“Who is to say the spies are not already here?” MacGil asked back, looking carefully at Firth as he did – and wondering, as always, if he might be one himself.
Firth opened his mouth to answer, but MacGil sighed and held up a palm, having had enough. “If that is all, I will leave now, to join my daughter’s wedding.”
“My liege,” Kelvin said, clearing his throat, “of course, there is one more thing. The tradition, on the day of your eldest’s wedding. Every MacGil has named a successor. The people shall expect you to do the same. They have been buzzing. It would not be advisable to let them down. Especially with the Destiny Sword still immobile.”
“Would you have me name an heir while I am still in my prime?” MacGil asked.
“My liege, I mean no offense,” Kelvin stumbled, looking concerned.
MacGil held up a hand. “I know the tradition. And indeed, I shall name one today.”
“Might you inform us as to who?” Firth asked.
MacGil stared him down, annoyed. Firth was a gossip, and he did not trust this man.
“You will learn of the news when the time is right.”
MacGil stood, and the others rose, too. They bowed, turned, and hurried from the room.
MacGil stood there thinking for he did not know how long. On days like this he wished he was not king.
* * *
MacGil stepped down from his throne, boots echoing in the silence, and crossed the room. He opened the ancient oak door himself, yanking the iron handle, and entered a side chamber.
He enjoyed the peace and solitude of this cozy room, as he always had, its walls hardly twenty paces in either direction yet with a soaring, arched ceiling. The room was made entirely of stone, with a small, round stained-glass window on one wall. Light poured in through its yellows and reds, lighting up a single object in the otherwise bare room.
The Destiny Sword.
There it sat, in the center of the chamber, lying horizontal on iron prongs, like a temptress. As he had since he was a boy, MacGil walked close to it, circled it, examined it. The Destiny Sword. The sword of legend, the source of the might and power of his entire kingdom, from one generation to the next. Whoever had the strength to hoist it would be the Chosen One, the one destined to rule the kingdom for life, to free the kingdom from all threats, in and outside the Ring. It had been a beautiful legend to grow up with, and as soon as he was anointed King, MacGil had tried to hoist it himself, as only MacGil kings were even allowed to try. The kings before him, all of them, had failed. He was sure he would be different. He was sure he would be The One.
But he was wrong. As were all the other MacGil kings before him. And his failure had tainted his kingship ever since.
As he stared at it now, he examined its long blade, made of a mysterious metal no one had ever deciphered. The sword’s origin was even more obscure, rumored to have risen from the earth in the midst of a quake.
Examining it, he once again felt the sting of failure. He might be a good king, but he was not The One. His people knew it. His enemies knew it. He might be a good king, but no matter what he did, he would never be The One.
If he had been, he suspected there would be less unrest amongst his court, less plotting. His own people would trust him more and his enemies would not even consider attack. A part of him wished the sword would just disappear, and the legend with it. But he knew it would not. That was the curse – and the power – of a legend. Stronger, even, than an army.
As he stared at it for the thousandth time, MacGil couldn’t help but wonder once again who it would be. Who of his bloodline would be destined to wield it? As he thought of what lay before him, his task of naming an heir, he wondered who, if any, would be destined to hoist it.
“The weight of the blade is heavy,” came a voice.
MacGil spun, surprised to have company in the small room.
There, standing in the doorway, was Argon. MacGil recognized the voice before he saw him and was both irritated with him for not showing up sooner and pleased to have him here now.
“You’re late,” MacGil said.
“Your sense of time does not apply to me,” Argon answered.
MacGil turned back to the sword.
“Did you ever think I would be able to hoist it?” he asked reflectively. “That day I became King?”
“No,” Argon answered flatly.
MacGil turned and stared at him.
“You knew I would not be able to. You saw it, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
MacGil pondered this.
“It scares me when you answer directly. That is unlike you.”
Argon stayed silent, and finally MacGil realized he wouldn’t say any more.
“I name my successor today,” MacGil said. “It feels futile, to name an heir on this day. It strips a king’s joy from his child’s wedding.”
“Maybe such joy is meant to be tempered.”
“But I have so many years left to reign,” MacGil pleaded.
“Perhaps not as many as you think,” Argon answered.
MacGil narrowed his eyes, wondering. Was it a message?
But Argon added nothing more.
“Six children. Whom should I pick?” MacGil asked.
“Why ask me? You have already chosen.”
MacGil looked at him. “You see much. Yes, I have. But I still want to know what you think.”
“I think you made a wise choice,” Argon said. “But remember: a king cannot rule from beyond the grave. Regardless of whom you think you choose, fate has a way of choosing for itself.”
“Will I live, Argon?” MacGil asked earnestly, asking the question he had wanted to know since he had awakened the night before from a horrific nightmare.
“I dreamt last night of a crow,” he added. “It came and stole my crown. Then another carried me away. As it did, I saw my kingdom spread beneath me. It turned black as I went. Barren. A wasteland.”
He looked up at Argon, his eyes watery.
“Was it a dream? Or something more?”
“Dreams are always something more, aren’t they?” Argon asked.
MacGil was struck by a sinking feeling.
“Where is the danger? Just tell me this much.”
Argon stepped close and stared into his eyes with such intensity, MacGil felt as if he were staring into another realm itself.
Argon leaned forward, whispered:
“Always closer than you think.”
Chapter Four
Thor hid in the straw in the back of a wagon as it jostled him along the country road. He’d made his way to the road the night before and had waited patiently until a wagon came along large enough for him to board without being noticed. It was dark by then, and the wagon trotted along just slowly enough for him to gain a good running pace and leap in from behind. He’d landed in the hay and buried himself inside. Luckily, the driver had not spotted him. Thor didn’t know for certain if the wagon was going to King’s Court, but it was heading in that direction, and a wagon this size, and with these markings, could be going few other places.
As Thor rode throughout the night, he stayed awake for hours, thinking of his encounter with the Sybold. With Argon. Of his destiny. His former home. His mother. He felt that the universe had answered him, had told him he had another destiny. He lay there, hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the night sky, visible through the tattered canvas. He watched the universe, so bright, its red stars so far away. He was exhilarated. For once in his life, he was on a journey. He did not know where, but he was going. One way or the other, he would make his way to King’s Court.
When Thor opened his eyes it was morning, light flooding in, and he realized he’d drifted off. He sat up quickly, looking all around, chiding himself for sleeping. He should have been more vigilant – he was lucky he had not been discovered.
The cart still moved, but did not jostle as much. That could only mean one thing: a better road. They must be close to a city. Thor looked down and saw how smooth the road was, free of rocks, of ditches, and lined with fine white shells. His heart beat faster; they were approaching King’s Court.
Thor looked out the back of the cart and was overwhelmed. The immaculate streets were flooded with activity. Dozens of carts, of all shapes and sizes and carrying all manner of things, filled the roads. One was laden with furs; another with rugs; still another with chickens. Amongst them walked hundreds of merchants, some leading cattle, others carrying baskets of goods on their heads. Four men carried a bundle of silks, balancing them on poles. It was an army of people, all heading in one direction.
Thor felt alive. He’d never seen so many people at once, so many goods, so much happening. He’d been in a small village his entire life, and now he was in a hub, engulfed in humanity.
He heard a loud noise, the groaning of chains, the slamming of a huge piece of wood, so strong the ground shook. Moments later came a different sound, of horses’ hooves clacking on wood. He looked down and realized they were crossing a bridge; beneath them passed a moat. A drawbridge.
Thor stuck his head out and saw immense stone pillars, the spiked iron gate above. They were passing through King’s Gate.
It was the largest gate he had ever seen. He looked up at the spikes, marveling that if they came down, they would slice him in half. He spotted four of the King’s Silver guarding the entry, and his heart beat faster.
They passed through a long stone tunnel, then moments later the sky opened again. They were inside King’s Court.
Thor could hardly believe it. There was even more activity here, if possible – what seemed to be thousands of people, milling in every direction. There were vast stretches of grass, perfectly cut, and flowers blooming everywhere. The road widened, and alongside it were booths, vendors, and stone buildings. And amidst all of these, the King’s men. Soldiers, bedecked in armor. Thor had made it.
In his excitement, he unwittingly stood; as he did, the cart stopped short, sending him tumbling backward, landing on his back in the straw. Before he could rise, there was the sound of wood lowered, and he looked up to see an angry old man, bald, dressed in rags and scowling. The cart driver reached in, grabbed Thor by the ankles with his bony hands, and dragged him out.
Thor went flying, landing hard on his back on the dirt road, raising up a cloud of dust. Laughter rose up around him.
“Next time you ride my cart, boy, it will be the shackles for you! You’re lucky I don’t summon the Silver now!”
The old man turned and spat, then hurried back on his cart and whipped his horses on.
Embarrassed, Thor slowly gained his wits and got to his feet. He looked around. One or two passersby chuckled, and Thor sneered back until they looked away. He brushed the dirt off and rubbed his arms; his pride was hurt, but not his body.
His spirits returned as he looked around, dazzled, and realized he should be happy that at least he’d made it this far. Now that he was out of the cart he could look around freely, and an extraordinary sight it was: the court sprawled as far as the eye could see. At its center sat a magnificent stone palace, surrounded by towering, fortified stone walls crowned by parapets, atop which, everywhere, patrolled the King’s army. All around him were fields of green, perfectly maintained, stone plazas, fountains, groves of trees. It was a city. And it was flooded with people.
Everywhere streamed all manner of people – merchants, soldiers, dignitaries – everyone in such a rush. It took Thor several minutes to understand that something special was happening. As he ambled along, he saw preparations being made – chairs placed, an altar erected. It looked like they were preparing for a wedding.
His heart skipped a beat as he saw, in the distance, a jousting lane, with its long dirt path and dividing rope. On another field, he saw soldiers hurling spears at far-off targets; on another, archers aiming at straw. It seemed as if everywhere were games, contests. There was also music: lutes and flutes and cymbals, packs of musicians wandering; and wine, huge casks being rolled out; and food, tables being prepared, banquets stretching as far as the eye could see. It was as if he’d arrived in the midst of a vast celebration.
As dazzling as all this was, Thor felt an urgency to find the Legion. He was already late, and he needed to make himself known.
He hurried to the first person he saw, an older man who seemed, by his blood-stained frock, to be a butcher, hurrying down the road. Everyone here was in such a hurry.
“Excuse me, sir,” Thor said, grabbing his arm.
The man looked down at Thor’s hand disparagingly.
“What is it, boy?”
“I’m looking for the King’s Legion. Do you know where they train?”
“Do I look like a map?” the man hissed, and stormed off.
Thor was taken aback by his rudeness.
He hurried to the next person he saw, a woman kneading flour on a long table. There were several women at this table, all working hard, and Thor figured one of them had to know.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Might you know where the King’s Legion train?”
They looked at each other and giggled, some of them but a few years older than he.
The eldest turned and looked at him.
“You’re looking in the wrong place,” she said. “Here we are preparing for the festivities.”
“But I was told they trained in King’s Court,” Thor said, confused.
The women broke into another chuckle. The eldest put her hands on her hips and shook her head.
“You act as if this is your first time in King’s Court. Have you no idea how big it is?”
Thor reddened as the other women laughed, then finally stormed off. He did not like being made fun of.
He saw before him a dozen roads, twisting and turning every which way through King’s Court. Spaced out in the stone walls were at least a dozen entrances. The size and scope of this place was overwhelming. He had a sinking feeling he could search for days and still not find it.
An idea struck him: surely a soldier would know where the others trained. He was nervous to approach an actual King’s soldier, but realized he had to.
He turned and hurried to the wall, to the soldier standing guard at the closest entrance, hoping he would not throw him out. The soldier stood erect, looking straight ahead.
“I’m looking for the King’s Legion,” Thor said, summoning his bravest voice.
The soldier continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring him.
“I said I’m looking for the King’s Legion!” Thor insisted, louder, determined to be recognized.
After several seconds, the soldier glanced down, sneering.
“Can you tell me where it is?” Thor pressed.
“And what business have you with them?”
“Very important business,” Thor urged, hoping the soldier would not press him.
The soldier turned back to looking straight ahead, ignoring him again. Thor felt his heart sinking, afraid he would never receive an answer.
But after what felt like an eternity, the soldier replied: “Take the eastern gate, then head north as far as you can. Take the third gate to the left, then fork right, and fork right again. Pass through the second stone arch, and their ground is beyond the gate. But I tell you, you waste your time. They do not entertain visitors.”
It was all Thor needed to hear. Without missing another beat, he turned and ran across the field, following the directions, repeating them in his head, trying to memorize them. He noticed the sun higher in the sky, and only prayed that when he arrived, it would not already be too late.
* * *
Thor sprinted down the immaculate, shell-lined paths, twisting and turning his way through King’s Court. He tried his best to follow the directions, hoping he was not being led astray. At the far end of the courtyard, he saw all the gates, and chose the third one on the left. He ran through it and then followed the forks, turning down path after path. He ran against traffic, thousands of people pouring into the city, the crowd growing thicker by the minute. He brushed shoulders with lute players, jugglers, jesters, and all sorts of entertainers, everyone dressed in finery.