A March of Kings - By Morgan Rice Page 0,59

watching him as he watched the horizon, looking to him for the first sign of what to do, how to act. What he saw below pleased him immensely. There were small villages, spread out in bucolic hills, smoke rising from chimneys, women hanging clothes out to dry, children playing. There were entire fields of sheep, farmers harvesting fruits—and most importantly, no patrols in sight. The MacGils had become sloppy.

His smile broadened. Soon, those would be his women. Soon, those would be his sheep.

“ATTACK!” McCloud shrieked.

His men let out a cheer, a battle cry, all of them on horses, raising their swords high.

As one, they all charged, hundreds of them, down the mountain. McCloud went first, as he always did, the wind in his hair, his stomach dropping as he stormed down the steep descent. And as he kicked his horse mercilessly, galloping faster, ever faster, he had never felt so alive.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Kendrick sat in the Hall of Arms on a long, wooden bench, seated beside dozens of his brothers in arms, members of The Silver. He studied his sword as he sharpened it. His spirits were broken. His father’s passing had hurt him more than he could say. As long as he had lived, the way that the word perceived his relationship with his father had troubled him. MacGil was his true father. He knew that, deep in his heart. He treated him like a true father, and he knew that to MacGil he was a true son. His true firstborn son. Yet for the eyes of all the world, he was illegitimate. Why? Only because his father chose another woman to be his queen.

It was unfair. He had accepted his role as bastard and had played the good son out of respect for his father. He had dutifully repressed his feelings his entire life. But now that his father was dead, and especially now that Gareth was named King, something within Kendrick could no longer accept the status quo. Something inside him fumed. It was not that he wanted to be king; it was just that he wanted the rest of the world to acknowledge that he was MacGil’s first born, that he was legitimate—as much as any of his half-siblings.

As MacGil sat there, sharpening his sword with the stone, again and again, making a high-pitched noise that cut through the room, he thought about all the things left unsaid to his father. He wished he had more time, wished he’d had a chance to tell him how grateful he was for raising him as one of his own. To tell him that no matter what the world thought, he was his true father, and he his true son. To tell him the words he had never spoken: that he loved him.

His father had been taken away from him too soon, and without warning.

Kendrick sharpened the sword harder, digging the stone into it, as rage rose up within him. He would find his father’s murderer. And he would kill him himself. He was determined. Many suspects floated in his head, and hour to hour he pondered one after the next. The one he pondered most of all, unfortunately, was the one he was most afraid to think of. The one closest to him. His younger half-brother, Gareth.

Deep down he could not help but wonder if Gareth was behind it somehow. He remembered that meeting, Gareth’s rage at being skipped over for Gwendolyn. Raised with him, only a few years apart, he knew, too well, Gareth’s devious nature; as long as he had known him, Gareth had envied Kendrick, being older, being firstborn. He had viewed Kendrick as an obstacle. He felt that Gareth would stop at nothing to have the kingship.

Kendrick sharpened the sword as he pondered other suspects; there were many enemies his father had accumulated, enemies of the state, enemies he had conquered in battle; rival lords. These hit less close to home and were easier to dwell on. He hoped it was one of them. And he would explore each one. But no matter how hard he tried to think of others, again and again he found himself returning to his half-brother.

Kendrick sat back and looked around at the other Silver, all maintaining their weapons on this dreary day. The summer sun had been replaced by sudden fog and showers. The day after the summer solstice always brought great change, was always considered a day of maintenance, in preparation for the new season. It was also