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

the
Canyon?”
    “My liege, our patrols have seen
more attempts to bridge the Canyon in recent weeks. There may be signs that the
Wilds are mobilizing for an attack.”
    A hushed whisper spread amongst
the men. MacGil felt his stomach tighten at the thought. The energy shield was
invincible; still, it did not bode well.
    “And what if there should be a
full-scale attack?” he asked.
    “As long as the shield is active,
we have nothing to fear. The Wilds have not succeeded in breaching the Canyon
for centuries. There is no reason to think otherwise.”
    MacGil was not so certain. An
attack from outside was long overdue, and he could not help but wonder when it
might be.
    “My liege,” Firth said in his
nasally voice, “I feel obliged to add that today our court is filled with many
dignitaries from the McCloud kingdom. It would be considered an insult for you
not to entertain them, rivals or not. I would advise that you use your
afternoon hours to greet each one. They have brought a large entourage, many
gifts—and, word is, many spies.”
    “Who is to say the spies are not
already here?” MacGil asked back, looking carefully at Firth as he did—and
wondering, as always, if he might be one himself.
    Firth opened his mouth to answer,
but MacGil sighed and held up a palm, having had enough. “If that is all, I
will leave now, to join my daughter’s wedding.”
    “My liege,” Kelvin said, clearing
his throat, “of course, there is one more thing. The tradition, on the day of
your eldest’s wedding. Every MacGil has named a successor. The people shall
expect you to do the same. They have been buzzing. It would not be advisable to
let them down. Especially with the Dynasty Sword still immobile.”
    “Would you have me name an heir
while I am still in my prime?” MacGil asked.
    “My liege, I mean no offense,”
Kelvin stumbled, looking concerned.
    MacGil held up a hand. “I know
the tradition. And indeed, I shall name one today.”
    “Might you inform us as to who?”
Firth asked.
    MacGil stared him down, annoyed.
Firth was a gossip, and he did not trust this man.
    “You will learn of the news when
the time is right.”
    MacGil stood, and the others
rose, too. They bowed, turned, and hurried from the room.
    MacGil stood there, thinking, for
he did not know how long. On days like this he wished he was not king.
    *
    MacGil stepped down from his
throne, boots echoing in the silence, and crossed the room. He opened the
ancient oak door himself, yanking the iron handle, and entered a side chamber.
    He enjoyed the peace and solitude
of this cozy room, as he always had, its walls hardly twenty paces in either
direction yet with a soaring, arched ceiling. The room was made entirely of
stone, with a small, round stained-glass window on one wall. Light poured in
through its yellows and reds, lighting up a single object in the otherwise bare
room.
    The Dynasty Sword.
    There it sat, in the center of
the chamber, lying horizontal on iron prongs, like a temptress. As he had since
he was a boy, MacGil walked close to it, circled it, examined it. The Dynasty
Sword. The sword of legend, the source of the might and power of his entire
kingdom, from one generation to the next. Whoever had the strength to hoist it
would be the Chosen One, the one destined to rule the kingdom for life, to free
the kingdom from all threats, in and outside the Ring. It had been a beautiful
legend to grow up with, and as soon as he was anointed king, MacGil had tried
to hoist it himself, as only MacGil kings were even allowed to try. The kings
before him, all of them, had failed. He was sure he would be different. He was
sure he would be The One.
    But he was wrong. As were all the
other MacGil kings before him. And his failure had tainted his kingship ever
since.
    As he stared at it now, he
examined its long blade, made of a mysterious metal no one had ever deciphered.
The sword’s origin was even more obscure, rumored to have risen from the earth
in the midst of a quake.
    Examining it, he once again felt
the sting of failure. He might be a good king; but he was not The One. His
people knew it. His enemies knew it. He might be a good king, but no matter
what he did, he would never be The One.
    If he had been, he suspected
there would be less unrest amongst his court, less plotting. His own people
would trust him more and his enemies would not even consider attack. A part of
him wished the sword would just disappear, and the legend with it.