A March of Kings

the king’s generals, all the people of his kingdom, would answer to him. He would control the Army, the Legion, the treasury. In fact, there was nothing he could not control, and there was not a single person who would not answer to him. It was the power he had sought, had craved, his entire life. And now it was in his grasp. Not in his sister’s, and not in any of his brothers’. He had managed to make it happen. Perhaps prematurely. But he figured one day it would have been his anyway. Why should he have to wait his entire life, waste his prime, waiting? He should be king in his prime, not as an old man. He had just made it happen a bit sooner.

It was what his father deserved. His entire life he had criticized him, had refused to accept him for who he was. Now Gareth was forcing his father to accept him, from beyond the grave, whether he liked it or not. He was forcing him to have to look down and see his least loved son as ruler, the very son he had never wanted. That was his punishment for withdrawing his love, and for never giving him love to begin with. Gareth didn’t need his love now. Now he had the whole kingdom to love and adore him. And he would squeeze out every ounce of it that he could.

There came a pounding on the door, the iron knocker resonating on the wood, and Gareth turned, already dressed, and strutted to the door. He yanked it open himself, marveling that this would be the last time he would do so. After today, he would sleep in a different room-the King’s chamber-and would have servants around the clock standing in and outside of his door. He would never touch a doorknob again. He would be flocked by a royal entourage, warriors, bodyguards, anything he wanted. He was electrified at the thought of it.

“My liege,” came the chorus of voices.

A dozen of the king’s guard bowed down as the door opened.

One of his advisers stepped forward.

“We have come to accompany you to the crowning ceremony.”

“Very well,” Gareth said, trying to sound composed, trying not to sound as if he had anticipated this moment every day of his life.

He walked forward, raising his chin, already trying to practice the look of a king. He would allow this day to change him, and he would demand that everyone around him look at him differently.

Gareth walked down the red carpet that had been laid out for him along the castle stone floor, dozens of guards lined up along it, awaiting his approach. He walked slowly and deliberately, turning down corridor after corridor, reveling each moment. Everywhere he went guards bowed low.

“My liege,” they said, one after another, like dominoes.

It felt good to hear the words. It felt surreal. It felt as if he were walking in the footsteps that his father had walked just the day before.

As Gareth turned the corner, attendants opened a towering oak door, pulled with all their might on the iron knocker. It creaked open, revealing an immense ceremonial chamber. Gareth had expected a crowd, but he was taken aback by the site before him: there were thousands of the courts finest and most important people, nobles, royalty, hundreds of The Silver, all filling the room, all standing at his presence as the doors opened. They were lined up neatly in pews, dressed in their finest, as they would be for the most important ceremony. Thousands of them turned and faced him, and bowed their heads.

Gareth could hardly believe it. All of these people, all assembled just for him. It was too late now for anyone to stop him. The time had come. In just moments he would be wearing the crown, and that was a line that could never be crossed. His head itched to have it on.

He walked self-consciously down the long aisle, hundreds of feet with a plush red carpet down the middle. At its end sat an altar and a throne. Argon stood there waiting, with several more of the king’s council.

“Hear ye hear ye! All rise in acceptance of the presence of the new King!”

“Hear ye!” came a chorus of shouts, thousands of voices filling the room, rising up to the cathedral ceiling. Music rose up, the sounds of a lute, as Gareth began the ceremonial walk to the throne. As he went, he passed faces that he recognized, and faces he did not. There were people that used to look at him as if he were just another boy, or who used to not look at him at all. Now they all had to pay him respect. Now he demanded all of their attention.

As he went he passed his siblings, standing together. Godfrey, Kendrick, Gwendolyn, and Reese. Beside Reese was that boy, Thor. All of them, thorns in his side. No matter. He would do away with them soon enough. As soon as he assumed the throne, as soon as he took power, he would deal with each in his own way. After all, who better than he to know that the worst enemies are those closest to you.

Gareth passed his mother, the Queen, who stared down at him with a disapproving glance. He didn’t need her approval now, or ever again. Now he was her King. Now she would have to answer to him.

Gareth continued to walk, passing everyone, until finally he reached the throne. The music grew louder as he ascended the seven ivory steps, to a platform where Argon was waiting, dressed in his finest ceremonial robes.

Gareth faced him. As he did, the entire room, thousands of people, sat. The music stopped and the room grew deathly still.

Gareth looked at Argon, who stared back at him with such intensity that his translucent eyes seemed to burn right through him. Gareth wanted to look away, but forced himself not to. He wondered again what Argon saw. Did he see the future? Or worse, did he see the past? Had he seen what Gareth had done? And if he had, would he reveal it?

Gareth made a mental note to oust Argon, too. He would oust anyone and everyone who had been close to his father-and who might suspect his guilt.

Gareth braced himself as Argon was about to open his mouth, praying he did not say anything to out him as the assassin.

“As the fates would have it,” Argon announced slowly, “we are all put here on this day to mourn the loss of a great King, and to at the same time acknowledge the crowning of his son. For the law of the Ring dictates the kingship must be passed to the firstborn legitimate son. And that is Gareth MacGil.”

Each and every one of Argon’s words felt like a denunciation to Gareth. Why had he had to qualify it, to use the word legitimate? It was clearly a snub; he was clearly implying that he wished Kendrick could be king instead. Gareth would make him pay for that.

“As sorcerer to the MacGils for seven generations, it is my duty to place the royal crown on you, Gareth, in the hopes that you will carry out the supreme law of the kingship of the Ring. Do you, Gareth, accept this privilege?”

“I do,” Gareth responded.

“Do you, Gareth, vow to uphold and protect the laws of our great kingdom?”

“I do.”

“Do you, Gareth, promise to follow in the footsteps of your father, in all his ways, and in the footsteps of your ancestors, to protect the Ring, to uphold the Canyon, and to defend us from all enemies, internal and external?”

“I do.”

Argon stared at him long and hard, expressionless, then finally reached over, picked up a large bejeweled crown, the one his father wore, raised it high, and slowly placed on Gareth’s head. As he did, he closed his eyes and began to chant, over and over again, in the ancient, lost language of the Ring.

“Atimos lex vi mass primus…”

Argon chanted a deep, guttural chant, and it continued for some time. Finally, he stopped, reached up with his hand, and placed it on Gareth’s forehead.

“By the powers vested in me by the Western Kingdom of the Ring, I, Argon, hereby name you, Gareth, the eighth MacGil King.”

A muted applause rose up in the room, far from enthusiastic, and Gareth turned and faced all of his subjects. They all stood, politely, and Gareth looked over their faces.

He took two steps back and sat in his father’s throne, sinking into it, feeling what it felt like to rest his hands on its well-worn arms. He sat there, staring at his subjects, who looked up at him with hopeful, maybe fearful eyes. He also saw in the crowd those who did not cheer, who looked at him skeptically.

He remembered their faces well, and each of them would pay.

*