POVEGLIA—THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY

1238 CE

When Mierta next became aware he found himself in a cramped room.

Where am I? he wondered as he looked around, gathering his surroundings. What is this place?

“You’re doing great, Mrs. McKinnon. It should just be one more push and your baby will be out,” stated the woman. Watching the scene in front of him, he realised she must be a midwife.

Mother! Mierta thought, his eyes brightening, seeing his mother lying on a small bed in the centre of the room, towards the end of her delivery. He gazed around the room again. This must be one of the sick rooms in Poveglia, the sanatorium located in the kingdom of Aracelly. I remember Mother telling me I was born here so I would be born a warlock, and not a man.

A man soon joined them at his mother’s side. He wiped a cool cloth over her brow.

Father! Oh, Mother! Please, don’t ever leave us again!

A loud wailing cry came from a new–born as he was lifted into the arms of his young mother and placed near her chest. The child grabbed onto a clump of the woman’s hair.

The woman called Clarinda was visually pleasing to the eyes. She wore her long black hair in a twist to the side so it hung over her shoulder and caressed her breast. Her luscious red lips left any man with the desire to kiss them, and when she stared at someone, they felt as if her mysterious green eyes were peering through to their soul.

“Mortain,” she said with a grin. “You have a son.”

That’s me! I sure had a lot of hair then. Hang on, are those some blonde streaks in my hair?

The court physician representing the kingdom of Vandolay leaned in and kissed the top of the child’s head. “He is beautiful, just like his mother. He has my hair, and your green eyes. What shall we name him?” He asked, his own hazel eyes betraying the pride he felt.

Clarinda studied her son for several minutes. She spoke, “His life force is connected to this world like a river, bright yet unpredictable. He will accomplish things that shall surpass both our talents.”

“Then, it is settled. We shall call him…Mierta.”

As the scene began to fade into darkness, Mierta thought, No! Don’t take my Mother away from me again. No! Please! Mother!!!

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my boy!” Mierta heard his father’s voice, before the darkness lifted and the scene came into focus.

Mortain turned in his chair towards the doorway, smiling. A quill was in one hand while his other hand was holding down a piece of parchment.

“Thank you, father,” Mierta answered, furrowing his brow as he glanced towards the ground with uncertainty.

“What is troubling you, my boy?” Mortain questioned, gesturing for his son to come closer.

“I…” Mierta said, his heartbeat quickening.

I remember this, Mierta thought. This just happened earlier today! I was worried how my father would react.

“I need to ask you something,” Mierta said.

“Of course, my boy.”

I do not understand. Why I am being re–shown this? I was expecting to see something different.

“Today is my twelfth birthday,” Mierta began, trying to convince himself not to be nervous.

“Why, yes, it is,” replied Mortain with a smile.

“It is an important year for a boy of my age, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Mierta nodded. He glanced up into his father’s face. “Then I need to ask for your permission. If Mum were still alive, I am certain she would have agreed.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking, Mierta?” Mortain asked, curving his eyebrows.

I didn’t notice father looking at me like that before. He appears to be worried. I thought he wouldn’t have any knowledge of the Rite of Wands.

“I request your permission to participate in the Rite of Wands. I wish to join the magical community.”

There was a genuine look of fear in Mortain’s eyes before the scene faded to black once more.

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE

AGAIN, THE scene changed. At first, there was nothing but darkness. Slowly a landscape was unveiled.

The smell of smoke in the air lingered from a previous fire, but it didn’t drown out the smell of death.

Blimey! Mierta thought between coughs. Where am I now? What’s going on around here? It smells terrible! Mierta gasped, seeing corpses starting to form in the scenery in front of him.

There were hundreds of them. Bodies were lying on top of each other, thrown in oversized piles like they were nothing but animals. An abandoned wheelbarrow contained more bodies.

A deadly plague called Shreya had ravaged the land of Iverna, leaving destruction in its path. The disease did not discriminate in whom it had consumed. Thousands of families had already been eliminated, and those who had been left behind were forced to bury their loved ones, only to become infected themselves.

The image of a man’s brown boot appeared, and the sound of a shovel meeting fresh dirt was heard next. He lifted the dirt and tossed it aside before striking the earth again with his shovel. Leaning against it, he shifted a clump of thick brown hair out of his eyes before wiping his feverish brow with his arm.

This man probably cannot hear me, but I wish he could tell me what happened here.

Mierta watched the man examine his fingers and frown, noticing the greyish tone to his fingertips.

A wet sounding cough escaped his lips. The ailing man appeared to be in his mid–thirties. He was wearing a long cream tunic and black breeches. Allowing the shovel to fall to the ground while another coughing fit took a hold of him, he breathed heavily; wheezing sounds could be heard when he attempted to take in a deep breath. When he was finished, he spit into the dirt and watched the blood seep in.

This man is very ill, Mierta thought. If only there was something I could do to help him.

The man continued to try to take in a deep breath, but it only brought on more coughs. He leaned over and waited for the fit to pass.

“I have to get back to the cellar,” the man said to himself. “I need another potion. I reckon the one I made earlier should be cool by now. After, I shall rest. Yes, then I shall rest.”

He sounds just like I do. Mierta thought, his eyes growing wide at the realisation. This is from my future, which means, this man is me!

The man turned, took a step forward and stumbled. Attempting to reach out for something to keep his balance.

What’s wrong with me? And where is everyone else? Is everyone dead?

“No, no, please!” the man spoke out loud, gazing up at the sky, as if someone else was conversing with him. “I’m not finished yet. I still need to conjure up a cure for the Shreya.”

Shreya? I’ve never heard of it. Maybe father will know. I must ask him later.

The man made it back into his estate and began to walk down the stairs to the cellar.

Blimey! I appear as if I’m about to pass out trying to get down those stairs. It would be rather unfortunate if I fell and hurt my back.

Reaching a hand out to keep his balance, the man walked past three workbenches before he found the container holding his latest attempt at a remedy.

What is that?

The man held up the vial of liquid to his lips, drinking the concoction until he had fully consumed it. He set the empty container down on the workbench. There was a moment of fright in his eyes before his knees buckled underneath him.

What’s happening? What’s going on?

Mierta’s watched the man close his eyes and fall backward, landing on the wooden floor with a loud thud. There was nothing Mierta could do even as the man’s breathing increased then became shallower until it appeared to cease.

Get up! Get up, please! This can’t be the way things end. No! Mierta screamed before all went dark.

DRACONIERA MOUNTAIN—

THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY
1238 CE

WHEN MIERTA awoke, he was back at Draconiera Mountain, in a sitting, yet somewhat slumped–over position, his back pressed against the pedestal. He blinked, still trying to fully awaken from the trance.

As soon as he recognised his surroundings, he gasped. There was no evidence of blood on the ground. He then quickly examined his chest, again finding himself unscathed.

Blimey! It was a hallucination. But, what happened? Did I really die? Mierta wondered.

“Well done, young warlock,” Lord Kaeto announced. “I’m sorry you had to experience such torturous dreams, but it was necessary. You have successfully been evaluated and your essence is now synced.” He turned to Dragomir. “Thank you for your assistance. I’d like to speak alone with Mierta. Off you go now.”

Dragomir bowed and made his way back through the doors he first appeared from.

“You mean I passed, I succeeded? I can be part of the magical community now?” The smile on Mierta’s face quickly faded as he recalled the sad expression on the dragon’s face before he had lost consciousness. “You…you already knew what I was going to see,” Mierta stammered. “My future…I died.” He wondered if he had possibly mixed up ingredients and had somehow managed to poison himself, which resulted in his immediate death. His eyes narrowed and he glared back at Lord Kaeto. He felt his hands bending into fists, and he held the position until he could feel his fingernails digging into his skin. “Oi! My life is going to be claimed by some formidable disease?”

“Yes,” Lord Kaeto replied. “I was uncertain you would accept your disheartening fate. Not many warlocks could. However, the point of the ritual isn’t to show what may or may not happen to you. Rather, it’s up to you to decide how you are going to react to it.”

“Is there no way to prevent it?” Mierta protested. There was no way he was going to accept this destiny. “Is my fate sealed, then?”

Lord Kaeto continued. “Heed my advice, young warlock. The future you saw is only a possibility. You will be given the ability to change it.”

“How?” Mierta asked.

“I suggest you start by studying your father’s potion books! Don’t worry, you do not need to understand magic in order to compound ingredients,” Lord Kaeto stated. “And now, you must heed my warning, young warlock. I know what your heart desires. You seek power, and you are angry because a brigand murdered your mother.”

At the mention of his mother, Mierta’s thoughts drifted back to that horrible day, earlier this spring.

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

“SUCH A travesty…”

“The poor boy! He’s too young to have lost his mother…”

Quiet voices echoed from the parlour at the McKinnon estate. Mierta approached the top of the stairs in the entrance hall. He swiftly lowered himself against the railing when he caught the sound of his father’s voice. It sounded like he had been recently crying. None of the adults were aware he was there.

“Mortain, you are certain it was Clarinda that was found in the dark alleyway two nights ago?” Mierta heard a neighbour say.

“Yes,” Mortain said. “Her head had been severed, her chest had been cut open.”

Mierta gasped and covered his mouth with his hands, afraid he may have given his presence away. Hot tears filled his eyes. His mother was dead, brutally murdered, and he didn’t have the power to bring her back.

DRACONIERA MOUNTAIN—

THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY
1238 CE

TEARS ROLLED down Mierta’s face as his thoughts returned to the present.

“You blame yourself because you believe you are weak. I understand. However, Mierta McKinnon, you are far from being a failure.”

Mierta gasped at Lord Kaeto’s acknowledgement, and quickly wiped the tears from his face.

The dragon continued. “You have a great destiny before you, one which you cannot even begin to comprehend. Now, on your feet, the time has come to awaken the gift your mother passed onto you. Reach out your hand and call for the wand, which will aide you in your journey!”

“Hang on, Lord Kaeto,” Mierta said through nervous laughter. “You said I could summon a wand to come to me? You must be mistaken. It is impossible.”

The doors from which Dragomir had originally appeared from opened with a jolt.

“Nothing is impossible, young warlock! Did you not know of your mother’s talent to control things with her mind?” Lord Kaeto challenged. He didn’t wait for Mierta’s response before commanding, “Stand up!”

Mierta stood on shaky legs, brushed his breeches and adjusted his cloak. He could only see darkness through the doors, yet he could now feel a strong cool wind coming from an unknown source.

“Stand at a slight angle, with your right hip towards the door. Align your right leg slightly in front of you, and place your full weight on your left. Now, stretch out your right hand, turn it sideways, and raise it in front of you,” Lord Kaeto instructed over the wind. “Close your eyes. Concentrate. Permit yourself to feel the energy flowing through your body, allowing you to influence the physical essence of the system without any kind of physical interaction. Now, open your eyes, and repeat after me. Convosurí.”

Mierta did as instructed and repeated with no inflection, “Convosurí.”

Lord Kaeto growled. “Put some emphasis into it, young warlock! You can’t expect your wand to respond to such weak commands. You don’t wish to be known as the warlock with the feeble wand, do you?”

Mierta scowled at the dragon. He could feel an energy brewing inside his body from an unknown source. Water crashed against rocks like the beginning of a severe thunderstorm, and Mierta’s eyes transformed into the shape of a snake’s.

Mierta re–focused on the doors, and spoke with a commanding voice, “Convosurí!”

The ground shook under his feet, and an ebony wooden wand with a bloodstone crystal connected at the shaft flew out of the darkness.

Each wand was as unique as its bearer, bringing its own abilities and enhancements due to the crystal it carried. Some wands brought prosperity, some brought healing abilities, some brought clarity, and some brought on dreams. No two wands were designed the same, and each synced to a witch or warlock’s life force.

Mierta took a hold of the wand in his hand and stared at it. His wand brought on strength, inner courage and vitality. Slowly, he closed his eyes, feeling his body becoming instantly rewarded by his new wand’s powers.