Only the Worthy (16 page)

Royce, refusing
to let go, slowly felt the power rising up within him. It was, he knew, a power
even stronger than the beast’s. It was an unstoppable, limitless power, like a
great river flowing through him.

In one decisive
motion, Royce reached back and broke the beast’s grip, knocking its arms off
him, finally able to breathe again. He then let out a great battle cry, pulled
out the sword, swung it around, and chopped off the beast’s head.

The beast fell
backwards, like a great tree falling, and Royce held on as it landed flat on
the ground, Royce crashing on top of him.

Finally, it was
dead.

Royce stood on
the beast’s chest, holding his sword, breathing hard, his palms still
vibrating. Slowly, he turned and looked around.

In the dim light
of the cave he saw Mark, Altos, and Rubin, the only three survivors, staring
back at him, eyes filled with wonder. With more than wonder. With awe. They all
looked to Royce as if he were a god.

Royce stood
there, arms trembling, wondering where his power had come from.

And wondering,
even more, who he was.

Royce stood
before the raging bonfire, the blaze crackling even above the sound of the
ocean winds whipping off the coast of the Black Isle, and as he stared into the
flames, he realized how surreal it was to be alive. Mark stood on one side of
him, Altos, nursing his broken ribs, on the other, and Rubin beside them, the four
of them the only survivors of all the boys, standing there amidst the broad
circle of soldiers. It was a victorious night, but a solemn one, and Royce
could feel the spirits of his dead brothers all around him.

Royce looked up
and examined the hardened faces of the men around him, the toughest men he had
ever seen, men as hard as this place, men he respected more than any in the
world. It was hard to believe these were the same men who had greeted him when
he had first arrived on this isle twelve moons ago. Had they changed that much?
Or had he?

Royce examined
the blade of the crystal sword he held in his hands, examining it in wonder.
How many boys had had to die for this sword? he wondered. How many years had
that beast guarded it?

He could see the
men, Voyt in their center, staring back at him, and could see that they were
all, finally, impressed. They looked at him now with a new sense of respect.
They looked at them not as boys, but as men. As warriors. As fighters ready to
leave this place, to be sent to the pits. Their training had finally concluded.

Voyt stepped
forward, holding an ornate black breastplate, and Royce’s heart beat faster as
he lowered his head and Voyt draped it over his head. Royce felt the heavy
weight of it, snug against his chest, and he looked down at it, filled with
pride. It was hard, black, carved in an intricate design, with the insignia of
the Black Isle: a wolf eating a bear. Wearing it, Royce felt as if he could
survive any battle.

The other boys
stepped forward, too, one at a time, each receiving their breastplate.

“And now you
shall leave us,” Voyt said, his voice dark, somber. “You shall face the Pits.
You shall become entertainment for the kingdom.”

He sighed, and
Royce detected sorrow in that sigh.

“And yet,” he
continued, “you will never be entertainment to
us
. You are a part of our
brotherhood. Remember that always, as you fight. As fighters come to face you
from all corners of the earth, remember what you have learned here. Remember
this place, remember the brothers you have lost, and fight not only for
yourselves, but for them. And as you die, know that you have earned this great
honor. For having a chance to die in glory is indeed one of the greatest honors
a man could hope for.”

Voyt stepped
aside, and as he did, Royce spotted a light in the distance in the black of
night. It was dim, far off, bobbing, and it took him a few moments to realize
what it was: a lantern, swinging on a ship. A small wooden ship sat anchored in
the rough waters near the shoreline, and Royce, stunned, looked over at Voyt,
who nodded back with a knowing look.

“The time has
come to leave,” he affirmed.

Royce could not
help but feel a mixture of triumph and sadness; of longing to be back home, and
despair for the death to come. As much as he had hated this isle, he had also
become a warrior here, had learned more about himself than he’d ever cared to
know. A part of him was loath to leave. Voyt, as harsh as he was, had become
something of a father figure to him. He was as close to being a father as Royce
had ever had. Royce realized he would miss him.

“Law requires us
to shackle you,” Voyt continued. “I shall not. You may not be free in the eyes
of the kingdom, but you are free in ours. For all true warriors are free. Sail
back, fight, die a glorious death, and make us all proud.”

The men parted
ways, and one at a time, Royce and the others, wearing their new breastplates,
wielding their new swords, began to walk toward the coastline, toward the ship
waiting in the blackness. Royce fell in last, and as he went, he heard rocks
crunching and looked over; he was surprised to find Voyt walking beside him.

“I shall
accompany you,” Voyt said. Royce thought he could detect sadness in his voice.

They walked for
a long time in silence on the craggy isle, Royce wondering what his mentor had
to say, if anything. Perhaps they would just walk the entire way in silence.

 “Soon the waves
will bring another crop of boys,” Voyt said, his voice pensive. “And soon those
boys will meet their deaths.”

Royce looked over
and saw Voyt was looking straight ahead as they walked, as if examining the
black ocean for something he could not find.

“You are apart
from the others,” he added.

Royce pondered
his words, wondering what they meant. He recalled his mysterious power, recalled
how he had always felt as if the others were looking at him askance. How, after
all, had he defeated that beast? How had he done so many things he should not
have been able to do?

Royce looked
down and studied his necklace, shining in the moonlight, and it occurred to him
to ask Voyt a question he had feared to ask his entire stay here.

“My father,”
Royce said, nervous, his voice tremulous. “You never told me about him.”

There came a
long silence, one so long that Royce was sure Voyt would never respond, as they
continued to walk for the coast.

But then,
finally, Voyt sighed.

“The time is not
right,” he said. “You are not ready. I can tell you only that you have a great
legacy behind you. And a great destiny before you.”

Voyt suddenly
grabbed hold of Royce, gripping his arm tight as they reached the boat. As the
others walked up the plank, he stood there and turned his intense eyes on
Royce. Royce saw death in those eyes. A killer’s eyes.

“When the time
comes,” he said with urgency, “you will know what to do. The realm depends on
you. Do not let your father down.”

Royce stared
back, baffled, as Voyt turned and abruptly strode off, back toward the raging
bonfire in the distance, back toward his men on the barren isle. What had he
meant?

Royce turned and
saw his three brothers-in-arms awaiting him, standing on the long plank leading
to the ship. He joined them, and the four of them boarded the wildly rocking
ship together.

The moment they
did, the plank was raised, and a soldier stepped forward and chopped the rope.
The ship set off into the night, the waters lifting it and carrying it away,
and Royce stood at the stern, watching the Black Isle disappear. It was hard to
believe they were leaving this place. This island had given them much, but had
taken more. They were all haunted men now.

The waters
picked up speed, and Royce knew the mainland was somewhere out there, waiting
for them. His heart raced with excitement.

Genevieve
, he thought,
looking out into the night.
I’m coming for you.

Genevieve stood
outside Altfor’s chamber, the fort still so late into the night, raised the
heavy iron ring, and knocked. It sounded hollow, too loud on the thick oak, and
it was odd to think of herself standing here, in a drafty stone corridor, and
knocking on her husband’s door to be let in.

She stood there,
waiting in the silence, her heart pounding. So stupid of her, she realized, not
to do this sooner. She only prayed it was not now too late. What if that girl
was now behind that door, wrapped in her husband’s arms? What if Altfor opened
the door and slammed it in her face? What chance would she ever have of saving
Royce then?

She stood there,
waiting, hoping it was not too late.

Genevieve
reached up to knock again, but this time, before she could grab the knocker,
the door opened with a creak. There stood Altfor, eyes narrowed with suspicion,
silk robe pulled tight. Genevieve watched his eyes widen in surprise when he
saw her.

He paused ever
so briefly in the door, and as he did, Genevieve’s heart pounded.

Please don’t let
it be too late.

Then, slowly, he
took a step back, and to her immense relief, he said:

“Come in.”

Genevieve walked
in as he closed the door behind. She reached back and bolted it, and he looked
at her in surprise.

She then quickly
scanned the room, praying for no signs of the girl. She was relieved to find
none.

Genevieve took a
deep breath. It was just her and Altfor. There they stood, in the dim light of
the torches, nothing but the soft crackle of the fireplace as the moonlight shone
through the window.

“A funny
question for my wife,” he said, his voice soft, “but why have you come here?”

She stared at
him, took a step forward, and, hands trembling, heart pounding, reached up and
gently placed her palms on his shoulders.

“To be with
you,” she replied, her voice tremulous.

His eyes widened
in surprise. He stared for a long time, and she could feel him summing her up,
as if gauging her to see if she were genuine.

Finally, he
reached out, took her hand, and led her to the bed.

Genevieve, heart
pounding, allowed herself to be led, each step like a knife in her heart. She
did not want this. But for Royce, she would do anything.

He guided her
into bed, and as he began to undress her, she tried with all she had to hide
her tears, to put her mind anywhere but here.

And as Altfor
pulled the covers over them, she had only one final thought:

Royce. Forgive
me.

Royce stood at
the bow holding the weathered rail, and as he studied the crashing waves, their
spray hitting his new breastplate, he wondered what his future might bring. On
one side of him stood Mark, on the other, Altos, the three of them standing
there as one, looking out at the infinity of the ocean. They’d been through so
much together, the three of them. Moons of grueling training, crossing the
ocean here and back, losing so many friends and brothers-in-arms. They had
formed a bond that was stronger than friends, stronger than brothers. They were
family now. They were all each other had left in the world. And they were the
only ones in the world who could understand what they had each gone through.

It was hard to
believe that they had set out from Sevania so many moons ago, on a ship packed
with hundreds of boys, so full they could barely move. And now here they were,
the sole survivors, returning alone. In one sense, they had been the lucky
ones. And yet still, death awaited them. So had they been lucky after all?

Royce studied
the rolling waves, their ship rising higher and lower in the ocean, and tried
not to contemplate what awaited him. He knew he would soon be thrown into the
Pits. Dying did not frighten him, not anymore. What bothered him was that he
would be forced to kill others, for sport. That went against everything he was.
He hated, too, knowing his friends would die, and he knew that when they
reached the mainland, they would be divvied up, each sent to their own pit.

As he felt the
spray of the ocean on his face, Royce’s thoughts turned to what mattered even
more than all of this: Genevieve. She, after all, was the reason he had been
shipped off to this isle in the first place. For her, he would do it all over
again. Was she waiting for him? What had become of her?

Images of her
floated before his face, and his heart quickened at the chance to perhaps see
her, to see his family, again. He did not want to raise his hopes. They’d be
physically closer, on the same continent, and yet he would obviously not be
escorted to her presence; she would probably not even know he had returned.
Instead he would be dropped into a pit somewhere to fight and to die, and
ironically, though closer to her, he would likely never see her again. The
thought pained him to no end.

“Will you kill?”

Royce looked
over, snapping out of his reverie, to see Altos standing beside him, also
staring out to sea, his eyes also filled with uncertainty. It was a soft
question, to the point. It was, indeed, the question on all of their minds.

Would he kill?

There was no
question he would fight gloriously, would fight with honor and pride, would fight
to defend himself in battle. Of course he would.

But that wasn’t
the question, Royce knew. It was: would he kill another human being for sport?
Because their masters told them to?

Killing them
would feed the machine, would fuel the masters’ entertainment, would make him
no better than any of the others. It would give the masters what they wanted:
complete control over him once and for all.

To
not
kill, though, would mean his own death. It would also make him a coward in the
eyes of all his fellow citizens.

“I do not wish
to die a coward,” Mark chimed in. “If someone comes to kill me, I don’t see
what choice I have.”

A long silence
followed.

“And yet, to
kill them,” Altos said, “is to give the kingdom what it wants.”

“What choice do
we have?” Mark countered.

Royce stood
there, gripping the rail, looking out as the waves changed from blue to green
and sharing the same thoughts as his brothers. They were being put in an
impossible situation. A situation worse than death.

“If we kill
someone just for sport,” Altos said, after a long silence, “what happens to us
is worse than death. Our soul is killed.”

Royce could not
help but think that Altos was right. He glanced back at the soldiers guarding
the ship, and he wondered again if there was some way to escape. Dozens of them
lined the rails, weapons at the ready. And dozens more, he knew, would be
awaiting them on shore.

“And if you
could escape?” Mark asked, catching his glance and reading his thoughts. “What
would you do?”

“Free Genevieve,”
Royce answered without hesitation.

Mark nodded in
approval.

“How would you
free her?” Altos pressed.

“I would kill
any soldiers in my way and get her out.”

“So you
would
kill, then,” Altos said with a grin.

Royce shook his
head.

“Killing for
justice is not killing for sport,” he replied.

There came a
long silence, their ship gently rising and falling, until finally Mark spoke.

“Perhaps they
shall assign us together,” Mark said. “Perhaps we shall be put in the same pit,
and fight side by side.”

Altos shook his
head.

“They separate
the fighters,” he replied. “We shall be divided up when we reach shore and
never see each other again.”

The thought made
Royce’s heart fall.

“Let us make a
pact, then,” Altos said. “If one of us should break free, he will seek out the
others, and the three of us shall try to break free together.”

Altos put out
his arm, Mark clasped it, and Royce clasped it, too. It was a pact between
brothers. There was nothing, Royce knew, more sacred than that.

*

Many hours
later, late into the night, Royce still stood there, at the rail, alone, long
after the others had fallen asleep. He stood frozen, looking up at the moon,
out at the waters, watching the waves rise and fall, numb to the world. He felt
as if he were counting the minutes left to his life, and he kept thinking of Genevieve.
He wondered if she were awake now, staring at the same moon. He wondered if he
could use his power to defeat his captors.

And yet when he
tried to summon his power on demand, nothing came. Would it show up for him in
the Pits? Or was it gone forever? What was it? Where did it come from? Why
couldn’t he summon it when he wished?

Royce was
looking out into the remains of the night when he heard a creaking behind him,
and he turned, on guard, remembering Rubin. He was, after all, somewhere on the
ship. Royce turned, drawing his sword, ready.

Rubin stood
there, several feet away, walking slowly toward him, and he put his hands up
innocently in the air.

 “I’m not here
to fight you,” Rubin explained. He looked down to the ground, clearly shamed.
“Only to thank you.”

Royce examined
him, and he noticed Rubin looked like a different man. He looked broken,
humbled.

Royce slowly
sheathed his sword. He studied Rubin as he looked back up.

“You saved my
life,” Rubin said in disbelief. “When you did not need to. When you had every
reason
not
to. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve come to ask why.”

Royce looked at
him, startled. He had never expected this.

“Because every
life is worth saving,” Royce said. “Even those of your enemy. Even those of the
bullies who have tormented others.”

Rubin stared
back, clearly taken aback, then slowly nodded.

“I owe you my
life,” he said. “When you saved me, something changed within me. It made me
realize…”

He trailed off.
He stepped forward, next to Royce, and gripped the rail and looked out to sea.
Knuckles white, he remained silent for a long while.

“It made me
realize…how wrong I have been. What a fool I have been. How ashamed I am. I am
a changed man. I know I cannot expect your forgiveness, but I want to ask you
for it.”

Royce was
shocked by his words. He had not expected this. He studied Rubin for a long
time, and finally concluded he was genuine.

“The way I
acted, the way I treated everyone,” Rubin said. “It was because I was…afraid.
Afraid that others would treat
me
that way. It was defensive. I was
raised by a father who would beat me every night. My mother left me when I was
young. My brothers tormented me. Being tormented…it was all I’d ever known.”

He sighed.

“It wasn’t until
you saved me that I realized that people can be otherwise in this world.
You
saved me. More than this entire isle, more than all those moons of
training, your one act of grace is what saved me.”

He took a deep
breath and faced Royce.

“I know I don’t
deserve your forgiveness,” he said, “but I need to ask you for it anyway.”

Royce stared
back, unsure what to say. Clearly, Rubin was a changed man.

Finally, Royce
nodded.

“I harbor no ill
feelings towards you,” Royce said. “But it is not I alone from whom you need
forgiveness. There are a great number of boys you tormented. Including Altos
and Mark.”

Rubin nodded in
agreement.

“I shall ask
forgiveness of them all. I have changed. You must believe me.”

Royce looked at
him more intently, and his words felt true.

“I believe you,”
Royce replied.

Rubin stepped
close.

“I want you to
know that you have a friend in me for life,” Rubin added, holding out his arm.

Royce wondered
briefly if this were a trick, until he saw the sincerity in his eyes. Rubin was
indeed a changed man. A broken man. A man who had faced death and who had not
expected to come out the other side.

Royce reached
out and clasped his arm in return, and in that grip, he sensed he’d found, in
the most unlikely of places, with the most unlikely of people, a friend for
life.