Morgan Rice - A Rite of Swords

She felt ashamed at having reacted the way she did. She felt torn with guilt and a sense of loss that she might have just unwittingly helped send Thor away, to the very battle which she had wanted to prevent him from going to.

As she watched him disappear in the horizon, she knew he was on his way to confront his father. And she knew that if Andronicus did not surrender, Thor would kill him if need be. She knew Thor felt the same hatred towards Andronicus as she did, and logically, she knew she was wrong to be upset with Thor. On the contrary, she should have been compassionate toward him and shown him sympathy: after all, she was sure he was suffering with this news himself.

Still, the profound impact of the revelation resonated within her, and there was nothing she could do about her gut reaction, about her lingering feelings. She reached down and felt her stomach, and it struck home on an even deeper level: after all, this news meant that she was carrying Andronicus’ grandchild.

It made her want to cry and scream at the world. This child in her stomach, which she already loved more than she could say. Was she bringing a monster into the world?

Then again, Thor was hardly a monster. But Andronicus certainly was, and she knew that sometimes, traits skipped a generation.

Gwendolyn stood there, watching an empty sky. Thor had disappeared from view, and as she lingered, she felt a pressing sense of concern for his well-being, overriding all of her other emotions. After all, Thor was flying headlong into a meeting with the most dangerous man in the world, a meeting which she had urged him to, unwittingly. What if he never returned? It would weigh on her for the rest of her days. She already felt responsible.

She wanted to lean out the window and scream for Thor to come back. To scream that she was sorry. At the same time, she had to admit there was also a small part of her that wanted him to fly off and never return, that wanted all her troubles to fly away with him. She hated herself for thinking it, and she did not know what to feel, how to think.

She spotted a sudden commotion from the other side of the courtyard. She looked down and was confused at the sight: at the far end of Silesia, marching through the northern gate, there appeared an army, several thousand men, marching slowly, in perfect formation. At first, she could not understand what she saw. The markings of the army were not of the Empire; in fact, the armor resembled those of the MacGil armies. The colors, though, were different: a deep scarlet and blue, and the standard they carried had an emblem of a lone wolf.

The main body of the army stopped outside the gates, while a small contingent of a dozen well-dressed officers, bedecked in furs, rode out beyond them, entering Silesia. Clearly, they were coming with a message. Or a warning. Gwen could not tell if they were friendly or hostile. But her gut told her, from the way they carried themselves, that their intentions were hostile.

She did not understand what was happening, or who these people were. She thought back to all her schooling and remembered seeing that emblem and those colors in a book. She also had a vague memory, as a child, of her father taking them to visit his younger brother, the younger MacGil, in the Upper Isles. Gwen would never forget her time there. She could have sworn that banner, those colors, were flown there.

Could it be them? Her MacGil cousins? If so, what were they doing here now? Had they come to aid in her defense?

There had been a time when her father and his younger brother were as close as two brothers could be; but she remembered their falling out, their never speaking again, and she remembered her father warning them all about his brother. She could not imagine why they’d show up now, but for whatever reason, she doubted they had come to help.

Gwendolyn turned and hurried down the halls. Already they were filling with soldiers who also had spotted the army, the entire castle mobilizing, hurrying down to greet them. She hurried with them, descending the stone spiral staircase, her heart pounding, wondering what could be happening.

She had a sinking feeling that, whatever it was, it could not be good.

Gwendolyn stood in the center of the Silesian courtyard, flanked by Kendrick, Srog, Brom, Atme, Godfrey, Reece, and a dozen members of the Silver, all of them proudly holding their ground as they awaited the approach of the contingent of soldiers. The men all stood with their hands on the hilts of their swords, weapons at the ready.

“My lady, shall we summon the army?” Kendrick asked. She could hear the anxiety in his voice.

She watched the contingent approach, perhaps a dozen men, and did not see any of their hands on their weapons. She sensed that this army might be hostile, but that this contingent was not. Perhaps it was coming with a message—or an offer.

“No,” she replied. “We have plenty of time for that. Let’s hear them out.”

“Are those the colors of the other MacGils?” Reece asked aloud. “Of the Upper Isles?”

“They appear so,” Kendrick said. “But what are they doing here?”

“Perhaps they have come to abet our cause,” Atme said.

“Or to prey on us at our weakest,” Godfrey added.

All the same thoughts raced through Gwendolyn’s mind as she stood there.

The men came closer, then finally stopped but a dozen feet before them. They dismounted.

One soldier walked out in front of the others, flanked by four men, looking right at Gwendolyn. He was a large and broad man, covered in the finest scarlet furs, and as he removed his helmet, Gwendolyn recognized his shaggy gray hair and pockmarked face immediately.

Her uncle: Tirus MacGil.

Tirus, close to her father’s age, looked much older than the last time she had seen him, as a child. Now his beard was thick with gray, his face bore too many worry lines, and it did not carry the pleasant, carefree nature she remembered. Now his face was stern, humorless. He did not smile as he greeted her, as he used to when she had been a child, laughing in a carefree manner, picking her up and swinging her. Now, he approached with a stiff body, as an adversary might, his jaw locked and his brown eyes expressionless.

On the one hand, her heart leapt to see him, as he resembled her father so much, it made her miss him dearly. On the other hand, she felt a cold pit in her stomach, brought on by his demeanor and that of his soldiers, as she would when facing any other adversary.

Tirus stopped a few feet away from her, and stared back coldly. He did not bow or nod his head or offer to kiss her hand, even though she wore the royal mantle of Silesia and he surely must have known that she was queen. It was a sign of disrespect, and she took note.

“I’ve come to claim what is rightfully mine,” he announced in a loud and booming voice, a voice meant not just for her but for everyone within earshot. “My eldest brother, King MacGil, is dead. By right, the kingship falls to me, his next eldest brother.”

Gwen reddened. So that was what he was after. She should have known. Her father had warned her.

She cleared her throat, and addressed him back in an equally confident and formal manner:

“That is not the law of the Ring, as you very well know,” Gwendolyn replied. “Our common law dictates the kingship fall to the named child of a deceased King.”

“ Your law,” Tirus said. “Not mine. You alter your law as it suits you. We are of the Upper Isles, not the Ring proper, and we have our own law.”

“My father did not alter any laws,” she corrected, knowing her history all too well. All her years of reading were now paying off. “It has been the same law in use for seven generations of MacGil Kings, authored by Harthen MacGil and acknowledged by the Supreme Council before the formation of King’s Court. If anyone seeks to alter the law, it is yourself.”