A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

along the ramparts, in the streets, along the
walls, more soldiers than he could ever need—and felt satisfied. It was the
show of strength he wanted. But he also felt on edge: the environment was charged,
ripe for a skirmish. He hoped no hotheads, inflamed with drink, rose up on
either side. He scanned the jousting fields, the playing fields, and thought of
the day to come, filled with games and jousts and all sorts of festivities.
They would be intense. The McClouds would surely show up with their own small
army, and every joust, every wrestle, every competition, would take on meaning.
If even one went awry, it could evolve into a battle.
    “My king?”
    He felt a soft hand on his, and
turned to see his queen, Krea, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.
Happily married his entire reign, she had borne him five children, three of
them boys, and had not complained once. Moreover, she had become his most
trusted counselor. As the years had passed, he had come to learn she was wiser
than all of his men. Indeed, wiser than he.
    “It is a political day,” she
said. “But also our daughter’s wedding. Try to enjoy. It won’t happen twice.”
    “I worried less when I had
nothing,” he answered. “Now that we have it all, everything worries me. We are
safe. But I don’t feel safe.”
    She looked back at him with
compassionate eyes, large and hazel; they looked as if they held the wisdom of
the world. Her eyelids drooped, as they always had, looking just a bit sleepy,
and were framed by her beautiful, straight brown hair, which fell on both sides
of her face, tinged with gray. She had a few more lines, but she hadn’t changed
a bit.
    “That’s because you’re not safe,”
she said. “No king is safe. There are more spies in our court than you’ll ever
care to know. And that is the way of things.”
    She leaned in and kissed him, and
smiled.
    “Try to enjoy it,” she said. “It
is a wedding after all.”
    With that, she turned and walked
off the ramparts.
    He watched her go, then turned
and looked out over his court. She was right; she was always right. He did want
to enjoy it. He loved his eldest daughter, and it was a wedding after all. It
was the most beautiful day of the most beautiful time of year, spring at its
height, with summer dawning, the two suns perfect in the sky, and the slightest
of breezes astir. Everything was in full bloom, trees everywhere awash in a
broad palette of pinks and purples and oranges and whites. There was nothing
he’d like more than to go down and sit with his men, watch his daughter get
married, and drink pints of ale until he could drink no more.
    But he could not. He had a long
course of duties before he could even step out of his castle. After all, the
day of a daughter’s wedding meant obligation for a king: he had to meet with
his council; with his children; and with a long a line of supplicants who had a
right to see the king on this day. He would be lucky if he left his castle in
time for the sunset ceremony.
    *
    MacGil, dressed in his finest
royal garb, velvet black pants, a golden belt, a royal robe made of the finest
purple and gold silk, donning his white mantle, shiny leather boots up to his
calves, and wearing his crown—an ornate gold band with a large ruby set in its
center—strutted down the castle halls, flanked by attendants. He strode through
room after room, descending the steps from the parapet, cutting through his
royal chambers, through the great arched hall, with its soaring ceiling and
rows of stained glass. Finally, he reached an ancient oak door, thick as a tree
trunk, which his attendants opened before stepping aside. The Throne Room.
    His advisors stood at attention
as MacGil entered, the door slamming shut behind him.
    “Be seated,” he said, more abrupt
than usual. He was tired, on this day especially, of the endless formalities of
ruling the kingdom, and wanted to get them over with.
    He strode across the Throne Room,
which never ceased to impress him, its ceilings soaring fifty feet high, one
entire wall a panel of stained glass, floors and walls made of stone a foot
thick. The room could easily hold a hundred dignitaries. But on days like
today, when his council convened, it was just him and his handful of advisors
in the cavernous setting. The room was dominated by a vast table, shaped in a
semi-circle, behind which his advisors stood.
    He strutted through the opening,
right down the middle, to his throne. He ascended