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

younger sister.

      “There you are,” came a voice.

      It was Firth, walking up beside him, wearing a jolly smile and revealing his perfect teeth. 18, tall, thin, with a high voice and smooth skin and ruddy cheeks, Firth was his lover of the moment. Gareth was usually happy to see him, but was in no mood for him now.

      “I think you have been avoiding me all day,” Firth added, linking one arm around his as they walked.

      Gareth immediately shook off his arm, and checked to make sure no one had seen.

      “Are you stupid?” Gareth 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 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,”