Ring!”
“HERE HERE!” came a chorus of shouts, and everyone drank and the room once again filled with the noise of laughter and feasting.
MacGil sat back and surveyed the room, looking for his other children. There, of course, was Godfrey, drinking with two fists, a girl on each shoulder, surrounded by his miscreant friends. This was probably the one royal event he had ever willingly attended. There was Gareth, sitting too closely to his lover, Firth, whispering in his ear; MacGil could see from his darting, restless eyes, that he was plotting something. The thought of it made his stomach turn, and he looked away. There, on the far side of the room, was his youngest son, Reece, feasting at the squires’ table, with the new boy, Thor. He already felt like a son, and he was pleased to see his youngest was fast friends with him.
He scanned the faces for his younger daughter, Gwendolyn, and finally found her, sitting off to the side, surrounded by her handmaids, giggling. He followed her gaze, and noticed she was watching Thor. He examined her for a long time, and realized she was smitten. He had not foreseen this, and he was not quite sure what to make of it. He sensed trouble there. Especially from his wife.
“All things are not what they seem,” came a voice.
MacGil turned to see Argon sitting by his side, watching the two clans dining together.
“What do you make of all this?” MacGil asked. “Will there be peace in the kingdoms?”
“Peace is never static,” Argon said. “It ebbs and flows, like the tides. What you see before you is the veneer of peace. You see one side of its face. You’re trying to force peace on an ancient rivalry. But there are hundreds of years of spilled blood. The souls cry out for vengeance. And that cannot be appeased with a single marriage.”
“What are you saying?” MacGil asked, taking another gulp of his wine, feeling nervous, as he often did around Argon.
Argon turned and stared at him with an intensity so strong, it struck panic into MacGil’s heart.
“There will be war. The McClouds will attack. Prepare yourself. All of the house guests you see before you will soon be doing their best to murder your family.”
MacGil gulped.
“Did I make the wrong decision to marry her off to them?”
Argon was silent for a while, until finally he said: “Not necessarily.”
Argon looked away, and MacGil could see that he was finished with the topic. He was disappointed, because there were a million questions he wanted answered: but he knew his sorcerer would not answer them until he was ready. So instead, he watched Argon’s eyes, and realized that they were watching his other daughter. Gwendolyn. He looked, too, and saw Gwendolyn watching Thor.
“Do you see them together?” MacGil asked, suddenly curious to know.
“Perhaps,” Argon answered. “There is still much yet to be decided.”
“You speak in riddles.”
Argon shrugged and looked away, and MacGil realized he wouldn’t get any more from him.
“You saw what happened on the field today?” MacGil prodded. “With the boy?”
“I saw it before it happened,” Argon replied.
“And what do you make of it? What are the source of the boy’s powers? Is he like you?”
Argon turned and stared into MacGil’s eyes, and the intensity of his stare almost made him look away.
“He is far more powerful than me.”
MacGil stared back, shocked. He had never heard Argon speak like this.
“More powerful? Than you? How is that possible? You are the king’s sorcerer-there is no one more powerful than you in all the land.”
Argon shrugged.
“Power does not only come in one form,” he said. “The boy has powers beyond what you can imagine. Powers beyond what he knows. He has no idea who he is. Or where he hails from.”
Argon turned and stared at MacGil.
“But you do,” he added.
MacGil stared back, wondering.
“Do I?” MacGil asked. “Tell me. I need to know.”
Argon shook his head.
“Search your feelings. They are true.”
“What will become of him?” MacGil asked.
“He will become a great leader. And a great warrior. He will rule kingdoms in his own right. Far greater kingdoms than you. And he will be a far greater king than you. It is his destiny.”
For a brief moment, MacGil burned with envy. He turned and examined the boy, laughing harmlessly with his son, at a table for squires, the commoner, the weak outsider, the youngest of the bunch. He didn’t imagine how it was possible. Looking at him now, he looked barely eligible to join the Legion. He wondered for a moment if Argon was wrong.
But he knew that Argon had never been wrong, and that he never made pronouncements without a reason.
“Why are you telling me this?” MacGil asked.
Argon turned and stared at him.
“Because it is your time to prepare. The boy needs to be trained. He needs to be given the best of everything. It is your responsibility.”
“Mine? And what of his father?”
“What of him?” Argon asked.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thor peeled open his eyes, disoriented, wondering where he was. He lay on the floor, on a mound of straw, his face planted sideways, his arms dangling over his head. He lifted his face, wiping the drool off, and immediately felt a stab of pain in his head, behind his eyes. It was the worst headache of his life. He remembered the night before, the king’s feast, the drinking, his first taste of ale. The room was spinning. His throat was dry, and at that moment he vowed he would never drink again.
Thor looked around, trying to get his bearings in the cavernous barracks. Everywhere were bodies, lying on heaps of straw, the room filled with snoring; he turned the other way, and saw Reece, a few feet away, passed out, too. It was then he realized: he was in the barracks. The Legion’s barracks. All around him were boys about his age, and there looked to be about fifty of them.
Thor vaguely remembered Reece showing him the way, in the late hours of the morning, and his crashing on the mound of straw. Early morning light flooded in through the open windows, and Thor soon realized he was the only one yet awake. He looked down and saw he had slept in his clothes, and reached up and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He would give anything for a chance to bathe-although he had no idea where. And he would do anything for a pint of water. His stomach rumbled, and he wanted food, too.
It was all so new to him. He barely knew where he was, where life would take him next, what the routines were of the king’s Legion. He was happy. It had been a dazzling night, one of the finest of his life. He had found a close friend in Reece, and he had caught Gwendolyn looking at him once or twice. He had tried to speak with her, but each time he approached, his courage failed. He felt the pain of regret as he thought about it. There had been too many people around. If it was ever just the two of them, he would gain the courage. But would there be a next time?
Before Thor could finish the thought, there was a sudden banging on the wooden doors of the barracks, and a moment later, they crashed open, light flooding in.
“To your feet, squires!” came a shout.
In marched a dozen members of the King’s Silver, chain mail rattling, banging on the wooden walls with metal staffs. The noise was deafening, and all-around Thor, the other boys jumped to their feet.
Leading the group was a particularly fierce-looking soldier, the one Thor recognized from the arena of the day
