COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

The next morning the sun shined brightly through the window of the king’s private apartment. The sound of birds singing echoed through the room.

Déor opened his eyes and wiped the sleep out of them. He stretched and stood up from the chair he had fallen asleep in the night before. He tilted his head slightly, thinking he heard something when he realised he could hear Orlynd speaking, though it sounded breathy and weak, like a whisper. “Orlynd is speaking,” he said, breathing in and out. “Everyone wake up right now!”

The announcement woke both Mierta and Mortain who had also fallen asleep in chairs.

Déor, tossed between intense excitement and worry, gazed quickly over towards the bed. He confirmed he could hear the warlock speaking. “What are you saying?” he whispered. He turned to Mortain. “Tell me what’s wrong with him. His voice sounds too frail.”

Mierta turned his attention to Orlynd. He leaned forward and listened carefully for about a minute. “He’s going on about something,” Mierta responded, tilting his head, trying to understand Orlynd’s words. “It is a series of words. He is repeating them, but I can’t quite make them all out.”

All three approached Orlynd who was still lying on his back. His eyes were closed, and his head occasionally shifted as if he was suffering from a nightmare. His chest was rising and falling at a quickened pace.

Mortain lifted Orlynd’s left hand and felt for a pulse, finding it strong and steady. He then checked his temperature, discovering his fever had lowered significantly. He gazed at Mierta bewildered.

“Has his fever returned? Mortain, I demand an explanation for this madness he is uttering,” Déor said.

Before Mortain could answer, Mierta leaned in and listened to Orlynd whispering.

“Well?” Déor asked a bit impatiently.

Mierta hesitated before suggesting, “I dare say it sounds like a poem.”

“Yes? And what is he saying specifically,” Déor inquired, a bit too aggressively.

Mierta nodded his head nervously. He listened to the words again, then started repeating them. “When dual warlocks of royal blood reflect their image. A time of great peril will commence…”

Frustrated, Déor rubbed his hands through his hair.

“When dual warlocks of royal blood reflect their image?” he interrupted. “What utter nonsense could Orlynd be speaking of? There are no warlocks in the royal family. Could he be having some sort of fit because of his treatment? Or, perhaps fallen into madness?” Déor said to himself. He glared over to Mierta. “Is that all he said? Again! Repeat.”

“Yes, Sire,” Mierta answered. He stared down intently at the warlock, waiting for Orlynd to start muttering the words again when Orlynd’s eyes abruptly opened and the warlock sat up.

Startled, Mierta jumped back.

“Orlynd?” Déor asked.

Promptly, Mierta walked to the edge of the bed and looked into Orlynd’s face. He observed Orlynd was staring forward, his gaze appearing far away.

Mierta studied him for a good minute, noticing a remnant of flames displaying themselves in Orlynd’s pupils. “Something is not right. I can see fire in his eyes.”

“What?” Déor interrupted, suddenly recalling his father speaking of Orlynd having the ability to make predictions when his eyes appeared to have fragments of flames. “Record whatever he is uttering right now!”

Orlynd spoke again, this time with a voice that didn’t sound like his own.

“When dual warlocks ay royal blood reflect their image, a time ay great peril will commence. Oan who is coerced will seek the betrayal ay power. The energy ay magic will serve the bearer who brings peace.”

Orlynd stopped speaking, closed his eyes, and collapsed back against the pillow.

Déor quickly moved toward the bed, his eyes wide with shock. “Orlynd!” he cried. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears. He quickly turned his attention back to his court physician. “Mortain, please,” Déor stammered, finding his voice. “Is he dying?” His eyes filled with tears, fearing the worst.

Again Mortain checked Orlynd’s pulse and temperature. “Sire, I do not understand how, but the fever has turned. He is sleeping naturally.”

“Oh, thank the good Lord!” Déor responded. “When he wakes I must seek his counsel, and apologise for doubting him. I shall be forever in his debt. He is a soothsayer like my father said.” He stood and walked towards the doorway of his private apartment.

“Your Grace, may I ask where you are going so urgently?”

“To locate my scribe. I need to make a proclamation clearing the O’Brien name. Send for me when Orlynd is conscious.”