Mierta obeyed, crinkling his brow.
Mortain took his son’s hands into his. “Whatever it was that you think was asked of you, I am confident you will succeed. Pray with me, my boy. Hand your troubles over to our good Lord. You are not alone. Let us pray for your soul.”
Mierta watched his father close his eyes and prepare to pray. He sighed. He didn’t understand why his father even bothered to pray. It seemed like nothing but a waste of breath. What had prayer ever done for their family? It hadn’t saved his mother, and if what the Rite of Wands had shown him was true, it wouldn’t save him from the upcoming plague.
“Lord, hear our prayer. Bless my son, Mierta. Keep him safe from Satan’s will. Heal my boy’s tormented soul, and protect him when he feels weak. May your mighty will be done. Amen.”
Mortain opened his eyes and smiled at his son. Mierta returned a half smile. “Thank you, father,” Mierta answered, though Mortain could see the uncertainty in his face.
“Pleasure, my dear boy,” Mortain said, squeezing his hands and standing back up.
“Father?” Mierta asked nervously.
“Yes?”
“What do you suppose happens if someone chooses not to do what the Rite of Wands shows you to do? Do you think that person or those people might get in trouble?”
“I have no idea, my boy.”
“Didn’t Mum ever discuss the Rite of Wands with you? I mean, you told me she always wanted me to be a warlock. That’s why I decided to go through the test.”
“I’m not sure what you are asking, Mierta?”
“Never mind,” Mierta sighed, feeling like a fool. His father was just an ordinary man; he could never understand the torment Mierta was feeling inside.
I suggest you start by studying your father’s potion books, Mierta recalled Lord Kaeto stating.
“S…suppose what the Rite of Wands warned turned out to be true? What if it had the power to show you what you were supposed to do or who you were supposed to be?” Mierta said, his eyes begging for an explanation.
“I’m afraid I do not have the answers you seek, my son,” Mortain replied, frowning. He wished he could comfort his son and assure Mierta what he was feeling was valid. However, he couldn’t reveal the truth about his past. He couldn’t tell him he was also a warlock, or at least used to be. Not yet.
“May I make a request?” Mierta questioned.
“And what may that be, my boy?”
“You cannot always be here for me and Lochlann,” Mierta began. “I know this. It would be selfish to think otherwise.” He glanced back at his father. “You have patients in the kingdom of Vandolay needing your care, and we have Armand. However, in your absence, I promise to look after Lochlann, as an older brother should. Please, I beg of you, teach me what you do.”
“I do not understand what you mean, Mierta,” Mortain answered.
“I request an apprenticeship,” Mierta replied with urgency in his voice. “I want to help people. I want to be a physician like you.”
Mortain was touched by the request. “How very courageous of you, my son, but that will have to wait until you are finished with your formal schooling, and, if I recall correctly, when I had last travelled with you to the kingdom of Vandolay, you showed little interest in my doings.”
“That’s because you didn’t need to use any potions. I wish to learn how to brew medicines,” Mierta countered.
“Is that so? Then, if I may suggest, the profession you desire to study is apothecary, my boy. I’m afraid there are no apothecaries in Glendalow; however, when you are of the proper age of fourteen, I can teach you a little bit about herbs and how to weave chemicals together, and if you still show interest, I shall introduce you to a guild in Edesia.”
“But, Father, I must start learning now. I cannot wait till I’m fifteen for a perfect apprenticeship,” Mierta pleaded.
“Mierta, there is far more to apothecary than playing around with compounds! Why the rush? You will have to spend many hours studying diseases, medications, and even how to perform minor surgeries. And, you will have to pass an examination through the guild,” Mortain responded.
“I know about your elixir book of recipes!” Mierta blurted out, unable to hide his irritation.
“My…what?” Mortain asked, stunned.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Mierta answered. “You cannot hide the truth from me, father. I know you once studied apothecary, too.”
Mortain snorted. “It is no secret, my son. In order to become a court physician one must understand the basic principles of compounding.”
“Then, you will permit me access to your book,” Mierta insisted.
“Blimey! I appreciate your interest, Mierta,” Mortain got up and turned his body away, pausing. He furrowed his eyebrows. “However, I do not know where it is.”
“Why are you lying to me? What is in the book you do not wish me to see?”
Mortain turned back and half smiled. “It’s not that I do not desire you to have access to it, Mierta. You are my son. It’s just…” He sighed. “When you are older you will understand. The life of an apothecarist is not simply mixing herbs and potions.”
“I do not wish for simple. I understand what I must do,” Mierta responded, his voice breaking.
“Enough discussion for today,” Mortain said, his ire beginning to rise. “I asked Armand to fetch some milk of the poppy. It will help you sleep. You need to rest. It has been a long day.”
“You do not understand,” Mierta said, standing up. “You cannot possibly understand what I know, what I have seen! Every moment I am delayed costs me in ways you will never understand.”
“You are right, my son,” Mortain interrupted, regretfully. “I cannot understand how important this is to you. However, I can confirm you have always been wiser than your age. Most adults could not conjure up such a persuasive argument. I realise now I was wrong to lie to you. I must accept I cannot prevent you from the life you are destined for. I should know better than anyone, you cannot escape your fate.”
“What do you mean? Did something happen to you?” Mierta asked, his eyes wide with curiosity and confusion.
“Never mind, Mierta. One day I shall tell you everything.” He gazed at his son. Mierta’s mouth parted as if to protest.
“Until then, forget I even said anything. It is for the best.” He sighed again, seeing the disappointment in Mierta’s face. “If you are still insistent on beginning to master the technique of compounding, I reckon the book you seek is still down in the cellar somewhere. The cellar has not been used in decades; it is a bit old-fashioned. That’s the last place I recall using it. It was a long time ago, you see. I was merely a teenager myself. It’s probably covered in cobwebs now and God knows what else. If the book is salvageable, the recipes will be simple enough to comprehend. Remain here. I shall return in a moment.” When he returned he held out a key to his son. “I reckon you will need this.”
Mierta’s eyes lit up.
“I dare say I have had this key in my possession hidden away in a dresser drawer for the longest time. It is yours now. I know it is pointless for me to try to stop you, but please, do be careful when you go searching for the book. The cellar is very dark and unorganised. There are many things you should not touch.”
Mierta smiled. “I promise to be careful. Thank you, Father.
Mortain nodded. “Right. Now, pick up your wand from the table and follow me. Armand will be here with your poppy milk shortly. It is past your bedtime, after all. Remember, a wand can be a warlock’s lifeline. Never let it out of your sight,” Mortain announced, gesturing for Mierta to follow. “Tomorrow morning I begin my journey to the kingdom of Vandolay. The king has pre-arranged a commemoration of the prince’s birthday in the park of Coinneach Castle. The king would certainly have my head if I dared to miss the celebration.”
TARLOCH CASTLE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE
A wooden door creaked as it slowly opened, revealing a si
ngle ray of light leaking into the cell through a small crevice in the rocky wall. The light from the hallway helped create a shadow of the Hand of the King’s knee–high boots, which were made of the finest dark leather and covered most of his silvery under tunic.
He listened for the rattling sound of the prisoner’s chains.
The prisoner, a frail woman wearing a grey torn set of rags, sat against the wall with her legs pulled up against her chest. Her filthy brown hair, long enough to reach her toes, hid the woman’s face to protect her eyes from the light.
“Why do you continue to live on? There is nothing left in this world for you,” he hissed.
“I request to see, Anya,” the woman said.
Ciarán laughed, brushing his blonde hair that hung just below his shoulders behind him. He was dressed in a forest green tunic bearing the sigel of his house. A golden belt, from which hung a long sword, was cinched around his waist.
“And why should you desire to see her?”
“I am her mother. That permits me to see her,” she uttered.
“Is that so?” Ciarán smirked. “No one knows you are here, Katrina. It is a shame you have withered away into a shell of what you once were, and yet, here you remain, continuing to live like a flea feeding off a host. This is not how it had to be for you; however, you made that choice when you chose to deceive me.”
“I did what I had to do to make your line stronger! Now, I demand to see our daughter!” Katrina snapped.
“If you haven’t already figured it out, allow me to inform you Anya does not wish to see you,” Ciarán answered coldly. “You no longer exist. In fact, she has no knowledge you’ve ever been a prisoner here, wasting away these six long years. She was notified you died from grief after losing our son. Even if she knew the truth, she would not wish to see you. There is no love left in her heart for you. But have no fear, I have continued to look after her as a father should. Soon, she shall be given her chance to rightfully claim what is hers when the royal line of O’Connor in the kingdom of Vandolay is no more. My plan is already being implemented.”
COINNEACH CASTLE—
THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE
“YOU WISHED to see me, Father?” Déor asked after entering his father’s private apartment and stepping into the dining area. He bowed before his father and kissed the top of his ring.
“Aye,” Francis said. “There is an important matter that I wish to discuss. Please, be seated.”
With a mix of a concern and curiosity, Déor did as instructed.
“Tell me, how go the preparations for the jousting tournament?” the king asked.
“Is that why you wanted an audience?” Déor inquired.
“Nay,” Francis said, half smiling. He sighed. “I suppose you will discover soon enough. I have accepted a new soothsayer.”
Déor sat up straight in his chair. “But, father, you just got rid of the last one. What in blazes made you think we needed another one so soon? What does this soothsayer have to offer us?”
“He’s not just any soothsayer. He’s the son of Tiberius O’Brien.”
“An O’Brien,” Déor said, standing up from his chair. “For God’s sake, have you gone mad? You have purposefully put the crown in danger!”
“You forget your place! Last I checked I was King, not you.” Francis stated, his anger rising. “I believe he will be useful to us. His father mentioned his eyes will change and appear to have fragments of flames when he uses his gift. This is how I will know if he is telling the truth. Orlynd has already predicted the kingdom of Aracelly means to interfere with the crown, so that is why you must win the tournament. It is important to demonstrate the crown is strong even if you may be feeling otherwise. I promise you will be greatly rewarded.”
McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE
AN INTENSE wind blew against Mierta’s face sending smoke through the air. It carried an aroma of dirt and faeces, followed by the suffocating stench of burning flesh. Mierta held out a hand to see through the haze as the scene unfolded. He was alone; the land he was standing on, once covered with grass, was now barren or burned out.
A large pile of bodies slowly became clear. Hundreds of corpses lay piled on top of each other, some still wearing clothes, while only the body parts of others remained. He watched a bird of prey peck at one of the dead while flies buzzed about.
His thoughts became distracted when he recognised the man whom he believed was a representation of an older version of himself, appearing just a few feet in front of him, digging a large hole into the ground.
Hang on. I have been here before. This was in my Rite of Wands ceremony and that’s…me. What am I doing back here? Mierta thought to himself, crinkling his brow, turning his attention to his older self.
“Um. Hello?” he said with some hesitation.
The man continued to dig into the ground. He lifted his shovel and threw dirt in Mierta’s direction, practically hitting him.
“Oi, watch where you’re throwing that!” Mierta scolded. He watched the man continue digging. Mierta shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he cannot hear me,” he realised, but his thoughts were interrupted by the now–familiar sound of his older self–coughing. He composed himself and directed his attention back to the scene before him.
Maybe I’m supposed to see something I didn’t before? Mierta thought, slowly approaching his older self just in time to see him spit blood into the ground.
Mierta curved his eyebrows and glanced around again. The bodies…they had all died from a disease. Everyone was dead.
“No, no, no, this cannot happen,” Mierta cried, dropping to his knees, panic starting to set in as he placed his hands over the sides of his face. He lowered his head and shouted, “This isn’t real!”
The scene rapidly spun and abruptly came to a stop with the sound of a door slamming. Mierta opened his eyes, and lowered his hands. He was no longer outside. Now, he was inside some place dark and musty. He could feel the wood under his knees and hear the sound of something being stirred. Again, the man was there, pouring whatever concoction he had just mixed into a small culture tub.
Mierta stood up quickly, knowing what was going to happen next. “No, you daft idiot! Don’t drink it! It will kill you!” Mierta shouted, watching the man pick up the potion and raise it to his lips. “NO!” Mierta screamed, racing towards him, leaping up and knocking it out of his hands, but not before he had finished drinking it.
The man gazed down and parted his mouth, seeing what remained of the tube shattered in pieces at his feet. He slowly looked up, crinkling his brow, finding himself staring into the eyes of his younger self.
Mierta gasped, realising he had not only been too late, but the man appeared to be able to see him now.
This is impossible. I can’t be in two places at the same time! He thought. This cannot be real. Mother, please help me!
The man reached out a hand, as if questioning whether what he was experiencing was a hallucination or not. He reached up to pinch his cheek, regretting the decision right away.
He gazed at Mierta with a disturbed expression on his face. “You are not supposed to be here,” he said.
Mierta gazed back at him with the same expression.
This could not be real! This could not possibly be real!
The man took one step forward towards him when his knees buckled and his body fell backward meeting the cherry wood floor with a loud thud.
Mierta watched the man’s breathing quicken before growing shallower and then ceasing.
“No!” he heard himself scream, however, he was uncertain if it was him or someone else.
McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE
“MUM!”
Mierta startled awake, quickly sitting up in bed. He breathed in and out rapidly, trying to calm his racing heart as he looked about the room. Everything was quiet. He stood up on his bed and peered out the window. There was nothing to be seen but darkne
ss. He barely could make out the waves crashing against the rocks coming from the bottom of the hill.
It’s still night out, he thought. The sun hadn’t even attempted to rise yet.
Mierta sat back down on the bed and pulled the covers closer to his body as he trembled.
“What is wrong with me?” he thought to himself, tears starting to fall down his face. “Mother…I’m afraid. I’m so very afraid.”
ORLYND’S COTTAGE—
THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE
ORLYND STIRRED to what sounded like a soft wet thump against the front door of his cottage. He didn’t fully wake until he heard the sound again.
Wit is that sound? He wondered, pulling back his blanket.
Looking down, he realised he had slept in his clothes from the day before after crying himself to sleep. Slowly, he sat up, brushed his hands over his face, and allowed his legs to dangle over the edge of the bed. He gazed around the cottage. It wasn’t much for living arrangements, but at the same time he was grateful to have a roof over his head. It was simple in design. A single room with a chest of drawers made of a rough wood in one corner and a desk and chair, seemingly made from the same tree, were positioned somewhat in the middle of the room. The bed on which he slept was nothing more than a wood frame with a straw stuffed sack for a mattress. The stove, which was used for warmth as much as cooking, stood opposite of the only door.
He would have to prove his loyalty before he could be rewarded with anything more than plain comforts.
Next, he heard what sounded like something breaking against the door.
Whit is going oan? he wondered, deciding to investigate the noise.
He stood up and slowly made his way to the front door. Opening it, he saw two young boys standing in the street. One had his hand raised, ready to release another egg at Orlynd’s door.
The Rite of Wands Page 4