CHAPTER FOUR
Gareth paced his chamber, reliving the events of the night, flooded with anxiety. He could hardly believe what had happened at the feast, how it had all gone so wrong. He could hardly comprehend that that stupid boy, that outsider, Thor, had somehow caught onto his poison plot-and even more, had managed to actually intercept the goblet. Gareth thought back to that moment when he saw Thor jump up, knock down the goblet, when he heard the goblet hit the stone, watched the wine spill out on the floor, and saw all his dreams and aspirations spill out with it.
In that moment, he had been ruined. Everything he’d lived for had been crushed. And when that dog lapped up the wine and dropped dead-he knew he was finished. He saw his whole life flash before him, saw himself discovered, sentenced to life in the dungeon for trying to kill his father. Or worse, executed. It was stupid. He should have never gone through with the plan, never visited that witch.
Gareth had, at least, acted quickly, taking a chance and jumping to his feet and being the first to pin the blame on Thor. Looking back, he was proud of himself, at how quickly he had reacted. It had been a moment of inspiration, and to his amazement, it seemed to have worked. They had dragged Thor off, and afterwards, the feast had nearly settled down again. Of course, nothing was the same after that, but at the very least, the suspicion seemed to fall squarely on the boy.
Gareth only prayed that it stayed that way. It had been decades since an assassination attempt on a MacGil, and Gareth feared there would be an inquiry, that they would end up looking more deeply into the deed. Looking back, it had been foolish to try to poison him. His father was invincible. He should have known that. He had over- reached. And now he could not help feel as if it were only a matter of time until the suspicion fell on him. He would have to do whatever he could to prove Thor’s guilt, and have him executed before it was too late.
At least Gareth had somewhat redeemed himself: after that failed attempt, he had called off the assassination. Now, Gareth felt relieved. After watching the plot fail, he had realized that there was a part of him, deep down, that did not want to kill his father after all, that did not want to have his blood on his hands. He would not be King. He might never be king. But after tonight’s events, that was okay with him. At least he would be free. He could never handle the stress of going through all of this again, the secrets, the covering up, the constant anxiety of being found out. It was too much for him.
As he paced and paced, the night growing late, finally, slowly, he began to calm. Just as he was beginning to feel himself, preparing to settle in for the night, there came a sudden crash, and he turned to see his door burst open. In burst Firth, wide-eyed, frantic, rushing into the room as if he were being chased.
“He’s dead!” Firth screamed. “He’s dead! I killed him. He’s dead!”
Firth was hysterical, wailing, and Gareth had no idea what he was talking about. Was he drunk?
Firth ran throughout the room, shrieking, crying, holding up his hands-and it was then that Gareth noticed his palms, covered in blood, his yellow tunic, stained red.
Gareth’s heart skipped a beat. Firth had just killed someone. But who?
“
But Firth was hysterical, and could not focus. Gareth ran to him, grabbed his shoulders firmly and shook him.
“Answer me!”
Firth opened his eyes and stared, with the eyes of a wild horse.
“Your father! The King. He’s dead! By my hand!”
At his words, Gareth felt as if a knife had been plunged into his own heart.
He stared back, wide-eyed, frozen, feeling his whole body go numb. He released his grip, took a step back, and tried to catch his breath. He could see from all the blood that Firth was genuine. He could not even fathom it. Firth? The stable boy? The most weak-willed of all his friends? Killed his father?
“But…how is that possible?” Gareth gasped. “When?”
“It happened in his chamber,” Firth said. “Just now. I stabbed him.”
The reality of the news began to sink in, and Gareth regained his wits; he noticed his open door, ran to it, and slammed it shut, checking first to make sure no guards had seen. Luckily, the corridor was empty. He pulled the heavy iron bolt across it.
He hurried back across the room. Firth was still hysterical, and he needed to calm him. He needed answers.
He grasped him by the shoulders, spun him, and back-handed him hard enough to make him stop. Finally, Firth focused on him.
“Tell me everything,” Gareth ordered coldly. “Tell me exactly what happened. Why did you do this?”
“What do you mean why?” Firth asked, confused. “You wanted to kill him. Your poison didn’t work. I thought I could help you. I thought that was what you wanted.”
Gareth shook his head. He grabbed Firth by the shirt and shook him, again and again.
“Why did you do this!?” Gareth screamed.
Gareth felt his whole world crumbling. He was shocked to realize that he actually felt remorse for his father. He could not understand it. Just hours ago, he’d wanted more than anything to see him poisoned, dead at the table. Now the idea of his being killed struck him like the death of a best friend. He felt overwhelmed with remorse. A part of him had not wanted him to die after all-especially not this way. Not by Firth’s hand. And not by a blade.
“I don’t understand,” Firth whined. “Just hours ago you tried to kill him yourself. Your goblet plot. I thought you would be grateful!”
To his own surprise, Gareth reached back and smacked Firth across the face.
“I did not tell you to do this!” Gareth spat. “I
“No one saw,” Firth pleaded. “I slipped between the shifts. No one spotted me.”
“And where is the weapon?”
“I did not leave it,” Firth said proudly. “I’m not stupid. I disposed of it.”
“And what blade did you use?” Gareth asked, his mind spinning with the implications. He went from remorse to worry; his mind raced with every detail of the trail that this bumbling fool might have left, every detail that might lead to him.
“I used one that could not be traced,” Firth said, proud of himself. “It was a dull, anonymous blade. I found it in the stables. There were four others just like it. It could not be traced,” he repeated.
Gareth felt his heart drop.
“Was it a short knife, with a red handle and a curved blade? Mounted on the wall beside my horse?”
Firth nodded back, looking doubtful.
Gareth glowered.
“You fool. Of course that blade is traceable!”
“But there were no markings on it!” Firth protested, sounding scared, his voice trembling.
“There are no markings on the blade-but there is a mark on the hilt!” Gareth yelled. “Underneath! You did not check carefully. You fool,” Gareth said, stepping forward, reddening. “The emblem of my horse is carved underneath it. Anyone who knows the royal family well can trace that blade back to me.”
He stared at Firth, who seemed stumped. He wanted to kill him.
“What did you do with it?” Gareth pressed. “Tell me you have it on you. Tell me that you brought it back with you. Please.”
Firth swallowed.
“I disposed of it carefully. No one will ever find it.”
Gareth grimaced.
“Where, exactly?”
“I threw it down the stone chute, into the castle’s chamber pot. They dump the pot every hour, into the river. Do not worry, my lord. It’s deep in the river by now.”
The castle bells suddenly tolled, and Gareth turned and ran to the open window, his heart flooded with panic.
