A Feast of Dragons - By Morgan Rice Page 0,53

turned to Amrold, another new advisor.

“And what do you think, Amrold?” he asked.

Amrold sat there, narrowing his eyes at the lords, scowling down. He was a perpetually unhappy person, and that was one of the reasons Gareth loved him.

“You should not lower taxes,” Amrold said, “but raise them. It’s time for the north to understand who controls this Ring.”

The nobles, along with Gareth’s elder councilmembers, all gasped in outrage.

“My liege, who are these young folk you turn to for counsel?” Aberthol asked.

“These men you see behind me are part of my new council. They shall be included in all decisions we make,” Gareth said.

“But my Liege, this is an outrage!” Kelvin said. “There have always been twelve councilmembers that advised the king, for centuries. It has never changed, not for any MacGil. It was the way your father had it, and the way we have always had it. You change the very nature of the kingship. We have been tested with years of wisdom. These new folk you bring in—they have no wisdom or experience!”

“It is my kingship to change as I will,” Gareth shot back, firmly. He figured that now was the time to put all these old folk in their place. They were all biased towards his father anyway, and they had always hated him. He could see the resentment in their every glance.

“I shall fill my council with a hundred people if I like,” Gareth added, “and turn to whomever I choose for advice. If you are unhappy, then leave now.”

The old councilmen sat at their table, facing him, and he could see the look of surprise on their faces—which was exactly what he had wanted. He wanted these new advisors to keep them on edge. He was sending them a message: they were the old guard, that they were no longer needed.

Kelvin rose from the council table.

“I resign, my lord,” he said.

“As do I,” Duwayne echoed, standing with him.

They both turned their backs on him, and strode from the room.

Gareth watched them go, his face burning with indignation.

“Guards, arrest them!” Gareth yelled.

The guards stopped them at the door, shackled them, and led them away. Gareth could hear the muted screams of those councilmembers outside the room.

The other councilmembers stood.

“My Liege, this is an outrage! How can you arrest them? You just told them to leave!”

“I told them they were free to choose to leave,” Gareth said. “But of course, that would be treason to the King. I will not abide traitors. Would any more of you like to leave?”

The councilmen looked at each other, distraught; they now had genuine doubt and fear in their eyes. They all looked like broken men—which was exactly what Gareth wanted. Inwardly, he smiled. He was dismantling his father’s institutions, one person at a time.

“Be seated,” Gareth ordered.

Slowly, reluctantly, the councilmembers sat back down.

Gareth turned to the nobles, who still stood there, awaiting his response. Now they needed to be put in their place.

“Regarding your taxes,” Gareth said to them, “not only will I not lower them, but I shall raise them. As of today, your taxes are doubled. Do not come here again unless I summon you. That is all.”

The lead baron’s face quivered, then turned a shade of crimson. Gareth could see that this man was not used to being talked to in this way, and he enjoyed how upset he had made him.

“My liege, our people will not suffer this form of mistreatment.”

Gareth stood, turning red himself.

“Yes, they will suffer it. Because I am King now. Not my father. And you answer to me. Now leave me. And don’t show your face here again!”

The lords stared back at Gareth, mouths open in shock. Not a pin drop could be heard in the chamber, not among the dozens of attendants or councilmen or nobles seated and standing everywhere.

The group of nobles slowly turned, and marched out the chamber, their boots echoing. They slammed the door behind them.

As they went, Gareth noticed their conspiratorial glances. He could see in their eyes their resolve to overthrow him. He already could sense all the enemies in his court, all the plans to depose him. He would deal with each of them, one at a time. He would imprison every single one if he had to.

“Is that all then?” Gareth hastily asked the remaining councilmembers, slowly sitting back down.

“My liege,” Aberthol said, tired, his voice broken, “all that remains is the investigation into your father’s death.”

“Of what do you speak?” Gareth demanded. “The