COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

What is taking so long?” Déor uttered impatiently, pacing back and forth. He had taken Orlynd to the blue bedroom, named after the colour of the painted walls, located directly behind the drawing room of his private apartment.

Déor laid the warlock on the bed and helped loosen Orlynd’s robe. He pulled back the blue sheets and stopped, distracted by the sound of Orlynd’s breathing as his chest rose and fell rapidly, yet shallowly. Orlynd’s condition was quickly declining and there was little he could do.

“A king should not be kept waiting,” Déor spoke, slamming his hands against the edge of the bed.

He started pacing the length of the ornately carved mahogany bed. The thick woven rug that covered most of the wood floor was soft under his feet. Déor stopped pacing briefly and stared blankly at the large landscape portrait of his gardens on the wall just above the bed’s headboard while a slight breeze from the open window at the end of the room blew in his face. He felt haunted by thoughts of his recent poor decisions.

The sound of his guard’s voice brought him back to the present.

“Please, Your Grace must not worry so. I’m confident the healer will arrive soon,” Aindrias answered, trying his best to calm and counsel his king, though he questioned his own confidence.

“Time is not on our side, Aindrias! Orlynd is getting worse.” Déor felt helpless, watching his advisor fade before him. Convincing himself of Orlynd’s fate, Déor stated, “Thomas has failed me.”

“I beg to differ. We do not know that,” Aindrias replied.

Déor paced back and forth again, before stopping. “Do not patronise me, we do know that! My court physician will not arrive in time to aide me. Orlynd’s death will not be swift or painless. He shall suffer greatly and the blame is mine. I do not wish for his forgiveness for I shall never forgive myself. Ever since Orlynd’s arrival, I have been nothing but cruel to him. I never permitted myself to earn his friendship, yet he willingly offered his life for mine. Tell me, Aindrias, why would he do that?”

“Because it is his duty to protect you as it is mine, Your Grace,” Aindrias answered.

“Yes, but I am not his king. He is a resident of the kingdom of Aracelly. The dragon Kaeto is their ruler, not Déor of Vandolay,” Déor replied. He brought a chair near the bed and sat down, glancing at Orlynd, his eyes filled with worry. He took a hold of Orlynd’s left hand and was alarmed by the heat he felt coming off it. “His fever has increased.” He stood up again and felt Orlynd’s brow. Alarmed, he turned towards Aindrias. “His skin is dry. He should be sweating out the poison, but instead, it is as if he’s being sucked dry from the inside. Why isn’t he sweating?”

Aindrias did not respond, his own mind lost for words.

“Is this my punishment, Aindrias?” Déor sounded exasperated as he spoke, returning back to his seat. “Am I to watch the warlock die for my insensitivity? If so, I beg the gods to grant me my wish and spare Orlynd’s life and take mine instead. I can change. Nay, I will change. I will become a good king, a king that will be loved by all of his people, just like my father was. Orlynd did nothing to displease me. He was only obeying what I commanded him to do.” Déor closed his eyes and prayed.

An abrupt sound of the door to the private apartment being swung open interrupted Déor’s thoughts.

Déor looked back with a tear in his eye.

Thomas bowed. “Please forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty. I have brought the man you have been searching for.”

Déor breathed a sigh of relief, his heart warming. “Thank you, Thomas. Please, let him in right away,” Déor said, standing from his chair.

An attractive man with fair skin and long dark brown hair entered and bowed before the King. He carried himself with an air of self–importance with head held high. The long black tunic he wore stretched from his squared shoulders to his feet. He held the orange coloured cape at his waist so it would not distract from his presence. When Déor eyed him over, he got the feeling that this man felt everyone should notice him, not his clothing.

“Thank you, Thomas. You may leave us, but please watch at the door,” Déor said.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas answered, bowing, before taking his leave.

Déor waited until the door was closed before turning his attention back to the man. “Are you the Apothecarist my father spoke of who studied in Edesia and taught lessons?” he said. “You may speak freely.”

“I am,” he replied with a self–important smirk.

Déor smiled, relieved. “Thank the good Lord. I was beginning to doubt my messenger had reached you.”

The man smiled slyly. “I shall work on finding a better hiding place next time, Your Grace.”

Déor was already not liking this man’s arrogance. “What name do you go by?”

“Ezekiel Kavanagh at your service, Your Grace,” Ezekiel answered matter–of–factly, clearing his throat. “I understand someone in court has become seriously ill. Please, show me where the patient is.”

Déor nodded. He led Ezekiel over to the bed. “It is my advisor, the warlock, Orlynd. It is my belief he consumed mead that was poisoned at the celebration of my coronation,” he explained. “I suspect Orlynd somehow found out about it and switched his goblet with mine.”

“I see,” Ezekiel replied, listening intently. When he reached the bed, the first thing he noticed were blisters that had started to form over Orlynd’s face. They appeared as if they were on the verge of exploding. He also took note of Orlynd’s uneven breathing.

Ezekiel calmly placed a finger over the side of Orlynd’s neck.

“Please,” Déor spoke with a voice full of anxiety, interrupting Ezekiel’s examination. “I beg you. Tell me you can save him.”

Ezekiel eyed Déor before focusing on what he needed to do next. It was obvious he could not allow Orlynd to die. The king could punish him severely for that. Given the advanced state of the warlock’s condition, Ezekiel wasn’t sure there was any cure. Nevertheless, he was determined to find a solution. Ezekiel lifted his head.

“If I am to save the warlock’s life, it is necessary to determine what specifically made him ill. I require the goblet he drank from,” he spoke calmly.

Déor nodded, handing the goblet to him.

Ezekiel raised the goblet to his nose and sniffed it, not smelling anything out of the ordinary. Next, he glimpsed inside the goblet, at first seeing nothing, but on a second, deeper observation, he noticed remnants of a yellowish powder at the bottom of the goblet.

“You are correct in your assessment. Orlynd has been poisoned. He consumed Atropa belladonna var lutea.”

“Excuse me, what?”

Ezekiel smirked. He loved it when he had the opportunity to speak medical verbiage. It made him sound smart. “Nightshade,” he replied.

“Oh,” Déor’s heart dropped. “I’m certain he has drunk our mead before. Wouldn’t he have been able detect it?”

“No, he would have only been able to taste mead. However, Atropa belladonna var lutea is swift. He would have soon become overwhelmed by an acid burning in his mouth and throat. Most people think it’s a good idea to attempt to wash it down with water, only to discover they can’t.”

“That’s what happened to Orlynd,” Déor murmured.

“Indeed,” Ezekiel responded. He leaned forward and gently lifted Orlynd’s eyelids. Scanning over his brown eyes, Ezekiel became displeased. “His pupils are dilated. He has lost the ability to accommodate to the changing light. Do you recall if he experienced confusion or trouble seeing?”

“Yes,” Déor answered, finding it hard not to forget Orlynd’s screaming. He was beginning to feel even further regret.

“His temperature is dangerously high,” Ezekiel stated, after laying a hand over Orlynd’s brow. “Your Grace, I urge you to command your servants to gather all the linens they can find. I must apply wet towels to the warlock’s body in order to lower his temperature. If that should fail, I will obtain leeches to draw the fever out.”

“It shall be done,” Déor confirmed. He turned towards the door of his private apartment and shouted, “Thomas!”

The sound of Thomas’s armour clanking against the wooden floor was heard as he approached.

“Your Grace,” Thomas said, bowing.

“Instruct all of the servants in the castle to seek out all the linens they can find and bring them here.”

“Yes, Sire,” Thomas answered before scuttling out of the room.

The king anxiously turned back to Ezekiel who was cradling Orlynd’s left hand while placing his ear over the centre of Orlynd’s chest. “Is it too late to save him?”

Ezekiel lifted his head. “Orlynd’s fate is grim. The poison has already attacked his respiratory and circulatory systems. His heart is being forced to contract harder and faster to compensate for his shallow breathing, and I can do nothing to assist his breathing,” Ezekiel glanced down momentarily towards the bed. “I shall require a visit to my Apothecary to retrieve a tincture from the Calabar bean, which will help to slow his pulse and reverse the spread of the poison. The next twenty–four hours are critical. If he should make it through the night I’m confident he will recover. However, it is recommended to prepare arrangements.”

“Preparing arrangements for what, Ezekiel? I demand an explanation.”

Ezekiel stared at Déor, not feeling the need to answer him.

“No! That will not happen. Orlynd will survive this, he has to.”

Ezekiel briefly lifted his eyebrows, a bit surprised by Déor’s reaction. He cleared his throat again. “There is one other thing you can do to help him.”

“What is it? Whatever it is I will do it!” Déor said.

“The warlock needs to be undressed and his body cooled. Once the linens arrive, prepare a large basin of water from one of the water closets. Dunk the linens into the water and lay them over him. Be cautious, he may experience a fit if his temperature is lowered too quickly. I shall return shortly.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Déor replied.

“Anytime,” Ezekiel smirked before bowing and taking his leave.

Déor turned his attention back to the warlock. “Hold on, Orlynd. Please, stay with me.”