Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

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.