COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

Night had fallen, and the elaborate Great Hall of Coinneach Castle had filled with guests’ eager for a feast fit for a king, along with the music and dancing of a magnificent ball.

The massive banquet hall floor was made of Carrara marble. A portion of the floor had been set aside for those wishing to dance to the violinist’s wonderful music. Various swords and shields representing knights and warriors from Ivernas’ history were strategically displayed on the walls. Adjacent to each side of the room were two large tables filled from end to end with delicious food selections, including civet of hare, stag, stuffed chicken and a loin of veal. Pheasants adorned with their feathers were positioned in the middle of each table. At the head of the hall was a separate table designated for the king, the prince, Lady Anya, and the High Lord Steward.

“Mortain!” Francis exclaimed after Déor and Anya had joined the dancing, and the High Lord Steward had engaged in conversation with the prime minister. His court physician’s attempt to avoid being seen while entering the Grand Hall had miserably failed.

“Your Grace,” Mortain smiled, turning around. He made his way to the table and bowed.

“I am delighted you arrived in time for the festivities,” Francis said midway through his meal, smiling, after having helped himself to another sip of ale.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I am happy to be in your presence. Please accept my apologies for missing the jousting event. I heard the prince did well.”

“I feared you would be delayed by your son’s Rite of Wands ceremony. I presume he has been awarded his magical gift?” Francis asked, reaching for a slice of stag.

“Yes,” Mortain smiled. “It was not easy; however, I am confident Mierta will succeed as a warlock. Reckon in a few years, I will be anxiety–ridden all over again when Lochlann is old enough to participate,” he said between laughs.

Francis nodded, satisfied. “I am certain you are capable of raising the boys correctly so that may be. Please, accept my condolences for the recent loss of your wife.”

“Thank you,” Mortain replied, his expression turning to sadness.

“I am confident justice will be served and the criminals responsible will be found.”

Mortain nodded, although he did not share the same confidence. He decided to change the subject and cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I have heard discussion through members of your court you have taken on a new advisor?”

“Aye.” Francis sighed taking a bite of hard bread. “Celeste O’Brien’s boy, though to be honest, I am beginning to question his loyalty.”

“I see. May I inquire where the young warlock might be now?”

“How in Hades should I know? I am not his wet nurse!” Francis barked. “I understand you were good friends with the warlock’s father. Tell me, in your experience, is the boy trustworthy?”

“Yes, I would believe so,” Mortain replied. “Though I confess I have had very little association with his son.”

“Pity,” Francis answered, finishing off a large handful of grapes and throwing the empty stem aside. “I was hopeful you would be able to provide your opinion of the young warlock. Especially after you welcomed the opportunity to…”

“I’m confident your Highness will determine the boy’s honesty,” Mortain interrupted, his pulse increasing.

Francis furrowed his brows. “Perhaps. It matters not. I gather there is something else you wish to discuss.”

“Why, yes, Your Grace,” Mortain said, heat rising to his cheeks. “I request approval, so when the time comes and I am no longer capable of being of your service, my son, Mierta may become successor as court physician.”

Francis looked up with concern, studying Mortain’s face. “Have you taken ill? Why wasn’t I informed?”

Mortain shook off the king’s sentiment. “You needn’t be worried, Your Grace. My health is fine. Mierta has proven he shares my love of medicines, and I am eager to teach him everything I know.”

“I am pleased of this news. However, I must evaluate his ability before granting your request. I do not wish to have someone who is incompetent or has no interest.”

“I understand,” Mortain responded.

Francis eyed him before replying, “I have decided when your boy is ready to begin his apprenticeship, you may bring him to my court.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. You are most kind. Reckon that shall be sooner than later. Mierta has already started exploring simple recipes of ingredients to compound.”

“Is that so? Correct me if I am mistaken, Mortain, but your son is only twelve years of age, is he not?”

“Why, yes, Your Grace.”

“Is it your belief that Mierta desires an apprenticeship now?”

“Yes, that I do believe.”

“And would it be necessary to appoint an apprenticeship for Mierta? I believe Ezekiel Kavanagh, our local Apothecarist, has recently returned from teaching in Edesia. He should be satisfactory,” Francis said.

“I am honoured by Your Majesty’s generous offer, but it shall not be necessary. Mierta will be more than happy to learn from his father.”

“Very well, then, it shall be. I invite your son to Vandolay as soon as it can be arranged. He shall be under your fine tutelage. I expect to see great things from him.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“The thanks are mine,” Francis answered, standing, suddenly feeling ill, contemplating if he had consumed too much ale. “I regret having to take my leave of the festivities. I have enjoyed myself, perhaps a bit too much.” The king grabbed his goblet, “I must admit I am not getting any younger. I shall retire to my chambers to rest. I bid everyone a good–night.”