A Quest of Heroes by Morgan Rice Page A

a McCloud: his father thought himself a master politician. But Gareth was more far-sighted than his father, was able to consider more of the ramifications, and was already looking one step farther. He knew where this would lead. Ultimately, this marriage would not appease the McClouds, but embolden them. They were brutes, so they would see this peace offering not as a sign of strength, but of weakness. They would not care for a bond between the families, and as soon as his sister was taken away, Gareth felt certain they would plan an attack. It was all a ruse. He had tried to tell his father, but he would not listen.
    Not that any of this was his concern anymore. After all, now he was just another prince, just another cog in the kingdom. Gareth positively burned at the thought of it, and he hated his father at that moment with a hatred he never knew was possible. As he crammed in, shoulder to shoulder with the masses, he imagined ways he could take revenge, and ways he could get the kingship after all. He could not just sit idly by, that was for certain. He could not let the kingship go to his younger sister.
    “There you are,” came a voice.
    Gareth turned and saw Firth, walking up beside him, wearing a jolly smile, 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 dressed in fineries, 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