A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page B

already see the man he was going to be. One day,
MacGil had no doubt, Reece would be his finest son, and a great ruler. But that
day was not now. He was too young yet, and had too much to learn.
    MacGil had mixed feelings as he
surveyed these four children, his three sons and daughter, standing before him.
He felt pride mingled with disappointment. He also felt anger and annoyance,
for two of his children were missing. The eldest, his daughter Luanda, of
course was preparing for her own wedding, and since she was being married off
to another kingdom, she had no business partaking in this discussion of heirs.
But his other son, Godfrey, the middle one, eighteen, was absent. MacGil
reddened from the snub.
    Ever since he was a boy, Godfrey
showed such a disrespect for the kingship, it was always clear that he cared
not for it and would never rule. MacGil’s greatest disappointment, Godfrey
instead chose to waste away his days in ale houses, with miscreant friends,
causing the royal family ever-increasing shame and dishonor. He was a slacker,
sleeping most of his days and filling the rest of them with drink. On the one hand,
MacGil was relieved he wasn’t here; on the other, it was an insult he could not
suffer. He had, in fact, expected this, and had sent out his men early to comb
the alehouses and bring him back. MacGil sat there silently, waiting, until
they did.
    The heavy oak door finally
slammed open and in marched the royal guards, dragging Godfrey between them.
They gave him a shove, and Godfrey stumbled into the room as they slammed the
door behind him.
    The children turned and stared.
Godfrey was slovenly, reeking of ale, unshaven, and half-dressed. He smiled
back. Insolent. As always.
    “Hello, Father,” Godfrey said.
“Did I miss all the fun?”
    “You will stand with your
siblings and wait for me to speak. If you don’t, God help me, I’ll chain you in
the dungeons with the rest of the common prisoners, and you won’t see food—much
less ale—for three days entire.”
    Godfrey stood there, defiant,
glaring back at his father. In that stare, MacGil detected some deep reservoir
of strength, something of himself, a spark of something that might one day
serve Godfrey well. That is, if he could ever overcome his own personality.
    Defiant to the end, Godfrey
waited a good ten seconds before finally complying and ambling over to the
others.
    As they all stood there, MacGil
surveyed these five children: the bastard, the deviant, the drunkard, his
daughter, and his youngest. It was a strange mix, and he could hardly believe
they had all sprung from him. And now, on his eldest daughter’s wedding day,
the task had fallen on him to choose an heir from this bunch. How was it
possible?
    It was an exercise in futility:
after all, he was in his prime and could rule for thirty more years; whatever
heir he chose today might not even ascend the throne for decades. The entire
tradition irked him. It may have been relevant in the times of his fathers, but
it had no place now.
    He cleared his throat.
    “We are gathered here today at
the bequest of tradition. As you know, on this day, the day of my eldest’s
wedding, the task has fallen upon me to name a successor. An heir to rule this
kingdom. Should I die, there is no one better fit to rule than your mother. But
our kingdom’s laws dictate that only the issue of a king may succeed. Thus, I
must choose.”
    MacGil caught his breath,
thinking. A heavy silence hung in the air, and he could feel the weight of
anticipation. He looked in their eyes, and saw different expressions in each.
The bastard looked resigned, knowing he would not be picked. The deviant’s eyes
were aglow with ambition, as if expecting the choice naturally to fall on him.
The drunkard looked out the window; he did not care. His daughter looked back
with love, knowing she was not part of this discussion, but loving her father
nonetheless. The same with his youngest.
    “Kendrick, I have always
considered