Sorcerer's Ring (Books 1 ,2, and 3). Morgan Rice
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I am not king, then you shall never be queen,” he said.
“I never expected to be queen,” she answered.
That surprised him even more.
“I never expected him to name you,” she added. “Why would he? You are not a leader. You are a lover. But not my lover.”
Gareth felt himself reddening.
“Nor are you mine,” he said to her.
It was her turn to redden. She was not the only one who had a secret lover. Gareth had spies of his own who told him of her exploits. He had let her get away with it so far—as long as she kept it quiet, and left him alone.
“It’s not like you give me a choice,” she answered. “Do you expect me to remain celibate the rest of my life?”
“You knew who I was,” he answered. “Yet you chose to marry me. You chose power, not love. Don’t act surprised.”
“Our marriage was arranged,” she said. “I did not choose a thing.”
“But you did not protest,” he answered.
Gareth lacked the energy to argue with her today. She was a useful prop, a puppet wife. He could tolerate her, and she could be useful on occasion—as long as she did not annoy him too much.
Gareth watched with supreme cynicism as everyone turned to watch his eldest sister being walked down the aisle by his father, that creature. The gall of him—he even had the nerve to feign sadness, wiping a tear as he walked her. An actor to the last. But in Gareth’s eyes, he was just a bumbling fool. He couldn’t imagine his father felt any genuine sadness for marrying off his daughter, who, after all, he was throwing to the wolves of the McCloud kingdom. Gareth felt an equal disdain for Luanda, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. She seemed to hardly care that she was being married off to a lesser people. She, too, was after power. Cold-blooded. Calculated. In this way, she, of all his siblings, was most like him. In some ways he could relate to her, though they never had much warmth for each other.
Gareth shifted on his feet, impatient, waiting for it all to end.
He suffered through the ceremony, Argon presiding over the blessings, reciting the spells, performing the rituals. It was all a charade, and it made him sick. It was just the union of two families for political reasons. Why couldn’t they just call it what it was?
Soon enough, thank heavens, it was over. The crowd rose up in a huge cheer as the two kissed. A great horn was blown, and the perfect order of the wedding dissolved into controlled chaos. The royal family all made their way back down the aisle and over to the reception area.
Even Gareth, as cynical as he was, was impressed by the site: his father had spared no expense this time. Stretching out before them were all manner of tables, banquets, vats of wine, an endless array of roasting pigs and sheep and lamb.
Behind them, they were already preparing for the main event: the games. There were targets being prepared for stone-hurling, spear-throwing, archery—and, at the center of it all, the jousting lane. Already, the masses were crowding around it.
Crowds were already parting for the knights on both sides. For the MacGils, the first to enter, of course, was Kendrick, mounted on his horse and bedecked in armor, followed by dozens of the Silver. But it was not until Erec arrived, set back from the others, on his white horse, that the crowd quieted in awe. He was like a magnet for attention: even Helena leaned forward, and Gareth noted her lust for him, like all the other women.
“He’s nearly of selection age, yet he’s not married. Any woman in the kingdom would marry him. Why does he choose none of us?”
“And what do you care?” Gareth asked, feeling jealous, despite himself. He too, wanted to be up there, in armor, on a horse, jousting for his father’s name. But he was not a warrior. And everyone knew it.
Helena ignored him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You are not a man,” she said, derisively. “You do not understand these things.”
Gareth blushed. He wanted to let her have it, but now was not the time. Instead, he accompanied her as she took a seat in the stands, with the others, to watch the day’s festivities. This day was going from worse to worse, and Gareth already felt a pit in his stomach. It would be a very long day, a day of endless chivalry, of pomp, of pretense. Of men wounding or killing each other. A day he was completely excluded from. A day that represented everything he hated.
As he sat there, he brooded. He wished silently that the festivities would erupt into a full-fledged battle, that there would be full-scale bloodshed before him, that everything good about this place be destroyed, torn to bits.
One day he would have his way. One day he would be king.
One day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thor did his best to keep up with Erec’s squire, hurrying to catch up as he weaved his way through the masses. It had been such a whirlwind since the arena, he could hardly process what was happening all around him. He was still trembling inside, could still hardly believe he had been accepted into the Legion, and he had been named second squire to Erec.
“I told you, boy—keep up!” Feithgold snapped.
Thor resented being called “boy,” especially as the squire was hardly a few years older. Feithgold darted in out of the crowd, almost as if he were trying to lose Thor.
“Is it always this crowded here?” Thor called out, trying to catch up.
“Of course not!” Feithgold yelled back. “Today is not only the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, but also the day the king chose for his daughter’s wedding—and the only day in history we’ve opened our gates to the McClouds. There has never been such a crowd here as now. It is unprecedented. I hadn’t expected this! I fear we will be late!” he said, all in a rush, as he sped through the crowd.
“Where are we going?” Thor asked.
“We’re going to do what every good squire does: to help our knight prepare!”
“Prepare for what?” Thor pressed, nearly out of breath. It was getting hotter by the minute, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“The royal joust!”
They finally reached the edge of the crowd and stopped before a king’s guard, who recognized Feithgold and gestured to the others to let them pass.
They slipped under a rope and stepped into a clearing, free from the masses. Thor could hardly believe it: there, up close, were the jousting lanes. Behind the ropes stood mobs of spectators, and up and down the dirt lanes stood huge warhorses—the largest Thor had ever seen—mounted by knights in all manner of armor. Mixed among The Silver were knights from all over the two kingdoms, from every province, some in black armor, others in white, wearing helmets and donning weapons of every shape and size. It looked as if the entire world had descended on these jousting lanes.
There were already some competitions in progress, knights from places Thor did not recognize charging each other, clanging lances and shields, followed always by a short cheer from the crowd. Up close, Thor could not believe the strength and speed of the horses, the sound the weapons made. It was a deadly art.
“It hardly seems like a sport!” Thor said to Feithgold as he followed him along the perimeter of the lanes.
“That’s because it is not,” Feithgold yelled back, over the sound of a clang. “It is a serious business, masked as a game. People die here, every day. It is battle. Lucky are the ones who walk away unscathed. They are far and few between.”
Thor looked up as two knights charged each other and collided at full speed. There was an awful crash of metal on metal, then one of them flew off his horse and landed on his back, just feet away from Thor.
The crowd gasped. The knight did not stir, and Thor saw a piece of a wooden shaft stuck