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.
The only real threat left in Gareth’s mind was Kendrick. After all, he, Gareth, was universally hated while Kendrick was loved among the common men, among the soldiers. Given the circumstance, there was always the chance of their wanting to hand the throne to Kendrick. The sooner Gareth could take power, the sooner he could use his powers to quash Kendrick.
Gareth felt a tug at his hand, and looked down to see the knotted rope burning his palm. He realized they had begun lowering his father’s coffin; he looked over and saw his other siblings, each holding a rope like he, slowly lowering it. Gareth’s end tilted, as he was late lowering, and he reached out and grabbed the rope with his other hand until finally it leveled out. It was ironic: even in death, he could not please his father.
Distant bells tolled, coming from the castle, and Argon stepped forward and raised a palm.
“
The lost language of the Ring, the royal language, used by his ancestors for a thousand years. It was a language his private tutors had drilled into him as a boy-and one he would need as he assumed his royal powers.
Argon suddenly stopped, looked up, and stared right at Gareth. It sent a chill through Gareth’s spine, as Argon’s translucent eyes seemed to burn right through him. Gareth’s face flushed, and he wondered if the whole kingdom was watching, and if any knew what it meant. In that stare, he felt that Argon knew of his involvement. And yet Argon was mysterious, always refusing to get involved in the twists and turns of human fate. Would he stay quiet?
“King MacGil was a good king, a fair king,” Argon said slowly, his voice deep and unearthly.
“He brought pride and honor to his ancestors, and riches and peace to this kingdom unlike any we’ve ever known. His life was taken prematurely, as the Gods would have it. But he left behind a legacy deep and rich. Now it is up to us to fulfill that legacy.”
Argon paused.
“Our kingdom of the Ring is surrounded by threats deep and ominous on all sides. Beyond our Canyon, protected only by our energy shield, lie a nation of savages and creatures that would tear us apart. Within our Ring, opposite our Highlands, lies a clan that would do us harm. We live in unmatched prosperity and peace; yet our security is fleeting.
“Why do the gods take someone away from us in his prime-a good and wise and fair king? Why was his destiny to be murdered this way? We are all merely pawns, puppets in fate’s hand. Even at the height of our power, we can end up beneath the earth. The question we must grapple with is not what we strive for-but who we strive to be.”
Argon lowered his head, and Gareth felt his palms burning as they lowered the coffin all the way; it finally hit the ground with a thud.
“NO!” came a shriek.
It was Gwendolyn. Hysterical, she ran for the edge of the pit, as if to throw herself in; Reese ran forward and grabbed her, held her back. Kendrick stepped up to help.
But Gareth felt no sympathy for her; rather, he felt threatened. If she wanted to be under the earth, he could arrange that.
Yes, indeed, he could.
*
Thor stood just feet away from King MacGil’s body as he watched it lowered into the earth, and felt overwhelmed by the site. Perched on the edge of the highest cliff of the kingdom, the king had chosen a spectacular place to be buried, a lofty place, which seemed to reach into the clouds themselves. The clouds were tinged with orange and greens and yellows and pinks, as the first of the rising suns crawled its way higher into the sky. But the
