A Quest of Heroes. Morgan Rice

protected by the Canyon, they sat on choice land, and had nothing to fear. Why couldn’t they be content with their own half of the Ring? It was only because MacGil had grown his army so strong that, for the first time in history, the McClouds had dared not attack. But MacGil, the wise king he was, sensed something on the horizon; he knew this peace could not last. Thus, he had arranged this marriage of his eldest daughter to the eldest prince of the McClouds. And now the day had arrived.

      As he looked down, he saw stretched below him thousands of minions dressed in brightly colored tunics, filtering in from every corner of the kingdom, from both sides of the Highlands. Nearly the entire Ring, all pouring into his fortifications. His people had prepared for months, commanded to make everything look prosperous, strong. This was not just a day for marriage; it was a day to send a message to the McClouds.

      MacGil surveyed his hundreds of soldiers lined up strategically along the ramparts, in the streets, along the walls, more soldiers than he could ever need – and felt satisfied. It was the show of strength he wanted. But he also felt on edge; the environment was charged, ripe for a skirmish. He hoped no hotheads, inflamed with drink, rose up on either side.

      He scanned the jousting fields, the playing fields, and thought of the day to come, filled with games and jousts and all sorts of festivities. They would be intense. The McClouds would surely show up with their own small army, and every joust, every wrestle, every competition, would take on meaning. If even one went awry, it could evolve into a battle.

      “My King?”

      He felt a soft hand on his and turned to see his Queen, Krea, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Happily married to him his entire reign, she had borne him five children, three of them boys, and had not complained once. Moreover, she had become his most trusted counselor. As the years passed, he had come to learn she was wiser than all of his men. Indeed, wiser than he.

      “It is a political day,” she said. “But also our daughter’s wedding. Try to enjoy. It won’t happen twice.”

      “I worried less when I had nothing,” he answered. “Now that we have it all, everything worries me. We are safe. But I don’t feel safe.”

      She looked back at him with compassionate eyes, large and hazel; they looked as if they held the wisdom of the world. Her eyelids drooped, as they always had, looking just a bit sleepy, and were framed by her beautiful, straight brown hair tinged with gray, which fell on both sides of her face. She had a few more lines, but she hadn’t changed a bit.

      “That’s because you’re not safe,” she said. “No king is safe. There are more spies in our court than you’ll ever care to know. And that is the way of things.”

      She leaned in and kissed him, and smiled.

      “Try to enjoy it,” she said. “It is a wedding after all.”

      With that, she turned and walked off the ramparts.

      He watched her go, then turned and looked out over his court. She was right; she was always right. He did want to enjoy it. He loved his eldest daughter, and it was a wedding after all. It was the most beautiful day of the most beautiful time of year, spring at its height, with summer dawning, the two suns perfect in the sky, and the slightest of breezes astir. Everything was in full bloom, trees everywhere awash in a broad palette of pinks and purples and oranges and whites. There was nothing he’d like more than to go down and sit with his men, watch his daughter get married, and drink pints of ale until he could drink no more.

      But he could not. He had a long course of duties before he could even step out of his castle. After all, the day of a daughter’s wedding meant obligation for a king: he had to meet with his council; with his children; and with a long a line of supplicants who had a right to see the King on this day. He would be lucky if he left his castle in time for the sunset ceremony.

* * *

      MacGil, dressed in his finest royal garb, velvet black pants, a golden belt, a royal robe made of the finest purple and gold silk, a white mantle, shiny leather boots up to his calves, and wearing his crown – an ornate gold band with a large ruby set in its center – strutted down the castle halls, flanked by attendants. He strode through room after room, descending the steps from the parapet, cutting through his royal chambers, through the great arched hall, with its soaring ceiling and rows of stained glass. Finally, he reached an ancient oak door, thick as a tree trunk, which his attendants opened before stepping aside. The Throne Room.

      His advisors stood at attention as MacGil entered, the door slamming shut behind him.

      “Be seated,” he said, more abrupt than usual. He was tired, on this day especially, of the endless formalities of ruling the kingdom, and wanted to get them over with.

      He strode across the Throne Room, which never ceased to impress him. Its ceilings soared fifty feet high, one entire wall a panel of stained glass, floors and walls made of stone a foot thick. The room could easily hold a hundred dignitaries. But on days like today, when his council convened, it was just him and his handful of advisors in the cavernous setting. The room was dominated by a vast table shaped in a semicircle, behind which his advisors stood.

      He strutted through the opening, right down the middle, to his throne. He ascended 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 stayed still. Firth 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 semicircular table, spread out every ten feet, each sitting in a chair of ancient oak with elaborately 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 our 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