McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE
Father? Armand informed me you wished to see me?” Mierta said, taking a few steps into the room.
He glanced around and observed his father was no longer in his sickbed. Fear filled his heart.
He turned back to Lochlann who had followed him up the stairs. “No one is to enter this room, but me,” Mierta cautioned.
He could feel his pulse in his temples and sweat droplets starting to drip from under the pits of his arms. He crept over to the right side of the bed and stopped. There was blood, lots of blood, and his father’s body lay on the ground.
“Mierta?” questioned Lochlann, entering the room. “What’s wrong?”
Hearing footsteps behind him, Mierta turned around, forcing Lochlann to stop. “Don’t come any closer! Get out of here! Get out of here, now!” he exclaimed.
“Where’s father?” Lochlann asked, returning to the hallway. His body began to tremble. Something was wrong. “Mierta? Talk to me!”
“Shut up, and do not come any closer.” Mierta turned around. He stood still staring down at his father’s body. There was blood, far too much blood. There wasn’t a doubt in Mierta’s mind his father was dead. “He’s over here,” Mierta responded, fighting tears from forming.
“What? You mean, unconscious? Is he all right?”
Mierta took in a deep breath. He attempted to calm himself only it was useless.
“I do not know,” Mierta answered, his voice breaking. “I’m going to have a look.”
With dread, he slowly approached his father. Attentive of the blood, Mierta lowered to his knees. As he moved closer, he observed his father was still, positioned on his side. His eyes were open, but no movement could be seen. Mierta moved a hand to his mouth, arranging it into a fist, preparing himself for the worst. He placed a finger over his father’s neck. The body was still warm, but there was no pulse.
No, Mierta thought.
He bowed his head while laying a hand over his father’s shoulder. His father had gone to be reunited with his mother and the man his father considered to be his best friend.
“I’m sorry,” Mierta whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry I failed you.”
He had been so close to discovering a cure, but it hadn’t been enough. Mortain had been too ill. Even so, he had failed. The future he had seen in his Rite of Wands was coming to pass. Last thing he expected was that it would begin through his own family.
As he wept, he continued to look over his father’s body. The front of his long white nightshirt was covered in blood. It looked like his father had vomited and then died shortly afterward. The metallic cloying smell was filling the air. It reminded him of the time he had sliced open a piglet from the chest down in order to understand pain tolerance as it squealed in agony. He recalled wondering whether his had mother felt the same pain while she was being murdered.
Rage towards himself filled Mierta’s mind. He had failed not only to save his mother, but now also his father.
Then, he noticed what looked like a crumbled piece of parchment sticking out of his father’s hand.
Crinkling his brow, he carefully reached for the parchment, and smoothed it out in his hand. It had not been written too long ago for the ink had partially smeared; however, the writing was still legible.
It read: “His real name is Verlyn.”
What? What kind of bollocks is this? Who is Verlyn? What were you going on about, father? Mierta wondered.
“Father!” cried Lochlann, breaking Mierta’s thoughts.
Hearing the sound of footsteps behind him, Mierta quickly reached into his pocket, turned around, flicked his wand and shouted, “Vorbíllion!”
Lochlann was lifted into the air and thrown rapidly backward against the wall. An audible, “Oooof!” escaped from Lochlann’s lips as he fell to the floor like a statue being pulled down from its pedestal.
Not caring whether he had injured Lochlann, Mierta talked down to him. “I warned you…not to come in here. I do not understand why you refuse to listen! Do you not comprehend the words coming out of my mouth are important?!” There was an edge of pain in his voice. He paused, noticing Lochlann was not moving.
“Lochlann?”
Worry filled his face. His pulse was now throbbing in his ears. He quickly inhaled and exhaled a few times.
“Lochlann,” he stammered, wiping tears from his face.
What have I done? Mierta thought. I only meant to get him out of the room.
He rushed over to his brother. Keeping his grasp around his wand, he gently turned Lochlann onto his back. He looked down into Lochlann’s pain–filled face, watching him desperately try to inflate his lungs.
“Lochlann, listen to me,” Mierta began, regaining control. “Your diaphragm is paralysed. You cannot breathe, but it is only temporary. I will get you relief.” He drew Lochlann’s knees up to his abdomen. “Now, I need you slowly inhale through your nose, and exhale through your mouth. Go on then, and do as I say.”
Lochlann obeyed.
A few minutes later, his breathing steadied. Mierta checked his pulse, feeling it stabilise.
“There. That better?” He smiled.
He began to stand when Lochlann revealed his wand from underneath his robe.
“Palavaríso!” shouted Lochlann, causing Mierta’s wand to fly out of his hand and land directly behind him.
Mierta briefly stared at his empty hand before looking behind him, noting the location of his wand on the floor. He turned and looked back at Lochlann with bewilderment.
Lochlann has never been courageous enough to challenge me. Perhaps I misjudged him, and he isn’t as incompetent as I had initially thought, Mierta concluded.
“What is your problem?” shouted Lochlann, holding his wand out towards Mierta. “You could have killed me!”
“I’m sorry. I lost control of my emotions,” Mierta said, holding up both of his hands. “Please. Put your wand away!” Mierta watched Lochlann lower his wand and place it in a pocket of his breeches before he lowered his own hands. He looked Lochlann in the eye. His voice sounded hopeless. “He’s dead, Lochlann. Father succumbed to the Shreya.” His emotions were beginning to control him. “You must believe me. The longer you remain in his house the greater chance you will succumb to the same disease.”
“I won’t just leave you and father behind,” protested Lochlann.
“You have no choice!” shouted Mierta. “I will accept the task of burying his body.”
“Mierta, you don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. I told you before. I’m infected. Believe me, if anyone should make contact with the blood or merely inhale the particles from this room, they shall become infected, too!” Mierta answered, turning away. How long would it be before he started showing symptoms? A few days? A week?
“Mierta?” questioned Lochlann.
Mierta looked back at Lochlann. There was a look of fear in his eyes. “You must return to Coinneach Castle and warn the queen.”
“Warn her of what?”
“Lochlann, I know you do not understand, but please try to follow, this is very important,” Mierta replied. “Father told me he didn’t just go to Edesia to visit his best mate. The disease was already there. Tiberius wrote father a letter, requesting he come to Norhamptone. He thought father could help. By the time father arrived, hundreds of people were infected. Tiberius was one of the first to succumb. That’s how father became infected.” He paused. “Lochlann, the Shreya has come to Iverna. Please, I beg of you, take Armand and return to the kingdom of Vandolay. Remember to stay in Anya’s good graces and do whatever she asks. If we should survive, she may reward you with a title. Then our plan can proceed, and you will be closer to becoming king.”
“But, what about you?” Lochlann asked.
“I must focus solely on my work. If I isolate myself I may be able to conjure up a cure before…” He stopped. He half–smiled at Lochlann. “If anything you must understand, it is this. If I do not find a cure, my life is forfeit.”
Lochlann approached Mierta and hugged him. “Now, you listen to me. You are the most talented warlock in all of Iverna. Father said you were a genius. I’m confident if anyone can conjure a cure, it will be you.” He broke the hug and glanced at Mierta. “You aren’t going to die.”
Mierta nodded, though unconvinced.
“I will go to the kingdom of Vandolay as you suggest. I shall go gather some things. Be well, my brother.”
Mierta nodded again.
“Lochlann?” he said, looking away. “Please, apologise to the queen. Tell her I send my love and ask her for her forgiveness. I will be unable to perform my duty as her potion maker. Tell her I request she find a place for you and Armand in court.”
“Of course.”
He watched Lochlann leave the room.
A few minutes later, Mierta walked up to where his wand lay on the ground and picked it up. He studied it, confirming it had not taken any damage. He shrugged, placing it back into the pocket of his breeches. Defeated, he approached his father’s bed and sat down on the edge. He pulled his hands up to his mouth and wept.
