This chapter takes place 1,000 years before the beginning of the King's Quest series.
Prologue[]
Granthithor gazed at his king. The war had carried on for the young knight's entire life -- hundreds of years before his birth it had started. A terrible war between two immortal brothers who had godlike powers. The last battle had been particularly devastating -- only a few had survived. The cost, it seemed, was too much for King Legenimor.
"Such power as mine cannot be destroyed," the king continued, gazing at his reflection in the mirror on the wall, "But it must not exist within a single man."
"Without it, what will become of you?" Granthithor asked.
Legenimor shook his head. "I have caused enough death in this world. It is my time now, before more suffer on my behalf. Morgeilen will try again."
"He isn't dead?" Granthithor was shocked. The magical blast that Legenimor had loosed had wiped life from nearly every corner of the battlefield. So much life had been lost, it was being said, that the whole world felt it. Even an immortal wizard such as Morgeilen should not have survived.
"There was no corpse," Legenimor said quietly, "I trust only my eyes. And you, of course. That is why you will be my heir, Sir Granthithor. Now, please, excuse me. I must prepare myself. Collect what you wish from the spoils on the table and wait for my summons tomorrow."
"My liege, surely you don't believe that--" the knight began, before he was cut off by his lord's rapid exit from the room. Granthithor stared at the circular table that his Majesty had spoken of. He had no love of gold or riches, only of his kingdom and his family. His only desire was to urge the king to reconsider... but he knew Legenimor well enough to know that there was no changing his mind once he had made a decision. He gazed at the treasures -- useless to him, gold, gems, a shield smaller than his own, a sword that would likely have been enticing in happier times. The hapless heir sighed and turned away. His wife awaited him at home -- that was all the treasure he would need.
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The First Knight of Daventry had not slept during the night. When morning came he awaited his summons from the king. When, finally, a messenger arrived to give him word of the king's wish to see him, Granthithor readily mounted his noble horse and galloped to the castle.
Strangely, he was told to wait outside the throne room before his audience. "The ritual is under way," a court mage mournfully told the knight. Obediently, Granthithor sat on a stone bench outside the throne room. Like all else who knew what was about to transpire, Granthithor was ill-at-ease. Legenimor was a good and noble king, how could any mortal fill the shoes he would leave behind?
Lost in thought, Granthithor barely noticed the three flashes of light that broke through the crack under the throne room doors. The ritual must have caused the light, he reasoned, standing. Then, without warning, a powerful wind from inside the closed room blew open the doors and nearly bowled over the waiting knight.
When he turned his gaze back towards the throne room, he saw his king -- glowing. He ascended to his throne, sat, and then beckoned for his knight. Granthithor swallowed hard, as though that would help remove his unspoken misgivings. It was too late now.
Legenimor, despite his heavenly glow, was clearly weak. It seemed as though the glow was fading with his life. His breathing was becoming shallower as well. His appointed heir rushed to his side. "I go now to my rest, Granthithor," the king said weakly, "At long last, there will be peace. I give my crown to you, for it must be given." He reached a hand out to the knight, who met his grasp with his own hand.
"I will keep your kingdom strong and noble," Granthithor vowed. Legenimor smiled knowingly, and then breathed his last. The glow seemed to fade upwards as it melted away, as though it disappeared into the crown. Tears welled in the eyes of the new king. It was not only his lord who had passed, but also his friend.
"Rise from your knees, King of Daventry," a wizard said. He had stood quietly by the treasure-laden table during the former exchange, along with the others involved in the ritual. "There will be time to mourn, but first..."
As if to finish the sentence, the mirror on the wall began to sparkle and then, it spoke. The voice echoed unnaturally throughout the room. "Hail, King Granthithor of Daventry. The gifts of Legenimor are many fold, but do not come without a price. For all must be protected, lest it be lost to evil and chaos. Every ten thousand years the gateway unlocks, but the key must still be given to a foe for darkness to reign. Guard yourself with shield, reflect upon your own wisdom, and let your nobility glitter as gold in the sun. These protect you, let your crown protect them."
Granthithor gaped at the mirror. The mages and wizards in the room seemed unanimously less-than surprised. "Has this mirror spoken before? I could have sworn it was a normal mirror yesterday."