A Quest of Heroes by Morgan Rice

seem genuine. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and couldn’t help but feel as if they were all evaluating him, though he knew they were not. The aisle could not be short enough; he could not wait to reach the end and stand near his sister at the altar, and get this over with. He also could not stop thinking about his meeting with his father: he wondered if all these onlookers already knew the news.
    “I received ill news today,” he whispered to Helena as they finally reached the end, and the eyes were off him.
    “Do you think I don’t know that already?” she snapped.
    He turned and looked at her, surprised.
    She looked back with contempt. “I have my spies,” she said.
    He narrowed his eyes, wanting to hurt her. How could she be so nonchalant?
    “If 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. He was reminding her that she was not the only one that had a secret lover. He had heard rumors, had spies of his own that 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.
    They were at a stalemate, and 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. He 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, as Argon presided 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. They 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, bows and arrows—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