“And what do you think, Berel?” he asked.
Berel leaned forward, arching an eyebrow, and without pausing, said, in his deep, confident voice: “Tax them. Tax them triple. Make the people feel the yoke of your new power. Make them fear you. That is the only way to rule.”
“And how would you know what it means to rule?” Aberthol called out to Berel.
“Excuse me my liege, but who is this person?” Brom called out, equally indignant. “We are the King’s Council. And we never sanctioned any new councilmen.”
“The Council is mine to do with as I wish,” Gareth chided back. “This is one of my new advisers. Berel. And I like his idea. We will tax the people triple. We will fill our coffers, and even more, we will make the people suffer under the burden of it. Then they will understand that I am King. And that I am to be feared—even more so than my father.”
Aberthol shook he said.
“My Liege, I would caution against such a harsh response. Everything in moderation. Such a move is rash. You will alienate your subjects.”
“My subjects,” Gareth spat. “That is exactly what they are. And I will do with them as I wish. This matter is ended. What other matters are before me?”
The council members turned to each other and exchanged troubled glances.
Suddenly, Brom rose.
“My Liege, with all respect, I cannot sit on a council that does heed our advice. I sat on this council for years for your father, and I am here to serve you out of deference to him. But you are not my King. He was. And I shall not serve on any council that does not pay homage and respect to its original councilmembers. You have brought in these young outsiders who know nothing of ruling a kingdom. I will not be a part of this facade. I hereby resign from this council.”
Brom scraped back his chair, got up and marched from the room, yanking open the door and slamming it behind him. The hollow sound echoed in the chamber, reverberating again and again.
Inwardly, Gareth’s heart was pounding. He felt the deck of cards crumbling around him. Had he gone too far?
“Never mind,” Gareth said. “We do not need him. I will bring in my own adviser on military affairs.”
“Do not need him, my Lord?” Aberthol echoed. “He is our greatest general, and was your father’s best adviser.”
“My father’s advisers are not my advisers,” Gareth threatened. “It is a new era. Is there anyone else here unhappy with this arrangement? If so, you can leave now.”
Gareth’s heart pounded as he sat there expecting the others to walk out, too.
To his surprise, none did. They all looked frozen in shock. He felt he had to assert his authority, had to make this kingdom his own.
Sweating now, Gareth just wanted this meeting, which had already gone on for hours, over with.
“Any other news, or can we finish?” he asked, peremptorily.
“My Liege, there is another important matter,” Bradaigh said. “News of your father’s death has spread to all corners of the Ring, and has reached the McClouds. Our spies inform us that they are meeting with a contingent from the Wilds. The rumor is that they intend to attack, either alone or with the Empire in tow. They may allow them to breach the Eastern Crossing of the Canyon. I suggest we mobilize our forces, and double our patrols of the Highlands.”
Gareth sat there, rooted in place, unsure what to do. He had never had any skill when it came to military affairs, and the thought of the McClouds invading terrified him.
“The McClouds will not let the Empire breach the Canyon,” he said. “That would imperil them, too. They might attack, though, even with my sister as their new Princess. Maybe we should not wait. Maybe we should attack them first.”
“Attack them unprovoked?” Kelvin asked. “And spark an all-out war?”
Gareth considered the possibilities, resting his hand on his chin, wondering when this would all be over. He wanted to be outside; he did not want to think any more of these affairs. And he wanted to get off his mind his most pressing concern—the investigation into his father’s murder.
“I will consider what to do,” Gareth said curtly. “In the meantime, I must raise a much more pressing matter, concerning the murder of my father. It has been brought to my attention that the assassin has been found.”
“What!?”
“What my Lord?”
“Who? How?!”
The councilmembers all yelled out at once, some of them standing in shock and outrage.
Gareth smiled inwardly, realizing he had them exactly where he wanted them. He turned and nodded towards Firth, who, standing on the outskirts of the room, walked across it, holding something small in his palm. Firth made a show of reaching out and handing it to Gareth, and as he did, Gareth held it up so that the others could see. He leaned forward on his throne and held out the small vial.
“Sheldrake Root. The same root used in the first attempt to poison my father at that night’s feast. As you can see, this vial is nearly empty. This vial was found in the killer’s chamber, on that very night.”
“But who is the killer, my Lord?” Aberthol yelled out.
“It pains me to say,” Gareth pronounced slowly, doing his best to feign sadness, “that it is my eldest brother. My Lord’s firstborn son. Kendrick.”
“What!”
“An outrage!”
“It can’t be!” they yelled back.
“Oh, I’m afraid it is,” Gareth replied. “We have gathered ample evidence. As we speak, I’m sending our men to arrest him. He will be imprisoned and tried for the death of my father.”
The council broke out in outraged mumbling.
“But Kendrick was the most loved of your father!” Duwayne yelled out. “And the most loyal of all.”
“It must be a mistake,” Bradaigh yelled.
“And our own committee is still investigating the matter!” Kelvin shouted.
“You can call off the investigation,” Gareth responded. “It is concluded.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Firth said, stepping forward. “He has a motive. Kendrick was the firstborn son. He was passed over. He must have had a vendetta, and must have pined for the throne himself.”
The councilmen turned and exchanged troubled, skeptical glances.
“You are wrong,” Aberthol said. “Kendrick is not ambitious. He is a loyal warrior.”