Sorcerer's Ring (Books 1 ,2, and 3). Morgan Rice

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. But he knew it would not. That was the curse—and the power—of a legend. Stronger, even, than an army.

      As he stared at it for the thousandth time, MacGil couldn’t help but wonder once again who it would be. Who of his bloodline would be destined to wield it? As he thought of what lay before him, his task of naming an heir, he wondered who, if any, would be destined to hoist it.

      “The weight of the blade is heavy,” came a voice.

      MacGil spun, surprised to have company in the small room.

      There, standing in the doorway, was Argon. MacGil recognized the voice before he saw him and was both irritated with him for not showing up sooner and pleased to have him here now.

      “You’re late,” MacGil said.

      “Your sense of time does not apply to me,” Argon answered.

      MacGil turned back to the sword.

      “Did you ever think I would be able to hoist it?” he asked reflectively. “That day I became king?”

      “No,” Argon answered flatly.

      MacGil turned and stared at him.

      “You knew I would not be able to. You saw it, didn’t you?”

      “Yes.”

      MacGil pondered this.

      “It scares me when you answer directly. That is unlike you.”

      Argon stayed silent, and finally MacGil realized he wouldn’t say anymore.

      “I name my successor today,” MacGil said. “It feels futile, to name an heir on this day. It strips a king’s joy from his child’s wedding.”

      “Maybe such joy is meant to be tempered.”

      “But I have so many years left to reign,” MacGil pleaded.

      “Perhaps not as many as you think,” Argon answered.

      MacGil narrowed his eyes at Argon, wondering. Was it a message?

      But Argon added nothing more.

      “Six children. Which should I pick?” MacGil asked.

      “Why ask me? You have already chosen.”

      MacGil looked at him. “You see much. Yes, I have. But I still want to know what you think.”

      “I think you made a wise choice,” Argon said. “But remember: a king cannot rule from beyond the grave. Regardless of who you think you choose, fate has a way of choosing for itself.”

      “Will I live, Argon?” MacGil asked earnestly, asking the question he had wanted to know since he had awakened the night before from a horrific nightmare.

      “I dreamt last night of a crow,” he added. “It came and stole my crown. Then another carried me away. As it did, I saw my kingdom spread beneath me. It turned black as I went. Barren. A wasteland.”

      He looked up at Argon, his eyes watery.

      “Was it a dream? Or something more?”

      “Dreams are always something more, aren’t they?” Argon asked.

      MacGil was struck by a sinking feeling.

      “Where is the danger? Just tell me this much.”

      Argon stepped close and stared into his eyes, with such an intensity that MacGil felt as if he were staring into another realm itself.

      Argon leaned forward, whispered:

      “Always closer than you think.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Thor hid in the straw in the back of a wagon as it jostled him along the country road. He’d made his way to the road the night before and had waited patiently until a wagon came along large enough for him to board without being noticed. It was dark by then, and the wagon trotted along just slowly enough for him to gain a good running pace and leap in from behind. He’d landed in the hay, and buried himself inside. Luckily, the driver had not spotted him. Thor hadn’t known for certain if the wagon was going to King’s Court, but it was heading in that direction, and a wagon this size, and with these markings, could be going few other places.

      As Thor rode throughout the night, he stayed awake for hours, thinking of his encounter with the Sybold. With Argon. Of his destiny. His former home. His mother. He felt that the universe had answered him, had told him he had another destiny. He had lay there, hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the night sky, visible through the tattered canvas. He’d watched the universe, so bright, its red stars so far away. He was exhilarated. For once in his life, he was on a journey. He did not know where, but he was going. One way or the other, he would make his way to King’s Court.

      When Thor opened his eyes it was morning, light flooding in, and he realized he’d drifted off. He sat up quickly, looking all around, chiding himself for sleeping. He should have been more vigilant—he was lucky he had not been discovered.

      The cart still moved, but did not jostle as much. That could only mean one thing: a better road. They must be close to a city. Thor looked down, and saw how smooth the road was, free of rocks, of ditches, and lined with fine white shells. His heart beat faster: they were approaching King’s Court.

      Thor looked out the back of the cart and was overwhelmed: the immaculate streets were flooded with activity. Dozens of carts, of all shapes and sizes and carrying all manner of things, filled the roads. One was laden with furs; another with rugs; still another with chickens. Amidst them walked hundreds of merchants, some leading cattle, others carrying baskets of goods on their heads. Four men carried a bundle of silks, balancing them on poles. It was an army of people, all heading in one direction.

      Thor felt alive. He’d never seen so many people at once, so many goods, so much happening. He’d been in a small village his entire life, and now he was in a hub, engulfed in humanity.

      He heard a loud noise, the groaning of chains, the slamming of a huge piece of wood, so strong the ground shook. Moments later came a different sound, of horses’ hooves clacking on wood. He looked down, and realized they were crossing a bridge; beneath them passed a moat. A drawbridge.

      Thor stuck his head out and saw immense stone pillars, the spiked iron gate above. They were passing through King’s Gate.

      It was the largest gate he had ever seen. He looked up at the spikes, and marveled that if they came down, they would slice him in half. He spotted four of the king’s Silver, guarding the entry, and his heart beat faster.

      They passed through a long, stone tunnel, then moments later the sky opened again. They were inside King’s Court.

      Thor could hardly believe it. There was even more activity here, if possible—what seemed to be thousands of people, milling in every direction. There were vast stretches of grass, perfectly cut, and flowers blooming everywhere. The