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

chastised. “Don’t you ever link arms with me in public
again. Ever .”
    Firth
look down, red-faced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”
    “That’s
right, you didn’t. Do it again, and I shall never see you again,” Gareth
scolded.
    Firth
turned redder, and looked truly apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    Gareth
checked again, felt confident no one had seen, and felt a little bit better.
    “What
gossip from the masses?” Gareth asked, wanting to change the subject, to shake
his dark thoughts.
    Firth
immediately perked up and regained his smile.
    “Everyone
waits in expectation. They all wait for the announcement that you have been
named successor.”
    Gareth’s
face dropped. Firth examined him.
    “Haven’t
you?” Firth asked, skeptical.
    Gareth
reddened as he walked, not meeting Firth’s eyes.
    “No.”
    Firth
gasped.
    “He
passed me over. Can you imagine? For my sister. My younger sister.”
    Now
Firth’s face fell. He looked astonished.
    “That
is impossible,” he said. “You are firstborn. She is a woman. It’s not
possible,” he repeated.
    Gareth
looked at him, stone cold. “I do not lie.”
    The
two of them walked for some time in silence, and as it grew even more crowded,
Gareth looked around, starting to realize where he was and really take it all
in. King’s Court was absolutely jammed—there must have been thousands of people
swarming in, from every possible entrance. They all shuffled their way towards
the elaborate wedding stage, around which were set at least a thousand of the
nicest chairs, with thick cushions, covered in a red velvet, and with golden
frames. An army of servants strode up and down the aisles, seating people,
carrying drinks.
    On
either side of the endlessly long wedding aisle, strewn with flowers, sat the
two families—the MacGils and McClouds—the line sharply demarcated. There were
hundreds on either side, each dressed in their finest, the MacGils in the deep
purple of their clan, and the McClouds in their burnt-orange. To Gareth’s eye,
the two clans could not look more different: though they were each richly
dressed, he felt as if the McClouds were merely dressing up, pretending. They
were brutes beneath their clothes—he could see it in their facial expressions,
in the way they moved, jostled each other, the way they laughed too loudly.
There was something beneath their surface that royal clothing could not hide.
He resented having them within their gates. He resented this entire wedding. It
was yet another foolish decision by his father.
    If
Gareth were king, he would have executed a different plan: he would have called
this wedding, too. But then he would have waited until late in the night, when
the McClouds were steeped in drink, barred the doors to the hall, and burned
them all in a great fire, killing them all in one clean swoop.
    “Brutes,”
Firth said, as he examined the other side of the wedding aisle. “I can hardly
imagine why your father let them in.”
    “It
should make for interesting games afterwards,” Gareth said. “He invites our
enemy into our gates, then arranges wedding-day competitions. Is that not a
recipe for skirmish?”
    “Do
you think?” Firth asked. “A battle? Here? With all these soldiers? On her
wedding day?”
    Gareth
shrugged. He put nothing past the McClouds.
    “The
honor of a wedding day means nothing to them.”
    “But
we have thousands of soldiers here.”
    “As
do they.”
    Gareth
turned and saw a long line of soldiers—MacGils and McClouds—lined up on either
side of the battlements. They would not have brought so many soldiers, he knew,
unless they were expecting a skirmish. Despite the occasion, despite the fine
dress, despite the lavishness of the setting, the endless banquets of food, the
summer solstice in full bloom, the flowers—despite everything, there still hung
a heavy tension in the air. Everyone was on edge—Gareth could see it by the way
they bunched up their shoulders, held out their elbows. No one trusted each
other.
    Maybe
he would get lucky, Gareth thought, and one of them would stab his father in
his heart. Then maybe he could become king after all.
    “I
suppose we can’t sit together,” Firth said, disappointment in his voice, as
they approached the seating area.
    Gareth
shot him a look of contempt. “How stupid are you?” he spat, venom in his voice.
    He
was seriously beginning to wonder whether he had made a good idea to choose
this stable boy as his