A Rite of Swords

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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.”

“I hate him,” Thor said, seething. “I hate my father. I don’t care who he was; I care only for who he is now. I want to kill him. I will kill him.”

Aberthol laid a hand on Thor’s shoulder.

“Whether you kill him or not, it will not change who you are. You must choose to rise above all of these feelings. You must choose to focus on what is positive. After all, your lineage has two strains, of course. Your mother’s blood runs deep in you, and in your case, that is more important than your father’s. You just have to see that, and to embrace it.”

Thor studied Aberthol.

“Do you know who my mother is?” he asked, nervously.

Aberthol nodded back.

“It is not for me to say. But when you meet her, you will understand. As powerful as Andronicus is, she is far more powerful. And your fate and destiny is linked with hers. Indeed, the entire fate of our Ring is linked to hers. The power of the Destiny Sword is nothing next to the power she can impart to you. You must find her. And you must not delay any further.”

“I would love to meet her,” Thor said, “but I must destroy Andronicus first.”

“You will never destroy Andronicus,” he said. “He lives within you. But you can find your mother, and save yourself. Until you meet her, you will never be complete.”

Aberthol suddenly turned and strutted away, walking off the parapets, his cane echoing as he went.

Thor turned and looked out at the blackness of Silesia. In the distance, he could hear the howling winds of the Canyon. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the beyond, lay his father. And his mother. Thor needed to see them both.

His mother, to embrace.

And his father, to kill.