McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

All right, now, take in a slow deep breath,” Mortain instructed his son for what seemed like the thousandth time since Mierta first woke from his accident. “Go on then.”

Mierta pursed his lips and inhaled, feeling the tiniest bit lightheaded but overall the best he had felt in two weeks.

“Good,” answered Mortain, listening, pleased to hear everything flowing smoothly. “Now release it.” He was not pleased, however, when he heard the sound of multiple heaving coughs. “Well, that was unfortunate,” Mortain frowned, continuing his observation, “but not unexpected. Your lungs are still healing after all. It will take some time.”

“Time? I don’t have time! We’re wasting it!” Mierta complained between wheezing breaths. He had to create a cure before the plague he had seen in his Rite of Wands hit. He felt his father place an arm around him, guiding him back over to his bed, forcing him to take a seat. He was certain he would never fully embrace his heart feeling like it wanted to explode inside his chest.

“Now, now, I understand your fear, son, but it is best that you rest. Unnecessary exertion would be ill–advised.”

“But, all I ever do anymore is rest!” Mierta protested. “It’s not fair. I’m tired of resting! It has been weeks! It’s boring. Certainly it must have been long enough?”

“Mierta, must I remind you, you have been very ill? You will be of no help to me by jeopardising your own health,” Mortain said, attempting to convince him.

“Father, I’m fine,” Mierta retorted.

“My son, you are not fine,” Mortain replied. “Your lungs and throat were so injured it was only by God’s good grace that you survived at all. I know you are eager to try to hone your skill at compounding chemicals, but if recent events have proven anything, it is that you are not ready.”

“What? But, Father!”

“I do not expect you to understand, but I’m requesting you try. The fault is not yours. You are after all still very young. No, I admit the fault is mine. The act of compounding chemicals is a delicate matter and should not be done unsupervised. I will forever regret my decision, for the repercussions are irreversible and nearly cost you your life.”

“Father, please,” Mierta begged, tears forming. “Do not blame yourself. It was an accident. It was MY accident! I went looking through the book believing I could find a recipe I could compound on my own. I thought I could make you proud.”

I am proud of you; you are my son, Mortain thought.

“Instead I have brought shame and embarrassment to the family,” Mierta continued.

No, Mierta…

“I am sorry. I’m so sorry!” Mierta said, his face full of guilt and regret. “Please, I beg you, do not prevent me from discovering the one thing that I must.”

Mortain turned away. He could not bear to see the expression on his son’s face when he uttered the next words, “I’m sorry, my son, but I cannot permit you to continue practicing compounding chemicals until you are of the proper age. I cannot risk the possibility of losing you again.” He eyed his son. “You will obey me, will you not?”

Mierta bowed his head in defeat. “Yes, Father,” he responded, his voice breaking.

“Thank you, son,” Mortain answered, relieved. “Now, lay your head back down on the pillow. I need to replace your bandage.”

Mierta nodded and did as his father asked, blinking back tears, determined not to show any weakness even though he felt like his heart was breaking in two. His resolve failed the moment his father pulled a chair over to the bed and started to pull the bandage away from his face.

Listening to his son sniffing, watching him wipe away tears, Mortain furrowed his brow, trying to hide his worry. He hated hurting his son like this. He felt if his heart could break, it would at that very instant. Mierta was ready, he never doubted it. The fact that he had even attempted to make a potion solidified that he was. However, he reflected with sadness, being able to successfully compound chemicals did not guarantee prosperity. He had to protect his son, and if the only way to prevent Mierta from making the same grave mistakes he did was to forbid him, then Mortain was prepared to do so. Perhaps then Mierta would give up compounding altogether.

As he gently pulled away the bandage, veins could be seen where thick scar tissue had already formed. He was pleased to see the salve he had been placing on Mierta’s face since the accident had both soothed and aided in the healing process, though he doubted he would see any further improvement.

“How does it look?” Mierta asked. He didn’t wish to have half of his face damaged for the rest of his life, but it was a punishment he would accept. He began questioning whether being an Apothecarist really was his fate.

“It is healing as expected,” Mortain said, handing Mierta a small bowl of salve after helping his son sit back up. “This emollient will help soothe the pain from the burns and nerve damage. And if you must step outside, it is of the utmost importance you cover your face with the bandages I have left in your nightstand.”

“Yes, Father,” Mierta answered.

“Monsieur McKinnon! Monsieur McKinnon!” shouted Armand, his quick footsteps echoing against the wooden floor as he ran up a flight of stairs and down the hallway. He stopped at the doorframe of Mierta’s room with heavy breathing, sweat starting to drip down his brow.

Mortain turned his head. “Armand, what on God’s good earth is the matter?”

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” Armand answered between heavy breaths. “A pigeon just arrived with this letter. It’s from the kingdom of Vandolay from the king and queen.”

“Bring it to me,” Mortain instructed, taking the paper from Armand’s hands. He opened it and quickly read over the message.

“No,” Mortain whispered, his face going pale.

Hearing the shock in his father’s voice, Mierta grew concerned. “Father, what is it? What’s wrong? Has something happened to the king?”

Not Orlynd, not my good mate’s son. Please, by God’s good grace, let this be a mistake!

“Monsieur, are you all right?”

Mortain lowered the letter, folding it in his hands. “I must prepare to leave. The king’s young soothsayer has been taken seriously ill, and I must tend to him,” Mortain answered matter–of–factly, quickly standing up to start preparing for the journey.

Even if I leave now, I will never make it. It’s hopeless! Orlynd, hold on!

“His Majesty is sending a carriage, but time is not to be wasted. I shall go by horse and meet the carriage.” He stopped when he heard Lochlann crying from his crib. “Oh, good gracious.” His voice was full of anxiety. “Armand, please fetch Natasha and have her tend to him.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Armand replied, leaving the room.

“Mierta, hand me back the key to the cellar.”

“What? Why? Can’t I come with you?” Mierta said, standing up. “You promised me an apprenticeship!”

Mortain turned back. “Yes I did, Mierta, but this is not the time or the place to discuss it.”

“So, that’s how it’s going to be then, is it? You’re going back on your word,” Mierta accused.

Mortain sighed. “Mierta, you are too young to understand. I promise to explain everything to you, after I return, all right? Hand me the key, please.”

With heavy steps, Mierta stomped over to his dresser, removed the key and threw it onto the floor in front of his father’s feet.

“Mierta!” Mortain scolded. “Whatever has gotten into you? Pick up that key this instant!”

“No! You lied to me!” Mierta alleged. “You never wanted me to have an apprenticeship.”

“Now, be fair, you know that is not true. I understand you are upset, son, but you must understand.”

“You promised me an apprenticeship,” Mierta interrupted, repeating himself, tears forming in his eyes. “Why would you lie to me?”

Baffled by his son’s reaction, he eyed him carefully. “Mierta, listen, I haven’t. You still will get an apprenticeship. But right now is not the time. Any delay will jeopardise Orlynd’s life.” He could see his son’s body trembling, and Mierta’s breathing had become rapid and shallow again. He could clearly hear the sound of his lungs whistling. Their discussion about the apprenticeship would have to wait.

“Mierta,” his voice getting anxious. “I need you to slow your breathing and calm yourself. You are making yourself ill again.”

“I…I…I can’t,” he mouthed between a series of harsh coughs. He leaned over, gasping, trying to catch his breath. He could feel blood rushing to his head and his heart pounding from the exertion. As his eyes watered involuntarily, Mierta feared his lungs were going to close on him again.

Placing his hands on his knees, Mierta willed his breathing to slow. With each intake of breath, he was able to breathe a little deeper. After about a minute his breathing had returned almost to normal.

“Monsieur McKinnon! Monsieur McKinnon!” Mortain could hear Armand running up the stairs again.

“What is it this time, Armand? Can you not see I am engaged in trying to help my son?”

“Oui, Monsieur, my apologies. That’s why I came back so quickly to see you. Another pigeon has delivered a letter. It’s for Mierta. I read it over, sir, and there’s no mistake of it. He’s been summoned, too.”

“What? This is preposterous! I will never forgive the king for this.”

“What?” Mierta tried to ask between coughs. “What’s wrong?”

Mortain turned back to stare into Mierta’s confused face. “It would appear the king doubts your condition, my son,” he said, placing the letter in Mierta’s lap. “You have been summoned to court by the king of Vandolay. Any misgivings his Majesty may have shall be proven for naught. While I do not feel it is safe for you to travel, you have been summoned, therefore must appear.”