The Heart of Magic
Kyle Alexander Romines
Copyright © 2019 by Kyle Alexander Romines
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
Morwen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
Warden of Fál
The Path of Vengeance (prequel short story)
The Wrath of Lords
The Blood of Kings
The City of Thieves
The Will of Queens
Drone (Science Fiction/Superhero)
The Chrononaut (Science Fiction)
A Sound in the Dark (Thriller)
The Keeper of the Crows (Horror)
Bride (Horror)
Atonement (Western)
To sign up to receive author updates—and receive FREE electronic copies of Kyle’s Warden of Fál prequel short, The Path of Vengeance, AND his science fiction novella, The Chrononaut—go to http://eepurl.com/bsvhYP.
Morwen
Morwen climbed to the top of the castle’s tallest tower. Any thought of danger was lost in her excitement. She stared beyond the bustling city below to the road outside Cashel’s walls and eagerly awaited the mages’ approach. Since the message arrived that morning, she’d been able to think of little else. Concentrating on her studies proved fruitless. She’d found herself reading the same passage over and over before abandoning her spellbooks altogether.
Suddenly aware of the sentries on the ramparts, Morwen cast a glance over her shoulder. King Mór would be furious if he knew she had climbed so high alone. Unlike Prince Aiden or Princess Ravenna, Morwen was largely free to come and go without supervision—one benefit to her low birth—but for a girl of twelve, there were some places even a magician’s apprentice wasn’t allowed to go. While Morwen hadn’t been an apprentice since Baldrick’s departure, neither was she a full-fledged magician.
She raised her hand to her forehead to shield herself from the overbearing summer sun. The sight of a falcon circling a lone rider on her way to the gate filled Morwen with glee. She spun around, grinning from ear to ear, and hurried to make her descent. Unable to contain her enthusiasm, she ran through the castle, jumping and skipping down the halls.
Although a severe-looking priest shot her a reproachful look, the servants nearby regarded her with bemusement. Baldrick, her former master, had often received a less enthusiastic reception among the people, stemming from a somewhat curmudgeonly and aloof reputation. Morwen, in contrast, was well-liked by most of the castle’s occupants, probably on account of her cheerful and friendly disposition.
She counted herself lucky in that regard. Cashel was the capital of Munster, the southernmost of Fál’s five kingdoms. Other kingdoms were not as tolerant of magic, due in no small part to the dark sorcerer Azeroth’s attempted conquest of Fál years ago. King Mór himself had taken part in the war, fighting alongside Nora of Connacht before she was crowned High Queen. Morwen, who possessed a deep fondness for stories, treasured hearing the old tales.
The purges that followed the Shadow Wars had greatly reduced what was left of Fál’s magic-capable population. Morwen hoped to change attitudes toward magic, like her heroes Gwenaëlle of Gaul and Thane Ramsay of Connacht. Although she enjoyed potionmaking and crafting enchantments, she had longed to be a mage—a warrior magician—since she could remember. She wanted to defend the land against monsters, witches, and other magical threats, not spend her life poring over scrolls in some dimly lit dungeon chamber.
Guards stationed at the castle’s main entrance parted to allow her passage, and Morwen raced through the courtyard to find a better vantage point. She scaled the outer wall and searched for the rider atop the rampart. Royal banners waved behind her in the turbulent winds, and Morwen drew on her enhanced senses to maintain her balance. The castle was perched atop the Rock of Cashel, a towering limestone peak from which the city derived its name. A cobblestone road led from the lofty heights into the city below.
“Careful, lass.” The friendly voice belonged to Ronan, King Mór’s Thane. “That’s a long way to fall.”
Morwen dropped down beside him and threw her hands up in exhilaration. “She’s coming!”
Ronan aimed a wink in her direction. “And who might that be?”
Morwen rolled her eyes, aware he was toying with her. The whole kingdom stirred with excitement at the prospect of the choosing. “Astrid, of course! The time of choosing is finally here!” She had waited for ages, and the moment had finally arrived.
“Is that so?” Ronan had never treated her as a child, unlike Laird O’Reilly—the king’s chief advisor. It was rumored Ronan had loved Queen Alannah before her marriage to Mór. Although he continued to serve Alannah as thane, he had never married. While he had no children of his own, he always treated Morwen with kindness. “I wish I could be there to see it.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Aye. It won’t be long before the goblin raids near the Lakewood Forest result in bloodshed.” Ronan looked at her quizzically. “You’re on good terms with the goblins in the city. Have they told you why their kin are stirring up trouble in Limerick?”
“I’m afraid not. None of the goblins I’ve spoken with seem to know anything about the trouble to the west.” As a magician, nonhuman affairs were largely her domain. Unlike in the north, where violent conflicts with goblins were common, goblins in Munster mostly lived in peace with their human counterparts. Goblins were citizens entitled to full protection under the law—at least in theory—and many dwelled in human cities and settlements. The attacks reported near Lakewood Forest were highly unusual.
“Are you certain they spoke truthfully? Goblins can be slippery creatures, if you catch my meaning.”
Morwen frowned. Many goblins fought on Azeroth’s side in the Shadow Wars, and old prejudices died hard. “I trust them. Besides, I would know if they were lying.” Having magic had its perks.
Ronan sighed. “I thought as much. I expect you’ll be gone when I return.”
Morwen nodded. If she passed the trials, the mages would take her with them back to Gaul. She’d been there before, just not as a novice. Outsiders of means were permitted to study the order’s vast collection of knowledge. Morwen had been equipped with the best tutors the king’s money could buy. Everything would be different once she was accepted into the order.
“How long does the training last?”
“Five years. Maybe more.” The process of becoming a mage was no small feat. Earning acceptance among their ranks was no less difficult. There were many schools of mages, but Morwen had chosen to attempt entry into the most prestigious and rigorous among them—that of Gwenaëlle herself.
“You’ll be nearly grown by then. Don’t forget us while you’re gone.”
“Never.” Morwen, who had been taken to Cashel at a very young age, couldn’t remember her life before the castle. She had never known her parents. The same gifts that made her an invaluable asset to the realm also put her in danger. While she was safe behind the castle’s walls, she longed for a life of adventure.
The falcon soared overhead, and the rider—a woman with ash blonde hair worn in a braid—passed through the gates below.
At the sight of her, Morwen’s face lit up with joy. “It’s her!” It suddenly dawned on her that Astrid would arrive in the throne room before her. “I should go. The king wil
l be expecting me.”
Ronan followed her gaze to Astrid, who continued her approach to the castle. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Farewell, Morwen. I know you will do us proud in the choosing.” He gave a courteous nod and stepped away.
By the time Morwen made her descent from the ramparts, Astrid had arrived at the castle’s entrance, where a chamberlain ushered her inside. The courtyard had gone strangely quiet. Morwen expected most of the castle’s inhabitants had gathered in the throne room to greet the king’s new guest. She scrambled to the castle with haste, dodging everyone in her path.
The throne room was nearly full—an impressive accomplishment. Munster was home to the greatest architects and artists in the land, and while not as large as that of the royal palace in Leinster’s capital or the fortress of Dothrunvaggen to the far north, Cashel’s throne room was easily the most splendid in Fál’s five kingdoms. The majestic rose window behind the throne and the great barrel-vaulted roof were testaments to the kingdom’s great wealth. Morwen always felt small indeed whenever she entered.
Thankfully, it was easy for her to slip unnoticed into the crowd assembled inside. As court magician, Baldrick had worn sweeping blue magician’s robes, but despite her abilities, Morwen had no official position within the royal court. Neither was she of noble birth, which meant that unlike Princess Ravenna, she was free to dress as somewhat of a tomboy. Morwen scanned the sea of faces and swallowed nervously. Powerful nobles had come from far and wide to witness the choosing. Someone whispered that Prince Tristan, Regent for Leinster’s boy king, was present. Darragh, Captain of the High Queen’s Wardens and one of the few to face the Lord of Shadows in single combat, was also in attendance. Adorned in golden armor that matched the color of his hair, he looked every bit the hero the stories claimed.
A hush fell over the throne room as Astrid came to a stop near the chamber’s heart. Most of the royal court held her in considerable awe, and with good reason. Astrid was the High Queen’s court mage at Tara. She too had fought by Nora’s side in the Shadow Wars and remained one of the High Queen’s most trusted advisers. Morwen guessed Astrid was probably somewhere in her mid-to-late forties, but her appearance betrayed little hint as to her true age. Magic-capable humans tended to age more slowly than their non-magical counterparts. Sorcerers, far more powerful than either mages or magicians, often lived hundreds of years.
Astrid wore flowing white robes and a matching cloak. No matter their order, most mages dressed in white, a color that distinguished them from magicians, whose robes were blue. Astrid’s familiar, the falcon Morwen noticed earlier, was perched on her shoulder. The mage carried a staff of oak wood inscribed with charms and wore a sword at her side. As the High Queen’s personal mage, Astrid was one of the few individuals permitted to wear a weapon in a monarch’s presence.
“Welcome, Lady Astrid,” announced a herald positioned between her and the throne. “You stand in the presence of Mór II of Munster, King from the Cliffs of Moher to the Celtic Sea, Lord of the Southern Islands, Master of the Golden Fleet, and servant of Nora, High Queen of Fál.”
Morwen turned her attention to the man occupying the throne. Mór was the very image of a king. He had a somber face that only hinted at his capacity for joy and a pair of intelligent eyes that seemed to take everything in around him at once. A crown lay atop black curls streaked with gray that matched the color of his well-trimmed beard, and a purple cloak draped down to his feet. Like the kings and queens of each of Fál’s kingdoms, Mór’s crown was made of silver. Only Nora, the High Queen, wore a golden crown.
It was Nora who united the kingdoms under her rule, a feat not accomplished since the days of the High Kings of old. After her defeat of the sorcerer Azeroth, the five kings and queens had gathered at the Stone of Destiny at Tara, where the others cast their golden crowns at Nora’s feet. Mór’s silver crown was adorned with precious stones as a tribute to Munster’s wealth and history, as the line of High Kings past came from Munster.
Astrid gave a slight bow. As a servant of Tara, she wasn’t required to bow in the king’s presence, but even the High Queen’s Wardens usually did so out of custom and deference.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Mór smiled, and the weight of his years seemed to fall away. He rose from the throne, and the two clasped hands. “It is good to see you, old friend.”
Both had fought at Nora’s side in the Shadow Wars when Mór was only a prince. It was said that in his youth, Mór was a great poet and musician, taken to drink and merriment. The responsibility of the monarchy had changed him over the years, and only the sight of his former companions seemed able to return him to the days of his youth.
“And you, Your Grace. The queen sends her apologies for missing the choosing. Diplomatic talks with the Caledonian Ambassador are dragging along at the expected pace.” Astrid came from Albion originally, and despite many years spent in Fál, her voice still betrayed a distinctly Alban accent. She took a step back and glanced at the king’s family and advisers behind the throne. “And where is our applicant?” Like others in the throne room, she appeared amused by Morwen’s absence.
Mór’s voice silenced a brief round of laughter. “Morwen!”
Morwen felt her cheeks flush red. “Apologies, Your Grace.” She rushed forward and knelt before the king.
An expression of fondness quickly replaced Mór’s stern look. The king had always had a soft spot for her, likely on account of his fascination with magic. Mór was far more demanding with his own children. As Morwen had no parents of her own, he was the closest thing to a father figure in her life, and she strove to please him. Mór, who was fiercely proud of Munster, wanted her to become a mage almost as much as she did.
“Look how you’ve grown.” Astrid held out her arms. “Come here, child.”
They shared a heartfelt embrace. It was Astrid who had accompanied Morwen to Gaul when she first traveled from Munster to be tutored in the mystic arts. Despite the difference in their ages, there was an unspoken kinship between them as two of the few magic-capable humans left in Fál. Even in tolerant kingdoms like Munster, public sentiment had turned decidedly against magic and nonhuman creatures in the Shadow Wars’ aftermath. In times past, dozens of applicants would come to participate in a choosing, but Morwen was the first and only applicant in several years.
“We’ve received word from Weatherford,” Mór told Astrid. “The adjudicators have arrived. They will be here in the morning, and the choosing will begin. Tonight we will feast, and once Morwen is successful I will throw the greatest celebration the realm has ever seen.”
Astrid raised an eyebrow. The extravagance of Munster’s feasts was matched nowhere else in Fál. “That is most agreeable. I am weary from the long journey and wish to kick off these boots before the fun begins.”
Mór rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Tonight, we will tell tales about old times and speak of only pleasant things.” Together they swept from the chamber, and the rest of court followed them to the great hall, where the feast had been prepared.
Despite the vast array of foods before her, Morwen found herself unable to eat. She kept to herself, paying only half-attention to stories that usually fascinated her. With the choosing finally at hand, she suddenly felt nervous and on edge. So many notable figures and dignitaries had traveled to Cashel to witness the trials. What if she made a mess of things? She couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing the king.
“Why so forlorn?”
Morwen turned around and found herself facing an adolescent boy with a mirthful, if slightly mischievous, expression. It was Aiden, Mór’s heir and oldest child. He was accompanied by his sister Ravenna, a beautiful raven-haired girl older than Morwen by a few years. Morwen gave a deferential bow. “My Prince.”
Aiden rolled his eyes and shot his sister a sideways grin. “None of that. You’re one of us.” He said the words with such sincerity Morwen couldn’t help smiling in return. He was wrong of course. Even a court mage wa
s expected to observe protocol, and though Morwen was the king’s ward, she would never be royalty. Aiden, much to his father’s chagrin, had little use for such formalities.
“I expect she’s nervous about the choosing,” said Ravenna, who always had a way of seeing right to the truth.
Although Morwen and Ravenna were close friends and playmates in their childhood, Ravenna had grown more reserved toward her as they’d aged. Morwen sometimes wondered if the increasing distance between them was due in part to the favoritism Mór showed her over his own daughter. Neither of Mór’s children fit the mold he desired in his heirs, and Ravenna in particular refused to conform to the role her father envisioned for her. Nevertheless, the princess was thoughtful, intelligent, and kind.
“Is that so?” Aiden ruffled Morwen’s hair—it was considered good luck to rub a magician’s head, an old superstition that caused her no end of consternation—and sat down across her. “I envy you. Soon you’ll be off to Gaul, while I’ll be stuck here surrounded by dusty old tutors.” He groaned. “Father was off fighting when he was my age.” Aiden, whose thirst for adventure rivaled her own, had little desire to learn to rule. Instead, he dreamed of becoming a knight, like the great warriors of Albion.
Morwen noticed he carried something wrapped in a cloth. “What’s that?”
Aiden’s smile widened, and he laid the mysterious item on the table. “I had this made for you—a gift to help you in the trials.” He peeled back the cloth to reveal a sheathed dagger.
Morwen accepted the dagger and looked it over in awe. “It’s beautiful.” She pulled back the scabbard to reveal the blade, which shimmered in the torchlight. “Thank you, my Prince.”
“Told you she’d like it.” He winked at Ravenna. “Now even when you’re away from here, you’ll always have a piece of home with you. And if any monsters give you trouble…” He made a show of jabbing the blade several times in rapid succession.
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