Морган Райс
Only the Bold
CHAPTER FIVE
Royce stood there with his palm outstretched, and the wild-looking man stepped back.
“Royce? It is you?”
“Yes, Father,” Royce said, and even he could barely believe it. After all he’d been through to find him, his father was standing there. This wild man, with a beard so long it brushed his naval, was his father, was the king.
It was hard to believe, but Royce knew it was true. Royce could see it now in the similarity of their features, but it was more than that. His father wore a signet ring with the royal crest, and while his clothes were worn and sun-bleached, Royce could still see the richness of them.
“It’s you. It’s…”
His father rushed forward, embracing him, the grip tight. “I’ve waited… so long for this day.” His voice sounded dry and cracked, as if he hadn’t spoken for a long time. He seemed to be remembering the words only with difficulty. “Are you sure… are you sure you’re you? That you’re not a dream?”
It was the kind of question that could only come from being alone for so long.
“No, it doesn’t matter. You’re you. I saw this! Saw it all! From the moment I found your mother so long ago, I hoped so much that I would see you when you were grown.”
Royce hugged his father back. There were so many questions he wanted to ask him, so many things he wanted to say.
“Do you see the stones?” his father asked, with the pride of a man wanting to show off the little that he had. “The stories of your ancestors, Royce.”
He led the way around the side of the hut, to a spot where another section of stone sat, cracked and made up of separate pieces. It had the beginnings of another story on it.
“I’ve tried to add my own life to all of theirs,” King Philip said. “On an island like this, it’s easy to find the time to do it. I talked to them, though they didn’t answer. I didn’t want to forget how to speak.”
“Why come here, though?” Royce asked.
His father shrugged. “I looked into the mirror.”
It was an answer and not an answer, all at the same time. To anyone else, it wouldn’t have made sense, but Royce had looked too. He could understand having to do things without explaining them.
“There are things that you can’t say,” Royce guessed.
His father nodded. Pulling back from him, he moved to Gwylim, bending down to him, not the way a man would with a dog, but the way he might have with a man sitting on the ground. He held out his arm, and Ember landed on it.
“These are strange companions you have found, my son,” he said. “The tool of a witch and a thing that wasn’t always a wolf.”
“They’re not the only ones,” Royce said. “My friends are still in the boat.”
“And if they’d come onto the island, I wouldn’t have shown myself,” his father said. “I would have slipped around behind you and stolen your boat to escape.”
Royce nodded, because he knew that part. He’d seen it in the mirror.
“Why did you leave?” he asked. “Why did you come here?”
“I had to leave, or they would have killed me,” his father said. “And they would have killed you too. I came here because this place used to be ours, our family’s.”
“And you left a trail for me because you knew I would come after you,” Royce said.
“I’m not sure,” his father explained. “Holding onto the things in the mirror is hard. I can remember doing it, but all the reasons, and all the things that it might lead to… you looked into the mirror, even though I warned you not to.”
“I did,” Royce said. “You must have seen that I would.”
His father smiled, as if Royce hadn’t quite gotten it right. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“I saw things,” Royce said. “I saw the way this has to go. You need to come back. The king has to return for all of this to end.”
Now his father’s smile became a laugh that echoed around the open space of the clearing, scattering the few deer that had started to return to it.
“It doesn’t work like that, either,” his father said.
“Then how does it work?” Royce asked.
“The mirror doesn’t give you wisdom, it shows you possibilities,” his father said. “So many that it is impossible to hold them all. Your mind picks out some of them, but what you get is what you bring to it. Barihash, the thing there, must have been suspicious before he looked, so he latched onto those possibilities that showed him being betrayed.”
That made a lot of sense to Royce. He had seen those possibilities, been able to start to pick through them. He’d picked out the one shining strand of things that might work, and even now it stood out in his mind, while the rest of it was impossible to hold.
“There was a… man,” Royce said. “I showed him the mirror in the moments before he was going to kill me and he… stopped. He begged me to kill him.”
“The gray man,” his father said. “The Angarthim.”
He didn’t say more for a moment, obviously struggling to find the words.
“What is the most horrifying thing that you can show a man who has been brainwashed all his life? You can show him the truth. And what possibilities will his mind have shown him, a man who has been shown only fragments before?”
Royce couldn’t begin to imagine it. More than that, he didn’t really want to imagine it, because there were too many possibilities already in his head without imagining more than that. He’d seen some of what could happen if he did anything wrong here, all the ways that the world could turn to blood and death and horror. He had to cling to the path through all that he’d seen, the only way it could turn out well.
“Why didn’t it turn me mad?” Royce said.
“Because you are strong enough to see it for what it is,” his father said. “Or because you were strong enough to pull back when you needed to. I got a glimpse. I could have fought Barihash for more than that, but I knew that I could never contain all of it.”
“I killed Barihash,” Royce said. He felt a flicker of guilt admitting that to his father.
But his father nodded. “Good. Sometimes evil must be fought. He was a thing of pain and hate and suspicion, who could never bring anything but hurt to the world. It is the same with King Carris, and the war that is to come. There will be violence, but it is needed violence.”
Royce could understand that. He’d fought against the old duke for exactly those reasons, had fought against Altfor and his uncle and everyone else who had come at them. He’d hoped that he could make everything better if only he could defeat them.
Now, the possibilities his brain could barely contain hinted that there needed to be more even than that. The clarity that the mirror had given him, the ability to look at the world and simply see, had shown him that there needed to be more than just the violence. Plunge only into that, and there would be nothing but years of death.
Of course, the balance to that was that if they didn’t fight at all, then things would continue as they were, with all the cruelty that came with it. The way between those two things was so narrow that it felt like a precipice, with danger far below.
“I’ve walked precipices before,” Royce said to himself.
“What’s that?” his father asked.
“I’m just trying to work out what to do next,” he said. That seemed wrong somehow. “Even with everything the mirror showed me, I still have to work it out.”
“The mirror doesn’t tell you what you ought to do,” his father said. “That’s the most dangerous mistake there is with it. You still have choices. You always have choices. Everyone does.”
That made more sense than Royce could have believed it would. He didn’t want to destroy the choices of the people who came with him; even asking the others to trust him enough to come here, he wouldn’t have forced them to do it, had only been able to hope that they believed in him enough to come here.
Now, he had another thing to ask.
“Father,” he said, “I’ve hunted for you across the sea. I found the mirror in the Seven Isles, but I was looking for you. I came here because I wanted to find my father, and because I believe that the kingdom needs its king.”
His father stood there for a moment or two, then shook his head. “I’m not sure I can do that, Royce.”
The disappointment that shot through Royce in that moment was absolute.
“But I’ve come so far!”
He could hear the pain in his own voice, and it mirrored that on his father’s face.
“I looked in the mirror,” his father said. “I saw myself here, not returning to the kingdom.”
“But that was so long ago,” Royce said. “Things have changed, Father.”
His father shook his head. “You know that there are things I can’t say.”
Things that he’d seen, Royce guessed. That gave him an idea, though. He reached for the pouch by his side.
“Will you look again?” he asked. He held out the mirror.
“You know the dangers there,” his father said, obviously concerned. “A man shouldn’t look too often, because of all the things it might change.”
“Please,” Royce begged.
His father hesitated, then nodded. Slowly, cautiously, he looked into the mirror. He seemed to stare into it forever, for so long in fact that Royce thought about pulling it away, hiding it from view so he wouldn’t have to look any longer.
Finally, his father closed his eyes.
“It seems that the kingdom will have its king,” his father said, with an expression that Royce couldn’t read. It said there was more that he had seen, things that Royce hadn’t. “And you shall have your father.”
That part, at least, made Royce’s breath catch.
“Then you’ll return to the kingdom with my friends and me?” Royce asked, barely daring to hope.
“I will,” his father promised. He went into the hut for a moment or two, collecting a small sack of belongings almost identical to the one Royce had found on the first of the Seven Isles. That seemed to be all that he wanted to take with him.
“I don’t have your armor or your sword,” Royce said. “I lost them back in the Seven Isles.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” his father said. “I saw… no, like I said, it doesn’t work like that.”
Royce knew better than to ask what he’d seen, but it was difficult as they set off through the trees on the edge of the island not to wonder about it. It was also hard not to wonder at the fact that he had finally found his father. The man who had left so long before was here, walking along beside him with Gwylim while Ember flitted through the trees.
The walk to the beach didn’t seem to take as long as the journey to the interior of the island. They covered the ground quickly, and soon, they were staring out at the spot where the boat lay anchored. His friends were still there waiting in the boat when Royce and his father returned to it, but they quickly leapt down to meet them when they saw that Royce was there with someone. They rushed to the beach, standing there expectantly.
“A Picti, a peasant girl, and a fighter from the Red Isle?” his father said.
“My friends,” Royce replied. “There was also a knight, but Sir Bolis died back in the Seven Isles, saving all of us.” He stepped forward to them, ready to introduce them one by one. “Everyone, this is my father, King Philip, the rightful king. We’ve found him.”
His friends reacted with surprising deference. Mark bowed, Matilde curtseyed, and even Neave managed a respectful nod.
“Father, this is Mark. He helped me to survive the Red Isle, and he’s my closest friend.”
His father took Mark’s hand. “A man who has saved my son’s life has my gratitude.”
“He’s saved mine far more,” Mark assured him.
Royce moved along the line. “This is Matilde, who has been a part of the resistance to the old duke’s rule almost since the beginning. She’s fiercer than she looks.”
“Really?” his father said. He looked at Matilde. “I would say that you already look quite fierce. I will be glad to fight beside you.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” Matilde said, looking pleased.
“And you?” his father said, turning to Neave.
“Neave, your majesty,” she said, and there was a note of respect there that Royce hadn’t expected.
“The Picti deserve a better place in the kingdom than I was able to give them,” he said. “They respect the magic that is in the world in a way people have forgotten. If you are here, does that mean that your tribe fights alongside my son?”
“We do,” Neave said. “He made the healing stone cry out. Others will join your cause too.”
“It sounds as though you have prepared quite the army,” Royce’s father said to him.
Royce nodded. “We’re working on it. By the time we get back, I hope that my brothers will have gathered enough to take on King Carris. We need a symbol though. We need the rightful king. We need you.”
“You have me,” his father promised. He waded out toward the boat. “We have a long way to go, though, and a hard fight once we get there.”
CHAPTER SIX
Genevieve crept through the castle in the early morning light, afraid with every step, knowing that she was taking a risk just by doing this part. If Altfor realized she was here, then she would be in danger even though she was carrying his child, but he had left their rooms before she had, and Genevieve guessed that he was away somewhere with Moira.
“I’ll kill her,” Genevieve said, although even then, she knew that she would have a hard time killing anyone directly. She’d already proved that with Altfor, when she’d found herself unable to put a knife in him even when she had the chance.
“I’ll find something,” Genevieve promised herself, the same way she’d promised it when it came to Altfor. If she couldn’t do it directly, then she would help to bring them all down indirectly, and then she would see to it that they were executed for their crimes. They deserved it, and more.
She hated Moira more, if it was possible, than she hated Altfor. Altfor had never pretended to be her friend; had only betrayed her in ways that Genevieve had expected him to betray her. Moira had been in almost the same position as her, married to another of the duke’s sons and immersed in a world that she should never have been a part of. She should have been Genevieve’s ally, her friend. Instead, she’d gone to Altfor, and she’d betrayed Genevieve. She’d done worse than that when she’d handed over Garet to the king’s forces.
At least Genevieve could start to undo that.
She continued forward, moving smoothly from hiding place to hiding place, trying to make it look as though she was running errands, off about legitimate business. Sneaking was no use in a keep building up to war, where there were too many people around and too much fear of spies to ever hope to hide completely. The best that Genevieve could hope for was to have people believe she was doing something she ought to be doing.
She approached the dungeons, knowing that her journey through the keep had been the easy part. People would imagine reasons for her to be in almost every part of the keep, and wouldn’t dare to question the noble wife of the king’s newest friend in any case, but Genevieve doubted that anything like that would work to get her into the dungeons.
She stood across from the entrance now, where a large guard sat as jailer on a stool, keys in his belt and a sword at his hip. Genevieve needed to find a way to get him away from that door, and right then, she couldn’t think of anything. What would move a man who had been commanded to remain in one spot?
The answer was that nothing would. There was no subtle way to do this, no way to distract him from his post cleanly and slip inside. The only option was the direct one, and if she took that, it would be obvious what had happened. There would be no way that she could remain there. Was Genevieve really ready to abandon everything and run, when there might still be a chance to find out more that might help to win this war?
“And what happens to Garet if I wait?” she asked herself. She could already guess at the answer to that. She’d seen what the king did to those who opposed him, and had no doubt that he meant what he’d said about the torture. She had to get Royce’s brother out of there, even if that made it impossible for her to stay.
Maybe it would even be to her benefit. Genevieve would be able to head back to Royce’s forces if she had Garet with her. It would be proof that she was on their side, and Royce might finally believe that she cared.
“I’m actually doing this,” Genevieve said to herself, and then strode forward to the guard at the dungeon door. The guard looked up at her with the lazy slowness of a man who had no intention of moving if he didn’t have to.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“What do you want, my lady,” Genevieve corrected him, adopting the haughtiest voice she could manage. “Or do you believe that we are somehow equals?”
It was easy to think of how to do this: she simply imagined the way Altfor would have said it. It was enough to make the guard’s eyes widen in fear, or at least shock.
“No, my lady. Forgive me, my lady.”
“Be quiet and open the door for me,” Genevieve said. “I’m here to see one of the prisoners.”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the guard said. “But I’m not to let anyone in to see the prisoners. Not without permission from—”
“From the king?” Genevieve cut in. She summoned up the nastiest smile she could manage. “The king who is my husband’s closest friend right now? The king with whom I have spoken more times in the last day than you will have in your lifetime?”
“My lady,” the man said. He stood, but still, he hesitated.
“I want to speak with one of the prisoners,” Genevieve said. “The new one, Garet, that’s all. I’m not planning to indulge in any torture, or demand that you escort him to the gate to free him. I want to talk to him. He knows me, and he’ll tell me far more than he ever would anyone else. Do you think the king will want to hear that you obstructed something to gain us information?”
Now Genevieve could see the fear on the man’s face. There was a kind of power in that, and in the things that it was possible to do with just words. He moved quickly now, hurrying to the door, unlocking it with one key, then another, lifting a bar before opening the portal there to reveal dark depths within. There was a candle set in a bracket by the door. The guard lifted it and offered it to Genevieve. Genevieve took it, moving close to the man, close enough that she could smell the rankness of his breath.
Close enough that her hand could snag his collection of keys.
“What—”
“I will need to go into the cell with him,” Genevieve said as the guard noticed. “I will let myself out when I am done. Unless you have an objection?”
It was obvious that he had plenty of objections, but didn’t dare to voice any of them.
“He’s in the cell at the end, my lady.”
Genevieve brushed past him before he could gather the courage to say anything. She set off into the depths of the dungeons, moving quickly, knowing that she would only have so much time before the guard realized that he should probably check if she was actually allowed down there. At some point, he would think to ask the king—probably he already wanted to—and Genevieve could only hope that it would be a long time before he summoned up the courage to abandon his post to do it.
Genevieve made her way down into the dungeons, down a winding set of stairs that was slippery in spots with mold, while she was sure she could hear water dripping from somewhere close to her. She could hear more than that too: screams came from somewhere deeper inside, and she just had to hope that they weren’t Garet’s.
Genevieve could see nothing beyond the small circle of light that the candle offered her. It was a dim and flickering thing, providing her with a view of just a few yards of stony corridor in any direction. There were doors on either side, oak and with iron bars set at eye level so that the jailer could check on the prisoners.
There were probably prisoners in several of the cells, and a part of Genevieve wished that she could free all of them, but she knew that there would be no way to do it. She might, might be able to sneak Garet out, especially if she could find a place to hide with him until her sister’s messenger returned. There was no way she would be able to get a procession of prisoners out of the place, though.
She made her way down to the last cell, grateful that she didn’t have to look into each one to try to find Garet. Genevieve wasn’t sure she would be able to keep her heart from breaking if she had to see every person they had captured and tortured.
She reached the last cell in the line, holding the candle up and looking through the eye hole. Its light wasn’t enough to see things clearly, but she could make out that there was a figure there, lit a little more by the light coming in through a narrow window. He was huddled over, half wrapped in a cloak that Genevieve thought might have been Garet’s. That was enough to make hope rise in her heart.
“Garet?” Genevieve called out to him. “Garet, it’s Genevieve.”
He didn’t answer, but then, he and his brothers hadn’t wanted to talk to her when she’d gone to them back in the old duke’s castle. They thought she had betrayed them, betrayed Royce. Garet probably thought she was helping Altfor now.
“Garet, please talk to me. I can help.”
Genevieve fumbled at the keys she’d taken from the guard. It took her several attempts to find the correct one, and to hear the click of the lock as the door opened. Genevieve stepped into the cell, hoping that Garet would see that she was alone; hoping that he would be willing to try to make an escape even if he didn’t yet believe she was there to help.
“Garet, I know that you think I’m helping Altfor, but I’m not,” Genevieve said. “I’m here to help you. I’m here to help you escape.”
Still, there was no response from the figure huddled in the corner. Genevieve found herself hoping it wasn’t because of what they’d done to Garet here; that they hadn’t tortured him to the point where he couldn’t speak to her.
“Garet, please,” Genevieve said. “I’m on your side. I want to get you out of here. I know that so many of the things I’ve done look like I’m with Altfor, but I can promise you that all of them have been because I love Royce. I’ve even sent messages to him, telling him about Altfor’s plans. Do you know that he plans to make the southern attack a feint; that he will send an army around to the north in ships?”
“I do,” the figure said, and just those two words were enough to make Genevieve’s blood freeze in her veins. She knew that voice, and it wasn’t Garet’s.
The figure stood up, letting the cloak fall from him. Altfor stood there in the half-light, his grin only made more evil by the candle’s glow.
“I thought you might do this,” he said, advancing on her. Genevieve was so stunned that she didn’t even react as he plucked the keys from her hands. “I thought that the presence of the boy might get you to show your true colors, give me an excuse to do as I wished.”
Genevieve knew what he was threatening, and instantly her mind fled to the one shield she knew she had. “I am your wife.”
“A wife who loves my enemy!” Altfor roared. “And also a traitor. Being a noblewoman won’t protect you now.”
“I’m carrying your child,” Genevieve pointed out.
“Yes,” Altfor said. “Yes, you are.”
He stepped past her to the door, through it and gone before Genevieve could react. His face appeared at the viewing slit.
“I will decide what to do with you,” he said. “Maybe I’ll wait until you bear my child and then have you executed. Maybe I won’t. Rest assured though, Genevieve, that you are going to die for this.”
