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

the stone steps, passed the
carved golden lions, and sank into the red velvet cushion lining his throne, wrought
entirely of gold. His father had sat on this throne, as had his father,
and all the MacGils before him. When he sat, MacGil felt the weight of his
ancestors—of all the generations—upon him.
    He surveyed the advisors in
attendance. There was Brom, his greatest general, and his advisor on military
affairs; Kolk, the general of the boys’ Legion; Aberthol, the oldest of the
bunch, a scholar and historian, mentor of kings for three generations; Firth,
his advisor on internal affairs of the court, a skinny man with short, gray
hair and hollowed-out eyes that never sat still. He was not a man that MacGil
had ever trusted, and he never even understood his title. But his father, and
his before him, kept an advisor for court affairs, and so he kept it out of
respect for them. There was Owen, his treasurer; Bradaigh, his advisor on
external affairs; Earnan, his tax collector; Duwayne, his advisor on the
masses; and Kelvin, the representative of the nobles.
    Of course, the King had absolute
authority. But his kingdom was a liberal one, and his fathers had always taken
pride in allowing the nobles a voice in all matters, channeled through their
representative. It was historically an uneasy power balance between the
kingship and the nobles. Now there was harmony, but during other times there
had been uprisings and power struggles between the nobles and royalty. It was a
fine balance.
    As MacGil surveyed the room he
noticed one person missing: the very man he wanted to speak with most. Argon.
As usual, when and where he showed up was unpredictable. It infuriated MacGil
to no end, but he had no choice but to accept it. The way of druids was
inscrutable to him. Without him present, MacGil felt even more haste. He wanted
to get through this, get to the thousand other things that awaited him before
the wedding.
    The group of advisors sat facing
him around the semi-circular table, spread out every ten feet, each sitting in
a chair of ancient oak with elaborate carved wooden arms.
    “My liege, if I may begin,” Owen
called out.
    “You may. And keep it short. My
time is tight today.”
    “Your daughter will receive a
great many gifts today, which we all hope will fill her coffers. The thousands
of people paying tribute, presenting gifts to you personally, and filling our
brothels and taverns, will help fill the coffers, too. And yet the preparation
for today’s festivities will also deplete a good portion of the royal treasury.
I recommend an increase of tax on the people, and on the nobles. A one-time
tax, to alleviate the pressures of this great event.”
    MacGil saw the concern on his
treasurer’s face, and his stomach sank at the thought of the treasury’s
depletion. Yet he would not raise taxes again.
    “Better to have a poor treasury
and loyal subjects,” MacGil answered. “Our riches come in the happiness of our
subjects. We shall not impose more.”
    “But my liege, if we do not—”
    “I have decided. What else?”
    Owen sank back, crestfallen.
    “My king,” Brom said, in his deep
voice. “At your command, we have stationed the bulk of our forces in court for
today’s event. The show of power will be impressive. But we are stretched thin.
If there should be an attack elsewhere in the kingdom, we will be vulnerable.”
    MacGil nodded, thinking it
through.
    “Our enemies will not attack us
while we are feeding them.”
    The men laughed.
    “And what news from the
Highlands?”
    “There has been no reported
activity for weeks. It seems their troops have drawn down in preparation for
the wedding. Maybe they are ready to make peace.”
    MacGil was not so sure.
    “That either means the arranged
wedding has worked, or they wait to attack us at another time. And which do you
think it is, old man?” MacGil asked, turning to Aberthol.
    Aberthol cleared his throat, his
voice raspy as it came out: “My liege, your father and his father before him
never trusted the McClouds. Just because they lie sleeping, does not mean they
will not wake.”
    MacGil nodded, appreciating the
sentiment.
    “And what of the Legion?” he
asked, turning to Kolk.
    “Today we welcomed the new
recruits,” Kolk answered, with a quick nod.
    “My son among them?” MacGil asked.
    “He stands proudly with them all,
and a fine boy he is.”
    MacGil nodded, then turned to
Bradaigh.
    “And what word from beyond