A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (9 page)

“Argon, too,” Gwen added. “He
risked his life for me, and now he has paid the price. He is gone, and I do not
know where—or if he shall ever return.”

Thor thought of that, and it
pained him. He missed Argon terribly, and he wanted see him, to ask about the
Sword, to ask about his destiny—and most of all, to ask about his father. Thor
thought he could almost hear Argon, faintly in the back of his mind, in
glimpses in his dreams; yet he seemed farther away than ever. Thor wondered
where he was now, if he was trapped, if he would ever come back again. He felt
orphaned without him.

Gwendolyn leaned in, and Thor
held her shoulder tight; he looked over into her crystal eyes, glowing in the
firelight, and leaned in and kissed her. He felt alive in that kiss. As he held
it, his heart pounded with anticipation. He felt the ring burning in his
pocket, and more than ever, he wanted to ask her, to give it to her.

But first, he knew, he had to
tell her. She had to know about the monster he hailed from. The more he thought
about it, the more he began to tremble.

“You’re shaking,” Gwen said.

“I’m just cold,” Thor lied.

She smiled, leaned in and
whispered in his ear: “Then follow me.”

She got up wordlessly, and Thor
took her hand and allowed himself to be led into the black night, between the
fires, anywhere Gwen would take him.

*

Thor and Gwendolyn entered the
ancient halls of Srog’s castle in Upper Silesia, guards stiffening to attention
as they passed down corridors lit by torchlight. They walked hand in hand, Gwen
leading them as they twisted and turned down one hall then the next, up a
flight of steps, until finally an attendant opened the door to the guest
chamber.

As they stepped inside, Thor
looked up at the ancient arched ceilings, all stone, at the roaring fire in the
huge marble fireplace, at the massive four-poster bed, at the torchlight along
the walls, and he was grateful to Srog for his hospitality. They had been given
a room fit for a King and Queen. Of course, Gwendolyn
was
Queen, but
Thor did not feel entitled to any of this. In his mind, he was still just a boy
from another small village on the periphery of the Ring.

Walking into a room like this,
though, made him feel like a king. He had always envisioned bigger things for
himself; but now that they were
here
, before his eyes, he could hardly
believe it. This all didn’t seem real. Here he was, with Gwendolyn, the Queen,
wielding the Destiny Sword, with his own dragon waiting for him in the castle
grounds. He had managed not just to join the Legion, but to become the head of
it; he had not just earned the respect of the Silver, but had become the one
they looked up to most. He had dreamed big for himself, but never that big. And
now that it was all here, it was hard to process. He still expected someone to
wake him up and tell him he was dreaming.

As Gwendolyn took his hand, her
soft, smooth skin warm in his palm, he knew this was real; he felt as if it
were the first time he had ever touched her. And as he held her, he realized
his joy had nothing to do with this room or this castle or any of it—it was all
about Gwendolyn’s love. As surreal as everything else felt, her love, and his
love for her, felt natural to him. It grounded him.

As they approached the pile of
furs before the fireplace, Gwendolyn leading him with a smile, Thor found
himself feeling nervous, as if it were the first time he had ever been with
her. They had been apart for so long, and so much time and distance had grown
between them, in a way it was like meeting her again for the first time. He
felt a fluttering in his stomach, and the old fear of saying the wrong thing.

Thor thought back and remembered
when he’d first met her, how tongue-tied he had been; in a strange way, a part
of him was feeling that way again now. He had to admit, he was still
intimidated by her beauty, by her charm, by her graciousness—by everything
about her. He could not help but feel she was of a greater class than he, that
she was so much greater than he would ever be.

As they lay down together, Gwen
leaned in and kissed Thor, and he kissed her back. They held the kiss for a
long time, the fire crackling beside them, Thor feeling the heat of it on his
face. He took her into his arms, and the two of them lay side-by-side on the
furs.

Gwendolyn smiled over at him, and
he felt his entire world restored in that smile.

Yet Thor was still nervous, for
another reason. As Gwendolyn looked into his eyes, he wondered if somehow she
recognized who his father was. He blinked and looked away, self-conscious, and
hoped not. He knew his thoughts were foolish, that it was impossible, yet
still, it plagued him. He had to get it off his chest, to tell her. At the same
time, he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Gwen looked away, and Thor sensed
there was something she wanted to tell him, too. He was not quite sure what it
was, but he knew her well enough to know there was something she was
withholding. He could see it in the slight tremble in her lip. It made him
wonder. Did she know of his father? Or was it something else?

As he studied her, he could not
imagine the horrors she had endured at the hand of Andronicus. Yet here she
was, still happy, smiling. He admired her more than he could say. She was
stronger than him—stronger than all of them.

“What’s wrong?” Gwendolyn finally
asked. “You seem quiet.”

Thor shook his head. He was
afraid to speak, afraid to tell her. He knew he had to, but he just could not
summon the courage. He was too ashamed.

“I…I…just miss you,” he
stammered.

It was true, he had missed her;
but it was not what was on the forefront of his mind.

“I missed you, too,” she smiled
back. “It felt like you were away for a lifetime. You don’t seem like the same
boy that left. You seem more like…a man,” she smiled.

Thor understood. He felt older
himself. Much, much older.

“The Empire…” he began, then
stopped. “It was so foreign…everything about it so different, so exotic… The
things I’ve seen…” he trailed off.

She took his hand and brought it
to her lips.

“Another time,” she said softly.
“There will always be wars and battles, but now is
our
time. It seems to
be a very rare thing. Let us cherish it. Now is the time for us.”

Thor felt his heart swell at her
words. She leaned in, and they kissed again. She held him tight, and he held
her back tighter, and they rolled on the furs, the lights flickering in this
beautiful chamber.

He let himself go. All the
worries of the world began to fade from his mind. Everything else slipped away,
and he thought of nothing but Gwendolyn. Of their love. He had found a place in
the world.

Luanda rode through the night,
Bronson beside her, galloping down the dark roads leading out of Silesia and
heading east, towards the Highlands. Luanda had never thought she’d find
herself heading back in this direction. When she had fled the McClouds that
day, she had vowed to never return, vowed to live and die the rest of her life
on the MacGil side.

But things had changed, beyond
what she could have foreseen. With her father dead and Gwendolyn in power,
Andronicus’ invasion had altered her life in a way she had never expected.
There was clearly no place for her anymore on the MacGil side of the Ring, no
spot for her to rule, no way for her not to have to answer to her little
sister. She hadn’t been born first to answer to her. It wasn’t fair. If a
queenship would not be given to her, then Luanda would have to take one for her
own.

Luanda screamed and kicked her
horse, and they raced deeper into the night, Bronson riding reluctantly at her
side a few feet behind. She recalled their argument, before they had left
Silesia. Bronson had always been so innocent, so gullible; ironic, considering
his father was such a manipulative monster. She had needed Bronson to come
along with her, so she had fed him a lie, and he had bought it. After that
disastrous meeting with her mother, she had lied to Bronson, had told him that
her mother had asked her to broker a truce, to be the one to approach
Andronicus with an offer for surrender. That a truce would spare the lives of
thousands of men and hasten Andronicus’ departure. And that Luanda, being a
member of the royal family yet not holding any official position, would be the
perfect person to make the offer.

Bronson had looked back at her,
puzzled, not knowing Luanda to be so selfless. He had bought it, and had agreed
to accompany her, thinking it was for a good cause. He had suggested they take
a group of soldiers to accompany them, but Luanda had refused, insisting they
go alone. She could not have any MacGil soldiers around her with what she was
about to do.

As they navigated their horses
through the narrow mountain pass leading up the Highlands, they crested a peak
and Luanda saw in the distance the lights from thousands of torches,
representing what could only be Andronicus’ camp. The sight gave her pause. Her
plan was a desperate one, she knew, but once she formulated a plan, she stuck
to it, no matter what. She would find Andronicus and cut a deal: she would
deliver Thor into his lap, and in return, he would make her queen of all the
Ring. It was a deal, she knew, he would not refuse.

Luanda’s eyes flashed as she
kicked her horse and charged down the steep mountain slope, racing down into
the McCloud side of the Ring, bearing down on Andronicus’ camp. Bronson,
ignorant of her scheme, rode along beside her, still thinking he was going to
broker a peace deal for Gwendolyn. Bronson could be useful, if she used him in
the right way. She knew that when he found out he would be upset—but by then it
would be too late. She would be Queen, and he would have no choice but to go
along with her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how she got there. All
that mattered was that she became Queen.

As the two of them entered the
Empire camp, the road narrowed and took them into the thick of the camp of
soldiers. It was tense here, torchlight on either side of them, Empire soldiers
staring them down. Luanda could feel the uneasiness in the air and knew this
would be the trickiest part. She had to convince them to bring them to bring
her to Andronicus; she had to command them with all the authority she could
muster—or else risk being captured by the enemy.

“I don’t know that this is a good
idea,” Bronson said beside her. She could hear fear in his voice as they headed
deeper into the Empire camp.

“Andronicus may kill us—even if
we are offering him a peace deal. Maybe we should turn back.”

Luanda ignored him and rode
deeper into the thick of the camp, toward the brightest glow in the center, the
largest tent, which she knew could only be Andronicus’.

Suddenly, several Empire officers
blocked their way, forcing their horses to a stop. She turned and saw they were
barred from behind, too.

Luanda faced the officers before
her, and looked down at them with her haughtiest look. After all, she was the
firstborn daughter of a king, and she knew how to appear regal.

“Bring us to Andronicus,” she
commanded. “We bring him an offer of surrender.”

Luanda phrased her words in a
deliberately ambiguous way, so they would not know whose surrender was being
offered—and so that Bronson would not know, either.

The Empire officers exchanged a
puzzled glance with each other, then looked up at her; she could see from their
expressions that her haughty, aristocratic manner was working, throwing them
off guard.

They finally parted, grabbed the
reins of her horses, and led them at a walk toward a huge tent. Andronicus’
tent.

The officers forced Luanda and
Bronson to dismount, then led them on foot. The torches burned even brighter
here, the crowd grew thicker, and a banner flapped in the cold night air with
an enormous emblem on it, a lion with an eagle in its mouth. Luanda’s heart
pounded as they approached the tent, realizing that now she was at their mercy.
She prayed her scheme worked.

They were stopped a few feet away
from the tent when the flap opened and out came the largest and most vicious
creature on two legs Luanda had ever set eyes upon. She spotted the shrunken
heads on his necklace, saw his horns, saw the menacing way he bore himself, and
knew without a doubt this was the Great Andronicus.

Despite herself, as she looked up
at him, she gasped.

Andronicus smiled down at both of
them, as if objects of prey had landed in his lap.

Luanda swallowed, and suddenly
wondered if this had been a very bad idea.

Thorgrin stood atop the highest
knoll of the low country of the Western Kingdom of the Ring, looking out at the
road, as he always had since he was a boy, waiting for the King’s men to
arrive. He watched the road, sparkling in the morning mist, and had a sweeping
view of his hometown, sitting there, looking as it always had. Except this
time, as he looked closer, he saw it was abandoned. It appeared as if he were
the only one left in the world.

Thor looked back to the road, and
there came a great rumbling, as there appeared a dozen horse-drawn carriages,
all made of a burnished gold, glistening in the sun. They galloped his way. The
sound grew louder, clouds of dust rising, and his heart beat quicker as he
raced down the hill to greet them.

Thor stood in the middle of the
road as the horses came to a stop just a few feet away. He stood there in the
silence, staring back at all the brave warriors, their faces covered beneath
their helmets, everything shining in the early morning sun. The horses stood
there, breathing hard, prancing.

As Thor looked up at the soldier
sitting on the lead horse, the soldier raised his visor and Thor was shocked at
what he saw.

The warrior bore his features. He
looked exactly like him, but younger.

Thor realized: it was his son.

“Father,” the warrior said down
to Thor.

Thor looked up at the boy,
perhaps ten years old, but tall for his size, sitting erect, proud. He could
see Gwendolyn’s fair features in his face, his hair. Thor looked up at him with
such pride. His son sat there, gleaming in golden armor, holding a golden
halberd, looking proudly down at his father, with the bearing of a true
warrior. He had Thor’s same gray eyes, a strong, noble jaw, and he sat straight
on his horse, as if unafraid of a thing in the world.

Thor took a step forward,
awestruck.

“Tell me,” Thor said, hardly able
to speak, “what is your name?”

The boy opened his mouth to
speak, but before he could finish, Thor blinked, and found himself standing
before a lake, Gwendolyn at his side. She looked at him sweetly, leaned in,
kissed him, and took his hand. She looked down at the waters below and he did,
too. In their reflection, Thor was shocked to see that Gwendolyn was pregnant.

Thor turned and examined her, and
her stomach was flat. But when he turned back to the water, her belly was huge.
He could not understand.

Thor reached down toward the
water, as if to touch the reflection, and as he did, he found himself suddenly
pulled in, sucked beneath the waters.

Thor was tossed and turned,
flailing in swirling rapids, gasping for air. He looked over and saw that
beside him, floating downriver, was Conval, eyes wide open, a corpse, and
beside Conval, Kolk. More corpses floated by, bearing the faces of everyone
he’d ever known and loved.

Thor blinked, and found himself
flying on the back of Mycoples. He looked below and saw Andronicus’ men, spread
out as far as the eye could see. He commanded Mycoples to dive but she stopped
in midair, flapping her great wings, refusing to go any further. He sensed she
was telling him something: that if he went any closer, he would die.

But Thor urged Mycoples on, and
grudgingly, she dove down. But she dove too fast, and Thor found himself falling
off her, tumbling through the air, end over end. He flailed towards the ground,
towards Andronicus’ men, their spears sticking straight up in the air. Thor
braced himself as the spears impaled him. He shrieked.

Thor opened his eyes to find
himself lying in a boat, on a bed of spears, looking up as the sky floated past
him. The sea turned into a river, foaming, carrying him through crashing
rapids. There was no color in this place: everything was a muted gray and
brown, and he looked over and saw he had passed a small castle, though
something about it was not quite right, as if it were melted or twisted in some
way.

As he looked in the upper
parapet, he saw a woman whom he knew to be his mother. She stood there, looking
down him, arms out by her side.

 “Mother!” Thor screamed,
floating past her quickly. “Save me!”

“Come home, my son,” she pleaded.
“Your duty is done. Come home with me.”

“Mother!” Thor screamed, reaching
for her.

Thor woke sweating. He sat
upright, breathing hard and looked over, disoriented.

Gwendolyn lay beside him on the
pile of furs. Thor started to calm down and remember their night together. He
was safe. It was all just a dream.

Thor’s face was covered in sweat,
despite the fact that the fire had died long ago. Krohn whined and jumped down
from Gwendolyn’s lap and came over and licked him. Thor closed his eyes and
collected himself, wondering about the nature of dreams. It took him a while to
come back to himself. It had all seemed too real.

Thor looked over and studied
Gwendolyn in her sleep. Her eyes were closed and she looked angelic. He looked
down at her stomach, saw that it was flat, and wondered.

He shook his head. Of course, it
was just a dream, just a fanciful vision of the night. He had to teach himself
not to pay so much attention to his dreams. But try as he did, he was beginning
to find that it was getting harder to separate what was real from what was
imagined.

Thor could not fall back asleep.
His heart pounding, he gently rose from the furs.

He looked outside and could see
that it was still dark out. The sky had not yet broke, and torches still
flickered in the corners of the room. All was still. Surely Silesia was
sleeping off the great revelries of the night.

But Thor could no longer sleep.
He crossed the room, put on his robe, and walked barefoot across the cold,
stone floor. As he went, Krohn followed, staying by his side. He quietly opened
the great arched door and gently closed it behind him.

Thor walked down the corridor,
Krohn on his heels, twisting and turning, making his way to the parapets, to
clear his head and get fresh air. He passed several guards, still at attention,
who stiffened as he went.

He finally turned down a narrow
corridor, walked through a low doorway, and stepped out onto one of the upper
balconies of the castle.

A cold gust of wind hit his face
and woke him. It was refreshing, just what Thor needed. He walked forward to
the thick stone railing and looked out at the city of Silesia. There was still
the occasional torch flickering, but all was silent and still. Down below was a
huge mess from all the food and wine that had been eaten and drunk. It looked
as if a parade had swept through the city and not cleaned up.

Thor breathed deep, trying to
wipe out the visions of his dreams. But their residue clung to him, like an
evil fog.

“The burdens of the night,” came
a voice.

Thor spun, recognizing the old
man’s voice, and was comforted to see standing there, not far from him,
Aberthol. He held a staff and looked out over the parapets, too. The scholar of
MacGil kings, Gwendolyn’s teacher, he was a man who meant so much to the MacGil
family, and whom Thor respected greatly.

“I am sorry,” Thor said. “I did
not see you or I would have paid my respects.”

Aberthol smiled.

“You were not looking for me. You
came, surely, for another reason. Besides, men are barely seen at my age. It is
the young who steal the vision.”

Thor felt comforted at the sound
of his voice; this man had seen it all, had been so close to King MacGil, to
Gwendolyn. He had a grandfatherly tone that made Thor feel that everything
would be all right, no matter what. He also reminded him of Argon somewhat, and
made him miss Argon dearly. Thor resolved once again to find Argon, wherever he
was, and bring him back.

“You flee from the terrors of the
night,” Aberthol said. “I see from the look in your eye. I know it, because I
flee from them, too. I rarely sleep well. I am up most nights, poring over
books, as I have been nearly my entire life. They calm me. It is my way.”

He sighed.

“One day you will learn to walk
the horrors of the night,” he continued. “Staying awake keeps them at bay, but
then again, our waking hours create them to begin with.”

As Thor studied Aberthol, the
ancient lines of his face, he wondered if he could be of help, be a source of
answers for him for all the questions that were burning in his mind. After all,
Aberthol was a scholar, and he knew the history of the Ring better than anyone.

“Can I share a secret with you?”
Thor asked.

Aberthol studied him, and finally
nodded.

“Many men share secrets with me,”
he said. “Gwendolyn’s father did, and the King MacGil before him. My head is
filled with bones and secrets.”

Thor stood there, hesitating. On
the one hand, he wasn’t sure if he could trust him; but on the other, he
desperately needed to talk to someone, to release the burden he carried inside.

“My father,” Thor said, and
paused. “I…do not descend from a great king. My father is…a monster. My father
. . . is Andronicus.”

Aberthol looked back for the
longest time, gravely, and Thor’s heart pounded as he wondered if he were being
judged.

Finally, to Thor’s surprise,
Aberthol nodded and replied: “I know.”

Thor was shocked; he stared back,
dumbfounded.

“You
know
? How? Why didn’t
you tell me?”

“It wasn’t for me to tell,”
Aberthol replied. “It was for you to find out, when the time was right. Your
lineage is common knowledge among certain of the Ring’s elite, among those few
of us old enough to know what really happened in the early days.”

“But you’ve never told anyone?”
Thor asked, shocked.

Aberthol smiled.

“Like I said, secrets stay locked
with me.”

“But is it possible?” Thor
pressed. “Maybe it is a mistake. Maybe he is not really my father.”

Aberthol slowly shook his head.

“If it gives you solace to think
that, then do. We all live with our fantasies, with our dreams that sustain us.
But if it is the truth you want, then you must know that Andronicus is indeed
your father.”

Thor felt himself grow cold.

“How is that possible?” Thor
repeated. “I wield the Destiny Sword. Legend has it that only a MacGil can
wield it. Is the legend false?”

Aberthol shook his head.

“It is true. Your father is
indeed a MacGil. And you are indeed a MacGil.”

Thor’s eyes opened wide,
confused.

“Andronicus?” he asked. “A
MacGil?”

Aberthol sighed.

“He is. As much of a MacGil as
any of the others. In the beginning, at least. You see, Andronicus was not
always the monster that he is now. He was once, simply, the eldest brother of
the King MacGil you knew and loved.”

Thor was breathless; his mind
reeled.

“I did not know that King MacGil
had an older brother,” he said.

Aberthol nodded.

“King MacGil had two brothers.
Andronicus, the eldest, and Tirus, the youngest. These three brothers were as
close as three brothers could be. Andronicus was of a fair and good nature and
virtue. One of the bravest and noblest members of the Silver.”

Thor could hardly believe it.

“The Silver? Andronicus? How is
it possible?”

Aberthol shook his head.

“The day of the Great Divide.
That story is long, and for another time. Suffice it to say that there is
within all of us a very fine line between the good and the dark. This line
becomes even finer when you reach supreme power. Andronicus wanted power, more
power than he was entitled to. He made a choice. A pact. He succumbed to dark
forces. He abandoned the Ring. He gained great power in the Empire, and he
became someone else.
Something
else. Over time, he has changed to become
what he is now, unrecognizable to the man he once was.”

Aberthol stepped forward.

“You must understand,” he said
compassionately, “your father, the
true
Andronicus, he was a good man. A
MacGil. He was of a good nature.
That
is your true father—not the man he
became. There is a propensity to change in all of us. Some of us fight it
better than others. He was not strong enough; he gave into it. But that doesn’t
mean you will. You can be stronger than your father.”

Thor stood there, his mind
reeling, trying to process at all. It all made him feel sick to his stomach. It
also made him realize that he and Gwendolyn were cousins; it made him realize
that he was cousins, too, to Reece and Kendrick and Godfrey. Perhaps that was
why they had felt so close. He wondered if they knew.

“Does anyone else know?” Thor
asked tentatively.

Aberthol shook his head.

“Nobody,” he said. “The ones who
did have all died. Except the former queen and myself. And now, of course,
you.”