Reece had already turned away, and Thor turned and hurried after the squire as he ran across the field. He had no idea where they were going—but he didn’t care. He was singing inside. He had made it.
He could hardly believe it.
He had made it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gareth hurried across King’s court, dressed in his royal fineries, pushing his way amidst the masses who poured in from all directions for his sister’s wedding, and he fumed. He was still reeling from his encounter with his father. How was it possible that he was skipped over? That his father would not choose him as king? It made no sense. He was the firstborn legitimate son. That was the way it had always worked. He had always, from the time he was born, assumed he would reign—he had no reason to think otherwise.
It was unconscionable. Passing him over for a younger sibling—and a girl, no less. When word spread, he would be the laughingstock of the kingdom. As he walked, he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, and he did not know how to catch his breath.
He stumbled his way with the masses towards the wedding ceremony of his elder sister. He looked about, saw the multitude of colored robes, the endless streams of people, all the different folk from all the different provinces. He hated being this close to commoners. This was the one time when the poor could mingle with the rich, the one time those savages from the Eastern Kingdom, from the far side of the Highlands, had been allowed in, too. Gareth still could hardly conceive that his sister was being married off to one of them. It was a shrewd political move by his father, a pathetic attempt to make peace between the kingdoms.
Even stranger, somehow, his sister seemed to actually like this creature. Gareth could hardly conceive why. Knowing her, it was not the man she liked, but the title, the chance to be queen of her own province. She would get what she deserved: they were all savages, those on the other side of the Highlands. In Gareth’s mind, they lacked his civility, his refinery, his sophistication. It was not his problem. If his sister was happy, let her be married off. It was just one less sibling to have around that might stand in his way to the throne. In fact, the farther away she was, the better.
Not that any of this was his concern anymore. After today, he would never be king. Now, he would be relegated to being just another anonymous prince in his father’s kingdom. Now, he had no path to power; now he was doomed to a life of mediocrity.
His father had underestimated him—he always had. His father considered himself politically shrewd—but Gareth knew that he was much shrewder, and always had been. For instance, this marrying off of Luanda to 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 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.