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

Godfrey between them.
They gave him a shove, and Godfrey stumbled into the room as they slammed the
door behind him.
    The children turned and stared.
Godfrey was slovenly, reeking of ale, unshaven, and half-dressed. He smiled
back. Insolent. As always.
    “Hello, Father,” Godfrey said.
“Did I miss all the fun?”
    “You will stand with your
siblings and wait for me to speak. If you don’t, God help me, I’ll chain you in
the dungeons with the rest of the common prisoners, and you won’t see food—much
less ale—for three days entire.”
    Godfrey stood there, defiant,
glaring back at his father. In that stare, MacGil detected some deep reservoir
of strength, something of himself, a spark of something that might one day
serve Godfrey well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.
    Defiant to the end, Godfrey
waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the
others.
    As they all stood there, MacGil
surveyed these five children: the bastard, the deviant, the drunkard, his
daughter, and his youngest. It was a strange mix, and he could hardly believe
they had all sprung from him. And now, on his eldest daughter’s wedding day,
the task had fallen on him to choose an heir from this bunch. How was it
possible?
    It was an exercise in futility:
after all, he was in his prime and could rule for thirty more years; whatever
heir he chose today might not even ascend the throne for decades. The entire
tradition irked him. It may have been relevant in the times of his fathers, but
it had no place now.
    He cleared his throat.
    “We are gathered here today at
the bequest of tradition. As you know, on this day, the day of my eldest’s
wedding, the task has fallen upon me to name a successor. An heir to rule this
kingdom. Should I die, there is no one better fit to rule than your mother. But
our kingdom’s laws dictate that only the issue of a king may succeed. Thus, I
must choose.”
    MacGil caught his breath,
thinking. A heavy silence hung in the air, and he could feel the weight of
anticipation. He looked in their eyes, and saw different expressions in each.
The bastard looked resigned, knowing he would not be picked. The deviant’s eyes
were aglow with ambition, as if expecting the choice naturally to fall on him.
The drunkard looked out the window; he did not care. His daughter looked back
with love, knowing she was not part of this discussion, but loving her father
nonetheless. The same with his youngest.
    “Kendrick, I have always
considered you a true son. But the laws of our kingdom prevent me from passing
the kingship to anyone of less than true legitimacy.”
    Kendrick bowed. “Father, I had
not expected you would do so. I’m content with my lot. Please do not let this
confound you.”
    MacGil was pained at his
response, as he felt how genuine he was and wanted to name him heir all the
more.
    “That leaves four of you. Reece,
you’re a fine young man, the finest I’ve ever seen. But you are too young to be
part of this discussion.”
    “I expected as much, father,”
Reece responded, with a slight bow.
    “Godfrey, you are one of my three
legitimate sons—yet you choose to waste your days in the ale house, with the
filth. You were handed every privilege in life, and have spurned every one. If
I have any great disappointment in this life, it is you.”
    Godfrey grimaced back, shifting
uncomfortably.
    “Well, then, I suppose I’m done
here, and shall head back to the ale house, shan’t I, father?”
    With a quick, disrespectful bow,
Godfrey turned and strutted across the room.
    “Get back here!” MacGil screamed.
“NOW!”
    Godfrey continued to strut,
ignoring him. He crossed the room and pulled open the door. Two guards stood
there.
    MacGil seethed with rage as the
guards looked to him questioningly.
    But Godfrey did not wait; he
shoved his way past them, into the open hall.
    “Detain him!” MacGil yelled. “And
keep him from the Queen’s sight. I don’t want his mother burdened by the sight
of him on her daughter’s wedding day.”
    “Yes, my liege,” they said,
closing the door as they hurried off after him.
    MacGil sat there, breathing,
red-faced, trying to calm down. For the thousandth time, he wondered what he
had done to warrant such a child.
    He looked back at his remaining
children. The four of them stood there, waiting in the thick silence. MacGil
took a deep breath, trying to focus.
    “That leaves but two of you,” he
continued. “And