Only the Worthy (22 page)

Royce stood in
the vaulted chamber, tapered ceilings rising thirty feet, the ancient, stone
walls lined with banners of victory, and stared back at a large throne carved
of gold. On it sat Lord Jakoben, and behind him stood several dozen knights in
gleaming armor, joined by nobles dressed in finery, all staring back with hard
faces. They examined Royce and his group with open displeasure, as if an
unwelcome guest had invaded their presence.

Lord Jakoben,
thin with a pot belly, balding, with gray hair that protruded from the sides
and stingy brown eyes, looked like a man who was used to getting what he
wanted. He stared back at Royce as if he were ready to have him thrown in
shackles.

Royce knew it
was risky coming here, and he felt his destiny hanging in the balance. He knew
that, with the slightest wrong move, he and his men could be imprisoned
forever, if not killed. His men outside these walls, too, who awaited his
return, could meet the same fate. He held much responsibility in his hands now.

Yet if he were
to free his brothers and his people, this was the chance he had to take; these
nobles, after all, were the key to rescuing them.

“King Artis,” Lord
Jakoben repeated slowly, the word rolling off his tongue as if it were the
first time he had ever heard it. He did not mask his displeasure as he stared
back at Royce with hard eyes.

Royce wondered
what he was thinking. Perhaps this Lord had hated his father; perhaps his own
claim on the throne was tenuous and Royce’s presence here was a threat.

Finally, Lord
Jakoben sighed.

“Artis was a
hard man,” he said. “A brave man, a proud man, a brilliant warrior, and a great
king. His men loved him.”

He shook his
head.

“But foolish,”
he sighed. “He trusted too much in others. And he ended up assassinated.”

Royce felt a
chill as the word reverberated within him. His own father, assassinated. He
didn’t wish to think of it. And he felt an instant need for vengeance.

Lord Jakoben stared
at Royce, as if summing him up.

“Lore had it
that his child was hunted down and drowned in a river.”

“But the body
was never found,” said his advisor beside him.

“I see the
resemblance in the chin and eyes,” chimed in another advisor.

“It was his
father’s death that divided our kingdom,” reminded another advisor, “that has
put us under the thumb of this new monarchy. But with a legitimate contender
for the throne, we could change all that.”

Royce’s heart
pounded as the men studied him, clearly scheming.

Finally, Lord
Jakoben leaned forward and stared at Royce.

“If you are who
you say are,” he said, “you could serve a purpose. If you are a legitimate
contender to the king’s throne, then we may have reason to support you. But if
so, how do we know you’ll not turn on us? That you will support those who
support you?”

Royce took a
deep breath and shook his head.

“I do not wish
to be king,” he replied. “I wish only to see my brothers and my people free.
Take the title for yourself if you like. Just help us.”

Lord Jakoben
stared back, clearly stunned.

“A man who does
not wish to be king,” he said slowly, taking it all in. “I have never met one
before.”

His advisors all
laughed softly, and Royce’s face reddened.

Still, Lord
Jakoben nodded.

“A wise answer,
nonetheless,” Lord Jakoben added. “One befitting a future king.”

Lord Jakoben appeared
in deep thought as he leaned back and rubbed his chin. Finally, he sighed.

“We shall not
join you,” he announced.

Royce’s heart
fell.

“Not in war,
anyway,” he added. “They are nobles and we are nobles. That is not our way to
gain the crown.”

Royce saw Lord
Jakoben’s men exchange looks, and he wondered.

“The way of
lords is the way of lineage,” Lord Jakoben continued. “Of right. Of
entitlement. Of birth. You have that lineage. A war needn’t be waged. We can
take the throne without bloodshed.”

Royce felt a
surge of optimism, wondering where he was going with this.

Lord Jakoben turned
and nodded, and as he did, a girl stepped forward from the crowd.

Royce was
stunned as he set eyes on her. She was beautiful. About his age, she had long
brown hair and eyes, she was tall, fine in form and appearance, and she held
herself with poise and grace. She held Royce’s gaze as she stared back with
strikingly captivating eyes. Royce felt his heart beat faster; he could not
look away.

As she stood
beside Lord Jakoben, Royce looked back and forth to them both and realized at
once: she was his daughter.

“My daughter,
Olivia,” Lord Jakoben announced.

As Royce looked
at her, some part of him that had died with Genevieve’s betrayal was slowly
being reborn.

“My only
daughter,” Lord Jakoben continued. “I have no sons to carry on my lineage.”

He sighed and
examined Royce closely.

“If you are who
you say you are,” he continued, “if you are Artis’s son, and if you shall
become King, then you shall wed her. And she shall share the throne with you.”

Lord Jakoben nodded,
and Olivia took a step toward Royce and held out her hand. He stepped forward
and took it; it was so soft, it was nearly weightless. She looked back at him,
a kind and gentle look to her eyes.

“My lord,” she
said.

“My lady,” he
replied.

Royce’s mind
spun; it all happening too fast. It would be an arranged marriage, for the sake
of power. Yet, as Royce held her hand, he felt there was something more, far
more there. He could feel their overwhelming connection. He felt a pang of
guilt, thinking of Genevieve—but then he recalled her betrayal, still a fresh
wound. And he knew he had to move on.

Lord Jakoben
nodded slowly, then looked at Royce.

“We shall all
head to Celcus,” he concluded. “You will stand before the monarchy. You will
prove your case before all the nobles, all the people, and they shall have no
choice but to award you the kingship.”

“But how?” Royce
asked, still puzzled.

Lord Jakoben got
down from his throne, walked slowly over to Royce, and laid a hand on his
shoulder.

“You shall draw
the Sword of Might from the Aleutian Stone.”

The men in the
room gasped, as the room fell silent. Royce’s heart beat faster at the words.

“If you can do
it,” Lord Jakoben added, “you shall be the one and true King.”

The Aleutian
Stone. The thought struck Royce like a knife in the gut. It was a thing of awe,
of reverence, of legend. It was, of course, a weapon he had heard of his entire
life. Yet it was more than a weapon. It was the heartbeat of their kingdom. It
was a sword reserved for royalty, and one needed to be royal to even attempt to
draw it. None had succeeded. Never, through the centuries. It had never entered
Royce’s mind that he would even have a chance to try.

Especially
because to fail at drawing would be by pain of death.

“And if I fail,”
Royce said, losing his voice, “they will kill me on the spot.”

Lord Jakoben  nodded
back.

“True,” he
replied. “But then again, if you fail, you were not meant to be king. And then
what good is life?”

Royce pondered
his words as a heavy silence fell over the room.

“If you truly
think you hail from kings,” Lord Jakoben finally continued, “if you believe you
have right to be king yourself, then there is only one way to prove it. Draw
the sword. If you succeed, you will be our king. You will rule over our people.
There will be no contesting it, no war. Your brothers will be free. Your people
will be free.”

He leaned
forward and examined Royce, and Royce felt all eyes on him.

“You’ve come
asking for my help,” Lord Jakoben added. “I am asking you to prove who you are.
Your men look to you now. The choice is yours. Do you believe you are who you
say you are?”

Royce knew that
if he refused, Lord Jakoben’s men would not join him. And without them, his own
men could not win. He knew at once that he could not back down, not while his
brothers were imprisoned. He would have to enter the lion’s den, risk his life,
and draw the sword.

Finally, he
nodded.

“I will,” he
said.

There came a
great cheer in the room, and as it rippled through the room Royce felt himself
swept up in something greater than himself, greater than he had ever known. He
knew he was about to challenge destiny and find out, for certain, who he really
was, who his father was.

And that
thought, more than anything, was what scared him the most.

Genevieve stood
in the empty castle chamber, pacing the room, distraught. She had been summoned
here to this grand room, with its high tapered ceilings and ornate wall
tapestries, reserved for visiting nobles, a room she had rarely seen in all her
moons here, and as she had entered, her foreboding had deepened. She had, after
all, been told by an attendant that her husband, the Duke, wished to see
her—and wished to see her here.

It had all been
too formal; it could not portend anything good. The tone of the messenger’s
voice, the fact that her husband had had someone summon her, the fact that he
had chosen this room—all gave Genevieve a feeling of anxiety. Perhaps he had
discovered that she had intercepted that scroll. She closed her eyes and hoped
that was not the case. The punishment would be drastic. Would he ex-communicate
her from the family? Or would he lock her in the dungeons? Torture her? Kill
her?

Any of those,
she realized, would be a relief. She did not want to be here amongst these
people anyway. Her heart longed only for Royce.

Genevieve closed
her eyes and shook her head, trying to wipe from her mind the image burned into
it from the last time she had seen Royce. His look of absolute betrayal. She
felt horrified, racked with guilt. There he had been, ascending from the pits,
removing his mask, looking back at her, only to see her standing arm in arm
with Altfor. He must have assumed the worst. How could he not? What if he never
wanted to see her again?

Tears ran down
her cheeks and she let them fall, cursing her situation. Cursing her destiny.
Especially because this morning, fate had delivered her another cruel piece of
news.

She sobbed and
sobbed, trying to wipe it from her mind. But she could not.

This morning,
during her bath at the creek, deep in the woods, she had thrown up. With
trembling hands she had held the Ukanda leaf, praying, as she held it up to the
light, that its color did not change. That she was not with child.

And yet it did.

Genevieve’s
heart sank as she recalled the moment when the leaf had turned from green to
white, each vein spreading with the new color, like a poison running through
her veins. It was like something out of her worst nightmare.

She was with
child.

His
child.

Altfor’s.

Genevieve
sobbed, realizing Altfor’s child was within her, and she hated herself even
more. Somehow, in her attempt to fend off the enemy, she had
become
the
enemy.

Now it was too
late to turn back. Too late for anything. How could Royce ever want to be with
her again?

Genevieve’s
despair was interrupted by the sudden slamming of a door, and she flinched and
turned to see Altfor marching in, in full armor, two attendants trailing. He
did not look happy. Indeed, he had never looked upon her with such coldness,
and the look alone made her wither inside. He looked upon her as if she were an
enemy in his midst.

Altfor nodded to
his attendants and they turned, walked out the door, and closed it behind them,
leaving the two of them alone in the vast chamber.

Altfor then
strode up to her and didn’t pause before slapping her with all his might.

She cried out.
The slap stung more than she could say. He had never raised a hand to her
before, and she had never felt such hatred from him.

And yet, at the
same time, the pain relieved her. She wanted to feel pain. She wanted to suffer
as Royce had suffered.

She stood there
and stared back, defiant, feeling alive in person but not in spirit. A part of
her was already dead.

“You lied to
me,” he snapped. “Why?”

Her first
impulse was to defend herself; but she then decided not to. Instead, she stared
back, her tears drying up, feeling herself becoming hard and cold.

“Because I did
not want you to take my beloved away,” she replied bravely. “You took me from
my home. Forced me into this life. Took me as your wife. Took everything from
me. And now a messenger comes to me to tell you where Royce is, so you can kill
him. And I am supposed to allow that?”

“He did not come
to
you
,” he seethed, “he came looking for
me
. You intercepted
my
message. Because of you, Royce got away. You are an enemy to my family. You are
an enemy to
me
.”

He glowered as
he stepped closer.

“I want you to
know what will become of your beloved Royce,” he whispered cruelly. “He will
not get far. I leave now for the Celcus, the capital, to convene with the King.
He has agreed to amass the royal army to find your precious Royce. If I have
any luck, I will find him and kill him myself. And when I find him, because of
your actions, instead of a quick death, I will torture him slowly—he and all
his men.”

Genevieve glared
back, cold and hard, her heart pounding in her chest, trying to calm her rage.

“And you think
that will make me love you?” she countered.

He stared back,
his eyes filled with hatred; yet he said nothing.

“I will
never
love you,” she added. “That is the one thing out of your control. And it always
will be.”

He stared back
as if he might strike her; yet she also saw hurt and disappointment in his
eyes.

“Then why did
you come to my chamber?” he asked. “After all those moons? Was it not love?”

“It was love,”
she said. “But not for you. For Royce. It was to help the man I truly loved.”

He took a deep
breath, as if trying to stop himself from hitting her.

“Tell me one
reason why I should not kill you right now,” he seethed.

Genevieve took a
deep breath too, her hands trembling but refusing to let him see. She knew that
now was the time to tell him that she was with child.
His
child. That
would spare her. He would never lay a hand on her again. She would be free from
any punishment.

Yet as she stood
there, pondering it, she decided she did not want him to know. Because she
decided, right then and there, that she would not keep it.

She wanted him
to punish her. Even to kill her. Anything would be better than living this
life, than living a lie.

So, instead, she
stood there and said nothing, except: “I wish you would.”

In the long
silence that followed he leaned in close and sneered.

“You will have
the worst punishment of all,” he said. “It won’t be the dungeon, or torture, or
death. Your punishment will be to stay right here, in this family, in my bed,
with me. Amongst the people you hate the most, for the rest of your days. And I
shall take great pleasure in knowing how much you hate it—and in your knowing
that while you are here, your beloved will be out there, dead.”

Altfor turned
and stormed out, crossing the chamber and slamming the door behind him.

Unable to hold
back any longer, Genevieve broke down and wept. She thought of the baby, his
baby, growing within her.

Forgive me,
Father
,
she thought,
for what I am about to do
.

*

Genevieve ran
through the woods, scratched by branches and not caring, her face wet from
tears, lungs bursting as she ran with all she had, determined to make it to the
glen. As she ran she could not help but replay in her mind Altfor’s words. She
thought of living in that castle forever, trapped with that family, trapped
with him, of never seeing Royce again.

She’d rather be
dead. She would not do it. She would not lead her life that way. She would not
answer to any of them.

Royce hated her.
She had hoped with all her heart that she could try to find a way to explain it
all to him—but now, with the baby coming, Royce would never care for her again.
Now she truly had nothing left to live for.

Yet maybe there
was a way to set wrongs right.

Genevieve burst
into a clearing in the woods, and there, as planned, she saw her sister-in-law,
Moira, awaiting her. Genevieve was filled with relief as she ran into her arms.

They embraced,
and Genevieve pulled back and looked at her. During all these moons, Moira had
become like a sister. They were sisters-in-arms, both trapped in situations
they did not want to be in, both equally despising this family, their captors,
and both having to play a role.

“Do you have
it?” Genevieve asked.

Moira reached
inside her shirt and pulled out a small vial filled with yellow liquid.

“A small sip
will kill the child,” Moira explained. “Yet you might not ever be able to have
children again.”

Genevieve
reached out to take it—but before she could grab it, Moira shut her hand in a
fist and stared back at her intensely.

“Are you certain
you wish to do this?” Moira asked.

Genevieve
nodded.

“I have never
been more certain of anything in my life.”

Moira sighed.

“You do realize
that the child that grows within you is the key to power? To your becoming
queen? He’ll be the firstborn son of the firstborn son, heir to the throne.
You’ll be the most powerful amongst all the nobles. You will be untouchable,
protected forever. And as queen, you’ll have more ways to save Royce than you
can imagine.”

Genevieve shook
her head.

“I am done
living a lie,” she finally answered, feeling her tears flow. “I want to carry
Royce’s
child. Not Altfor’s. No power in the world is worth that for me.”

Moira stared
back at Genevieve long and hard. Seeing the earnest, determined look in her
face, she slowly opened her hand.

Genevieve took
the vial and held it up to the light, watching the yellow solution swirl. An
awful smell came from it.

Moira stared
back at her sadly, long and hard in the silence, as if trying to think of what
to say.

“You could have
been Queen, Genevieve,” she said finally. “Mother of kings. You could have had
it all.”

With those
simple words she turned and walked away, leaving Genevieve alone, more alone
than she’d ever felt in her life.

Genevieve stood
there, shaking, tears falling down her face, holding a vial before her that
held both the power of life and of death.

She watched it
swirl in the morning light and knew she should bring it to her lips.

And yet for some
reason, she could not. She did not know the baby; yet a part of her loved it
already.

She stood there,
frozen, numb.

And she had no
idea what she was going to do.