Argon shook his head.
“A greater part awaits you out there. Greater than you can ever imagine. The fate of the Ring rests on it. There is great unrest at home. The Ring needs you.”
Thor could scarcely comprehend it. How could the Ring need him, just a single boy?
“Tell me, Thor, what do you see? Look into the blackness. Close your eyes. What do you see in the Sorcerer’s Ring?”
Thor did as instructed, closing his eyes, breathing deeply. He tried to focus, to allow whatever it was to come to him.
But whatever power he had, he could not summon it. He could not focus.
“Be patient,” came Argon’s voice. “Don’t force it. Allow it to come to you. You can see it. I know you can.”
Thor kept his eyes closed, breathed, again and again, and tried to let go of controlling it.
Then, he was shocked. He began to see something. Great visions, lucid, as if he were witnessing them. He saw destruction in the Ring. Murders. Fires. Rubble. He was horrified.
“I see great calamity,” he said, struggling to comprehend his visions. “I see death. Battle. Destruction. I see the kingdom collapsing.”
“Good,” Argon said. “Yes, tell me more.”
Thor furrowed his brow.
“I see a great darkness in Gareth.”
“Yes,” Argon said.
Thor opened his eyes and looked at Argon, distraught.
“Gwendolyn,” he said. “What about her? I can’t it clearly. But I sense something. Something dark. Something I did not like. Tell me it’s not true.”
Argon turned away, looked into the blackness.
“We each have our own destiny, I’m afraid,” he sighed.
“But I must save her!” Thor exclaimed. “From whatever it is, from whatever dark thing that is going to happen to her.”
“You will save her,” Argon said. “And you won’t.”
“What does that mean?” Thor pleaded. “Please, tell me. I beg you. No more riddles.”
Argon slowly shook his head.
“You have come here to learn to be a warrior. Yet the physical is but one side of a warrior. You must learn to develop your inner skills. Your powers. Your ability to see. Don’t get caught up in swords and spears. That is the easy route.”
Argon turned and took a step closer to him, and stared into his eyes with burning intensity.
“The greatest battle ahead of you lies within yourself.”
100 DAYS LATER
CHAPTER TWENTY
Gareth sat in his father’s throne room, on his father’s throne, looking down at the dozens of councilmen and lords and commoners before him, all with their own problems, and he was miserable. Months had passed since he had assumed the throne, and with each passing day, he felt more tortured, more paranoid-and more alone. He had ousted his closest friend and advisor-Firth-long ago, relegating him to the horse stables and forbidding him to see him, and he missed him. Ousting Firth was the right thing to do-he was reckless and had become a liability. After all, he remained the only one who could connect Gareth to his father’s murder, and he did not want to be associated with him anymore.
He had brought in a half dozen of his friends to be his mentors, and it was these people who surrounded him these days. They were ruthless, ambitious, aristocratic types-and that was exactly what he wanted. Gareth didn’t necessarily trust them, but at least they were his age, and they were as cynical and ruthless as he. They were the kind of people he wanted to surround himself with. They saw the world as he did, and he needed the new guard to counteract the old. His father’s people were still entrenched, like an institution, and he felt increasingly oppressed by them. If he could, he would raze King’s Court and build the whole thing anew. Everything new. He held no respect for history-he despised history. For him, the ideal was a modern, blank slate, and the destruction of every history book that ever was.
“My liege,” said yet another commoner, as he stepped before him and bowed.
Gareth sighed, bracing himself for yet another petition. All day long, petty matters had been brought before him. He’d had no idea that ruling a kingdom could be so mundane; this was never how he had envisioned being King. One person after another streamed in, all wanting answers, judgments, and an endless stream of decisions needed to be made. Everyone wanted something, and everything seemed so trivial. Gareth had imagine being king more glorious.
Gareth looked to the stained glass window, high above his head, and he longed to be outside-to be anywhere but here. He was deeply bored. He felt something stirring inside him, and whenever he felt that way, he knew he had to break up the monotony of his life and create some trouble, some havoc for those around him.
“My lord,” the commoner continued, “the land had been in my family for a thousand years.”
Gareth sighed, trying to tune it all out. These stupid peasants had been going on about some land dispute for he did not know how long. He could barely follow it, and he’d had enough. He just wanted them out of his sight. He wanted time to be alone, to think about his father, about any details of the murder that could be discovered. About whether the witch would reveal him. He had felt profoundly uneasy since their confrontation, and was feeling increasingly paranoid that a conspiracy was tightening around him. He wondered incessantly over whether he would be found out. Ousting Firth had allayed his fears somewhat, but not entirely.
“My lord, that is not true,” said another peasant. “That vineyard was planted by my father’s ancestors. It encroached on his territory only through growth. But our territory, in turn, was encroached by his cattle.”
Gareth looked down at them both, annoyed at being jolted from his thoughts. He did not know how his father had put up with all of this. He’d had enough.
“Neither of you shall have the land,” Gareth said finally, annoyed. “I declare your land confiscated. It is now property of the King. You may both find new homes. That is all-now leave me.”
The commoners stared back in stunned silence, mouths open in shock.
“My liege,” said Aberthol, his ancient advisor, who sat seated with the other councilmembers at the semi-circular table. “Something like that has never been done in the history of the MacGils. This is not royal land, that much is certain. We cannot confiscate land from-”
“I said leave me!” Gareth yelled.
“But my Lord, if you take my land, where shall I and my family go?” asked the peasant. “We have lived on that land for generations!”
“You can be homeless,” Gareth snapped, then motioned to his guards, who hurried forward and dragged the peasants from his sight.
“My liege! Wait!” one of them screamed.
But they were dragged from the room and the door slammed behind them.
The room hung with a heavy silence.
“Who else?” Gareth yelled, impatient to be done.
A group of nobles stood there, in the wings, and looked at each other hesitantly. Finally, they stepped forward.
There were six of them, barons from the northern province, aristocrats, dressed in the blue silk of their clan. Gareth recognized them instantly: the annoying lords who had burdened his father throughout his rule. They controlled the northern armies, and always held the royal family hostage, demanding as much from them as they could.
“My liege,” said one of them, a tall, thin man in his fifties with a balding head, who Gareth remembered seeing from the time he was a boy, “we have two issues to put forth today. The first is the McClouds. Reports are spreading of raids into our villages. They have never raided this far north, and it is troubling. It may be prelude to a greater attack-a full scale invasion.”
“Nonsense!” Orsefain exclaimed, one of Gareth’s new advisors, who sat to his right. “The McClouds have never invaded, and they never would!”
“With all due respect,” the lord countered, “you are too young to remember, but there have, in fact, been McCloud attempts at invasion, before your time. I remember them. It is possible, my lord. In any case, our people are alarmed. We request that you double your forces in our area, if for no other reason than to appease the people.”