COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

Good people of the realm, we thank you for your presence on this day in joining us for food and wine. My queen has something she would like to say,” Déor spoke with a smile as he turned his attention to his wife. “My queen?”

Anya stood behind a long table, which had been set up for the feast to come. The canopy above waved gently in the light breeze. King Déor and other high members of the court enjoyed the shade it provided. Lesser nobles and their families were seated at tables that had been set up on the grass affording them a sideways view of the main table.

“Thank you, my king,” Anya said, turning to those present. “We are so fortunate to be gathered here today to enjoy these privileges, for not all are so fortunate. Today we remember King Francis, the accomplishments and victories he brought to this beloved kingdom and mourn his passing. By royal tradition, we also celebrate the life of his son, Déor, your newly crowned king!” The queen’s speech was met with a round of applause and cheers.

Déor smirked, raising his hand to acknowledge his subjects.

“This day marks another important event in the history of our kingdom—the beginning of King Déor’s reign. With me, Anya of Glendalow, his queen, at his side, may his reign be long and prosperous! To thank the gods for another year of peace between the kingdoms, the king has decreed all food leftover from the royal hunt will be shared with those in need. Please, join me in raising your cups in a toast to your king! Bring forth the royal goblet!” Anya announced.

From the left end of the table, Orlynd watched the royal goblet holder appear carrying an empty goblet in his hand. From afar it appeared like any other golden goblet, but up close the symbol of the family’s crest was distinguishable.

Orlynd continued to stare, not showing any kind of happy emotion. He did not mean it as an act of disinterest or disrespect; however, he was finding it difficult to celebrate anything these days. He was still the son of an exiled man, and despite the warning he had delivered to King Francis, Orlynd still felt a remnant of guilt for the king’s untimely death. He wondered if Déor felt that way, too? For lately his cruelty towards Orlynd seemed to have escalated. Nonetheless, it was his sworn duty to serve and protect the king in whatever way he could, even if that meant forfeiting his own life.

The royal goblet holder approached the table, picked up a pitcher, and filled the king’s cup to the top. Neither Déor or the goblet holder—or even Orlynd—was aware of the small dab of yellow powder waiting at the bottom of the king’s cup. Unaware of what was to come, Déor picked up the cup after the goblet holder had filled it.

“Long live the king!” Anya shouted, raising her cup, gazing over at her husband.

“Long live the king!” the crowd repeated, toasting the king.

Déor grinned before tilting his head back and consuming some of the delicious mead from his goblet, the same recipe preferred by his father. He enjoyed how its essence easily travelled down his throat before it was replaced with a bitter taste. Déor pondered why he couldn’t recall experiencing such a bitter aftertaste before, but disregarded it and quickly finished the rest.

“Look my dear, the cake!” Anya announced, distracting the king from his thoughts.

Applause sounded from the other attendees. The enormous cake was situated on an oversized tray, which required four sturdy men to carry.

Déor grinned, stood up and released his family’s most treasured sword, Ruairí, from its sheath. He walked around the table and approached the cake. The cake bearers prayed the king wouldn’t accidentally miss his mark and slice one of them instead.

The king raised a hand to acknowledge the crowd before raising his sword to deliver a fatal blow to the cake. However, he forthwith dropped his sword, causing the crowd to gasp in surprise.

The king’s eyes grew wide. He coughed, feeling an intense sensation of dryness and burning fill his mouth. He attempted to swallow, only to find it difficult as he reached up a hand to his throat.

This was different than the last time a member of the royal family had been suspected of ingesting poison. In fact, Mortain had informed the court Francis had succumbed from a sudden illness.

“Your Grace?” one of the cake bearers asked, alarmed to see the king’s face turning red as a tomato.

Orlynd stood up at the table, sensing trouble, when Déor stood frozen.

“Water,” he said between coughs, his voice sounding hoarse. “Fetch water!”

“Yis heard the man, git him some water! Now!” Orlynd shouted at the royal goblet holder, running from around his side of the table to the king’s aide.

The goblet holder raced to grab the king’s goblet, filling it with water from a pitcher on another table, before bringing it back to the king.

The king nodded between coughs, no longer able to acknowledge his royal goblet holder with words, tilted his head back and attempted to consume the water. Eyes growing wider, he realised his ability to swallow had been halted. Thinking quickly, he vomited out what was left in his mouth, most of it ending up on the grass in front of him. The choking coughs started again.

“He cannae breathe!” Orlynd announced, the gasps from the spectators becoming louder.

Everyone watched in horror as the king fell to his knees. Orlynd hurried forward, wrapping his arms around him as support, helping him lie on the ground.

“Yir Majesty, hold oan!” Orlynd exclaimed; the fear in the king’s eyes matched his own. He watched as the king’s normally rugged tone turned bluish grey. The whites of his eyes had already become a faint red. Orlynd turned to the crowd and shouted. “Someone fetch the court physician!”

Without warning, Orlynd felt the king’s body twitch, followed by stillness. He watched blood begin to drip profusely from the corner of the king’s mouth.

“Yer Majesty?” Orlynd said. He placed a hand over Déor’s chest and gasped when he could no longer feel a heartbeat. “Nae.” He laid the king on the ground, stood up and addressed everyone. “The king’s dead. He has been poisoned, murdered, jist like his father! N’ Ah will nae rest until thair killer meets their end!”

Anya stood back in the shadows unseen, a small smile curving her lips as she saw her plan unfolding before her eyes.

ORLYND’S COTTAGE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

ORLYND GASPED, quickly opening his eyes, and found himself back in bed. His breathing was rapid, his heart was racing, and his brow was moist from sweat. He looked around, realising he was in what could be best described as a servant’s room. He permitted his body to relax.

Whit a terrible dream, Orlynd thought to himself. He had numerous nightmares before, but never anything as intense as that.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he decided to stand up and wet his face with a cloth. He walked to a small mirror positioned on top of the dresser and stared at his reflection. He caught a glimpse of the remnants of flames in the pupils of his eyes. His eyes widened, realising what he had just seen was a vision of a gathering scheduled for later in the week. “It wasn’t a nightmare; it was a premonition!”

Nae, this cannae be. Ah cannae allow this event tae occur. Ah must find a ain tae stop it!