Gareth paced in his chamber, his mind reeling, stunned by his failure to hoist the sword, trying to process the ramifications. He felt numb. He could hardly believe he had been so stupid to attempt to hoist the sword, the Dynasty Sword, which no MacGil had been able to hoist for seven generations. Why had he thought he would be better than his ancestors? Why had he assumed he would be different?
He should have known. He should have been cautious, never should have overestimated himself. He should have been content with simply having his father's throne. Why he had he had to push it?
Now all his subjects knew he was not the Chosen One; now his rule would be marred by this; now, perhaps, they would have more grounds to suspect him for the death of his father. He saw that everyone looked at him differently already, as if he were a walking ghost, as if they were already preparing themselves for the next king to come.
Worse than that, for the first time in his life, Gareth felt unsure about himself. His entire life, he had seen his destiny clearly. He had been certain he was meant to take his father's place, to rule and to wield the sword. His confidence had been shaken to the core. Now, he was not sure about anything.
Worst of all, he could not stop seeing that image of his father's face, right before he'd hoisted it. Had that been his revenge?
"Bravo," came a slow, sardonic voice.
Gareth spun, shocked that anyone was with him in this chamber. He recognized the voice instantly; it was a voice he had become too familiar with over the years, and one he had come to despise. It was the voice of his wife.
Helena.
There she stood, in a far corner of the room, observing him as she reached up and smoked her opium pipe. She inhaled deeply, held it, then slowly let it out. Her eyes were bloodshot, and he could see that she had been smoking too long.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"This is my bridal chamber after all," she responded. "I can do anything I want here. I'm your wife and your queen. Don't forget. I rule this kingdom as much as you do. And after your debacle today, I would use the term rule very loosely indeed."
Gareth's face burned red. Helena had always had a way of striking him with the lowest blow of all, and at the most inopportune time. He despised her more than any woman in his life. He could hardly conceive that he had agreed to marry her.
"Do you?" Gareth spat, turning and marching towards her, seething. "You forget that I am King, you wench, and I could have you imprisoned, just like anyone else in my kingdom, whether you are my wife or not."
She laughed at him, a derisive snort.
"And then what?" she snapped. "Have your new subjects wonder of your sexuality? No, I doubt that very much. Not in the scheming world of Gareth. Not in the mind of the man who cares more than anyone else how people perceive him."
Gareth stopped before her, realizing she had a way of seeing through him which annoyed him to the core. He understood her threat, and he realized that arguing with her would do no good. So he just stood there, quietly, waiting, his fists bunched.
"What is it that you want?" he said slowly, trying to control himself from doing something rash. "You don't come to me unless you want something."
She laughed, a dry, mocking laugh.
"I'll take whatever it is that I want. I haven't come to ask you for anything. But rather to tell you something: your entire kingdom has just witnessed your failure to hoist the sword. Where does that leave us?"
"What you mean us?" he asked, wondering where she was going with this.
"Your people know now what I have always known: that you are failure. That you are not the Chosen One. Congratulations. At least now it is official."
He scowled back.
"My father failed to wield the sword. That did not prevent him from ruling effectively as King."
"But it affected his kingship," she snapped. "Every moment of it."
"If you're so unhappy with my inabilities," Gareth fumed, "why don't you just leave this place? Leave me! Leave our mockery of a marriage. I am King now. I don't need you anymore."
"I'm glad you raised that point," she said, "because that is precisely the reason I've come. I want you to end our marriage officially. I want a divorce. There is a man I love. A real man. One of your knights, in fact. He's a warrior. We are in love, a true love. Unlike any love I ever had. Divorce me, so I can stop carrying on this affair in secret. I want our love to be public. And I want to be married to him."
Gareth stared back at her, shocked, feeling hollowed out, as if a dagger had just been plunged into his chest. Why had Helena had to surface? Why now, of all times? It was too much for him. He felt as if the world were kicking him while he was down.
Despite himself, Gareth was surprised to realize that he had some deep feelings for Helena, because when he heard her actual words, askin
g for a divorce, it did something to him. It upset him. Despite himself, it made him realize that he did not want a divorce from her. If it came from him, it was one thing; but if it came from her, it was another. He did not want her to have her way, and not so easily.
Most of all, he wondered how a divorce would influence his kingship. A divorced King would raise too many questions. And despite himself, he found himself jealous of this knight. And resentful of her rubbing his lack of manhood in his face. He wanted vengeance. On both of them.
"You can't have it," he snapped. "You are bound to me. Stuck as my wife forever. I will never let you free. And if I ever encounter this knight you are cheating with, I will have him tortured and executed."
Helena snarled back at him.
"I am not your wife! You are not my husband. You are not a man. Ours is an unholy union. It has been from the day it was forged. It was an arranged partnership for power. The whole thing disgusts me—it always has. And it has ruined my one chance to truly be married."
She breathed, her fury rising.
"You will give me my divorce, or I will reveal to the entire kingdom the man you are. You decide."
With that Helena turned her back on him, marched across the room and out the open door, not even bothering to close it behind her.
Gareth stood alone in the stone chamber, listening to the echo of her footsteps and feeling a chill pervade his body that he could not shake. Was there anything stable he could hold onto anymore?
As Gareth stood there, trembling, watching the open door, he was surprised to see somebody else walk through it. He had barely had time to register his conversation with Helena, to process all of her threats, when in walked a too-familiar face. Firth. The usual bounce to his step was gone as he entered the room tentatively, a guilty look on his face.
"Gareth?" he asked, sounding unsure.
Firth stared at him, wide-eyed, and Gareth could see how bad he felt. He should feel bad, Gareth thought. After all, it was Firth who put him up to wielding the sword, who had finally convinced him, who had made him think that he was more than he was. Without Firth's whispering, who knew? Maybe Gareth would have never even attempted to wield it.
Gareth turned to him, seething. In Firth he finally found an object in which to direct all his anger. After all, Firth had been the one that killed his father. It was Firth, this stupid stable boy, that got him into this whole mess to begin with. Now he was just another failed successor to the MacGil lineage.
"I hate you," Gareth seethed. "What of your promises now? What of your confidence that I would wield the sword?"
Firth swallowed, looking very nervous. He was speechless. Clearly, he had nothing to say.
"I am sorry, my Lord," he said. "I was wrong."
"You were wrong about a lot of things," Gareth snapped.
Indeed, the more Gareth thought about it, the more he realized how wrong Firth had been. In fact, if it were not for Firth, his father would still be alive today—and Gareth would not be in any of this mess. The weight of the kingship would not be on his head, all these things would not be going wrong. Gareth longed for simpler days, when he was not King, when his father was alive. He felt a sudden desire to bring them all back, the way things used to be. But he could not. And he had Firth to blame for all of this.
"What is it you are doing here?" Gareth pressed.
Firth cleared his throat, obviously nervous.
"I've heard…rumors…whispers of servants talking. Word has reached me that your brother and sister are asking too many questions. They've been spotted in the servants' quarters. Examining the waste chute for the murder weapon. The dagger I used to kill your father."
Gareth's body went cold at his words. He was frozen in shock and fear. Could this day get any worse?
He cleared his throat.
"And what did they find?" he asked, his throat dry, the words barely escaping.
Firth shook his head.
"I do not know, my lord. All I know is that they suspect something."
Gareth felt a renewed hatred for Firth, one he did not know he was capable of. If it wasn't for his bumbling ways, if he had disposed of the weapon properly, he would not be in this position. Firth had left him vulnerable.
"I'm only going to say this once," Gareth said, stepping close to Firth, getting in his face, glowering back at him with the firmest look he could muster. "I do not want to see your face ever again. Do you understand me? Leave my presence, and never come back. I'm going to relegate you to a position far from here. And if you ever step foot in these castle walls again, rest assured I will have you arrested.
"NOW LEAVE!" Gareth shrieked.
Firth, eyes welling with tears, turned and fled the room, his footsteps echoing long after he ran down the corridor.
Gareth drifted back to thinking of the sword, of his failed attempt. He could not help but feel as if he had set in motion a great calamity for himself. He felt as if he had just pushed himself off a cliff, and from here on in, he would only be facing his descent.
He stood there, rooted to the stone in the reverberating silence, in his father's chamber, trembling, wondering what on earth he had set in motion. He had never felt so alone, so unsure of himself.
Was this what it meant to be king?
*
Gareth hurried up the stone, spiral staircase, rushing up floor after floor, hurrying his way to the castle's uppermost parapets. He needed fresh air. He needed time and space to think. He needed a vantage point of his kingdom, a chance to see his court, his people, and to remember that it was all his. That, despite all the nightmarish events of the day, he, after all, was still king.
Gareth had dismissed his attendants and he ran alone, up flight after flight, breathing hard. He stopped on one of the floors, bent over and caught his breath. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He kept seeing the face of his father, scolding him at every turn.
"I hate you!" he screamed to the empty air.
He could have sworn he heard mocking laughter in return. His father's laughter.
Gareth needed to get away from here. He turned and continued running, sprinting, until finally he reached the top. He burst out through the door, and the fresh summer air hit him in the face.
He breathed deep, catching his breath, reveling in the sunshine, in the warm breezes. He took off his mantle, his father's mantle, and threw it down to the ground. It was too hot—and he didn't want to wear it anymore.
He hurried to the edge of the parapet and clutched the stone wall, breathing hard, looking down on his court. He could see the never-ending crowd, filtering out from the castle. They were leaving the ceremony. His ceremony. He could almost feel their disappointment from here. They looked so small. He marveled that they were all under his control.
But for how long?
"Kingships are funny things," came an ancient voice.
Gareth spun and saw, to his surprise, Argon standing there, feet away, wearing a white cloak and hood and holding his staff. He stared back at him, a smile at the corner of his lips—yet his eyes were not smiling. They were glowing, staring right through him, and they set Gareth on edge. They saw too much.
There were so many things Gareth had wanted to say to Argon, to ask him. But now that he had already failed to wield the sword, he could not recall a single one.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Gareth pleaded, desperation in his voice. "You could have told me I was not meant to hoist it. You could have saved me the shame."
"And why would I do that?" Argon asked.
Gareth scowled.
"You are not a true counsel to the King," he said. "You would have counseled my father truly. But not I."
"Perhaps he was deserving of true counsel," Argon replied.
Gareth's fury deepened. He hated this man. And he blamed him.
"I don't want you around me," Gareth said. "I d
on't know why my father hired you, but I don't want you in King's Court."
Argon laughed, a hollow, scary sound.
"Your father did not hire me, foolish boy," he said. "Nor his father before him. I was meant to be here. In fact, you might say I hired them."
Argon suddenly took a step forward, and looked as if he were staring into Gareth's soul.
"Can the same be said of you?" Argon asked. "Are you meant to be here?"
His words struck a nerve in Gareth, sent a chill through him. It was the very thing Gareth had been wondering himself. Gareth wondered if it was a threat.
"He who reigns by blood will rule by blood," Argon proclaimed, and with those words, he swiftly turned his back and began to walk away.
"Wait!" Gareth screamed, no longer wanting him to go, needing answers. "What do you mean by that?"
Gareth could not help but feel that Argon was giving him a message, that he would not rule long. He needed to know if that was what he had meant.
Gareth ran after him, but as he approached, he could hardly believe what happened: right before his eyes, Argon disappeared.
Gareth turned, looked all around him, but saw nothing. He heard only a hollow laughter, somewhere in the air.
"Argon!" Gareth screamed.
He turned again, then looked up to the heavens, sinking to one knee and throwing back his head. He shrieked:
"ARGON!"