Thor felt an electric shock through his body at the king’s words. His destiny? Greater than the King’s? The very idea that the King would even bother to discuss Thor with Argon was more than Thor could comprehend. And the fact that he would say that Thor’s destiny was greater than the King’s—what could he possibly mean? Was the king just being delusional in his final moments?
“I chose you…I brought you into my family for a reason. Do you know what that reason is?”
Thor shook his head, wanting desperately to know.
“Don’t you know why I wanted you here, only you, in my final moments?”
Thor racked his brain, desperately trying to understand. But he had no idea.
“I’m sorry, my liege,” he said, shaking his head. “I do not know.”
MacGil smiled faintly, as his eyes began to close.
“There is a great land, far from here. Beyond the Wilds. Beyond even the land of the Dragons. It is the land of the Druids. Where your mother is from. You must go there to seek the answers.”
MacGil’s eyes opened wide and he stared at Thor with an intensity that Thor could not comprehend.
“Our kingdom depends on it,” he added. “You are not like the others. You are special. Until you understand who you are, our kingdom will never rest at ease.”
MacGil’s eyes closed and his breathing grew shallow, each breath coming out with a gasp. His grip slowly weakened on Thor’s wrist, and Thor felt his own tears welling up. His mind was spinning with everything the king had said, as he tried to make sense of it all. He could barely concentrate. Had he heard it all correctly?
MacGil began to whisper something, but it was so quiet, Thor could barely make it out. Thor leaned in close, bringing his ear to MacGil’s lips.
The king lifted his head one last time, and with one final effort said:
“Avenge me.”
Then, suddenly, MacGil stiffened. He lay there for a few moments, then his head rolled to the side as his eyes opened wide, frozen.
Dead.
“NO!” Thor wailed.
His wail must have been loud enough to alert the guards, because a moment later, he heard a door burst open behind him, heard the commotion of dozens of people rushing into the room. In the corner of his consciousness he understood there was motion all around him. He dimly heard the castle bells tolling out, again and again. The bells pounded, matching the pounding of the blood in his temples. But it all became a blur, as moments later the room was spinning, he fainting, heading for the stone floor in one great collapse.
CHAPTER SIX
A gust of wind struck Gareth in the face and he looked up, blinking back tears, into the pale light of the first rising sun. The day was just breaking, and yet at this remote spot, here on the edge of the Kolvian Cliffs, there were already gathered hundreds of the king’s family, friends, and close royal subjects, hovering close, hoping to participate in the funeral. Just beyond them, held back by an army of soldiers, Gareth could see the thousands of masses pouring in, watching the services from a distance. The grief on their faces was genuine. His father was loved, that was certain.
Gareth stood with the rest of the immediate family, in a semi-circle around his father’s body, which sat suspended on planks over a pit in the earth, ropes around it, waiting to be lowered. Argon stood before the crowd, wearing the deep-scarlet robes he reserved only for funerals, his expression inscrutable as he looked down at the King’s body, the hood covering his face. Gareth tried desperately to analyze that face, to decipher how much Argon knew. Did Argon know that he murdered his father? And if so, would he tell the others—or let destiny play out?
To Gareth’s bad luck, that annoying boy, Thor, had been cleared of guilt; obviously, he could not have stabbed the king while he was in the dungeon. Not to mention that his father himself had told all the others that Thor was innocent. Which only made things worse for Gareth. A council had already been formed to look into the matter, to scrutinize every detail of his murder. Gareth’s heart pounded as he stood there with the others, staring at the body about to be lowered into the earth; he wanted to be lowered with it.
He knew it was only a matter of time until the trail led to Firth—and when it did, he would be brought down with him. He would have to act quickly to divert the attention, to pin the blame on someone else. Gareth wondered if those around him suspected him. He was likely just being paranoid, and as he surveyed the faces, he saw none looking at him. There stood his brothers, Reese, Godfrey, Kendrick, his sister, Gwendolyn, his mother, her face wrought with grief, looking catatonic; indeed, since his father’s death, she had been like a different person, barely able to speak. He’d heard that when she’d received the news something had happened within her, some sort of paralysis. Half of her face was frozen; when she opened her mouth, the words came out too slow.
Gareth examined the faces of the King’s council behind her—his lead general, Brom and the Legion head, Kolk, stood in front, behind whom stood his father’s endless advisers. They all feigned grief, but Gareth knew better. He knew that all of these people, all of the councilmembers and advisers and generals—and all of the nobles and lords behind them—barely cared. He recognized on their faces ambition. Lust for power. As each stared down at his father’s corpse, he felt that each wondered who might be next to grab the throne.
It was the very thought that Gareth was having. What would happen in the aftermath of such a chaotic assassination? If it had been clean and simple, and the blame pinned on someone else, then Gareth’s plan would have been perfect—the throne would fall to him. After all, he was the first-born, legitimate son. His father had ceded power to Gwendolyn, but no one was present at that meeting except for his siblings, and his wishes were never ratified. Gareth knew the council, and knew how seriously they took the law. Without a ratification, his sister could not rule.
Which, again, led to him. If due process took its course—and Gareth was determined to make sure it did—then the throne would have to fall on him. That was the law.
His siblings would fight him, he had no doubt. They would recall their meeting with their father, and probably insist that Gwendolyn rule. Kendrick would not try to take power for himself—he was too pure-hearted. Godfrey was apathetic; Reese was too young. Gwendolyn was his only real threat. But Gareth was optimistic: he didn’t think the council was ready for a woman—much less a teenage girl—to rule the Ring. And without a ratification from the king, they had the perfect excuse to pass her over.