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

lover. If he didn’t get him over his sappy ways quick,
he might just out them both.
    Firth
looked down in shame.
    “I
will see you afterwards, in the stables. Now be gone with you,” he said, and
gave him a small shove. Firth disappeared into the crowd.
    Suddenly,
Gareth felt an icy grip on his arm. For a moment his heart stopped, as he
wondered if he was discovered; but then he felt the long nails, the thin
fingers, plunge into his skin, and he knew it right away to be the grasp of his
wife. Helena.
    “Don’t
embarrass me on this day,” she hissed, hatred in her voice.
    He
turned and studied her: she looked beautiful, all done up, wearing a long white
satin gown, her hair piled high with pins, wearing her finest diamond necklace,
and her face smoothed over with makeup. Gareth could see objectively that she
was beautiful, as beautiful as she was on the day he married her. But still he
felt no attraction to her. It had been another idea of his father’s—to try to
marry him out of his nature. But all it had done was give him a perpetually
sour companion—and stir up even more court speculation about his true
inclinations.
    “It
is your sister’s wedding day,” she rebuked. “You can act as if we are a
couple—for once.”
    She
locked one arm through his and they walked to a reserved area, roped off with
velvet. Two royal guards let them through and they mingled with the rest of the
royals, at the base of the aisle.
    A
trumpet was blown, and slowly, the crowd quieted. There came the gentle music
of a harpsichord, and as it did, more flowers were strewn along the aisle, and
the royal procession began to walk down, couples arm-in-arm. Gareth was tugged
by Helena, and he began marching down the aisle with her.
    Gareth
felt more conspicuous, more awkward than ever, hardly knowing how to make his
love seem genuine. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and couldn’t help but feel
as if they were all evaluating him, though he knew they were not. The aisle
could not be short enough; he could not wait to reach the end, stand near his
sister at the altar, and get this over with. He also could not stop thinking
about his meeting with his father: he wondered if all these onlookers already
knew the news.
    “I
received ill news today,” he whispered to Helena as they finally reached the
end, and the eyes were off him.
    “Do
you think I don’t know that already?” she snapped.
    He
turned and looked at her, surprised.
    She
looked back with contempt. “I have my spies,” she said.
    He
narrowed his eyes, wanting to hurt her. How could she be so nonchalant?
    “If
I am not king, then you shall never be queen,” he said.
    “I
never expected to be queen,” she answered.
    That
surprised him even more.
    “I
never expected him to name you,” she added. “Why would he? You are not a
leader. You are a lover. But not my lover.”
    Gareth
felt himself reddening.
    “Nor
are you mine,” he said to her.
    It
was her turn to redden. She was not the only one who had a secret lover. Gareth
had spies of his own who told him of her exploits. He had let her get away with
it so far—as long as she kept it quiet, and left him alone.
    “It’s
not like you give me a choice,” she answered. “Do you expect me to remain
celibate the rest of my life?”
    “You
knew who I was,” he answered. “Yet you chose to marry me. You chose power, not
love. Don’t act surprised.”
    “Our
marriage was arranged,” she said. “I did not choose a thing.”
    “But
you did not protest,” he answered.
    Gareth
lacked the energy to argue with her today. She was a useful prop, a puppet
wife. He could tolerate her, and she could be useful on occasion—as long as she
did not annoy him too much.
    Gareth
watched with supreme cynicism as everyone turned to watch his eldest sister
being walked down the aisle by his father, that creature. The gall of him—he
even had the nerve to feign sadness, wiping a tear as he walked her. An actor
to the last. But in Gareth’s eyes, he was just a bumbling fool. He couldn’t
imagine his father felt any genuine sadness for marrying off his daughter, who,
after all, he was throwing to the wolves of the McCloud kingdom. Gareth felt an
equal disdain for Luanda, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. She seemed
to hardly care that she was being married off to a lesser people. She, too, was
after power. Cold-blooded. Calculated. In this way, she, of all his siblings,
was most like him. In some ways he could