying it all out, and she felt that her mother heard every word of it. There followed a long silence.
“I do not rule this land,” her mother said. “I am just another former Queen. Powerless, as the rest. The men rule in this kingdom.”
“You are not powerless,” Gwen insisted. “You are the mother of the current King. You are a former queen to the former King, who died but days ago—and who are country still loves and mourns. All of his counselors and advisers still listen to you. They trust you. They love you, if for no other reason than they loved him. A command from you would hold much weight. It would prevent Kendrick’s death.”
Her mother sat there, staring out, her expression barely changing. Gwen watched her eyes, but could not tell how much she was truly processing, how much she was capable of taking in. She seemed as sharp as ever, but clearly, something had happened within her.
“Wouldn’t you like to find your husband’s murderer?” Gwen asked.
Her mother shrugged.
“It is not for me to intervene in my son’s rule. He is King now. The fates must play out as they must.”
“So will you just sit there, then, and do nothing as your innocent son dies?”
Slowly, the former queen shook her head.
“Gareth was always a willful boy. My firstborn son,” the queen said. “I believe that he carried all of my sins. His nature could never be corrected. Perhaps he killed your father. Perhaps not. But kings are meant to be killed. They’re meant to be deposed. Your father knew that. It is the risk one takes when assuming the throne.
“Of course I mourn for my husband,” she added. “But that is the dance of crowns.”
Gwen fumed. She stared at her mother, saw her resolve, and felt a newfound hatred for her.
Gwen stood and scowled down at her, preparing this time to never see her again. She took one long last look at her, to ingrain her face in her memory. It was a face she never wanted to forget—a face she never wanted to become.
“Our father looks down at you in disgrace,” Gwen said, feeling as if she were channeling her father’s voice.
With that, she turned, crossed the room, opened the door and slammed it behind her, its echo shaking the entire castle.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thor sat with the other Legion members, and Krohn, on the ground in their makeshift camp at the top of the cliff, their roaring fire doing little to fend off the black of night. Dozens of them sat spaced around it, all exhausted, staring somberly into the flames. Thor looked back and saw the sky, alight with thousands of stars, reds and yellows and greens, positioned in such a way that Thor had never seen before in this part of the world. The fire cracked, but other than that, the night was silent.
They had all been sitting there for hours, frozen with exhaustion, pondering their fates after this grueling day of training. Thor, especially, was stung by his encounter with the Cyclops. He felt vindicated in the eyes of his brothers in arms, who looked at him now with a new respect. But he also felt shaken. He thought of how close he had come to dying, and wondered for the millionth time about the mystery of life. Just yesterday, Malic had been sitting with them all; now, he was dead. Where had he gone? Who might go next?
Kolk cleared his throat, and the boys turned and looked at him. He sat there, in the circle along with the others, resting his forearms on his knees, back erect, frowning into the fire. His eyes were wide open, and it looked as if he were remembering something vividly. The boys had been promised a tale around the fire, one of conquest and past glories. But they had been waiting for hours, and none came. Thor had assumed it was not going to come. But now, as Kolk cleared his throat, Thor settled in and prepared to listen. Beside him, Reese, O’Connor, Elden and the twins did the same.
“Twenty sun cycles ago,” Kolk began, staring into the flames, his voice somber, “before most of you were born, when I was the age of the eldest of you, when King MacGil was still alive, when he was just a prince and we fought side-by-side, there came the battle which gave me this scar,” he said, turning his cheek to reveal the long, jagged scar which ran along his jawbone.
“That day started out as any other. MacGil, Brom and I, with a dozen other legion members, were on patrol. Deep in the valley of the Nevaruns. The Nevaruns are separatists: they live on the far reaches of the southern provinces of the Ring. They are rebels—they owe allegiance to the MacGils, but are always threatening to align with one lord or other and break off from the kingdom. They are also tough, cruel people, who do not defer to authority. They have been a thorn in the MacGil’s side for centuries. They are half-breeds, part human and part something else. They have eight fingers and toes, and are twice as broad as the average man. It is said that humans mated with something else to breed them, centuries ago. Nobody knows what.
“The Nevaruns are a fierce people,” Kolk continued. “They don’t respect our code of ethics, of laws of chivalry. They fight to win—at any cost.”
Kolk breathed deep, eyes closed, remembering.
“It was a cold and windy day. Walking through a narrow valley, after days of silent patrol, we were ambushed. Several of them jumped us from behind, knocking me off my horse. One of them knocked me down with a spear, while another came up from behind, stabbed me in the back and then used his knife to do this handiwork,” he said, pointing at his jaw.
Thor swallowed at the thought of it, of what Kolk must have gone through. Even now, twenty sun cycles later, as he stared into the flames, it seemed as if Kolk were reliving it.
“I would have died if it were not for MacGil, who, luckily, had to relieve himself, and was catching up. He was fifty paces behind me, and they didn’t see him. He sent an arrow through their backs.”
Kolk sighed.
“I was foolish, and that is the point of this tale. I expected the enemy to fight on my terms. To meet me in the open. To challenge and face me as a man, as any warrior should. Not to be cowardly and jump me from behind, not to fight with two men against one, not to wait until I was in a space so narrow I could not maneuver. And this is what you must remember: your enemy will never fight on your terms. He will fight on his. War for you means something else to him. What you consider fair and noble, he does not. You must be prepared, at all times, for anything.
“That does not mean you sink to his level. You must fight at all times with our code of honor and chivalry—or else you will lose the spirit of the warrior, which is what sustains you. The day you begin to fight as them is the day you lose your soul. Better to die with honor than to win in disgrace.”
With that, Kolk fell silent, and a deep silence enveloped all the boys around him. For a long while the only sound was that of the whipping of the wind high up on the cliff, of the distant crash of the ocean, somewhere on the horizon.
And then, some time later, came the sound of a distant roar, like thunder. Thor turned, as did the others, and saw someth
ing light up the horizon. He stood, with Reese and a few others, to go look.
Thor walked over to the cliff’s edge and looked out at the black night, the horizon lit by a world of stars, their light strong enough to illuminate the swirling red waters of the ocean beneath them. In the distance, far off, Thor could see a red glow. It came in short bursts, then stopped, like a volcano shooting up lava that lit up the night, then just as quickly faded out. There followed another rumbling sound.
“The cry of the Dragon,” came a voice.
Thor looked over, and standing there, set apart from the others, his back to him, staring out over the cliff and holding his staff, was Argon. Thor was shocked to see him.
Thor turned away from the other boys, and walked over to him. He stood beside him and waited until he was ready, knowing better than to disturb him.
“How did you get here?” Thor asked, amazed. “What are you doing here?”
Argon stood there, expressionless, ignoring Thor, still staring out at the horizon.
Thor finally turned and looked at the horizon with him, standing by his side, waiting, trying to be patient, to accept conversation on Argon’s terms.
“The Dragon’s breath,” Argon observed. “This is a dragon that chooses to live apart. You are in his land. He is not pleased.”
Thor thought about that.
“But we are to be here for a hundred days,” Thor said, worried.
Argon turned and looked at him.
“If he chooses to let you,” he responded. “These shores are littered far and wide with the bones of warriors who thought they could conquer the dragon. The pride of man is the feast of dragons.”
Thor swallowed, beginning to realize how precarious the Hundred was.
“Will I survive it?” he asked, hoping for a response.
“Your time to die has not yet come,” Argon responded slowly.