The Sorcerer's Ring: Book 02 - A March of Kings

by Morgan Rice

  “Erec of the Southern Island Province of the Ring, may I introduce to you Dessbar, of the Second Province of the Lowlands,” the Duke said to Erec, as he turned to meet yet another fair maiden. The parade of introductions seemed to never end. This one was beautiful, too, dressed in white silk from head to toe, and she curtsied and smiled a gracious smile.

  “It is a pleasure, my Lord.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Erec said, standing out of courtesy and kissing her fingertips.

  “Dessbar comes from Emerald Plains, and from a noble family of the East. Her mother is third cousin to the Queen. She is of noble blood. She would make a fine match,” the Duke said.

  Erec nodded graciously, not wanting to offend her, or the Duke.

  “I can tell that she is of a fine lineage,” Erec said with a short bow. “It is a great privilege to meet you.”

  With that, he kissed her hand again, and seated himself. She looked somewhat disappointed, as if she wanted to talk to him more; the Duke did, too.

  But Erec did not feel whatever it was he was supposed to feel when he met this woman. And he wanted to approach finding his wife with the same discipline he did battle—with a single-minded focus and intensity.

  The feast went on, deep into the night, and Erec was glad to at least be in the company of his old friend, Brandt, seated on his right. They’d been sharing battle stories for half the night, and as the fires grew long and people filtered from the hall, they were still recounting stories.

  “Remember that hill?” Brandt asked. “When it was just the four of us, on patrol? Up against the entire company of McClouds?”

  Erec nodded. “Too well.”

  “I swear, if it wasn’t for you, I would be dead.”

  Erec shook his head. “I got lucky.”

  “You never get lucky,” Brandt said. “You’re the finest knight in the kingdom.”

  “It is true,” the Duke echoed, seated on his other side. “I fear for any knight who comes against you tomorrow.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Erec said, humbly. “You seem to have a vast array of warriors gathered here.”

  “That’s true, there are,” the Duke said. “They’ve descended on us from all corners of the Ring. It seems that every man wants the same thing in this world: a fine woman. God knows why. Once we get one, we can’t wait to get rid of her!”

  The men all laughed.

  “Tomorrow will certainly be a site,” the Duke added. “But I have no doubt in you.”

  “The only problem is,” Brandt chimed in, “is that the winner chooses a bride. Knowing you, you may choose no one—and offend every woman here!”

  Erec shook his head.

  “I mean no offense,” he said. “I suppose…I suppose I just have not found her yet.”

  “Are you telling me that not a single woman here suits you?” the Duke asked, surprised. “You have met some of the finest women this court has to offer. Any man here would die for some of them—and tomorrow, some of them just might.”

  “I mean no offense, my lord,” Erec said. “I do not consider myself more worthy than any of them. On the contrary, surely they are all more worthy than I. It is just that…well, I feel that I will know her when I see her. I don’t want to be hasty.”

  “Hasty!” Brandt yelled. “You’ve had twenty five years! How much more time do you want!?”

  They all laughed.

  “Just make a choice,” Brandt added, “and be weighed down with a bride and join the rest of our miserable lot. After all, misery loves company! And our kingdom must populate!”

  The group laughed again, and as Erec looked away, somewhat embarrassed by all the talk, his eyes froze. He happened to see, across the room, a serving girl, perhaps eighteen, with long, blonde hair, and large, almond green eyes. She wore a simple servant’s attire, hardly better than rags, as she went down the tables, person to person, filling vessels with wine. She kept her head down, never making eye contact, and was more humble than anyone Erec had ever seen. She was huddled with the other serving girls, and they worked hard. No one paid them any attention. They were of the servant class, and here, in court, class distinctions were treated very seriously: servants were treated as if they did not exist. Her clothes were soiled, and her hair looked as if it had not been washed in days. She looked dejected.

  And yet the second Erec saw her, it was as if he had been struck by lightning. Erec sensed something exuding from her which was special. She had a proud, even a regal, quality. Something told him that she was different than the others.

  As she came closer, filling each goblet, he caught a good look at her face as she turned, and his breath stopped. He had never felt this way before, not upon meeting anyone, not even any royalty. It was the feeling he had been hoping to feel his entire life. The feeling he did not know if he was ever capable of feeling.

  She was magnificent. He could hardly speak. He had to know who she was.

  “Who is that woman?” Erec asked the Duke, nodding.

  The Duke and several others turned excitedly to follow his gaze.

  “Which do you mean? Esmeralda? With the blue gown?”

  “No,” Erec said, pointing. “Her.”

  They all followed his glance in silence and confusion.

  “Do you mean the servant girl?” ___ asked.

  Erec nodded.

  The Duke shrugged.

  “Who knows? Just another servant,” he said dismissively. “Why do you ask? Do you know her?”

  “No,” Erec answered, his voice catching in his throat. “But I wish to.”

  The girl came closer, and reached their group, and bent down to fill Erec’s goblet. He was so mesmerized, he forgot to raise it.

  Finally, she looked up at him. As she did, so close, as her eyes met his, he felt his whole world melt away.

  “My Lord?” she asked, staring back at him. Her eyes froze in his, and seemed to widen, too. She, too, seemed captivated by him. It was as if they were meeting again.

  “My Lord?” she repeated, after several seconds. “Shall I fill your goblet?”

  Erec stared at her, forgetting his manners, too dumbfounded to speak. After several seconds of staring back at him, finally, she moved on. She turned and checked back over her shoulder a few times as she went, looking at him.

  Then finally, she set down the pitcher, turned, and ran from the hall.

  Erec stood, watching her.

  “I must know her,” Erec said to the Duke.

  “Her?” the Duke asked, in shock.

  “But she’s a servant girl. Why would you want to know her?” Brandt asked.

  Erec stood, electrified, knowing for the first time exactly what he wanted.

  “She is the one I want. She is the one I will fight for.”

  “Her!?” Brandt asked, stunned, standing beside him.

  The Duke stood, too.

  “You could choose any woman in the kingdom, on both sides of the Ring. You could choose a princess. A lord’s daughter. A woman with a dowry as wide as the kingdom. And you would choose her? A servant girl?”

  But their words hardly phased Erec. He watched, mesmerized, as she fled from the hall, out a side room.

  “Where is she going?” he demanded. “I must know.”

  “Erec, are you sure about this?” Brandt asked.

  “You are making a grave mistake,” the Duke added. “And you would snub all the women here, all of high royalty.”

  Erec turned to him, earnest.

  “I aim to snub no one,” he answered. “But that is the woman I am going to marry. Will you help me find her?”

  The Duke nodded to his attendant, who ran off, on the mission.

  He raised a hand and clasped Erec’s shoulder, and broke into a hearty smile.

  “It is true what they say about you, my friend. You do not defer to what others think. And that is, I think, what I love about you best.”

  The Duke sighed.

  “We will find you this servant girl. And we
will make a match!”

  A cheer rose up around Erec, as others clasped him on his back. But he paid attention to none of it. His mind was only on one thing: that girl. He felt, without a doubt, that he had found the love of his life.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Gareth stood there, in his father’s ruling chamber, looking out through the open window over King’s Court, like his father used to love to do. His father used to stroll out, onto the parapets, but Gareth felt no need to do that. He was perfectly happy, standing here, indoors, at the edge of the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and looking out over his people from the shadows.

  His people. They were his people now. He could hardly believe it.

  He stood there, rooted in place, the crown securely on his head as it had been since the ceremony. He would not take it off. He also wore his father’s white and black mantle, even in the summer heat, and clutched in his hand his father’s long, golden scepter. He was beginning to feel like a king—a real king—and he loved the feeling. All his subjects, as he walked, bowed to him. To him, not to his father. It made him feel a rush of adrenaline unlike any he had felt before. All eyes were turned to him, all hours of the day.

  He had really done it. He had managed to kill his father, to cover up the crime, and to wipe out all obstacles between him and the kingship. They had all fell for it. And now that they had crowned him, there was no turning back. Now there was nothing they could do to change it.

  Yet now that Gareth was King, he scarcely knew what to do. All his life he had dreamt of this moment; now that he’d achieved it, he did not know what was next. His first impression was that being king was lonely. He had stood here, alone in this room for hours, watching the court. Down below, in the lower chambers, his counsel awaited him for a meeting. He had decided to make them wait. In fact, he enjoyed making them wait. He was King, and he could make anyone wait that he wanted to, for as long as he wanted.

  As he had stood here, watching over his people, he had pondered how to solidify and secure his power. To start with, he would have Kendrick imprisoned, then, executed. It was too much of a risk to have Kendrick alive, the firstborn, the most loved of his family. He smiled as he thought of the guards already on their way to take Kendrick in.

  Then he would have Thor killed. He, too, was a threat, given how close he had been to his father; who knew what his father had told him while on his deathbed? Perhaps he had even identified Firth. Gareth was pleased with himself for setting into motions plans for his assassination; he had wisely paid off a Legion member to do the trick. Once they reached the Isle of Mist, he would ambush Thor and finish him off. He was assured that Thor would not return.

  When Thor and Kendrick were out of the way, he would turn to Gwendolyn. She, too, posed a threat. After all, his father’s last wish was for her to rule. As long as she was alive, the possibility of revolt lingered.

  Finally, most importantly, was the one issue that loomed on his mind most: the Dynasty Sword. Would he attempt to wield it? If he could, it would set him apart from every MacGil king that had ever ruled. It would make all the people love him, for all time. It would mean that he was the chosen one, the one destined to rule. It would validate him, and it would secure his throne forever. Gareth had dreamt his whole life of the moment when he would wield it, from the time he was a boy. A part of him felt certain that he could.

  Yet another part of him was not so sure.

  The door to his chamber suddenly barged open, and Gareth turned, wondering who could be so impudent as to barge in on the king. His face fell as he saw that it was Firth, strutting in past the guards, who gave Gareth a befuddled look. Firth had grown too brazen since Gareth had become crowned—he acted as if he ruled the kingdom with him. Gareth resented him barging in like this, and wondered if he had made a mistake in elevating him, in making him his adviser. Yet at the same time, he had to admit that he was happy to see him. A part of him was tired of being alone. And he hardly knew who he could be friends with, now that he was King. He seemed to have isolated everyone in his life.

  Gareth nodded to the guards, who closed the door behind Firth. Firth crossed the room, and embraced Gareth. He leaned back and tried to kiss him, but Gareth turned away.

  Gareth wasn’t in the mood for him. He’d interrupted his thoughts.

  Firth looked hurt, but then quickly smiled.

  “My Liege,” he said, stretching out the word. “Don’t you love being called that? It’s so becoming of you!” Firth clapped his hands in delight. “Can you believe it? You are King. Thousands of subjects stand waiting for your every beck and call. There is nothing we cannot do!”

  “We?” Gareth asked, darkly.

  Firth hesitated.

  “I mean…you, my lord. Can you imagine? Anything you want. Right now, everyone awaits your decision.”

  “Decision?”

  “About the sword,” Firth said. “The whole kingdom is whispering. That’s all they’re talking about. Will you attempt to wield it?”

  Gareth studied him. Firth was more perceptive than he thought; maybe it was good having him as an adviser.

  “And what would you suggest I do?”

  “You have to do it! If you don’t, you will be perceived as too weak to even try. They will assume that means you are not meant to be king. Because, in their eyes, if you truly felt entitled, then you would certainly try to hoist it.”

  Gareth thought about that. There was some truth to his words. Maybe he was right.

  “Besides,” Firth said, smiling, coming up beside him, linking arms and walking with him towards the window. “You are meant to be king. You are the one.”

  Gareth turned and looked at him, already feeling aged.

  “No I’m not,” he said, honestly. “I took the throne. It was not handed to me.”

  “That does not mean you’re not meant to have it,” Firth said. “We are only given what we are meant to have in this life. For some, destiny is handed to them; others need to take it for themselves. That makes you greater, my lord, not lesser. Think about it,” he said, “you’re the only MacGil to have taken a throne, who didn’t sit back and have it lazily handed to him. Does that mean something to you? It does to me. To me, it means that you, and you alone of all the MacGils are the one meant to wield the sword, to rule forever. And if you do, just imagine: all the peoples, from all corners of the Ring and beyond will bow down to you, forever. You will unite the Ring. No one would ever doubt your legitimacy.”

  Firth turned and looked at him, his eyes shining with excitement and anticipation.

  “You have to try!”

  Gareth pulled away from Firth, crossing the room. He thought about it, wanting to take it all in. Firth had a point. Maybe he was destined to be king. Maybe he had underestimated himself; maybe he had just been too hard on himself. After all, his father was meant to die—or else he would not have died. Maybe it all happened this way because Gareth was meant to be the better king. Yes, maybe his killing his father was for the good of the kingdom.

  Gareth heard a shout, and he turned and looked out over King’s Court and saw the parade passing below, the celebration for the new King, the banners being hoisted. He saw his soldiers marching in formation. It was a beautiful, perfect summer day. As he looked down, he could not help feeling as if all of this had been destined. Like Firth said: if he was not meant to be king, he would not be king. He would not be standing here right now.

  He knew this was the most important decision of his entire kingship, and it was one he would have to make now. He wished that Argon were here now, to offer him counsel, but he also sensed that Argon hated him, and even if he gave him advice, he wondered if it would be the right advice.

  Gareth sighed, then finally turned from the window. The time had come to make the first major decision of his kingship.

  “Summon the guards,” he ordered Firth, as he turned and walked for the door. “Prepare the dynasty chamber.”

  He stopped and turned to Fir
th, who stood there, staring back excitedly.

  “I am going to wield the sword.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  King McCloud sat on his horse on the peak of the Highlands, flanked by his son, his top generals, and hundreds of his men, as he looked down greedily at the MacGil’s side of the Ring. On this summer day a warm breeze pushed back his long hair, and he peered down at their lush land with envy. It was the land he’d always wished for, the land his father and his father before him had always wanted, the choicer side of the Ring, with more fertile land, deeper rivers, richer soil, and purer water. His side of the Highlands, the McCloud side of the Ring, had been adequate, maybe even good. But it wasn’t choice. It wasn’t the MacGil side. He didn’t have the very best vineyards, the richest milk, the brightest rays of the sun. And McCloud, as his father before him, was determined to change that. The MacGils had enjoyed the better half of the Ring for long enough; now it was time for the McClouds to have it.

  As McCloud sat at the very top of the Highlands, eyeing the MacGil side for the first time since he was a boy, he felt optimism. The fact that he was even able to be up this high told him everything he needed to know. In the past, the MacGils had always guarded the Highlands so carefully that the McClouds could not even find a single way to pass through—and certainly could not sit on the high ground. Now his men had cleared it with only the slightest skirmish. The MacGils were truly not expecting an attack from their ancient adversaries. It was either that or, McCloud supposed, the new MacGil king was weak, unprepared. Gareth. He’d met him on several occasions. He was nothing like his father. To think that the kingdom was now in his hands was laughable.