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eldest’s wedding. Every MacGil has named a successor. The people shall
expect you to do the same. They have been buzzing. It would not be advisable to
let them down. Especially with the Dynasty Sword still immobile.”
    “Would you have me name an heir
while I am still in my prime?” MacGil asked.
    “My liege, I mean no offense,”
Kelvin stumbled, looking concerned.
    MacGil held up a hand. “I know
the tradition. And indeed, I shall name one today.”
    “Might you inform us as to who?”
Firth asked.
    MacGil stared him down, annoyed.
Firth was a gossip, and he did not trust this man.
    “You will learn of the news when
the time is right.”
    MacGil stood, and the others
rose, too. They bowed, turned, and hurried from the room.
    MacGil stood there, thinking, for
he did not know how long. On days like this he wished he was not king.
    *
    MacGil stepped down from his
throne, boots echoing in the silence, and crossed the room. He opened the
ancient oak door himself, yanking the iron handle, and entered a side chamber.
    He enjoyed the peace and solitude
of this cozy room, as he always had, its walls hardly twenty paces in either
direction yet with a soaring, arched ceiling. The room was made entirely of
stone, with a small, round stained-glass window on one wall. Light poured in
through its yellows and reds, lighting up a single object in the otherwise bare
room.
    The Dynasty Sword.
    There it sat, in the center of
the chamber, lying horizontal on iron prongs, like a temptress. As he had since
he was a boy, MacGil walked close to it, circled it, examined it. The Dynasty
Sword. The sword of legend, the source of the might and power of his entire
kingdom, from one generation to the next. Whoever had the strength to hoist it
would be the Chosen One, the one destined to rule the kingdom for life, to free
the kingdom from all threats, in and outside the Ring. It had been a beautiful
legend to grow up with, and as soon as he was anointed king, MacGil had tried
to hoist it himself, as only MacGil kings were even allowed to try. The kings
before him, all of them, had failed. He was sure he would be different. He was
sure he would be The One.
    But he was wrong. As were all the
other MacGil kings before him. And his failure had tainted his kingship ever
since.
    As he stared at it now, he
examined its long blade, made of a mysterious metal no one had ever deciphered.
The sword’s origin was even more obscure, rumored to have risen from the earth
in the midst of a quake.
    Examining it, he once again felt
the sting of failure. He might be a good king; but he was not The One. His
people knew it. His enemies knew it. He might be a good king, but no matter
what he did, he would never be The One.
    If he had been, he suspected
there would be less unrest amongst his court, less plotting. His own people
would trust him more and his enemies would not even consider attack. A part of
him wished the sword would just disappear, and the legend with it. But he knew
it would not. That was the curse—and the power—of a legend. Stronger, even,
than an army.
    As he stared at it for the
thousandth time, MacGil couldn’t help but wonder once again who it would be.
Who of his bloodline would be destined to wield it? As he thought of what lay
before him, his task of naming an heir, he wondered who, if any, would be
destined to hoist it.
    “The weight of the blade is
heavy,” came a voice.
    MacGil spun, surprised to have
company in the small room.
    There, standing in the doorway,
was Argon. MacGil recognized the voice before he saw him and was both irritated
with him for not showing up sooner and pleased to have him here now.
    “You’re late,” MacGil said.
    “Your sense of time does not
apply to me,” Argon answered.
    MacGil turned back to the sword.
    “Did you ever think I would be
able to hoist it?” he asked reflectively. “That day I became king?”
    “No,” Argon answered flatly.
    MacGil turned and stared at him.
    “You knew I would not