A Feast of Dragons

chapter NINE

Gwendolyn ran in the open meadow, her father, King MacGil, beside her. She was young, maybe ten, and her father was much younger, too. His beard was short, not showing any signs of the gray it would have later in life, and his skin was free of wrinkles, youthful, shining. He was happy, carefree, and laughed with abandon as he held her hand and ran with her through the fields. This was the father she remembered, the father she knew.

He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, spinning her again and again, laughing louder and louder, and she giggled hysterically. She felt so safe in his arms, and she wanted this time together to never end.

But when her father set her down, something strange happened. Suddenly, the day went from a sunny afternoon to twilight. When Gwen’s feet hit the ground, they were no longer in the flowers of the meadow, but stuck in mud, up to her ankles. Her father now lay in the mud, on his back, a few feet away from her, older, much older, too old, and he was stuck. A few feet away, lying in the mud, was his crown, sparkling.

“Gwendolyn,” he gasped. “My daughter. Help me.”

He lifted a hand out from the mud, reaching for her, desperate.

She was overcome with an urgency to help him, and she tried to go to him, to grab his hand. But her feet would not budge. She looked down and saw that they were stuck in the mud which was hardening all around her, drying up, cracking. She wiggled and wiggled, trying to break free.

Gwen blinked and found herself standing on the parapets of the castle, looking down on King’s Court. Something was wrong: as she looked down, she did not see the usual splendor and festivities, but rather a sprawling cemetery. Where there once sat the shining splendor of King’s Court there now sat fresh graves as far the eye could see.

She heard a shuffling of feet, and her heart stopped as she turned to see an assassin, wearing a black cloak and hood, approaching her. He sprinted for her, pulling back his hood, revealing a grotesque face, one eye missing, a thick, jagged scar over the socket. He snarled, raised one hand, and raised a glistening dagger, its hilt glowing red.

He was moving too fast and she could not react in time. She braced herself, knowing she was about to be killed as he brought the dagger down with full force.

It stopped suddenly, just inches from her face, and she opened her eyes to see her father, standing there, a corpse, catching the man’s wrist in mid-air. He squeezed the man’s hand until he dropped it, then hoisted the man over his shoulders and threw him off the parapet. Gwen listened to his screams as he plunged down over the edge.

Her father turned and stared at her, a corpse, his flesh decomposed; he grabbed her shoulders firmly, and wore a stern expression.

“It is not safe for you here,” he warned. “It is not safe!” he screamed, his hands digging into her shoulders way too firmly, making her cry out.

Gwen woke screaming. She sat upright in bed, looking all around her chamber, expecting there to be an attacker.

But she was met with nothing but silence, the thick, still silence that preceded dawn.

Sweating, breathing hard, she jumped from bed, dressed in her nighttime lace, and paced her room. She hurried over to her small, stone basin and splashed water in her face, again and again. She leaned against the wall, felt the cool stone on her bare feet on this warm summer morning, and tried to compose herself.

The dream had felt too real. She sensed it was more than a dream—a genuine warning from her father, a message. She felt an urgency to leave King’s Court, right now, and to never come back.

She knew that was something she could not do. She knew she had to compose herself, to gain her wits. But every time she blinked, she saw her father’s face, felt his warning. She had to do something to shake the dream off.

Gwen looked out and saw the first sun just beginning to rise, and she thought of the only place that would help her regain her composure: King’s River. Yes, she had to go.

*

Gwendolyn immersed herself again and again in the freezing cold springs of King’s River, holding her nose and ducking her head under water. She sat in the small, natural swimming pool carved from rock, hidden in the upper springs, that she had found and frequented ever since she was a child. She held her head beneath the water and lingered there, feeling the cold currents run through her hair, over her scalp, feeling it wash and cleanse her naked body.

She had found this secluded spot one day, hidden amidst a clump of trees, high up on the mountain, a small plateau where the river slowed. In this spot, the river’s current slowed, and the pool was deep and still. Above her, the river trickled in and below her, it continued to trickle down—yet here, on this plateau, the waters held just the slightest current. The pool was deep, the rocks smooth, and the place so well hidden, she could bathe naked with abandon. She came here almost every morning in the summer, as the sun was rising, to clear her mind. Especially on days like today, when dreams haunted her, as they often did, it was her one place of refuge.

It was so hard for Gwen to know if it was just a dream, or something more. How was she to know when a dream was a message, an omen? To know when it was just her mind playing tricks on her, or if she were being given a chance to take action?

Gwendolyn rose for air, breathing in the warm summer morning, hearing the birds chirp all around her in the trees. She leaned back against the rock, her body immersed up to her neck, sitting on a natural ledge in the water, thinking. She reached up with her hands and splashed her face, then ran her hands through her long, strawberry hair. She looked down at the crystal surface of the water, reflecting the sky, the second sun, which was already beginning to rise, the trees which arched over the water, and her own face. Her almond eyes, glowing blue, glowed back at her through the ripples. She could see something of her father in them. She turned away, thinking again of her dream.

She knew it was dangerous for her to remain in King’s Court with her father’s assassination, with all the spies, all the plots—and especially, with Gareth as king. Her brother was unpredictable. Vindictive. Paranoid. And very, very jealous. He saw everyone as a threat—especially her. Anything could happen. She knew that she was not safe here. Nobody was.

But she was not one to run. She needed to know for sure who her father’s murderer was, and if it was Gareth, she could not run away until she had brought him to justice. She knew that her father’s spirit would not rest until whoever killed him was caught. Justice had been his rallying cry all his life, and he, of all people, deserved to have it for himself in death.

Gwen thought again of her encounter with Godfrey and Steffen. She felt certain Steffen was hiding something, and wondered what it was. A part of her felt he might open up on his own time. But what if he would not? She felt an urgency to find her father’s killer—but did not know where else to look.

Gwendolyn finally rose from her seat beneath the water, climbed onto shore naked, shivering in the morning air, hid behind a thick tree, and reached up to take her towel from a branch, as she always did.

But as she reached for it, she was shocked to discover her towel was not there. She stood there, naked, wet, and could not understand it. She was certain she had hung it there, as she always did.

As she stood there, baffled, shivering, trying to understand what had happened, suddenly, she sensed motion behind her. It happened so quick, a blur, and a moment later, her heart stopped, as she realized a man stood behind her.

It happened too fast. In seconds the man, wearing a black cloak and hood, as in her dream, was behind her. He grabbed her from behind, reached up with a bony hand and clasped it over her mouth, muting her screams as he held her tight from behind. He reached around with his other hand and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her close and hoisting her off the ground.

She kicked in the air, trying to scream, until he set her down, still clasping her tight. She tried to break free from his grasp, but he was too strong. He reached around and Gwen was to see he held a dagger with a glowing red hilt—the same from her dream. It had been a warning after all.

She felt the blade pressed up against her throat, and he held it so tight that if she moved in any direction, her throat would be cut. Tears poured down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe. She was so mad at herself. She had been so stupid. She should have been more vigilant.

“Do you recognize my face?” he asked.

He leaned forward and she felt his hot, bad breath on her cheek, and saw his profile. Her heart stopped—it was the same face from her dream, the man with the missing eye and scar.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice shaking.

It was a face she knew too well. She did not know his name, but she knew that he was an enforcer. A low class type, one of several who hung around her brother, Gareth, since he was a child. He was Gareth’s messenger. Gareth sent him to anyone he wished to scare—or torture or kill.

“You are my brother’s dog,” she hissed back at him, defiant.

He smiled, revealing missing teeth.

“I am his messenger,” he said. “And my message comes with a special weapon to help you remember it. His message to you today is to stop asking questions. It is one you will come to know well, because when I’m finished with you, the scar I will leave on that pretty face of yours will make you remember it for your entire life.”

He snorted, then raised the knife high and began to bring it down for her face.

“NO!” Gwen shrieked.

She braced herself for the life-changing slash.

But as the blade came down, something happened. Suddenly, a bird screeched, swooped down from out of the sky, dove right for the man. She glanced up and recognized it at the last second:

Ephistopheles.

It swooped down, its claws out, and scratched the man’s face as he was bringing down the blade.

The blade had just begun to slice Gwen’s cheek, stinging her with its pain, when it suddenly changed directions; the man shrieked, dropping the blade and raising his hands. Gwen saw a white light flash in the sky, the sun shining behind the branches, and as Ephistopheles flew away, she knew, she just knew, that her father had sent her.

She wasted no time. She spun around, leaned back and, as her trainers had taught her to do, kicked the man hard in the solo plexus, taking perfect aim with her barefoot. He keeled over, feeling the strength of her legs as she drove her kick right through him. She’d had it drilled into her, from the time she was young, that she did not need to be strong to fend off an attacker. She just needed to use her strongest muscles—her thighs. And to take aim precisely.

As the man stood there, keeled over, she stepped forward, grabbed the back of his hair and raised her knee—again, with pinpoint precision—and connected perfectly on the bridge of his nose.

She heard a satisfied crack and felt his hot blood gush out, pour onto her leg, staining it; as he slumped to the ground, she knew she had broken his nose.

She knew she should finish him off for good, take that dagger and plunge it into his heart.

But she stood there, naked, and her instinct was to clothe herself and get out of here. She didn’t want his blood on her hands, however much he may have deserved it.

So instead she reached down, grabbed his blade, chucked it into the river, and wrapped her clothes around herself. She prepared to flee, but before she did, she turned back, wound up, and kicked him as hard as she could in the groin.

He screamed out in pain, and curled up in a ball, like a wounded animal.

Inwardly she was shaking, feeling how close she had come to being killed, or at least maimed. She felt the cut stinging her cheek, and realized she would probably carry some scar, however light. She felt traumatized. But she did not let him show it. Because at the same time, she also felt a new strength welling up in her, the strength of her father, of seven generations of MacGil kings. And for the first time she realized that she, too, was strong. As strong as her brothers. As strong as any of them.

Before she turned away, she leaned down close so he could hear her amidst his groans.

“Come near me again,” she growled to the man, “and I will kill you myself.”