A Feast of Dragons - By Morgan Rice Page 0,43

And now his father was seated in it. He did not know how it was possible.

“The weight of my blood hangs on you,” his father proclaimed. “It is a weight you will not escape. Blood will have blood.”

Gareth blinked—and when he opened his eyes, the throne sat empty. He breathed hard, looking all around, wondering what had happened. He felt a presence lingering in the air, but his father was nowhere to be seen.

Legs shaking, Gareth ascended the ivory steps, one at a time, tentative, until finally he reached the throne. He sat in it, slowly, afraid to lean back. Gradually, he did, and looked out over the empty room.

Suddenly, he felt a horrific pain in his hands, his forearms, his thighs, even the back of his head. He looked down and saw the throne was now covered in thorns, growing thicker by the moment, rising up like an unstoppable vine, wrapping themselves around him, chaining him to it. The thorns grew wildly, embracing him, squeezing him, until he was bleeding all over his body. He struggled, leaned back and shrieked from the pain—until finally the thorns rose up and wrapped themselves around his mouth.

Gareth woke screaming.

He jumped from his bed in the muted light of dawn and paced his room, breathing hard. He made his way to the far wall, leaned a palm against the stone, and bent over, gasping for air.

It had felt so real, all of it. He spun around his room, almost expecting his father to be in it.

But he was not. He was alone.

Gareth felt haunted. He had an awful, sinking feeling that his father’s spirit would not let him rest. Would never let him rest.

He needed answers. He needed to know his future, needed to know how all of this would end.

He paced, wracking his brain, when a figure popped into his mind: the witch.

Of course, she would know.

Gareth raced across the room, stopping only to put on his crown, his mantle, to carry his scepter, without which he would go nowhere. He needed answers—and fast.

*

Gareth marched quickly through the forest trail, heading deeper and deeper into Dark Wood, trying to shake the dark thoughts that had gripped him, that seemed to hang over him like a veil. His mind had not stopped racing since his dream, and he had found no respite in any corner of the castle. Everywhere he looked, he saw another monument to his father, felt another silent rebuke to his failure as a son, and now, his failure as King. He felt increasingly that this castle was a big tomb, a monument of ghosts, and that one day it would entomb him, too.

Blood will have blood.

His father’s voice rang in his ears as he found himself reliving the dream, again and again.

As he pondered it all, pondered his failed hoisting of the Dynasty Sword, Gareth was struck with the idea that perhaps, after all, he was not destined to be King. Perhaps he was never destined to be king.

He needed prophecy, like a man in the desert needed water. The witch had seen his future when he had first visited her; he felt that she would have the answers he needed, would tell him honestly what his destiny was. Until he knew, he could not rest.

Gareth marched along the forest trail, heading deeper and deeper, ignoring the sky as it turned black, as thick clouds rolled in, and as a summer rain suddenly hailed down, lashing him. He twisted and turned through the trails of Dark Wood, trying to remember his way back. He had hoped it would be a place that he would never return to, and was unpleasantly surprised to find himself back here so quickly.

The air got colder and he sensed an evil energy getting closer. There was no doubt that this was the place. He could feel it hanging in the air, oozing onto his skin, like a slime, even from here.

As Gareth pushed deeper, hurrying between a clump of thick trees, he saw it: there, in the clearing, sat her small stone cottage. Even the trees around the clearing were recognizable: twisted into unnatural shapes, with three red trees on its edge, one in each direction.

Gareth strode across it, hurrying to her cottage, and as he reached her door, he lifted the brass knocker and slammed it several times. It echoed with a hollow thud, and he waited and waited, to no avail, getting drenched in the rain. The sky was now nearly as