A Quest of Heroes by Morgan Rice Page B

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 he 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, killed 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