“The disease is not caused by bad air or the marsh fumes suggested by its name but rather is transmitted by bites from the muiscíte insects that breed in swamps.”
Séphora pressed her again. “How would you treat an individual suffering from such an affliction?”
“I would use a decoction of coriander and wormwood to reduce fever, treat nausea, and eliminate the parasites responsible for the disease.”
“Would you also use belladonna, which is often added to such decoctions?”
Morwen shook her head. It was a trick question. “Although belladonna can be effective, it is highly toxic and difficult to properly dose.”
“Very good.” Séphora gestured to a box of alchemy ingredients on a workbench beside the table. “Now that you have identified the correct decoction, can you prepare it here in sight of all?”
Morwen approached the bench and went to work with the crowd watching her every move. When she finished, she handed the flask to Séphora, who inspected it along with the other adjudicators.
“Excellent.” Séphora sat back, satisfied. Morwen could tell she was pleased.
Tarek spoke next. “My test concerns perception. A mage must see with more than just eyes. You must learn to sense danger and anticipate attacks before they happen.” He gestured to those gathered in the great hall. “Someone in this chamber means you harm. Tell me who it is.”
The pronouncement caused a stir. Morwen’s expression betrayed her surprise. While the castle’s inhabitants were her friends, there were a great number of strangers among the guests who had come to witness the choosing. Tarek continued to watch her reaction with interest. Her first instinct was to train her attention on Dorian, who was clearly hostile to her. Instead she closed her eyes, emptied her mind, and reached out with her senses. There were so many people crowded in the hall that it was difficult to keep from being overwhelmed. Almost everyone gave off some kind of emotion, even if only a vague impression.
Concentrate. Morwen forced herself to focus. Darkness seemed to radiate from a corner of the room. When she opened her eyes, she noticed an unfamiliar man watching at a distance. Without speaking, Morwen raised her hand and pointed at the stranger.
The gesture prompted a nod from Tarek. “It is so.”
“Seize him!” Mór ordered.
The stranger broke into a run, but the guards intercepted him before he could flee.
“He was carrying this.” One guard held out a dagger.
Mór’s face tightened in thinly-veiled range. “Take this man away and throw him in the dungeon.”
Tarek held up a hand. “Wait. Bring him before us.” Mór hesitated but agreed after prompting from Astrid, and the guards dragged the stranger to the mages’ table. “What more can you see?”
When Morwen concentrated again, she felt a mix of strong emotions coming from the stranger. “Hate and anger—but also sadness and pain.”
The stranger attempted to jerk free of the guards, who forcibly restrained him. “I lost my sister in the Shadow Wars. The time of mages must never return!”
“Be at peace.” Tarek stretched out his hand and touched the man, who fell silent. “I am sorry for your loss. I hope you will find solace in the next life.” With that, the guards dragged the stranger from the great hall. “Well done, Morwen of Cashel. I have no further questions.”
Morwen felt a renewed sense of confidence. She had passed two tests. Now there was only one to go. The crowd’s cheers subsided, again the room fell quiet as Dorian presented the final test.
“My test pertains to the art of enchantment. In battle, an enchanted staff or charmed weapon could mean the different between life and death. Name three enchantments you might put on a staff to protect yourself from harm.”
Morwen had expected he might try to trick her, but the question was rather straightforward. In contrast to magicians, who used either rods or wands to focus and direct their magic, mages relied on staffs, which bolstered combat-centered magic and made for useful weapons in close quarters. “I would use charms of resilience and endurance—to prevent the staff from breaking—and a spell of shielding to enhance defensive wards.”
“What are three types of wood that would be useful for a mage, as opposed to a wizard or magician?”
Varying types of wood were more useful for particular disciplines. “Oak, hickory, and sycamore.” Morwen rattled off the list with ease. Most magical staffs came from elder trees, which usually permitted their branches to be taken only after a mage or magician proved their worth.
“I gather you have a wand?”
Morwen nodded. Even with the wand, her spellwork was spotty at best, but until the time came for her to earn a staff of her own, it was better than nothing. She withdrew the wand from her robes and handed it to Dorian, who appeared impressed for the first time.
“This is an exceptional wand. How did you acquire it?”
Morwen smoled. “It was a gift from King Mór.”
Dorian’s face soured immediately. “I might have known.”
Morwen’s brow furrowed. Where else would she have received the wand? The remark left her with the unmistakable impression that Dorian resented the king’s wealth and influence. She had little time to process her suspicions, as he continued his line of questioning.
“Pick an object you have enchanted yourself and bring it before us.”
That was easy enough. She produced a quill the adjudicators took turns inspecting. “It can write without ink. Go ahead, give it a try.” Several onlookers clapped enthusiastically at the display. Morwen beamed with pride. It had been a tricky enchantment to work, but it was very useful for writing in the absence of an ink bottle.
Dorian looked the quill over. “A modest enchantment. I’ve seen quills bewitched to write for themselves.” He returned the quill to her and gestured to a candle. “This is a special candle, enchanted to burn without ceasing unless commanded otherwise. Extinguish the flame.”
Morwen’s brow arched in surprise. “Master?”
“Your question was on enchantment,” Séphora irritably reminded Dorian.
He shrugged. “I wish to see her spellwork before rendering my judgment.”
Séphora gave a tired sigh. “Very well. Proceed.”
Morwen stared hard at the candle. Undoing the enchantment without knowing the precise nature of the spell involved was next to impossible at her level of skill. Although she could think of a half-dozen spells that might succeed at putting out the flame, she had never attempted them before. She glanced again at the crowd and bit her lip. If she had her flame runestone she could manage the task readily enough, but spellwork wasn’t her strong suit.
Fire needs oxygen. Perhaps if I can starve the flame, it will die. She invoked the magic, weaving her hands as she spoke. “Bain an ocsaigin san aer timpeall an lasair coinneal.” Nothing happened. A similar attempt to create moisture around the flame met with the same result. She wiped her brow and attempted to generate a whisper of wind to put out the flame. The spell failed entirely. Morwen bowed her head in defeat. “I’m sorry.”
The adjudicators took a moment to discuss the results among themselves. It was clear they disagreed; Séphora and Tarek spoke in her favor while Dorian remained set against her.
“Just look at her! She’s been sheltered her whole life. It’s clear the king is trying to buy his personal mage. What happens when she comes across a problem that gold can’t solve?”
“She passed two of the three tests with ease,” Séphora replied. “I say she deserves a chance to prove herself. All in favor of proceeding to the trial?” She raised her hand, as did Tarek, while Dorian simply folded his arms against his chest. “It is agreed. Now we must decide upon an appropriate challenge given what we have learned of her strengths and weaknesses.”
Morwen exhaled sharply, and relief flooded through her veins. One task. Her dream was almost within reach. Again the adjudicators conversed, this time in hushed voices, and the hall grew utterly still as the crowd awaited the d
ecision.
Heavy footsteps broke the silence. Without warning, the doors to the great hall were thrown open. Guards marched inside to escort a stranger into the chamber.
Mór, annoyed the choosing had been interrupted, made his displeasure evident. “What is the meaning of this?”
The captain of the guard bowed low. “Apologies, Your Grace. Laird Roche sends word from Limerick.” Like the guards under his command, he was clearly troubled. Whatever news the messenger carried had shaken them.
Morwen’s attention settled on the messenger, who appeared even more distressed. He’s terrified.
Mór’s expression flashed with anger. “I’ve already dispatched my thane to deal with the goblin attacks. What more does Roche want from me that could possibly merit interrupting a choosing?”
The messenger swallowed nervously. “A dragon, Your Grace.”
The single word was enough to cause a temporary panic in the great hall. Many of the chamber’s older occupants had not forgotten the last time dragons attacked Munster.
None were more affected than Mór, whose faced drained of color. “How many dragons?”
“Just one—that we know of. The creature has taken to burning villages around Lakewood Forest. We believe that is where it resides.”
Morwen’s frowned deepened. First goblins caused trouble in Limerick. Now there was a dragon at work?
“This is grave news. Are you certain it is a dragon?” The question came from Astrid, whose solemn expression betrayed little. “How many have witnessed the attacks?”
“The beast is cautious, my lady. It often attacks under cover of night, but there are those who report witnessing a winged creature steal their sheep or goats. The druidess Tabitha, who has taken up residence in Adare, has confirmed the dragon’s existence.”
Astrid’s brow narrowed. “I am not familiar with the druidess Tabitha.”
Neither was Morwen, who made it her business to know of all Munster’s magic-users, from the Witches of the Golden Vale to the crone who dwelled at the Devil’s Bit. Still, more than any other practitioners of magic, druids came and went of their own accord. It wasn’t terribly surprising that one had popped up where trouble was afoot.
The messenger continued. “Even with the druidess’ help, our forces are spread thin dealing with the goblins, and we do not have the means to deal with a dragon on our own. Laird Roche requests aid, Your Grace.”
The murmurs resulting from the account grew in volume and tempo until at last Mór held up a hand. “And he shall have it. We will track the beast to its lair and destroy it before any more come to harm.”
Silence fell over the chamber as Warden Darragh stepped forward. “I will lead the hunting party if it please you, Your Grace.” The crowd greeted the proclamation with enthusiastic cheers.
Mór nodded. “We would be honored to have the assistance of Fál’s greatest hero.”
“I will go as well,” Astrid said. “If these attacks are indeed the work of a dragon, we must know what has caused them.”
“Wait.” Séphora watched Morwen with keen interest. “It seems fate has intervened in our choosing. I can think of no better trial to test our applicant’s skill than a dragon hunt. After all, it was Gwenaëlle herself who slew a dragon to earn her status as a mage.”
“What?” The comment came from Princess Ravenna, who looked on in alarm. “You would send a girl of twelve to slay a dragon?”
Mór shot her a dark look. “Ravenna, mind your tongue.”
Ravenna stood her ground defiantly. “But father, it’s not a fair test!” Others quietly nodded in agreement.
“Enough! I won’t tell you again.” Despite the rebuke, the king appeared more than a little uneasy at the idea.
“She has a point, Séphora,” Dorian said. “That was Gwenaëlle’s final task, at the end of her training.”
Séphora shook her head. “We will leave slaying the beast to the hunters. It will be Morwen’s job to help them track and defeat the creature. Whatever your objections to the girl’s training, surely you would acknowledge such a feat would merit acceptance into our order.”
Dorian was cornered, and he knew it. “Aye.”
After several minutes, the mages seemed to reach a unanimous decision and rose as one. “Morwen of Cashell—we, the adjudicators of this choosing, hereby grant you a trial to prove your worth.” Séphora’s gaze fixed on her. “Assist those charged with the task of slaying the dragon and bring its head before us. Succeed, and you will gain acceptance into the Order of The Swordless Mage.”
Sunlight covered the path ahead. Morwen looked around in wonder at the wilds beyond the road. After years spent sheltered behind the castle’s walls, she felt free for the first time in her life, and her heart soared with the prospect of adventure. Finally, she had a chance to show the king—and the realm—what she was capable of.
She prodded Nessa forward to keep to the trail. Falling behind the company and losing her way was the last thing she wanted. They traveled west past the Golden Vale and into Limerick. The countryside consisted of green flatlands interspersed with ridges and hills. Mountains encircled the province; Limerick was bordered to the east by the Galtees and Slieve Felim mountains and the west and southwest by the Ballyhoura and Mullaghareirk Mountains. To the north, the River Shannon flowed into an estuary that emptied into the ocean along Fál’s western border.
Morwen loosened her grip on the reins, fished a sketchbook from her satchel, and resumed sketching a diagram with her enchanted quill.
Darragh fell behind the others to ride alongside her. “You’re awfully quiet.” He took note of her sketchbook. “What are you working on?”
Startled, Morwen snapped the sketchbook shut and fumbled for a response. “Something to help against the dragon.” With the notable exception of the Bear Warden, all Fál’s wardens were heroes of renown, and none were greater than Darragh. His presence was more than a little intimidating. While the High Queen’s affairs frequently brought him to Cashel, their interactions had been limited. Now they were part of the same company—equals. It was as if a fairy had granted her fondest wish. Morwen eyed him curiously. “Have you ever fought a dragon before?” There were far more tales and songs of Darragh’s exploits than any other of Fál’s heroes save Padraig and Thane Ramsay, but it was often difficult to tell were fact ended and fiction began.
“Perhaps.” He aimed a playful wink at her. There was something easygoing about his manner that seemed surprising given his reputation as a legendary warrior. “And you?”
Morwen laughed at the question, which was undoubtably intended as a joke. If Darragh’s purpose was to set her at ease, he had succeeded. “I’ve never had the chance. King Mór hardly lets me out of the castle.”
“And yet here you are, on your way to slay a dragon and become a mage.” He appeared bemused, though not at her expense.
“Aye.” Morwen rubbed her hands together in excitement. “Once I return from Gaul, everything will be different. Mages can go wherever they like.”
Darragh chuckled wistfully. “You remind me of myself at your age. I too was anxious to prove myself to my king.”
Morwen regarded him curiously. “What’s it like—taking a life?”
Darragh’s smile faded. “Killing is rarely easy.” It was a startling admission from a swordsman of his renown. “Nor should it be.” He studied her with an appraising gaze. “Not everyone can do it. Some are meant to give life, not take it. There’s no shame in it.”
Morwen nodded quietly. She wasn’t sure she could take a life—even a dragon’s life—if it came down to it. Like Gwenaëlle, she had a deep reverence for life in all its forms. While she believed evil must be confronted, she wasn’t sure she had the capacity to kill a living thing.
Before she could form a response, she caught sight of a village ahead. There it is. Adare.
Adare, which literally meant “the ford of the oak,” lay at the River Maigue’s eastern bank. The village, along with other
neighboring communities, was a relatively recent settlement in the area. Since the Shadow Wars, the wilds that once covered most of Limerick shrank with every passing year. The expansion of human civilization left Fál’s nonhuman populations with ever decreasing territories. Morwen suspected the lingering tension was an underlying reason for the aggression displayed by the goblins in the region.
Lakewood Forest—the forest at the center of the trouble—loomed in the distance. Despite its proximity to the wilds, Adare was a thriving village larger than many towns in Fál’s other kingdoms. The fertile surrounding lands, abundance of timber, and access to nearby ports resulted in a constant influx of settlers and traders alike. Secluded by the surrounding mountains, the people were largely free to live as they pleased without threat from outsiders.
Playing children ran up to the road to watch as they approached, and Morwen used her wand to delight them with a swarm of purple butterflies from her rune of illusion. She laughed and followed the others in her company into Adare.
Darragh slowed his horse’s pace. “We’ll stop here to speak with the villagers and resupply. We’ll set out in the morning.” When the companions dismounted and hitched their horses, he turned his attention to one of Mór’s soldiers. “Send word ahead to Laird Roche and Thane Ronan at Castle Brackhill.”
“I’ll search for the druidess,” Morwen volunteered. “With any luck, she can shed some light on the attacks.”
“Good. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find a witness to the attacks.”
Sketchbook in hand, Morwen hurried to locate the village blacksmith, who she found at his forge.
The blacksmith raised an eyebrow when he saw her standing before him. “What can I do for you, lass?”
Morwen tore the finished page from her sketchbook and handed it to him. “Do you think you can forge this for me?”
The blacksmith wiped the sweat from his brow and studied the illustration. “This is a diagram for iron-forged chains.” He looked up at her with considerable skepticism. “What do you need something like this for?”
Morwen grinned. “I’m going to catch a dragon.”
The Heart of Magic Page 3