COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

Father,” uttered Orlynd, staring at the empty hallway where his father once stood. A deep sadness grew in the pit of his stomach. He calmed himself, overcoming the shock of the day’s events.

Ah’m never going tae see him again, concluded Orlynd.

“Orlynd,” Francis said, startling the warlock from his thoughts.

Francis held his hand out towards the direction of the dining room. “Please, follow me. I wish to speak more privately.” Orlynd watched Francis share a warning glance with Thomas before readdressing him. “I assure you, young warlock, we will be permitted to interact without further interruptions,” he finished.

Orlynd hesitated, watching Thomas lower his head in shame and close the door behind them. He took in a deep breath and followed the king.

As they entered the room, Orlynd was overcome by the sight before him. In the centre of the room was a large table covered in a white lace tablecloth. There were ten place settings of the finest plates Orlynd had ever seen. The silver candleholders in the centre of the table gleamed in the light and held tall, thin, white candles just waiting to be lit.

On the right wall a portrait of the king took up most of the space allowed. Underneath the portrait was a smaller table, covered with a matching lace tablecloth, upon which large covered platters sat. Orlynd was certain they would soon hold the most delectable meats found in the entire kingdom.

At the far end was an elegant fireplace that could warm the entire room against even the coldest weather. The floor he stood on was covered with a thick ornately decorated rug, which stretched to the farthest corners of the room. Orlynd came back to himself and realised he had stopped, frozen, just inside the doorway.

“Fear not. Please, be seated. You may speak freely.” Frances walked over to a large pitcher and picked up a silver goblet from the table. “May I offer you some mead? My servants locate the finest mead available in all of Iverna,” he stated, pouring himself a drink.

“Thank yis, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered, afraid of offending the king if he refused.

Francis took a large gulp before setting his goblet down on the table. He then poured a cup for Orlynd. “How old are you, Orlynd?”

“Sixteen, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered, raising the goblet to his lips to take a sip. He was surprised by the flavour of the gorse flower dry mead, which finished with a sweet taste of honey, coconut and vanilla, and how easily it travelled down his throat.

“Sixteen, a fine age,” Francis said, taking a seat. “Tell me, Orlynd. What interests you? Do you enjoy reading?” The king raised his goblet to his lips.

“Aye, Yir Grace. Ah enjoy reading scrolls n manuscripts.”

Francis’s eyes sparkled as he raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?” he responded, smiling. “Our kingdom contains some of the finest libraries. I am confident you would have made a good scholar.” His gaze turned to the table and his expression changed from friendly to contemplative. He took another sip of his mead before setting it down in front of him.

“Is something wrong, Yir Grace?” Orlynd asked.

Francis cleared his throat. “I have decided tomorrow morning you will begin lessons in proper etiquette. The education you will receive shall be suited for a royal. You will be granted access to my libraries, which will assist you in your studies on the customs and history of the kingdom. You will be expected to have this knowledge when you accompany me or the prince. Have you had the honour of meeting my son? He is just a few years younger than you.”

“Nae, Yir Grace.”

“Naught to fear. There shall be plenty of time for you to become acquainted. You shall be joining him during his language lessons. He is currently composing a love poem in French to impress the Lady Anya from Glendalow. She has been promised to my son and will someday be his queen.”

“How very thoughtful ay his Grace,” Orlynd responded.

“I am glad you approve. Now, that’s enough socialising for today. I must finish preparing for the celebration of my son’s fourteenth birthday. I do expect you to attend the festivities. It shall begin with an amazing jousting tournament where my son, Déor, shall challenge the winning competitor,” he grinned egoistically. He then stopped smiling. “It is important my son wins to prove the crown is strong. You shall be permitted to explore the castle halls and the grounds at your leisure. This is your home now, and there is no better time than the present to start getting yourself familiar with it. The navigation can be challenging. You will find the castle and its various buildings contain over one hundred rooms! You may leave me now.”

“Aye, Sire,” Orlynd answered, standing up from his chair quickly. He abruptly stopped and turned towards the king.

“What is it?” Francis asked, leaning forward, getting annoyed.

“Ah’m sorry Yir Grace, but Ah dinnae know how tae find my room.”

“Of course you don’t,” The king said, gesturing with his hand before shouting, “Thomas!”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas said, bowing, after re-entering the room.

“Please accompany Orlynd to his room. I do not wish for him to get lost, understand?”

“Yes, Sire,” Thomas said, nodding. He paused. “And where would that be exactly, Your Grace?”

Francis thought for a moment, contemplating where best to house the boy without problems arising in the castle due to the O’Brien name. “There is an empty cottage just outside the gate at the edge of the village is there not?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas replied.

“Then it is settled. It shall now belong to Orlynd,” Francis said, turning to the warlock. “Understand, it is not much, but it shall provide you a roof over your head until better arrangements can be made.”

“Aye, Yir Grace. Thank yis, Yir Grace.”

“Now, please leave me.”

They bowed to the king before taking their leave.

Once the king was alone, Francis raised his hands and rubbed them down his face, blowing air slowly out through pursed lips, pondering whether he had made the correct decision regarding Tiberius.

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

“MIERTA? ARE you all right?” Mortain asked, approaching the parlour. “You have not said a word since we returned from your Rite of Wands.” Mortain, a man of average height, was dressed in the custom of his profession, his long blue tunic all but covering the red undergarments he wore.

“I’m fine, Father,” Mierta said, staring towards the empty fireplace. He was seated at a cherry wood table staring at the wall. A full cup of tea, which had been placed on the table in front of him had long since gone cold. The top crust of his pot pie had been cut away and set aside, and his wand was lying next to it.

“You are not fine,” Mortain said, removing his black hat and running his fingers through his medium length brown hair. He approached the table. “Son, you have barely touched your dinner. Please, tell me what is bothering you.”

When his son didn’t reply, Mortain walked to the opposite side of the table and glanced him over with concern. His son’s face had gone pale. Droplets of cold sweat had already soaked his sideburns. Mortain went to his son’s side and lay a cool hand over Mierta’s brow, becoming alarmed. “My dear boy, what is wrong? Your skin is clammy, yet your body is freezing.” He turned and shouted towards the kitchen, “Armand!”

“Monsieur, McKinnon?” the servant Armand questioned from the parlour entrance, upon hearing Mortain’s voice. He was a tall young man in his late teens. His long curly black hair had been tied back at the base of his neck. A short well-trimmed beard covered his strong jaw line, and his upper lip was covered by a thin moustache under a long beak-like nose. His fiery brown eyes betrayed his weary countenance.

“Armand,” Mortain said, glancing over, struggling to hide his worry. He lowered his hand from Mierta’s brow and took a hold of his son’s hand, pretending to check his pulse. “Please set a fire in the fireplace. My son is not well, and I must tend to him. Then, please fetch me milk of the poppy, and bring it to Mierta’s room.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Armand answered, starting a small fire in the grate.

Mortain waited till the servant had left before furrowing his eyebrows and turning his attention back to his son. “Mierta? Please, son, speak to me. I know I have not always been the best confidant. Your Mum was much better at that, but I wish to help you.”

“You cannot,” Mierta answered a bit coldly.

Mortain gazed into Mierta’s eyes, becoming further disturbed when a single tear fell from Mierta’s right eye. Frustrated, he wiped his hand over his face and down his prominent chin wishing Clarinda were still alive. She had had the most impressive ability to help those in need, and Mortain at that very moment needed her assistance desperately. However, she was not there, and Mortain had no choice but to aide their son through whatever was ailing him. “Please, my son. Let me try!” He was beginning to feel helpless.

Mierta looked up into his father’s face, furrowing his forehead, contemplating his situation. He couldn’t tell his father. Discussion of his Rite of Wands was forbidden, even though he desperately needed his father’s advice at the moment. He had very little knowledge about compounding chemicals, and though it was never said, it was expected of him to follow in his father’s footsteps, for that was what all fathers wished of their eldest child; it saved them from having to pay a stranger for their child’s apprenticeship and worry about his well-being. Nonetheless, Mierta was afraid. What if he failed or disappointed his father? “I’m sorry,” Mierta’s voice cracked. “I…cannot explain.”

Mortain took in a deep breath. “You have been thinking about your Rite of Wands ceremony, right, my boy?” he asked, continuing to comfort his son.

“Yes,” Mierta uttered, unable to get the scenes out of his mind.

Mortain brushed his hand down Mierta’s arm, feeling is son’s body tremble. “Oh, my poor boy. I understand. It is a burden only you must bear, but you must remember that it is over now.”

“Is it?” Mierta questioned with doubt in his heart, not expecting a response. His Mum would have understood. She was a witch and had gone through the Rite of Wands herself, but his father…he was just a man. “Father?” Mierta asked.

“Yes, my boy?”

“When I told you I wanted to participate in the Rite of Wands, you looked scared. I want to know why.”

Mortain nervously laughed it off. “I apologise if it appeared that way, my boy. That was not my intention. I was just surprised!”

“I see.” Mierta gazed down at the cold cup of tea, unable to look his father in the eye. He mumbled to the ground, “Do you suppose the reason the Rite of Wands is not to be discussed is because people have gone mad?” The question was hypothetical. Again, he didn’t expect Mortain to have the answer. He just wanted his father to listen.

“I suppose anything is possible, my son,” Mortain responded, quickly becoming uncomfortable by the direction of the conversation.

“I am frightened. I fear I will not be able to do what was asked of me.”

“Mierta, look at me,” his father instructed.

Mierta obeyed, crinkling his brow.

Mortain took his son’s hands into his. “Whatever it was that you think was asked of you, I am confident you will succeed. Pray with me, my boy. Hand your troubles over to our good Lord. You are not alone. Let us pray for your soul.”

Mierta watched his father close his eyes and prepare to pray. He sighed. He didn’t understand why his father even bothered to pray. It seemed like nothing but a waste of breath. What had prayer ever done for their family? It hadn’t saved his mother, and if what the Rite of Wands had shown him was true, it wouldn’t save him from the upcoming plague.

“Lord, hear our prayer. Bless my son, Mierta. Keep him safe from Satan’s will. Heal my boy’s tormented soul, and protect him when he feels weak. May your mighty will be done. Amen.”

Mortain opened his eyes and smiled at his son. Mierta returned a half smile. “Thank you, father,” Mierta answered, though Mortain could see the uncertainty in his face.

“Pleasure, my dear boy,” Mortain said, squeezing his hands and standing back up.

“Father?” Mierta asked nervously.

“Yes?”

“What do you suppose happens if someone chooses not to do what the Rite of Wands shows you to do? Do you think that person or those people might get in trouble?”

“I have no idea, my boy.”

“Didn’t Mum ever discuss the Rite of Wands with you? I mean, you told me she always wanted me to be a warlock. That’s why I decided to go through the test.”

“I’m not sure what you are asking, Mierta?”

“Never mind,” Mierta sighed, feeling like a fool. His father was just an ordinary man; he could never understand the torment Mierta was feeling inside.

I suggest you start by studying your father’s potion books, Mierta recalled Lord Kaeto stating.

“S…suppose what the Rite of Wands warned turned out to be true? What if it had the power to show you what you were supposed to do or who you were supposed to be?” Mierta said, his eyes begging for an explanation.

“I’m afraid I do not have the answers you seek, my son,” Mortain replied, frowning. He wished he could comfort his son and assure Mierta what he was feeling was valid. However, he couldn’t reveal the truth about his past. He couldn’t tell him he was also a warlock, or at least used to be. Not yet.

“May I make a request?” Mierta questioned.

“And what may that be, my boy?”

“You cannot always be here for me and Lochlann,” Mierta began. “I know this. It would be selfish to think otherwise.” He glanced back at his father. “You have patients in the kingdom of Vandolay needing your care, and we have Armand. However, in your absence, I promise to look after Lochlann, as an older brother should. Please, I beg of you, teach me what you do.”

“I do not understand what you mean, Mierta,” Mortain answered.

“I request an apprenticeship,” Mierta replied with urgency in his voice. “I want to help people. I want to be a physician like you.”

Mortain was touched by the request. “How very courageous of you, my son, but that will have to wait until you are finished with your formal schooling, and, if I recall correctly, when I had last travelled with you to the kingdom of Vandolay, you showed little interest in my doings.”

“That’s because you didn’t need to use any potions. I wish to learn how to brew medicines,” Mierta countered.

“Is that so? Then, if I may suggest, the profession you desire to study is apothecary, my boy. I’m afraid there are no apothecaries in Glendalow; however, when you are of the proper age of fourteen, I can teach you a little bit about herbs and how to weave chemicals together, and if you still show interest, I shall introduce you to a guild in Edesia.”

“But, Father, I must start learning now. I cannot wait till I’m fifteen for a perfect apprenticeship,” Mierta pleaded.

“Mierta, there is far more to apothecary than playing around with compounds! Why the rush? You will have to spend many hours studying diseases, medications, and even how to perform minor surgeries. And, you will have to pass an examination through the guild,” Mortain responded.

“I know about your elixir book of recipes!” Mierta blurted out, unable to hide his irritation.

“My…what?” Mortain asked, stunned.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Mierta answered. “You cannot hide the truth from me, father. I know you once studied apothecary, too.”

Mortain snorted. “It is no secret, my son. In order to become a court physician one must understand the basic principles of compounding.”

“Then, you will permit me access to your book,” Mierta insisted.

“Blimey! I appreciate your interest, Mierta,” Mortain got up and turned his body away, pausing. He furrowed his eyebrows. “However, I do not know where it is.”

“Why are you lying to me? What is in the book you do not wish me to see?”

Mortain turned back and half smiled. “It’s not that I do not desire you to have access to it, Mierta. You are my son. It’s just…” He sighed. “When you are older you will understand. The life of an apothecarist is not simply mixing herbs and potions.”

“I do not wish for simple. I understand what I must do,” Mierta responded, his voice breaking.

“Enough discussion for today,” Mortain said, his ire beginning to rise. “I asked Armand to fetch some milk of the poppy. It will help you sleep. You need to rest. It has been a long day.”

“You do not understand,” Mierta said, standing up. “You cannot possibly understand what I know, what I have seen! Every moment I am delayed costs me in ways you will never understand.”

“You are right, my son,” Mortain interrupted, regretfully. “I cannot understand how important this is to you. However, I can confirm you have always been wiser than your age. Most adults could not conjure up such a persuasive argument. I realise now I was wrong to lie to you. I must accept I cannot prevent you from the life you are destined for. I should know better than anyone, you cannot escape your fate.”

“What do you mean? Did something happen to you?” Mierta asked, his eyes wide with curiosity and confusion.

“Never mind, Mierta. One day I shall tell you everything.” He gazed at his son. Mierta’s mouth parted as if to protest.

“Until then, forget I even said anything. It is for the best.” He sighed again, seeing the disappointment in Mierta’s face. “If you are still insistent on beginning to master the technique of compounding, I reckon the book you seek is still down in the cellar somewhere. The cellar has not been used in decades; it is a bit old-fashioned. That’s the last place I recall using it. It was a long time ago, you see. I was merely a teenager myself. It’s probably covered in cobwebs now and God knows what else. If the book is salvageable, the recipes will be simple enough to comprehend. Remain here. I shall return in a moment.” When he returned he held out a key to his son. “I reckon you will need this.”

Mierta’s eyes lit up.

“I dare say I have had this key in my possession hidden away in a dresser drawer for the longest time. It is yours now. I know it is pointless for me to try to stop you, but please, do be careful when you go searching for the book. The cellar is very dark and unorganised. There are many things you should not touch.”

Mierta smiled. “I promise to be careful. Thank you, Father.

Mortain nodded. “Right. Now, pick up your wand from the table and follow me. Armand will be here with your poppy milk shortly. It is past your bedtime, after all. Remember, a wand can be a warlock’s lifeline. Never let it out of your sight,” Mortain announced, gesturing for Mierta to follow. “Tomorrow morning I begin my journey to the kingdom of Vandolay. The king has pre-arranged a commemoration of the prince’s birthday in the park of Coinneach Castle. The king would certainly have my head if I dared to miss the celebration.”