COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

Déor stared his opponent down. Because Aindrias was a member of his father’s guard, the prince was certain he wouldn’t put up much of a challenge, leading to an easy victory.

After all, he was the crown prince and Aindrias would not dare win the challenge. He exchanged smiles of approval with his father before Arthelea danced and pranced toward the beginning of the track.

Satisfied, Déor lowered his helmet and charged down the barrier towards his opponent. However, when their lances made contact with the gritted guard, a piece of armour attached at the shoulder, Déor’s lance was abruptly knocked out of his hand.

The crowd went silent before the herald announced, “Three points for Aindrias.”

Once Déor had reached the end of the track, he quickly turned around and raised his helmet, his mouth partially open and eyes wide.

How dare Aindrias embarrass me in front of my people! Déor thought. He could not fathom looking towards the royal box, certain his father would be displeased.

“Squire!” Déor shouted, slamming his helmet down and impatiently holding his hand out for his lance. He could not allow further misfortune to spoil this day of celebration.

He raised his lance, took his position at the beginning of the track, and charged. Aindrias missed his mark while Déor’s lance shattered at the helm.

“Two points for his Grace.”

The prince was now only one point behind. This still did not satisfy him. There was only one thing left for him to do; unhorse his opponent and put an end to this match.

Again, he readied Arthelea at the beginning of the track, took the lance from the squire, and charged.

The crowd gasped. The moment their lances made contact, Déor could feel himself slipping off the left side of the horse. He recalled he couldn’t grab the reigns for the horse might rear up, possibly falling on top of him, resulting in his death. Thinking quickly, and using the stirrups, he recovered, thus preventing further embarrassment.

Francis stood from his chair, seeing both opponents beginning to fall off their horses. He held his breath, watching Déor begin to right himself, letting it out when he noticed Aindrias fall from his.

The spectator’s gasps were replaced by a loud applause. Déor gazed around, realising he had been successful in unhorsing Aindrias.

“His Grace wins!”

The tournament concluded with an award ceremony.

When it was the prince’s turn, Francis stepped forward and called to his servant to bring forth the box, revealing a small amulet on a chain.

“Congratulations, my son,” Francis said. “I hereby reward you with this gift, a family heirloom given to me on my fourteenth birthday by my father, as was given to him on his. May the Bynoch guide and protect you.”

The Bynoch was a clear quartz manifestation crystal, containing a smaller crystal growing within a large one, wrapped in a golden wire, and hung from a silver chain. Stories passed down alleged the Bynoch contained a hidden magic. Created by an old warlock from the kingdom of Aracelly, it would preserve the lineage of the royal family.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Déor answered, kneeling as his father placed the Bynoch around his neck.

The king gazed down at the Bynoch expecting the mystery that had eluded him most of his life would be answered. However, the charm appeared to act no differently for his son than it had for him.

“This cannot be,” Francis muttered to himself. “The necklace must intercede. He is the last of my line, my only heir. How can my son not be destined to be its master?”

Francis began staring uncomfortably at his son.

“May I rise, Your Majesty?” Déor asked under his breath, startling his father from his thoughts when the king continued to stare at him.

Bewildered, Francis answered, “Yes, of course,” he finished with a smile. “Everyone, your prince!”

After Déor had retreated to his tent, and Lady Anya had exited the viewing stand, the applause ceased.

Francis continued, “Good people of the realm, and those visiting, I hope you found today’s tournament entertaining and enjoyable. Our celebration continues in the Great hall for food, drinks and merriment.”

“Yir Grace!” Orlynd urged, following the king down the stairs, distracting him from his troubled thoughts. He lowered his voice to avoid commotion, watching the spectators make their way past them in the direction of the Great Hall. “Ah beg ay yis for a private audience.”

“Now is not the time,” Francis said.

“Yir Grace, yis dinnae understand,” Orlynd uttered anxiously. “Ah must insist. Yir son must nae marry Lady Anya,” Orlynd said, his voice breaking.

“And may I inquire why?” Francis asked, turning back, quickly losing his patience. “Are you indicating you know something I do not?”

“Aye, Ah believe so, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered urgently. “Ah huv reason tae believe yir lives ur in grave danger.”

Francis’s eyes grew wide. “What evidence do you have of this? Have there been rumours of this ill deed spreading through my court? I demand an explanation. Speak!” he said.

Orlynd cringed when the king shouted at him. Sweat was beginning to trickle down his back. “Forgive me Yir Grace, but hear me out,” he stated nervously. “When the Lady Anna first made her appearance, Ah foresaw someone pouring poison into the royal goblet.”

“And?”

Orlynd could feel his heart thumbing in his temples. “N’ Ah believe yis will drink it,” he spoke between gasps.

Francis moved in closer to the warlock, stating sternly yet quiet enough to avoid a commotion, “Do you dare to accuse Lady Anya of such a crime?”

“Nae, Yir Grace,” Orlynd stated quickly, frightened by the King’s attitude. “Ah…”

Francis breathed in a slow breath in order to calm himself; however, his face betrayed him. “Heed my warning. In this kingdom false accusation of murder against the crown is an act of treason. You may have been able to convince me you had the gift of foresight, but I’d be careful of what you are uttering. It is one thing to predict events, but it is another to accuse someone of noble blood of treason! Take care warlock or it may be your head that meets the guillotine next,” the king stated, turning his back to the soothsayer. “Now, I am going to enjoy the rest of the evening without further outbursts. Do not make me question your loyalty again!”

Frozen, Orlynd stood watching the king continue onward. Spectators nearby made their way around the warlock, some even shoving him out of the way.

“Aye, Yir Majesty,” he mumbled, crestfallen.

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

“MONSIEUR?” QUESTIONED Armand, stopping shortly after entering the main hall. He was surprised to find the cellar door open and Mierta stopped at the top of the staircase. “Forgive me, I did not expect to find you up and about. Your father said you were ill and should be resting.”

Mierta, cradling the elixir book in his right arm, stared at his father’s servant with a bit of annoyance. “I thank you for your concern, Armand, but I am fine,” he answered matter–of–factly.

“I am glad to hear that, good Monsieur. I just finished setting the kettle on the stove to brew some of your favourite tea. Shall I bring a cup to your room when it is ready?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mierta answered with a small smile, wishing Armand would stop talking so he could begin unravelling the mystery behind whatever concealed information was required to access the book. He waited until Armand allowed him to pass.

“Have I said something to upset you, Monsieur? Armand said, staring at Mierta, wondering what he may have done to offend the young lord.

Mierta abruptly stopped and turned around. “How long have you known my father, Armand?” he asked.

Armand, taken aback by the question, glimpsed up toward the ceiling as he recalled. “My parents sold me to your family five years ago.”

Mierta nodded. “And have you ever seen him go into this cellar?” He questioned, pointing in the direction of the cellar.

“No, Monsieur,” Armand responded.

“What about this?” Mierta demanded a bit urgently, revealing the book from under his arm, holding it out in front of him and shaking it at his servant. “Have you seen this book before?”

Armand glanced down at the book and its title. “No, Monsieur, is there a problem?”

“Problem?!” Mierta bellowed. “The problem is I can’t read it! Lord Kaeto told me I needed to find this book and I did, but it’s no use,” he said. If he couldn’t figure this out how was he supposed to prevent what he saw in his Right of Wands? He needed to get started now! Mierta’s heart sank; he would have to wait for his father to return and hope he would be able to help.

“I am afraid I do not understand, Monsieur. Is it in a different language? If it is in French, I can interpret it for you.”

“Thank you, Armand, but you can’t help me. Not unless you know how to break a charm,” Mierta answered, miserably.

“A charm, Monsieur?”

“Yes, a charm, a spell, reckon it makes the contents of this book illegible to whoever attempts to read it. It’s as if something is trying to prevent me from finding out what I need to know, only I don’t know how to reverse it,” Mierta said, beside himself.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, I do not know anything about magic, but I believe the spell book your father keeps in his bedroom might be of assistance.”

“What?” Mierta stated, confused.

“I’ve seen it myself, Monsieur,” Armand confirmed. “He keeps it underneath his bed.”

Why would my father have need for a book of spells, yet alone store it in his room? He can’t cast them. It would be of no use to him Mierta thought.

Mierta concluded the spell book must have once belonged to his mother, and his father had probably decided to hide it until he felt his son was ready for it, just like he had with the cellar key. A grin filled Mierta’s face, realising the spell he was searching for had to be contained in that same spell book Armand had mentioned.

He spun around, snapped his fingers and pointed at his father’s servant. “Armand, you are brilliant! If I haven’t said it enough, you are absolutely brilliant! You must show me the location where this spell book should be right away!”

“Oui, Monsieur, as soon as I have finished brewing your tea.”