by Morgan Rice
*
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 sank back, crestfallen.
“My king,” Brom said in his deep voice. “At your command, we have stationed the bulk of our forces in court for today’s event. The show of power will be impressive. But we are stretched thin. If there should be an attack elsewhere in the kingdom, we will be vulnerable.”
MacGil nodded, thinking it through.
“Our enemies will not attack us while we are feeding them.”
The men laughed.
“And what news from the Highlands?”
“There has been no reported activity for weeks. It seems their troops have drawn down in preparation for the wedding. Maybe they are ready to make peace.”
MacGil was not so sure.
“That either means the arranged wedding has worked, or they wait to attack us at another time. And which do you think it is, old man?” MacGil asked, turning to Aberthol.
Aberthol cleared his throat, his voice raspy as it came out: “My liege, your father and his father before him never trusted the McClouds. Just because they lie sleeping, does not mean they will not wake.”
MacGil nodded, appreciating the sentiment.
“And what of the Legion?” he asked, turning to Kolk.
“Today we welcomed the new recruits,” Kolk answered, with a quick nod.
“My son among them?” MacGil asked.
“He stands proudly with them all, and a fine boy he is.”
MacGil nodded, then turned to Bradaigh.
“And what word from beyond the Canyon?”
“My liege, our patrols have seen more attempts to bridge the Canyon in recent weeks. There may be signs that the Wilds are mobilizing for an attack.”
A hushed whisper spread amongst the men. MacGil felt his stomach tighten at the thought. The energy shield was invincible; still, it did not bode well.
“And what if there should be a full-scale attack?” he asked.
“As long as the shield is active, we have nothing to fear. The Wilds have not succeeded in breaching the Canyon for centuries. There is no reason to think otherwise.”
MacGil was not so certain. An attack from outside was long overdue, and he could not help but wonder when it might be.
“My liege,” Firth said in his nasally voice, “I feel obliged to add that today our court is filled with many dignitaries from the McCloud kingdom. It would be considered an insult for you not to entertain them, rivals or not. I would advise that you use your afternoon hours to greet each one. They have brought a large entourage, many gifts—and, word is, many spies.”
“Who is to say the spies are not already here?” MacGil asked back, looking carefully at Firth as he did—and wondering, as always, if he might be one himself.
Firth opened his mouth to answer, but MacGil sighed and held up a palm, having had enough. “If that is all, I will leave now, to join my daughter’s wedding.”
“My liege,” Kelvin said, clearing his throat, “of course, there is one more thing. The tradition, on the day of your eldest’s wedding. Every MacGil has named a successor. The people shall expect you to do the same. They have been buzzing. It would not be advisable to let them down. Especially with the Destiny Sword still immobile.”
“Would you have me name an heir while I am still in my prime?” MacGil asked.
“My liege, I mean no offense,” Kelvin stumbled, looking concerned.
MacGil held up a hand. “I know the tradition. And indeed, I shall name one today.”
“Might you inform us as to who?” Firth asked.
MacGil stared him down, annoyed. Firth was a gossip, and he did not trust this man.
“You will learn of the news when the time is right.”
MacGil stood, and the others rose, too. They bowed, turned, and hurried from the room.
MacGil stood there thinking for he did not know how long. On days like this he wished he was not king.
