He often pondered how his mother interpreted her dreams. Did she also have intense dreams? Did they ever mislead her, or were they always correct? What did she do with the information they provided? Had she let events come to pass, or had she intervened? Had she even foreseen her own death? These were questions Orlynd would never know the answer to.
His thoughts became distracted by a sudden loud knock coming from his front door.
Orlynd sighed and gathered a dressing gown from his bedroom closet. As he wrapped it around himself he glanced in a small mirror. The years had been kind to him, all that showed was the beginnings of a scruffy beard. He tied the belt of his robe around his waist and made his way towards the front door.
McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE
“WELCOME HOME, Father,” Lochlann announced, opening the door to the McKinnon estate.
When the elder McKinnon entered, he noticed a cosy fire burning in the fireplace in the far corner of the main room. Straight ahead was a doorway, which led to the kitchen. And off to the left was the stairway leading to the sleeping quarters.
“My boys! It is good to be home,” Mortain replied hugging Lochlann.
Mierta stood a bit back, studying his father’s complexion as he rubbed his own prominent chin. Mortain’s face displayed signs of exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot and there were bags underneath them. His skin had a pasty white appearance and there was a glow from the beginnings of fever.
“I reckon you’re both well?” Mortain smiled at Mierta.
“Yes, father,” Mierta answered, approaching. Perhaps the return trip had not been pleasant, or perhaps he had become ill. He promptly investigated further.
Mierta wrapped his arms around his father. He observed the distinction. Mierta wished to mask his worry, so he decided to distract himself with some light conversation. He placed his arm around his father and led the way. “Come into the parlour and have some tea. Armand had just made a fresh pot.” He turned his head and raised his voice. “Armand, the tea!”
Mortain’s eyes fell upon the cherry wood table and three matching comfy chairs and cups. Armand brought over a fresh pot of tea and set it in the middle of the table.
“Was your trip to Norhamptone successful? You must tell us all about it,” Mierta grinned, taking a seat.
“Blimey! It is a bit chilly in here,” Mortain said, taking a seat. He took a sip of the tea. “Mmm. Yes, I saw an old mate of mine,” Mortain began. There was a hint of sadness in his voice. He took another sip. “Tiberius is exactly how I remember him, only, perhaps a bit frailer.” There was worry in his eyes, perhaps even regret? He drank his tea until the cup was empty. “Forgive me, I’ve done too much. My body is not meant for such trips anymore.” He stood up.
Mierta stood and quickly placed his arm around his father to support him.
“Thank you, my boy, but I can manage,” Mortain answered. For a brief moment, their eyes met.
Mierta glanced over to Lochlann.
Mortain shot him a warning look and slightly shook his head.
“I will have Armand bring the tea to your room. You go and rest now,” Mierta said in order to end the potential odd moments of silence. He watched his father leave the parlour and proceed towards the stairs. His smile turned to a frown with his lips protruding in an expression of displeasure as he sat back down. He continued to drink his tea in silence, staring at the wall.
Lochlann chuckled, oblivious. “Mierta, I would almost charge you with not being happy our father is home.”
Not amused, Mierta replied, “You cannot possibly have any idea.” He sipped his tea and set it back down on the table.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Please tell me you are not so daft to have not noticed?” Mierta’s eyes widened when he realised Lochlann really hadn’t noticed. “Blimey, Lochlann, I swear it amazes me sometimes that you are even my brother. I’m utterly gobsmacked. I must say, Mum and Dad certainly forgot to pass onto you their intelligence, and where on earth did you get that black hair?”
“I’m afraid I do not know what you are going on about, Mierta. You know mother had black hair. I think we should be celebrating the fact our father is home,” Lochlann responded, standing. He walked towards the kitchen to rinse his finished cup of tea.
Mierta sighed. “Honestly, you’re such a blubbering buffoon.” He finished his tea, set the empty cup onto the table and headed towards the cellar.
The Rite of Wands had warned him of a plague that would ravage the lands of Iverna. Was it possible his father was ill with the very plague destined to kill him?
As soon as Mierta had reached the bottom of the stone staircase, he walked over to the middle of three workbenches, slamming his fists into the surface, tears forming in his eyes.
“Argh!” he yelled, sweeping the detritus of his last attempt at a cure off the workbench and onto the floor. The scalpel, pestle and mortar, and an empty gothic styled silver candlestick, fell to the ground and shattered a large culture tube.
Why? Twenty–four years! Twenty–four years and I still haven’t been able to conjure a cure!
He wiped his hands through his hair and breathed in and out slowly in order to calm himself.
Father cannot go to Poveglia. The disease will just continue to spread. If I cannot find a cure, I must discover a way to slow it down. The answer has got to be down here. I just have to find it.
He stared intensely at the bookshelf, containing an old large musty smelling book from his father’s former medical collection. The book contained hundreds of pages of different potions, but Mierta was searching for one in particular potion, certain it contained the healing remedies for his ailing father.
Practically leaping across the room, he grabbed the book off the shelf. It was a bit heavier than he remembered, but he brought it back over to the table and dropped it. It landed with a large thud as dust flew everywhere. He flipped through several pages before he became distracted by a loud knock coming from the front door.
“Bloody hell! Armand, will you get the door, please?” Mierta called from the cellar.
His father called him a genius, a mad genius sometimes, but he was determined to come up with a solution, even if that meant sacrificing captured animals. His intelligence was about to be put to the test, and he felt if he could not come up with a solution, and his father was unable to make the journey to the kingdom of Aracelly, hope would be lost.
He placed his finger alongside the text on the page while he intensely studied the ingredients, reading them aloud.
“Parsley, belladonna, toadstools, live salt water slugs,” he said, getting lost in thought momentarily. “East Indians used slugs to numb gums, but it often led to parasites that crawled from your stomach to your brain, which tended to kill the subject. Blimey!” A look of disgust crossed his face. “No. Won’t do, absolutely won’t do.”
He flipped to another page and then another, again placing his finger alongside the text.
“Sodium bicarbonate, vinegar, peroxide, nightshade,” he read, pausing for a brief moment, perplexed.
Abruptly, he shut the book and dropped it on the workbench.
“Well, that book is rubbish,” he said, brushing his hands through his brown hair, making sections of it settle awkwardly.
As he rubbed his right hand over his large chin, he remembered he had put a ludicrous spell on the book so that anyone who tried to read it would not be able to understand in order to preserve his well–kept secret recipes. It was the same spell that had befuddled him as a child.
“Right,” said Mierta, revealing his wand from his pocket and pointed it at the book. “Arduescha ridícula!”
His eyes twinkling, he watched the words become understandable again. He raised his wand again. “All right. Show me the recipe. Mostravit!”
He grinned with excitement as the book did as he commanded. It opened to a page three quarters of the way through. His eyes danced while he quickly glanced at t
he page. He placed his wand back into his pocket. “Ha! This is it! Balsam, ammonium carbonate, camphor, glycerine, pine needle oil, and methanol. Blimey!”
He pranced around the cellar until he came to a wall, which was lined with shelves holding various books and equipment. First, he grabbed an empty black cauldron, filled it with water, and set it to boil. Just as soon as he had gathered the balsam, ammonium carbonate, camphor, glycerine and methanol, there was another set of knocks sounding from the door upstairs.
“Armand, the door!” Mierta shouted a bit louder, becoming annoyed by the continued distraction.
Opening the bottle of camphor, he sniffed, and immediately regretted the action as the piny aroma burned in his nostrils. He poured a small amount into the cauldron when he heard the knocking again. Muttering to himself, wondering where his father’s servant was, he turned back to the cabinet, accidentally picking up castor oil instead of pine needle oil.
“Armand!” Mierta waited, hearing no sounds of footsteps. “Oh, don’t bother. I will do it myself,” he said to air. He placed the castor oil into the cauldron, and walked up a set of stone stairs.
“Good evening, may I help you?” Mierta inquired after he opened the door. He watched the woman wearing a dark simple cloak turn herself around and lower her hood.
“Your Majesty!” Mierta stated, a goofy grin hiding his surprise.
“Mierta,” Queen Anya sneered, watching him bow and lower his face to kiss the top of her hand. “Let me pass. I have urgent business with my court physician.”
McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE
He’s not here,” Mierta frowned. Without a response he watched Anya push past him and step inside. Mierta sighed and followed her.
“Where is he? Taking care of a patient I presume?” Anya said, looking about the room.
“Gone,” Mierta said, closing the door behind them. “I don’t know where. I don’t keep track of him,” Mierta lied. He normally would not be this cross with Anya, but his potion needed watching. “Is the interrogation over now? May I return to my business or is there something else you need, Your Majesty?”
Anya frowned slightly and cleared her throat. “My, when did we come to such inauspicious terms?” she uttered.
Mierta stared at the queen, his eyes telling her that he was not in the mood for any of her shenanigans. However, his thoughts drifted back to when he first met Anya.
COINNEACH CASTLE—
THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1228 CE
MIERTA OPENED the door and stepped out of the private apartment into the hall. He wanted to scream from excitement. Things may have not gone exactly to plan, however, he believed in his heart Ezekiel would be able to teach him everything he needed.
He became so lost in his own thoughts, it did not register the queen had been approaching from down the hall. He walked right into her.
Mierta glanced forwards, his eyes widening, realising he had carelessly bumped into the queen. “Your Grace,” Mierta said, abruptly lowering himself to the ground. “Forgive me for my clumsiness.”
Anya smirked and reached out her hand for Mierta to kiss. “Mierta is your name, is it not?”
“Yes, my name is Mierta,” he spoke nervously.
“I understand you were one of the members who helped spare the life of our young soothsayer. Déor and I are most grateful for everyone’s benevolence. Rise. Please, speak freely.”
“You are more than kind,” Mierta answered, rising. “I really did not have anything to do with it.”
“Nonsense. There is no need to be modest. My little birds tell me you have talents, many, which have not been fully developed yet.” She quickly looked him over, her eyes stopping at his crouch, feeling certain she could manipulate him just like she had other boys even though he was a warlock. She brushed her finger against the bottom of his chin.
Mierta felt blood rise to his cheeks and his heart started to race. He glanced into the queen’s eyes, afraid to further embarrass himself. “Thank you for your confidence, Your Grace,” he replied nervously.
Anya laughed. “Please, there is no need to address me so formally. You may address me informally. From this day forward, you shall be permitted to address me as Anya. I expect I shall see more of you in court?”
“I reckon so, though it may be some time, Your Grace, I mean Anya,” Mierta answered.
“And why, may I inquire, is that?” the queen answered. She was confident she was leaving a favourable impression on the warlock, observing Mierta’s flushed cheeks and uneven breathing.
“Yes,” Mierta replied with a smile. “I have been awarded an apprenticeship with the Apothecarist, Ezekiel Kavanagh. He is the one you should really be thanking for saving your soothsayer.”
“Is that so?” Anya said, raising an eyebrow, intrigued. “Well, then, I expect to see great things from you in the future, Mierta,”
McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE
“ALL RIGHT, I confess!” Anya said, bringing Mierta back to the present. “I lied. I didn’t come here for business with my court physician. I came here to see you. I could not send a messenger and request an audience with you at the castle. It would be too risky. People would wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Mierta asked, softening a bit from a small moment of sheer curiosity, but he still held his sour look. “What are you up to?”
“I rather dislike confrontation in an entry way, but I have a proposal. I need a favour. Believe me,” she said, walking towards him, using her body to get his attention, “you will be greatly rewarded.” She spoke in a flirtatious tone as she traced a finger down the left side of his cheek and then lightly blew in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.
“You got my attention,” Mierta replied, eyeing her with disgust. “There is no need for you to seduce me. Certainly I have learned all of your tricks by now. You should be doing that with Déor. Tell me, has he stopped going to your bedroom again, ignoring his royal duty of a husband because he realised the wench you really are?”
Anya’s eyes grew wide and she slapped him hard on the side of the face.
Mierta turned his face away, smirking.
“How dare you!” Anya asserted. She pulled her hand as if to slap him a second time, and as she swung forward, Mierta grabbed her wrist.
“Enough!” Mierta said.
“How dare you speak of such things to me? I am your queen!” She paused, becoming angrier by the minute. She could hear him snickering. “What is this mockery? Speak!”
He turned his face back to her, his eyes fuming. “I do not answer to the kingdom of Vandolay. The only person I report to is ME!”
“Preposterous. You may now live in Glendalow, but you still are a warlock; therefore, you owe your allegiance to Kateo, unless he has passed and Aracelly has no leader?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Mierta said, shaking away her notion. He continued, “But if you think for a moment I’m going to assist you in your plans, you are wrong,” he sneered.
Then it occurred to him that he had completely forgotten about his potion. He responded by increasing the speed of speech and turned to walk away. “Now, I have other matters to attend to, if you’ll excuse me.”
Anya responded by forcefully grabbing both of his hands and coerced him to face her. She placed his hands directly over bare skin above her breasts. “Mierta.”
Mierta could feel her heartbeat under his hands, but he forced himself with every last inch of his mind to resist her advances. He thought she was attractive, and yet he was completely aware that she frequently enticed men. She was trying to entrap him, but she would fail. He was more cunning than she was. He was already onto her.
“Oh, stop it. I know what you are planning,” he quieted his voice, leaning into the Anya’s body and speaking into her ear. “It isn’t going to work. I’m a very busy man. You don’t want me to cast a spell on you.”
They were both so much alike and the queen didn’t
even know it, which was a shame, really, because together, Mierta acknowledged to himself, there would be nothing they couldn’t accomplish.
Defeated, Anya loosened her grip on his hands. “All right. You don’t have to act so peevish. I can see you are going to be a challenge for me.” she said as she watched Mierta adjust his clothing. Her first impulse was to issue an order, but she thought better of it. Threatening him further would be a waste. It was obvious she could not control him. “I request you take me to where you make your potions, please. Prove to me that what I have heard of your genius was more than simple rumours.”
“As you wish,” he sulked, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. He gestured towards the cellar.
Anya responded by gesturing back, instructing him to take the lead.
Mierta sighed. He walked past Anya and started down the stairs. “Be careful of the rats,” said Mierta, pausing, realising how incredibly awkward the next part would sound. “They like to hang around the stairs. Don’t step on them, I’ve come to enjoy their company.”
Anya half laughed. “Enjoy the company of rats? I would have never thought of such a preposterous suggestion.”
ORLYND’S COTTAGE—
THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY
1260 CE
“HELLO?” ORLYND said, peeking out the door. When he felt a small tug on his dressing gown, he glanced downward. “Oh, hello, wee lad,” Orlynd smiled, lowering himself to the boy’s height. The boy had to be no older than six or seven. “Whit is yir name?”
“My name is Arthur, sir,” the boy answered with a half–smile.
By the way the boy was dressed, Orlynd concluded Arthur was not from the Kingdom of Aracelly. He wore a second–hand white cotton shirt, a pair of black breeches, which had a large rip in the left knee, an overcoat missing some buttons, and shoes falling apart at the heels.
The Rite of Wands Page 14