A Rite of Swords. Morgan Rice
oddly enough, he found himself wanting to be closer to him these days.
Gareth hurried across the open field, a cold gust of wind making him shiver as he wrapped his ragged cloak tight around his shoulders. He heard the shrill cry of a winter bird, and looked up to see the huge, awful black creature circling high overhead, surely, with each cry, anticipating his collapse, its next meal. Gareth could hardly blame it. He felt on his last legs, and he was sure he appeared to be a prime meal for the bird.
Gareth finally reached the building, grabbed the massive iron door handle with two hands, and yanked with all his might, the world spinning, nearly delirious from exhaustion. It creaked and took all his strength to pry it wide.
Gareth hurried into the blackness, slamming the iron door. It echoed behind him.
He grabbed the unlit torch on the wall, where he knew it was mounted, struck its flint and lit it, affording himself just enough light to see by as he descended the steps, deeper and deeper into the blackness. It became colder and draftier the deeper he went, the wind finding its way down, whistling through small cracks. He could not help but feel as if his ancestors were howling at him, rebuking him.
“LEAVE ME!” he screamed back.
His voice echoed again and again off the crypt’s walls.
“YOU WILL HAVE YOUR PRIZE SOON ENOUGH!”
Yet still the wind persisted.
Gareth, enraged, descended deeper, until finally he reached the great marble chamber, excavated with its ten-foot ceilings, where all his ancestors lay entombed in marble sarcophagi. Gareth marched solemnly down the hall, his footsteps echoing on the marble, toward the very end, where his father lay.
The old Gareth would have smashed his father’s sarcophagus. But now, for some reason, he was beginning to feel an affinity for him. He could hardly understand it. Perhaps it was the opium wearing off; or perhaps it was because he knew that he himself would be dead soon, too.
Gareth reached the tall sarcophagus and hunched over it, leaning his head down. He surprised himself as he began to cry.
“I miss you father,” Gareth wailed, his voice echoing in the emptiness.
He cried and cried, tears pouring down his face, until finally his knees grew weak and he slumped down in his exhaustion alongside the marble, sitting on the floor, leaning against the tomb. The wind howled as if in response, and Gareth lay down the torch, which burned lower and lower, a tiny flame decreasing in the blackness. Gareth knew that soon all would be blackness and that soon, he would join all those he loved the most.
Chapter Five
Steffen trekked somberly on the lonely forest road, slowly making his way from the Tower of Refuge. It broke his heart to leave Gwendolyn there like that, the woman whom he had been sworn to protect. Without her, he was nothing. Since meeting her, he had felt that he had finally found a purpose in life: to watch over her, to devote his life to paying her back for allowing him, a mere servant, to rise in the ranks; and most of all, for being the first person in his life not to detest and underestimate him based on his appearance.
Steffen had felt a sense of pride in helping her reach the Tower safely. But leaving her there had left him feeling hollow inside. Where would he go now? What would he do?
Without her to protect, his life felt aimless once again. He couldn’t go back to King’s court or to Silesia: Andronicus had defeated them both, and he recalled the destruction he saw as he’d fled from Silesia. The last he remembered, all his people were captives or slaves. There would be no virtue in returning. Besides, Steffen didn’t want to cross the Ring again and be that far from Gwendolyn.
Steffen walked aimlessly for hours, winding through the forest trails, gathering his wits, until it had occurred to him where to go. He followed the country road north, up to a hill, the highest point, and from this lookout spotted a small town perched on another hill in the distance. He headed for it, and as he reached it, he turned back and saw this town had what he needed: a perfect view of the Tower of Refuge. If Gwendolyn ever tried to leave it, he wanted to be close by to make sure he was there to accompany her, to protect her. After all, his allegiance was to her now. Not to an army or a city, but to her. She was his nation.
As Steffen arrived in the small, humble village, he decided he would stay here, in this place, where he could always watch the Tower, and keep an eye out for her. As he passed through its gates, he saw it was a nondescript, poor town, another tiny village on the farthest outskirts of the Ring, so hidden in the southern forest that Andronicus’ men had surely not even bothered to come this way.
Steffen arrived to the gaping stares of dozens of villagers, faces etched with ignorance and a lack of compassion, looking at him with mouths agape and the familiar scorn and derision he had received ever since he had been born. As they all scrutinized his appearance, he could feel their mocking eyes.
Steffen wanted to turn and run, but he forced himself not to. He needed to be close to the Tower, and for Gwendolyn’s sake, he would put up with anything.
One villager, a burly man in his forties, dressed in rags as the others, turned and headed meanly toward him.
“What have we here, some sort of deformed man?”
The others laughed, turning and approaching.
Steffen kept calm, expecting this sort of greeting, which he had received his entire life. He’d found that the more provincial people were, the more joy they took in ridiculing him.
Steffen leaned back and assured himself that his bow was at the ready over his shoulder, in case these villagers were not just cruel, but violent. He knew, if he had to, he could take out several of them in the blink of an eye. But he wasn’t here for violence. He was here to find shelter.
“He might be more than just a regular freak, is he?” asked another, as a large and growing group of menacing villagers began to surround him.
“From his markings I’d say he is,” said another. “That looks like royal armor.”
“And that bow – it’s a fine leather.”
“Not to mention the arrows. Gold-tipped, are they?”
They stopped but a few feet away, scowling down threateningly. They reminded him of the bullies who tormented him as a child.
“So, who are you, freak?” one of them said down to him.
Steffen breathed deeply, determined to stay calm.
“I mean you no harm,” he began.
The group broke out laughing.
“Harm? You? What harm could you do us?”
“You couldn’t harm our chickens!” laughed another.
Steffen flushed red as the laughter grew; but he would not allow himself to be provoked.
“I need a place to stay and food to eat. I have calloused hands and a strong back for working. Set met to a task, and I will mind myself. I don’t need much. As much as the next man.”
Steffen wanted to lose himself in menial work again, as he had all those years in the basement serving King MacGil. It would take his mind off things. He could perform hard labor and live a life of anonymity, as he had been prepared to do before he had ever met Gwendolyn.
“You call yourself a man?” one of them called out, laughing.
“Maybe we can find some use for him,” another called out.
Steffen looked at him hopefully.
“That is, fighting against our dogs or chickens!”
They all laughed.
“I’d pay a grand amount to see that!”
“There’s a war out there, in case you haven’t noticed,” Steffen said back coolly. “I’m sure, even in a provincial and rudimentary town like this, you can use a hand to maintain provisions.”
The villagers looked at each other, baffled.
“Of course we know of the