McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE

In the cellar Mierta quickly prepared a mixture in his flask, calculating the proper amount of ingredients. He had just finished pouring it accidentally into the wrong cauldron when he heard Lochlann’s voice from the top of the stone stairs.

“Mierta? Are you down there?” Lochlann called.

Mierta turned just in time for the contents in the cauldron to erupt all over his freshly cleaned royal blue robe. He stared towards the direction of the staircase with a very irritated expression.

“Yes, I’m down here!” he shouted.

The noise from Lochlann’s footsteps became louder as they echoed against the stone steps. Lochlann could hear Mierta swear between moments of self–inflicted pain while he worked unsuccessfully to remove remnants of the potion from his hair without burning himself.

He stopped on the bottom step, catching a glimpse of Mierta removing his soiled robe and tossing it into a corner. Lochlann raised an eyebrow and covered his mouth, trying not to chuckle at Mierta’s predicament.

Mierta pretended to ignore Lochlann. He unfastened the belt around his long cream coloured tunic, allowing it to fall against the floor. He lifted his tunic over his head. Patches of skin that had already changed over to an angry pink were revealed.

Lochlann cleared his throat. “We need to talk,” he stammered.

Mierta grimaced in pain, walking over to the corner to deposit his tunic alongside his robe. He returned to one of his workbenches that had various ingredients perfectly organised in front of him. He started the potion again, this time working only in his breeches.

“Mierta are you listening to me?” Lochlann uttered with a tone of irritation. “For God’s sake do you not have a change of clothes around here?”

Mierta whirled toward him, his upper lip curving. The lighting hit Mierta’s face just right to emphasise the few veins that could be seen on the left side of his face where scar tissue had formed. His eyes looked frightening, like they could pierce Lochlann’s soul at that very moment. “I will find a change of clothes as soon as I have removed these burning chemicals from my skin or have you failed once again to notice I’ve had a slight accident!”

“My apologises,” Lochlann responded, intimidated. “I shall fetch you some clothes from upstairs.”

Mierta continued to intently stare at his brother until he disappeared into the staircase.

Idiot. Mierta thought.

He walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a small vessel of salve to help with the burns. He carefully applied the ointment between several intakes of sharp breath.

Shortly afterward, Lochlann returned, holding a long and fancy silk crimson tunic. Mierta reached out for it, taking it from Lochlann a bit aggressively. He did not thank him for the attire. Mierta rolled up the sleeves and walked back to the workbench to stir his potion.

“Now, you wanted to talk, yes? Well, I’m very busy. I need to calculate the correct ingredients.”

“It’s about the queen,” Lochlann nervously confessed. “I did something I am not proud of and I am desperately in need of your guidance. I believe I—no, WE—may be in danger.”

This news caught Mierta’s attention and he abruptly stopped preparing the potion. He adjusted his black breeches. “Danger? What kind of danger? What have you done?” He paused and tried to retain his focus. He picked up a small vial of clear liquid and poured it into a flask, causing chemicals to bubble and sizzle into the air.

Lochlann swallowed hard and then continued. “Anya persuaded me to deliver some type of poison to a brigand in Glendalow. I believe his name was Eoghan. Anya was attempting to create some kind of setup so Déor could be eliminated during the royal hunt. She implied you were the one who created the poison for her!”

“Poison?” he asked, already predicting what Lochlann’s next question would be.

Worry filled Lochlann’s voice. “Please, I beg of you, tell me it’s not true.”

Mierta thought for a moment, then answered slowly, as if hesitant. “Poison? Why, yes, I do recall making a poison for the queen.”

“Mierta, I fear we will lose our heads. Everyone will know it was us!” Lochlann exclaimed.

Mierta laughed with amusement and turned around. “Oh, Lochlann. You, my brother, are a fool.” He grinned and turned back to his potion. “What I meant to say is I did provide a poison for the queen, but it wasn’t my concoction.”

“Then why would she say you had?”

Mierta spoke towards the table with a bit of a snarky tone. “How else do you think the late king died?”

Lochlann’s face turned pale. “I don’t understand,” he muttered.

Mierta spun around, approached Lochlann and wrapped an arm around him. “Why, of course you do. Quit your gawking and listen to me. Remember the stories growing up? Once upon a time, King Francis, one late, cold night went to his bedchamber not feeling well,” he said, continuing the story while gesturing with his right hand. “He proceeded to undress when suddenly he saw something—a white form, or so he thought it was. It was actually a hallucination.”

He paused, changing the inflection of his voice, and making it sound quieter. “The king glanced forward. He pointed towards the spirit. His pulse raced and his pupils dilated.” Mierta raised his voice. “’Be gone, you despicable creature!’” He paused. “As soon as he uttered these last words, Francis gripped his chest, unable to catch his breath, and fell to the floor, dead.” Mierta let go of Lochlann and immediately slapped his hands together. “His heart would beat no more, and yet there still was blood dripping out of his mouth. The End. Or was it? Ha!” Mierta turned back to his potions, an expression of achievement filled his face.

At that moment Lochlann had a realisation. “Rumours stated King Francis had died of fright, but what you are saying is that he was poisoned?!”

“Precisely,” Mierta answered, his eyes beaming. “Anya wants Déor dead, and will do whatever she needs to in order to see it come to be. All she requested of me was I give her poison in exchange for some new test subjects. Understand, this was the same poison that had previously been used in the castle, but what Anya didn’t know was what I had given her wasn’t fully effective.”

Lochlann looked at Mierta disapprovingly.

Mierta’s jaw opened and his face showed disgust. “Did you honestly think I was that stupid?” Mierta took a moment to compose himself before he started speaking again, this time with confidence. “Even if her plan should fail, and trust me, it will fail, as my elixir wasn’t fully potent. But, it still will cause His Majesty to become very ill. There is a chance he could still die and then there will be trouble. Oh yes, there will be lots of trouble, but you, my brother, will come through for her in the very end. Why? Not because you are desperate for her love or affection,” he teased, “but because you are destined for greatness.”

Lochlann huffed. “Do not flatter me. I do not have the talent to create potions. I could be the advisor to the king and queen, but I am not a soothsayer. And I do not have the discipline to master the dark arts like you have. There’s no way I can be intended for greatness when I do not even have power.”

“Ah, power can be a tricky thing,” Mierta answered as he stirred his liquid. “Anya seeks it, desires it in fact, to conquer and rule the world.” He then poured a small amount of potion into a small culture tube and drank some of it. He licked his lips. “Mmm, that is brilliant.” He set down the culture tube, and then cleared his throat. “What Anya needs are subjects that will never betray her and do whatever she commands.” He twiddled his fingers. “I reckon we can manoeuvre right into Anya’s plan unsuspected,” Mierta muttered to himself.

“Pardon?”

Mierta stopped. He began to laugh to himself. “Blimey! The solution couldn’t be clearer!”

He turned to Lochlann and smirked. He wrapped his arm around Lochlann again and continued to speak, gesturing with his free hand.

“You will continue to aide her Majesty, and I will continue to train you. But, in exchange for taking Déor’s life, you will demand Anya makes you her new king.”

“Me? king? But that’s impossible! My blood is not of a royal. I can never be king,” replied Lochlann.

Mierta covered Lochlann’s mouth. “That’s not the point. Laws can be re–written,” Mierta said. “Especially when it involves a Dark Lord.” He winked, releasing Lochlann.

“I don’t understand. Who’s a Dark Lord?” questioned Lochlann.

Mierta became distracted by the sound of someone stumbling over a rat on the stairs.

“Never mind. Shh,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “We are not alone.” They heard the sound of a rat screeching at the indignity of its tail having been stepped on.

Mierta glimpsed back at Lochlann, nodded, and proceeded to point towards the entrance.

“Who’s there?” Mierta called to the room. “Show yourself!”

Mierta and Lochlann stood and listened again.

Mierta tilted his head when he heard the sound of feet running back up the stairs. Someone had just overhead something they shouldn’t, and Mierta was determined to stop the intruder. Lochlann turned to follow, but Mierta stopped him, raising a finger to his lips. He lowered his finger and raised his wand, positioning it at the ready, and chanted, “Zapídra contrarium!”

A yelp was heard followed by a loud thud as the intruder’s legs became hard and immobile as stone.