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nothing
he’d like more than to go down and sit with his men, watch his daughter get
married, and drink pints of ale until he could drink no more.
    But he could not. He had a long
course of duties before he could even step out of his castle. After all, the
day of a daughter’s wedding meant obligation for a king: he had to meet with
his council; with his children; and with a long a line of supplicants who had a
right to see the king on this day. He would be lucky if he left his castle in
time for the sunset ceremony.
    *
    MacGil, dressed in his finest
royal garb, velvet black pants, a golden belt, a royal robe made of the finest
purple and gold silk, donning his white mantle, shiny leather boots up to his
calves, and wearing his crown—an ornate gold band with a large ruby set in its
center—strutted down the castle halls, flanked by attendants. He strode through
room after room, descending the steps from the parapet, cutting through his
royal chambers, through the great arched hall, with its soaring ceiling and
rows of stained glass. Finally, he reached an ancient oak door, thick as a tree
trunk, which his attendants opened before stepping aside. The Throne Room.
    His advisors stood at attention
as MacGil entered, the door slamming shut behind him.
    “Be seated,” he said, more abrupt
than usual. He was tired, on this day especially, of the endless formalities of
ruling the kingdom, and wanted to get them over with.
    He strode across the Throne Room,
which never ceased to impress him, its ceilings soaring fifty feet high, one
entire wall a panel of stained glass, floors and walls made of stone a foot
thick. The room could easily hold a hundred dignitaries. But on days like
today, when his council convened, it was just him and his handful of advisors
in the cavernous setting. The room was dominated by a vast table, shaped in a
semi-circle, behind which his advisors stood.
    He strutted through the opening,
right down the middle, to his throne. He ascended the stone steps, passed the
carved golden lions, and sank into the red velvet cushion lining his throne, wrought
entirely of gold. His father had sat on this throne, as had his father,
and all the MacGils before him. When he sat, MacGil felt the weight of his
ancestors—of all the generations—upon him.
    He surveyed the advisors in
attendance. There was Brom, his greatest general, and his advisor on military
affairs; Kolk, the general of the boys’ Legion; Aberthol, the oldest of the
bunch, a scholar and historian, mentor of kings for three generations; Firth,
his advisor on internal affairs of the court, a skinny man with short, gray
hair and hollowed-out eyes that never sat still. He was not a man that MacGil
had ever trusted, and he never even understood his title. But his father, and
his before him, kept an advisor for court affairs, and so he kept it out of
respect for them. There was Owen, his treasurer; Bradaigh, his advisor on
external affairs; Earnan, his tax collector; Duwayne, his advisor on the
masses; and Kelvin, the representative of the nobles.
    Of course, the King had absolute
authority. But his kingdom was a liberal one, and his fathers had always taken
pride in allowing the nobles a voice in all matters, channeled through their
representative. It was historically an uneasy power balance between the
kingship and the nobles. Now there was harmony, but during other times there
had been uprisings and power struggles between the nobles and royalty. It was a
fine balance.
    As MacGil surveyed the room he
noticed one person missing: the very man he wanted to speak with most. Argon.
As usual, when and where he showed up was unpredictable. It infuriated MacGil
to no end, but he had no choice but to accept it. The way of druids was
inscrutable to him. Without him present, MacGil felt even more haste. He wanted
to get through this, get to the thousand other things that awaited him before
the wedding.
    The group of advisors sat facing
him around the semi-circular