The king raised a hand to acknowledge the crowd before raising his sword to deliver a fatal blow to the cake. However, he forthwith dropped his sword, causing the crowd to gasp in surprise.
The king’s eyes grew wide. He coughed, feeling an intense sensation of dryness and burning fill his mouth. He attempted to swallow, only to find it difficult as he reached up a hand to his throat.
This was different than the last time a member of the royal family had been suspected of ingesting poison. In fact, Mortain had informed the court Francis had succumbed from a sudden illness.
“Your Grace?” one of the cake bearers asked, alarmed to see the king’s face turning red as a tomato.
Orlynd stood up at the table, sensing trouble, when Déor stood frozen.
“Water,” he said between coughs, his voice sounding hoarse. “Fetch water!”
“Yis heard the man, git him some water! Now!” Orlynd shouted at the royal goblet holder, running from around his side of the table to the king’s aide.
The goblet holder raced to grab the king’s goblet, filling it with water from a pitcher on another table, before bringing it back to the king.
The king nodded between coughs, no longer able to acknowledge his royal goblet holder with words, tilted his head back and attempted to consume the water. Eyes growing wider, he realised his ability to swallow had been halted. Thinking quickly, he vomited out what was left in his mouth, most of it ending up on the grass in front of him. The choking coughs started again.
“He cannae breathe!” Orlynd announced, the gasps from the spectators becoming louder.
Everyone watched in horror as the king fell to his knees. Orlynd hurried forward, wrapping his arms around him as support, helping him lie on the ground.
“Yir Majesty, hold oan!” Orlynd exclaimed; the fear in the king’s eyes matched his own. He watched as the king’s normally rugged tone turned bluish grey. The whites of his eyes had already become a faint red. Orlynd turned to the crowd and shouted. “Someone fetch the court physician!”
Without warning, Orlynd felt the king’s body twitch, followed by stillness. He watched blood begin to drip profusely from the corner of the king’s mouth.
“Yer Majesty?” Orlynd said. He placed a hand over Déor’s chest and gasped when he could no longer feel a heartbeat. “Nae.” He laid the king on the ground, stood up and addressed everyone. “The king’s dead. He has been poisoned, murdered, jist like his father! N’ Ah will nae rest until thair killer meets their end!”
Anya stood back in the shadows unseen, a small smile curving her lips as she saw her plan unfolding before her eyes.
ORLYND’S COTTAGE—
THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE
ORLYND GASPED, quickly opening his eyes, and found himself back in bed. His breathing was rapid, his heart was racing, and his brow was moist from sweat. He looked around, realising he was in what could be best described as a servant’s room. He permitted his body to relax.
Whit a terrible dream, Orlynd thought to himself. He had numerous nightmares before, but never anything as intense as that.
Rubbing his hands over his face, he decided to stand up and wet his face with a cloth. He walked to a small mirror positioned on top of the dresser and stared at his reflection. He caught a glimpse of the remnants of flames in the pupils of his eyes. His eyes widened, realising what he had just seen was a vision of a gathering scheduled for later in the week. “It wasn’t a nightmare; it was a premonition!”
Nae, this cannae be. Ah cannae allow this event tae occur. Ah must find a ain tae stop it!
COINNEACH CASTLE—
THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE
Long live the king!” toasted the crowd to King Déor’s long reign, two months exactly since his father’s passing.
Déor grinned before tilting his head back and consuming some of the delicious mead in his goblet.
Queen Anya smiled, anticipating when Déor would become ill. However, minutes past and nothing happened.
Once Déor set the goblet down, he noticed Orlynd had not taken the toast to his celebration and was staring intently at the goblet.
“My love? Are you feeling all right?” questioned Anya, puzzled how her plan had failed. She would see to it later that the guard she bribed would be involved in some type of accident, which would result in his life being lost, as punishment for disobeying her orders.
“Aye, I’m fine,” Déor answered, distracted. He took in a deep breath, hoping to not have to show his authoritative figure by punishing the warlock. This was a time for celebration, not a time to dole out punishment. The thought only served to anger him even more. He clenched a fist and leaned in towards the warlock.
“Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me in front of my queen and our people?”
Orlynd startled. “Nae, Yir Grace. Ah am nae thirsty,” Orlynd replied uneasily. Based on his recent vision, whoever had succeeded in taking the late king’s life was still in court. In fact, he or she was probably mingled in between all the guests today. He had been careful checking various cups before the day’s event, but all of the goblets had the appearance of the same golden colour. The only distinguishable feature of the king’s goblet was the symbol of the family’s crest, which could only be seen from the inside when empty or half filled with liquid. Orlynd had managed to substitute it with his own goblet when no one was watching.
“You’re not thirsty?” replied Déor with a sneer. He turned back to Anya. “Can you believe this nonsense?”
The queen played along by raising an eyebrow and chuckling.
Déor returned his gaze to the warlock. “You will drink to my honour!”
“Ah beg ay yis, Yir Grace. Dinnae make me drink. If yis dae, Ah will nae be able tae perform ma duty,” Orlynd answered. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears and sweat starting to form on his brow. There was no point in revealing to Déor the real reason he didn’t wish to drink the mead. Déor wouldn’t have believed him anyway.
Déor clenched a fist, trying to hold back his anger. How long would it be before any of the other guests noticed Orlynd’s behaviour? And his queen? She was sitting there right next to him. Would she think he was unworthy to be king if he didn’t discipline his soothsayer? He concluded he had no other choice.
Déor stood from his chair and stood in front of Orlynd. “Ladies and gentleman, my soothsayer has refused to drink to my honour. He’s afraid of becoming tipsy!”
A mischievous grin formed on his face as he slowly paced alongside the long wooden table, listening to the crowd laugh.
“What say you? What shall I do to resolve this? Should I send him to spend the night in the dungeons of Tarloch Castle?” He smirked at the response of a couple of cheers from the audience. “Or, perhaps I should send him to the stocks?” He waited again for the crowd’s response.
Orlynd stared at him, blood rushing to his face. He had received more than his fair share of cruelty because he had been born an O’Brien. He could never go outside the castle’s walls without being stared at, taunted or having something thrown at him. In his heart he felt he would never be rid of this shame; however, it was obvious Déor was more than enjoying himself at his expense.
“Nae. I have decided. Royal goblet holder,” he called, pointing, “fill this warlock’s goblet to the top! He shall consume all the liquid until I am able to see the bottom of his goblet.”
Orlynd focused intently on the goblet as the royal goblet holder obeyed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. His Rite of Wands had distinctly showed him war would be coming to the kingdom of Vandolay.
He would be there, standing in the middle of the field outside of the castle’s walls, which would be transformed into a battlefield overnight. Spilled blood and dead bodies mixed in the overgrown grass, and the sound of swords clashing against each other could be heard in the distance. He could see Déor, who had just cut down a soldier with his family’s sword, about a hundred fe
et in front of him on horseback.
Without warning, Orlynd heard the cry of the banshee. In that precise moment, he watched Déor fall from his horse. Déor grimaced in pain, placing his hand over his stomach where an injury had taken place. Orlynd shouted his Highness’s name and raced to his aide. Then everything had gone dark.
Orlynd was aware that fates could be changed, and it was obvious his had. He would never get to see whether or not Déor would become a “good” king as he had hoped he would. If the events of his Rite of Wands should become reality, and the king should fall in battle like he had seen, he would not be there to help him.
Orlynd wondered if his own death would be swift, or if it would be painful. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying. It was the process of getting there that scared him.
His mind then reflected on Francis’s dead body. He recalled seeing a metallic liquid dripping from his mouth, but there had been no doubt that he had passed. Would the same thing happen to him, too? Certainly once he was dead, everyone would believe he had been the one who poisoned King Francis. Until the real murderer succeeded in killing again.
Orlynd stood from his chair once the goblet had been slammed down in front of him. He grasped it in his hand. His heart had already picked up its pace. Maybe, there was a slight chance at earning redemption for his family by sacrificing himself for the king.
Déor gazed at Orlynd with a smug expression.
Orlynd swallowed hard. “May yir reign be long n’ fulfilling,” he stated. “Ah pray yis find the balance between confidence n’ humility. God save the king!”
Instead of being overly pleased, Déor became perplexed by Orlynd’s profound statement. He watched the warlock raise the goblet to his lips and gulp the concoction.
At first, Orlynd felt the gorse flower dry mead that finished with sweet taste of honey, coconut and vanilla gently travel down his throat. Shortly afterward, the taste was replaced by something bitter and acrid.
Orlynd set the empty goblet on the table. Abruptly, an intense sensation of dryness and burning of his mouth overcame him. He grimaced when he attempted to swallow, finding it suddenly difficult.
Déor studied Orlynd’s face, seeing the beginnings of a rash appear.
Anya was also staring, trying her best to hide the rage building up inside her.
Orlynd, the fool! He has consumed the poison meant for the King! she thought.
On the other hand, the queen deduced, with the elimination of the king’s soothsayer, it would become easier for her to carry out her plan to kill Déor. A small grin crept by her mouth.
“What’s the matter with you? Why didn’t you inform me you were allergic to mead?” Déor inquired.
Orlynd wanted to explain to him, but instead his mind begged him to relieve the sensation of thirst.
Tears filled Orlynd’s eyes. “Burning. Water…need water,” he whispered. He raced over to where a large jug of water was positioned on a guest’s table.
“Where are you going? Orlynd? Orlynd! I command you to get back here!” Déor shouted.
Instead of pouring the water into another glass, Orlynd lifted the container and tilted it until water hit his mouth. However, when he tried to swallow, he couldn’t, and he began to cough up the little bit of water he was able to ingest, spilling the remainder of the water down the front of his robe.
The spectators gasped.
Déor was shocked. He had never seen Orlynd behave this way.
Has he gone mad? Déor thought. How dare he embarrass me in front of my guests! He then recalled the last thing Orlynd had said to him.
“Ah pray yis find the balance between confidence n’ humility.” Was he insinuating he was missing something important?
His thoughts were quickly distracted by the sound of Orlynd screaming.
Déor blinked.
Orlynd collapsed to his knees, his hands desperately trying to find his face. He swung his arms around like someone who had had hot coals thrown in their face.
“Orlynd?” Déor said with concern.
Déor quickly turned and examined the goblet Orlynd had drunk from, lifting it toward his face. It was at that moment he noticed the small crest shining from the bottom of the goblet. His eyes widened and his blood ran cold.
This is my goblet. My goblet was switched with his. How can this be?
His thoughts again became distracted by the sound of Orlynd’s continued screaming. “Ah cannae…”
Shock displayed on Déor’s face. Chaos had ignited. The spectators instead of helping the warlock were running away from him in fear of catching whatever ailed him.
“Please, everyone,” Déor stated, his voice quivering. “Stay where you are and do not panic.”
However, no one was listening.
What have I done? Orlynd was trying to warn me. He must have known I would not have listened to any of his excuses. What kind of king am I? I have sent my father’s advisor to his death. Is this an omen of my reign?
Anya stood from her chair. “Déor, do something about this. Get rid of him before he ruins your day of celebration!”
The king watched the warlock lose consciousness and collapse onto the ground.
“The celebration is already over,” he whispered, acknowledging the empty tables once filled with guests. He stepped down from the raised wooden platform and rushed to Orlynd’s side. “Orlynd?” he asked, his fingers trembling. “Please, do not be dead.”
Déor started to reach out a hand to check for a pulse when he noticed the frantic twitching vein in the warlock’s neck. The poison which had made Orlynd so ill had already reached his heart and was continuing to quickly circulate throughout the remainder of his body.
“How is he?” Anya inquired, having left her place at the table to join her husband.
Orlynd. Why? Why, would you sacrifice yourself for me? Déor contemplated.
“Your Majesty?”
“Orlynd’s life is in peril. Someone deliberately slipped poison in his goblet,” Déor answered. He began to stand up. “We can delay no further. His heart is beating too fast. Please, have the court physician summoned here immediately.”
“That will not be possible,” Anya answered.
“Why not? I am the king.”
“Because a pigeon arrived with a letter from Glendalow a fortnight ago,” Anya interrupted, shock displaying over Déor’s face to the announcement. “Mortain requested our forgiveness and sent his regrets that he would be unable to attend our coronation due to his son, Mierta, having been involved in some sort of potion accident.”
“What?” Déor cried, raising his hand in the air and clenched it. “Why wasn’t I told?” He lowered his hand and quickly re–gathered his thoughts. He turned to a nearby servant. “Send a pigeon back to the McKinnon estate. In the name of the king, I order Mortain to return to Vandolay to treat my soothsayer. Tell him it is urgent. He may think because I am now king, he can put aside his duties. Assign a carriage to escort him back to the castle, and instruct him to meet me in my private apartment. I shall take Orlynd there personally to avoid any further commotion. In the meantime, send a messenger to seek out the most talented Apothecarist in the kingdom. I have heard my father speak of one located in this area, but I do not know how to reach him for I do not know his name. I will not permit my warlock to die because my court physician decided to take a holiday.”
“I will send them immediately,” the servant answered.
Anya carefully eyed the warlock from behind Déor. Slipping in a smirk, she took her leave.
Déor carefully repositioned Orlynd onto his back and gasped at what he saw.
Orlynd’s face had gone beet red. The rash had become more distinguishable and had spread across the front of his neck and upper torso. His mouth was partially open and his breathing was rapid and uneasy.
Déor placed a hand over Orlynd’s chest in order to provide what little comfort he could, feeling intense heat coming through the robe and the frantic thumping of Orlynd’s hea
rt.
“Hold on, Orlynd,” he said. “As your king, I am commanding you to live.” He lifted Orlynd, cradling the warlock’s body near his chest. Orlynd’s arms hung limply from his body. “Guards!!!” shouted Déor.
One of the king’s guards appeared right away, after brushing aside some curtains.
“Your Majesty?” he said, bowing before Déor. “Allow me to assist you by carrying the warlock.” He reached out for Orlynd.
“Nay,” Déor said. “Thank you, Thomas, but Orlynd’s fate is my responsibility. However, there is another matter I need your assistance with.”
“Anything, Your grace,” Thomas replied.
“Arrest my royal goblet holder for his failed attempt to poison his King!” Déor said. “Do whatever you need to do in order to get him to confess.”
“Yes, Sire,” Thomas answered a bit uneasy, shock displayed on his face.
Déor started to walk away, but stopped. “And when you’re finished send another pigeon to the McKinnon estate. I want to see for myself the result of this potion accident. Summon Mierta.”
McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE
All right, now, take in a slow deep breath,” Mortain instructed his son for what seemed like the thousandth time since Mierta first woke from his accident. “Go on then.”
Mierta pursed his lips and inhaled, feeling the tiniest bit lightheaded but overall the best he had felt in two weeks.
“Good,” answered Mortain, listening, pleased to hear everything flowing smoothly. “Now release it.” He was not pleased, however, when he heard the sound of multiple heaving coughs. “Well, that was unfortunate,” Mortain frowned, continuing his observation, “but not unexpected. Your lungs are still healing after all. It will take some time.”
“Time? I don’t have time! We’re wasting it!” Mierta complained between wheezing breaths. He had to create a cure before the plague he had seen in his Rite of Wands hit. He felt his father place an arm around him, guiding him back over to his bed, forcing him to take a seat. He was certain he would never fully embrace his heart feeling like it wanted to explode inside his chest.
The Rite of Wands Page 11