Ravenna handed Morwen a book. “For your journey.”
Morwen ran her hand along the cover. “Tales of Áed and Thane Ramsay.” Her eyes widened with gratitude. “I will treasure it always.”
Aiden glanced over his shoulder at Queen Alannah, who beckoned them to return. “Good luck tomorrow, Morwen. Hopefully they won’t pit you against a troll or the like.”
Ravenna punched him in the shoulder, and Aiden laughed impishly before hurrying off to the king’s table.
Morwen took her leave of the hall and ventured outside to clear her head. The task ahead was daunting, and passing the challenges wouldn’t be easy, but she’d been preparing her whole life for this moment.
“I thought I might find you here.” King Mór followed her gaze to the city below. He ordered his guards to withdraw, and together they watched the approaching sunset. “Tell me—what do you see?”
“Summer, Your Grace.” Munster in summer was truly a sight to behold. The sky was awash in golden light. The fields beyond the walls were vibrant and green, and lush forests loomed in the distance.
“What more than that?”
Morwen hesitated. “Munster, Your Grace.”
“Aye.” Mór nodded in approval. “Ours is the greatest of Fál’s five kingdoms. The High Kings of old were of Munster. No other land can rival our history, our culture, or our great wealth. As king, it is my responsibility to preserve the realm. The world is a dangerous place, full of great evils.” He stared off, as if lost in a memory. “When my father occupied the throne, dragons attacked Munster.”
“Dragons?” Morwen had heard the tales, but never from the king.
“I was only a boy at the time, but even then I knew I would never forget watching Cashel burn. The smoke that filled the sky was so thick you could hardly see the sun. And the screams…” Despite the summer heat, Mór shivered. “The people sought refuge in the tunnels, but many didn’t make it. Men were there one second and reduced to ash in the next.”
“It must have been horrible.”
“It was the first time in my life that I felt truly powerless. What could ordinary men do against such creatures? From that moment on, I became determined to secure magical protection for the realm. The blood of Brian Boru flows through my veins. I had hoped my children might inherit his abilities, but neither showed the slightest promise of magical talent.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “That is why the position of court mage is so important. You will be my left hand, defending the realm against magical threats.”
Overcome, Morwen knelt before him. “You honor me, Your Grace.”
“I have something for you.” Mór motioned to a hostler, who approached with a magnificent white mare. “This is Nessa. Her sire was Acheron, the great warhorse. There is no finer steed in all the land.” Munster’s people were generally considered the best horse masters in Fál. Many grew up learning to ride from young ages, and Morwen was no exception. “Well? What do you think?”
Morwen’s breath stuck in her chest. “She’s beautiful.”
“I’ll not have my future court mage go without a fitting mount.” Mór stepped away, and the hostler untethered the mare’s lead rope. “Go on, don’t be shy. I expect you’ll have a fair amount of work to do to tame this one.”
Morwen faced the mare, which regarded her with an appraising gaze. When Morwen advanced, Nessa snorted, shook her mane, and pawed at the ground with her hooves. She’s testing me.
Morwen reached out with her mind and brushed the horse’s consciousness with her own. Most magicians, Morwen included, possessed a natural affinity with animals. She had read that some sorcerers and magicians could even speak to animals, though those abilities were beyond her. Under her influence Nessa grew utterly calm, and after Morwen inclined her head in a show of respect, Nessa trotted to her side.
Morwen ran a hand along the mare’s neck. While she couldn’t read Nessa’s thoughts, she could sense the mare’s emotions. She didn’t try to dominate Nessa as other magicians might. Instead, she attempted to convey peaceful intentions. Animals weren’t as complicated as people, whose motives were far more difficult to comprehend. It required greater focus and discipline to sense what a person was feeling, but Morwen was slowly getting better at reading those around her.
“I see I was wrong. Well done.” Mór applauded, and Morwen couldn’t resist grinning at the show of praise. “But how well can you ride her?”
The king had his own horse brought out, and Morwen followed him from the courtyard with the king’s guards trailing behind. Despite Mór’s skill in the saddle, Morwen caught up to him with ease. She laughed, overcome with happiness. While she was his ward, she saw less of the king than she would have liked. Morwen understood why; he had a kingdom to run, after all. All the same, he was the closest thing to a father she had ever known, and she lived for the moments when they were together. Mór treated her as if she were a princess and not some orphan of low birth. Even when her magical abilities kept her from fitting in, the king made her feel like she truly belonged.
The two rode side by side until the last of the dying light faded from the sky. Any lingering doubts about the choosing faded away, lost to sheer exhilaration. Her face flushed, Morwen wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and dismounted.
Mór’s chief advisor waited to greet their return. “Forgive me, Your Grace. We’ve had a messenger from Limerick. Laird Roche sends word. He says the matter is urgent.”
“Not more goblin attacks.” A resigned expression replaced the king’s good humor. “Very well.” He handed his horse to a hostler and turned to Morwen. “It’s late. You should rest. Tomorrow is a very important day.”
After seeing Nessa to the stables, Morwen made her way back to the castle and hurried up a winding stair that led to her tower chambers. Her room, which once served as Baldrick’s laboratory, afforded relative solitude that Morwen found helpful for honing her craft. She looked over chamber’s messy contents—from shelves lined with books and scrolls to cupboards full of potions and alchemy ingredients—with fondness. If she succeeded in the trials, it might be years before she saw it all again.
She thought back to everyone who had gathered inside the throne room. The whole realm had come to witness the choosing. It would be a momentous occasion—not just for her, but for Munster as well. Everything she had worked so hard for was finally within reach.
Her excitement drove all thought of sleep from her mind. Morwen opened a storage cupboard and withdrew a sleeping draught perfect for such an occasion. Suddenly overcome by fatigue after consuming the draught, she blew out her candles and climbed into bed. When she woke, it would nearly be time for the choosing. She yawned and closed her eyes.
I’m ready.
When morning came, Morwen ventured into the city to await the adjudicators’ arrival. Despite the early hour, Cashel was consumed by a flurry of activity befitting a city its size. Even with all the fuss over the choosing, most people were more preoccupied with their everyday concerns. Morwen took her time making her way through the city. Each district had its own distinct attributes that made the city feel like home. No matter how much she longed for adventure, she would still be sad to leave Cashel behind.
Almost no one took note of her, which wasn’t that surprising. She didn’t exactly look like a mage or magician, and while anti-magic sentiment ran strong in many areas of Fál, the people of Cashel were far more tolerant than their counterparts in other kingdoms. Even those who disapproved of magic treated Morwen with respect. In contrast, a magician found wandering the streets of Leinster’s capital alone—many magicians, alchemists, and herbalists had been butchered in the riots at Dún Aulin years ago—would probably be burned at the stake.
The adjudicators arrived just before midmorning. They rode into Cashel unaccompanied in a group of three—two men and a woman—with Morwen observing at a distance. The mages’ curious appearances drew glances from those in the crowd who bothered to heed their approach.
Morw
en blended into the crowd and followed them through the congested marketplace to get a better look. They were of varying ages. The woman, who rode in the middle, appeared in her fifties or sixties, which suggested she was in fact very old by mages’ standards. The man on her right—an individual with deep-seated birdlike eyes—scowled at everything he saw. The final mage was a large man whose dark skin was covered in tattooed markings. Morwen didn’t recognize any from her time in Gaul. That wasn’t particularly surprising, as the order would want to send adjudicators who would remain unbiased.
Like Astrid, the mages dressed in white robes, but in contrast to the High Queen’s mage, none wore swords at their sides. Although members of the Order of Gwenaëlle were well-trained warriors, they forsook the blade in pursuit of a higher path, as Gwenaëlle—in whose memory the order was founded upon—did before them. Numerous differences distinguished the various orders of mages scattered throughout the world, and there were often friendly—or not so friendly—rivalries between orders. Unlike the adjudicators, Astrid belonged to the Order of the Golden Dawn, signified by a special tattoo under her left eye and a pendant she wore around her neck. While many differences between the orders were small, others were far more significant. Some mages were essentially mercenaries for hire while others were quasi-religious in nature.
The woman looked over her shoulder, and for a moment she peered past the crowd and met Morwen’s gaze. Morwen froze on the spot, but the woman simply nodded and continued on her way. She took a shortcut to return to the castle, where she washed and dressed in her finest clothes.
Upon arriving at the castle, the mages caused quite a stir from those who were fascinated with and those repelled by magic alike. Morwen looked on as Astrid met the adjudicators at the throne room’s entrance.
“Séphora. This is a pleasant surprise. How long has it been?”
The woman lowered her hood, and her companions did the same. “Too long, my friend.” The two clasped hands. Séphora’s face was stern but not harsh. Her hair was completely gray, and numerous wrinkles lined her face. “My companions are Tarek of Arabah, and Dorian, our Master of Arms.”
Astrid raised an eyebrow. “Tarek? Not the Djinn-Slayer?”
The tattooed man smiled, but only slightly. “The account was greatly exaggerated, I assure you.”
Morwen watched with renewed interest. Djinns were exceedingly powerful beings. Fortunately, there were none that she knew of in Fál.
Dorian swept the room with his eyes. “This is it? The finest halls this remote country has to offer?” He shook his head dismissively. “You faced down a dark sorcerer and survived. You could have had your choice of monarchs to serve, and yet you chose to remain here?”
Astrid narrowed her gaze at him. “I swore a sacred oath to serve the High Queen. Scour the earth, and you will not find a worthier ruler.”
Before Dorian could form a reply, the mages were ushered into the throne room, whereMór greeted them as honored guests. Chests overflowing with gold, silver, and precious jewels were brought out on the king’s command to pay the hefty application fee. The throne room’s occupants, Morwen included, were then dismissed to allow the king—who often hired or consulted with mages when the need arose—to receive his guests in private after their long journey. When they were finished, they adjourned to the great hall to commence with the choosing.
The crowd murmured loudly as Séphora, Dorian, and Tarek settled at a long table. After a brief discussion, Séphora held up a hand, and a hush fell over the room. “We three, representing the Order of The Swordless Mage, have come here to adjudicate a choosing. Are there any here who wish to be considered for membership in our order?”
Morwen felt all eyes on her. She swallowed nervously and approached the table.
Although Séphora must have known Morwen would be the only applicant, she nevertheless seemed disappointed when no one else stepped forward. It was likely she remembered a time when there were far more applicants. “What is your name, child?”
“I am Morwen of Cashel.” She bowed in a show of respect.
“You are known to us, Morwen of Cashel. All those who interacted with you in Gaul spoke highly of you. Tell me, why do you wish to be trained as a mage?”
“I want to learn how to use my gifts to help others.”
Tarek leaned forward and regarded her with a pair of eyes that seemed to glow for a moment. “There are many ways to help others, Morwen of Cashel—even without abilities such as yours. The life of a mage is one of danger. The training is rigorous and harsh. Some students do not survive the process, and yet you have chosen to put yourself forward for acceptance into the greatest of such orders. Why?”
Morwen hadn’t anticipated the question. The adjudicators stared at her expectantly, awaiting a response. Rather than attempting a clever reply, she decided to speak from her heart. “Many in Fál hate magic. After the Lord of Shadows tried to conquer Fál, countless mages and magicians were slaughtered in riots and purges. Now there are only a few practitioners of magic left to protect against monsters and other threats.
“I’ve dreamed of becoming a mage since I was a little girl. Gwenaëlle of Gaul was half-human and half-fairy. She knew what it was like to be an outsider. She lived in a time that was also hostile to magic, and yet through her heroism, she helped build a world where humans, magicians, and nonhumans lived side by side in peace. I want to follow in her footsteps. I want to show the people of Fál that magic isn’t evil—that it can still be used for good.” She stopped, overcome with emotion.
“Well said.” Séphora smiled. “But for all she did, Gwenaëlle took a dagger in the heart, betrayed by an enemy she considered a friend.” She waved a hand at Morwen almost as an afterthought. “Very well then, let us have a look at you.”
The adjudicators inspected her closely.
“She’s not much to look at.” Dorian seemed to have found fault with her, though Morwen wasn’t sure what she had done to offend him. “Have you done much fighting, girl?”
“No, master.”
“I thought not. It’s clear she’s been sheltered. She’s too soft. The other novices would eat her alive.”
Morwen put her hands on her hips in a show of defiance. “I’m not soft!”
Dorian’ eyes flashed with anger, a sign he was not used to being challenged. “Arrogant, too.”
Séphora appraised her cautiously. “I sense no arrogance in her. Misplaced confidence, perhaps.”
Embarrassed she had not yet learned to control her emotions, Morwen flushed.
“She is very young,” Tarek noted. “How old are you, child?”
“Twelve, master.” Morwen was rail thin and short for her age. Freckles covered a face framed by bushy brown hair unruly even when cropped short. If she was accepted into the order, she would have to wear her hair in a braid.
“Then you are at a disadvantage. Most students are fifteen when they are accepted into the order.” Séphora studied her closely. “Are you sure you are up to this, child? We will not go easy on you on account of your age.”
“I am ready.”
Dorian scoffed at her response. “You are not ready. I can promise you that, girl.”
Morwen ground her teeth together in displeasure at being called girl but tried not to let it show on her face.
Séphora extended her index and pointer fingers and pressed her other hand against Morwen’s forehead. “Close your eyes and relax your mind.” Once Morwen did as she asked, Séphora muttered an incantation. “Revelare interiorem fortitudinem eius, et in profundis luceat lux sit eius potentia.”
Other than a slight tingling in her fingers, Morwen felt nothing out of the ordinary. While she wasn’t familiar with the spell, based on the wording she guessed its purpose was to reveal the extent of her inner potential for magic. Unlike sorcerers, who had near-infinite potential, mages and magicians had abilities of a more limited scope. Most focused on developing their talents in the disciplines they had the most aptitude for.
Séphora said nothing when she finished.
“It is as I suspected,” Dorian said. “Her innate magical abilities are inadequate.”
Séphora seemed to consider his words. “She has the gift. That is enough. The choosing can move forward.” For the first time Morwen felt a flicker of doubt. The adjudicators returned to their seats. “Morwen of Cashel, we will now determine your knowledge and skill with a round of testing. If you prove yourself a satisfactory candidate, you will be granted a trial, upon completion of which you will earn admittance into our order as a novice.”
Despite her best intentions, Morwen couldn’t shake the idea she had managed to make a poor initial impression. Now that she had a chance to show them what she knew, she was determined to make up for it. She looked from one adjudicator to the next, wondering how they might test her. As she was not permitted to make use of her spellbooks, she was limited to the knowledge she had on hand. Fortunately, she had spent many years preparing for this very moment.
Séphora asked the first question. “As mages, we do not rely on our abilities alone. My test pertains to the study of alchemy.” It was a broad subject encompassing many disciplines, from the use of medicines to heal or poisons to use against monsters. Even more than magicians, mages were known to alter themselves with potions and decoctions. “What are the symptoms of marsh fever?”
A question on healing. Morwen fought back a grin. Her responsibilities in the castle included carrying for the sick. Her experience left her exceptionally knowledgeable for her age about the subject. “Fever, fatigue, pain, seizures, and even death. Those infected experience cyclical fevers occurring every two to three days, with periods of remission and reinfection.”
For a moment, she thought that might be the end of it, but Séphora followed up with another question without missing a beat. “And what is its cause?”
The Heart of Magic Page 2