King DTB sat at his throne, projecting an image of calm confidence, but inside his heart, he felt neither calm nor confident. Banishing the man called Marc Gasol to the dungeons had been a necessary step, taken to ensure that his rule over Deeteebeenia would remain steady, but the man’s brash impudence had left its mark on the King. What if it had been a mistake? What if the magic spells which were cast on every corner of the kingdom had somehow failed, allowing entry to a person whose true destiny lie in the glorious cities and unfathomable riches of Dawkinsland?
He beckoned to him one of the court wizards. “Tell me, wizard; is there any way that such a proud and strong man as that Marc Gasol could have bypassed or confounded the protective sorcery?”
The grizzled man peered at the King through scraggly white hair. “It is impossible. If that man entered, it is because he was destined to enter. The spells do not err. They have never erred.”
“That is what I thought,” the King answered. “But this man doesn’t seem to belong. He is exceptionally skilled, while, as you know, the typical inhabitant of my realm is a less exceptional specimen. Save for the council of wizards, of course, who represent a hand-selected group of the finest magical practitioners in the whole world.”
The wizard bowed lightly at this praise. “Thank you, my lord, but I must challenge your judgment of this man’s character. If the spells allowed him to detect with his senses the main gate, and then enter through it, there must be something about him that is not displayed in his demeanor or appearance. Perhaps he is of great age, and is declining physically.”
The King nodded, but still felt uneasy. He knew that somewhere, deep in the underbelly of the castle, the man was locked in a dungeon, facing a terrible, but perhaps undeserved, fate.