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of the king’s family, friends, and close royal subjects, hovering close, hoping to participate in the funeral. Just beyond them, held back by an army of soldiers, Gareth could see the thousands of masses pouring in, watching the services from a distance. The grief on their faces was genuine. His father was loved, that was certain.
    Gareth stood with the rest of the immediate family, in a semi-circle around his father’s body, which sat suspended on planks over a pit in the earth, ropes around it, waiting to be lowered. Argon stood before the crowd, wearing the deep-scarlet robes he reserved only for funerals, his expression inscrutable as he looked down at the King’s body, the hood covering his face. Gareth tried desperately to analyze that face, to decipher how much Argon knew. Did Argon know that he murdered his father? And if so, would he tell the others—or let destiny play out?
    To Gareth’s bad luck, that annoying boy, Thor, had been cleared of guilt; obviously, he could not have stabbed the king while he was in the dungeon. Not to mention that his father himself had told all the others that Thor was innocent. Which only made things worse for Gareth. A council had already been formed to look into the matter, to scrutinize every detail of his murder. Gareth’s heart pounded as he stood there with the others, staring at the body about to be lowered into the earth; he wanted to be lowered with it.
    He knew it was only a matter of time until the trail led to Firth—and when it did, he would be brought down with him. He would have to act quickly to divert the attention, to pin the blame on someone else. Gareth wondered if those around him suspected him. He was likely just being paranoid, and as he surveyed the faces, he saw none looking at him. There stood his brothers, Reese, Godfrey, Kendrick, his sister, Gwendolyn, his mother, her face wrought with grief, looking catatonic; indeed, since his father’s death, she had been like a different person, barely able to speak. He’d heard that when she’d received the news something had happened within her, some sort of paralysis. Half of her face was frozen; when she opened her mouth, the words came out too slow.
    Gareth examined the faces of the King’s council behind her—his lead general, Brom and the Legion head, Kolk, stood in front, behind whom stood his father’s endless advisers. They all feigned grief, but Gareth knew better. He knew that all of these people, all of the councilmembers and advisers and generals—and all of the nobles and lords behind them—barely cared. He recognized on their faces ambition. Lust for power. As each stared down at his father’s corpse, he felt that each wondered who might be next to grab the throne.
    It was the very thought that Gareth was having. What would happen in the aftermath of such a chaotic assassination? If it had been clean and simple, and the blame pinned on someone else, then Gareth’s plan would have been perfect—the throne would fall to him. After all, he was the first-born, legitimate son. His father had ceded power to Gwendolyn, but no one was present at that meeting except for his siblings, and his wishes were never ratified. Gareth knew the council, and knew how seriously they took the law. Without a ratification, his sister could not rule.
    Which, again, led to him. If due process took its course—and Gareth was determined to make sure it did—then the throne would have to fall on him. That was the law.
    His siblings would fight him, he had no doubt. They would recall their meeting with their father, and probably insist that Gwendolyn rule. Kendrick would not try to take power for himself—he was too pure-hearted. Godfrey was apathetic; Reese was too young. Gwendolyn was his only real threat. But Gareth was optimistic: he didn’t think the council was ready for a woman—much less a teenage girl—to rule the Ring. And without a ratification from the king, they had the perfect excuse to pass her