“That will be all, thank you,” Anya addressed Vanessa, and waited until both of her servants had taken their leave.
“YIR MAJESTY,” Orlynd said, bowing before the king, after he had been permitted to enter the king’s private apartment for an audience.
“Orlynd,” Déor smiled. “Thank you for coming. I seek your counsel today.”
Orlynd lowered his gaze towards the ground and positioned his hands inside his brown robe as he rose. He waited for Déor to continue speaking.
Déor stood up from a chair in front of a table filled with wooden soldiers and ships, strategically set for battle. He walked towards a window that had been left slightly ajar. “The anniversary of my coronation is quickly approaching, and while my heart should be filled with joy, I find myself troubled.”
The 15th of October was a day of commemoration, celebrating the anniversary of King Déor’s coronation. It began in the morning with a traditional royal party hunt, which spread across the vast lands of the kingdom to the border of Glendalow and the kingdom of Aracelly. Using the game the royal hunting party killed, Déor rewarded his subjects with a feast, acknowledging their loyalty.
“May Ah ask whit is troubling Yir Majesty?”
Déor stared outside the window and focused on his garden. “I received a letter containing grave news from Edesia. I have been informed their country has been hit by plague. Hundreds have already fallen ill and many have perished. King Henrik has implemented a quarantine of the country immediately and requests all carriages avoid the area until further notice. I worry the plague will spread here. Make haste, and share this information with the kingdom of Aracelly.”
“Aye, Yir Majesty,” Orlynd answered. He waited for Déor to dismiss him, but it never came to be. “Is thir something else, Yir Majesty?”
Déor hesitated. He glanced back at Orlynd for a brief moment before turning around. He took in a deep breath. “Yes, I realise it is not the time for personal matters, but my mind will not be at ease. I have been having this recurring dream involving a buck, doe, and their two fawns. The buck and the doe are killed and a dragon carries their fawns away. I fear there is a coup manifesting behind my back in my court and God has become displeased with me.”
Orlynd could see the hidden pain in Déor’s face. “May Ah ask yis, how yis came tae this conclusion?”
“My queen aggravates me,” Déor explained as he paced. “She has been unable to bless me with an heir. It is making people question my ability to rule when there are none to reign after me.” Déor stopped and stared directly at Orlynd. “We may be on good terms with Edesia now, but I assure you King Henrik would like nothing better than to overthrow me and claim Iverna as his own.”
“Thit cannae happen, Yir Majesty,” Orlynd stated.
“And what would bring you to such a conclusion?” Déor asked a bit irritated.
“Ah beg fir yis tae listen. The prophecy states thir shall be identical lads. Dinnae despair, Yir Majesty. Yir lineage shall continue! Yis shall huv children.”
“And what does this derisible prophecy also state, Orlynd?” Déor interrupted. “How about that it will bring destruction to my kingdom. I will hear no more of it.”
“Aye, Yir Majesty,” said Orlynd, defeated. If only he could tell Déor about his reoccurring dream, but even then, it would not bring Déor comfort.
Déor calmed himself. “I shall visit Anya in her bedchambers tonight to demonstrate my continued love. May God bless our union and allow her to give me a child,” Déor said. “There is one other matter I would like to discuss with you. At my coronation celebration, I wish for my guide to be at my side as a part of the royal party. It would be my honour to have you accompany me during the hunt. Do you accept?”
Orlynd raised his eyes and peered at Déor. “Ah shall dae as Yir Majesty wishes.”
“It is settled then,” Déor smiled. “You are permitted to leave.”
Orlynd removed his hands from inside his brown robe and raised his hood over his face. He turned to leave and took a few steps forward. He then stopped, lost in his thoughts.
“What? What is it?” Déor inquired.
Orlynd hesitated, then turned back towards Déor and lowered his hood. He furrowed his eyebrows. “Yir Majesty, in court today Ah met a warlock who claimed tae be a friend ay Anya. He said his name wis Lochlann. If Ah may request, Ah need information oan the identification ay this man.”
“Lochlann?” recalled Déor. “Yes, he is one of Mortain McKinnon’s boys. Mierta is the older brother. You do not recall they helped save your life?”
“Aye, Yir Majesty. Ah huv nae forgotten their kindness,” Orlynd answered.
Déor nodded, continuing. “The Queen has a friendship with them not unlike our own. Lochlann is the least strange of the lot. They reside in Glendalow. Why? Has Lochlann done something I should be concerned about?” Déor questioned.
Orlynd smiled and held back a chuckle. “Nae, yer Majesty,” he answered with relief, concluding there was no resemblance between his father and the warlock. “Forgive me. Ma memory must huv momentarily failed me.”
LOCHLANN APPROACHED Anya, genuflected and pressed his lips to her hand.
She turned her head away, barely able to hide her disdain. His oily, black hair fell over his face. She waited until he had stood back up and placed his hands inside his blood red and black robe with gold accents.
“Do you still love me?” Anya questioned.
“Yes, Your Majesty I love you like the first day I set my eyes upon you. My love for you shall never change.”
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly as she rose from her couch. She lightly traced her finger along the jawline of the warlock until she reached the tip of his chin, before gracefully moving away from him and setting her palm on the back of the couch. “Would you do anything for me?” she asked as she elegantly walked across the room and opened the drawer of her vanity.
He answered with surprise. “Why, Your Majesty; I would do anything you ask of me. Do you not know this?”
“Indeed,” she replied. With her back to the warlock, she pulled out a small vial of liquid. She slipped the vial between the cleft of her breasts and clenched a pouch in her right hand. A small grin caressed the queen’s lips as she swung around and let out a laugh. “I know this, my Lochlann. That is why I request you do this for me.”
Lochlann knelt down in front of her. “I will do whatever Your Majesty requests of me.”
Anya stared at Lochlann. Soon she would know his true allegiance. “You may rise,” she said. Lochlann slowly stood up.
Anya as she spoke again. “There is one more thing.” With a seductive gleam in her eye, she removed the vial from her cleavage.
Lochlann immediately recognised the grey coloured vial. He watched as she twirled it around in her hand. He tried his best to hide his surprise.
“Forgive me,” Lochlann said, after clearing his throat. “I did not know Your Majesty had interest in potions.”
“Preposterous,” Anya answered. She stood and held the vial out towards Lochlann. “Have a look if you wish,” she said with a sigh, handing the potion to Lochlann.
Lochlann opened the vial and inspected its contents. “There is only one warlock capable of concocting such a mixture. It must have been difficult to obtain it from Mierta willingly.”
“Nonsense, Mierta was happy to oblige once I bestowed upon him the duty of my father’s new potion maker. He’ll be able to test all of his new potions on the prisoners to be executed!”
“That will be quite an improvement in his current situation. I’m sure he will be thrilled to test his potions on people instead of rats,” Lochlann jested. “But, why did you request my presence?”
“Why, my dear, Lochlann,” she said, approaching him. She traced her finger against the bottom of his chin once more before placing her hands gently around his cheeks. “I am confident you will see the plan through.” She gracefully walked back to the couch. “The celebration of Déor�
��s coronation approaches, and this year’s celebration will not be forgotten.”
“Are you ordering me to kill Déor? If this should fail I will lose my head!” Lochlann protested.
“And THAT, Lochlann,” she spoke with a threatening gleam in her eyes, “is why you will succeed.”
“Of course,” Lochlann quickly answered, with a hint of uncertainty. “How would Your Highness suggest I proceed?”
Anya’s cheeks flushed. She smiled with nervous anticipation. Soon the kingdom of Vandolay would be hers. She just needed Lochlann to fulfil her wish.
“Déor presently has twice as many servants testing his food and drink,” Anya stated. “It is appropriate for the occasion. He is beloved among our subjects. You will not be able to slip it into his meals without notice. Seek out Eoghan, leader of bandits. He owes me a favour. You will find him at his usual hangout—the back alleys.
“Instruct him to cover his arrows with the bottle’s contents. He will know what to do. Tell him, he will be greatly rewarded on the condition that he succeeds. The queen shall personally clear his name of any wrongdoing, including the charge of poaching of Déor’s deer, and there will be no further discussion of the incident. You never saw him nor did you ever speak to him. But if he should fail, or if he should mention anything that would be threatening he will be executed.”
McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE
My son, is that you?” Mortain asked, catching a shadow in the candlelight.
“Yes, Father,” Mierta said.
“Come, sit beside me. I have to tell you something important,” Mortain said between coughs.
Mierta walked into the room, carrying a tray containing an empty bowl, a dry rag, a pot of cool water and a cup of his latest attempt at a remedy. He set them down on the night table and sat down in the chair by the bed. “Shh. You must save your strength,” he comforted.
“Mierta. I need to tell you something,” Mortain whimpered.
“There will be plenty of time for you to tell me whatever it is, but right now you must rest.”
“No. I must tell you now,” he spoke, coughing several times again.
“All right,” Mierta answered, a bit unnerved. He took a seat in the chair beside the bed. He reached and squeezed his father’s hand, noticing the heat coming off him. “Tell me what you need to say.”
“Lochlann. He’s not…”
“Lochlann is fine,” Mierta insisted. “He was summoned by the Queen for an audience. I do reckon he will be given a royal title soon.” He smirked, thinking about Lochlann’s feelings for Anya. He stopped when he observed his father’s shivering. Worry displayed across his face. Mierta loosened his grip and stood. He laid a cool hand over his father’s brow. “Your fever is worse. The disease is progressing. I brought you something to slow it down.” He reached over for the cup.
“Lochlann,” Mortain started again, trying hard to get words out.
Mierta gazed at his father, confused.
“No Father, it’s me, Mierta. Lochlann will be home later.”
The fever may be causing hallucinations, Mierta concluded.
“Here,” Mierta said, carefully handing his father a cup filled with the brewed potion. He placed an arm behind his father’s back and helped him up. “Drink it quickly. I reckon the flavour is repulsive.”
Mortain obeyed. When he was finished, he immediately started coughing. He moaned when the fit eased.
“Chest hurts,” he whimpered.
“I know. Roll onto your side,” Mierta instructed. “Remember you taught me how to loosen congestion?” Mierta pounded on his father’s back. He could feel his father’s breathing begin to ease. Gently, he repositioned his father onto his back.
“Yes, my boy,” he stated, his voice breathy. “You were very young, then. Hadn’t had your eighth birthday yet. Your Mum was proud.”
“Yes. Yes, she was,” Mierta answered, half–smiling. “Listen to me. Let’s not talk about Mum right now. You need to save your strength.”
“Tiberius is dead.”
“Pardon?” Mierta questioned, baffled.
“I lost my best mate,” Mortain said, tears starting to fall down his cheeks. “He sent me a letter. He thought I could help. I reckon he believed if he had informed me he already had the illness, I would have refused his offer. Many people in Edesia were sick. I treated those I could, but they all succumbed as I knew they would,” Mortain disclosed.
“How?” Mierta asked, glancing over to him after pouring water into the bowl. He dipped the rag into it and rung it out. He gently brushed it against his father’s brow.
“It was in my Rite of Wands,” Mortain confessed.
Mierta stopped, taken aback by what his father had just revealed. Only witches and warlocks were allowed to participate in the Rite of Wands ceremony. His father was a man. There was no possible way he could have seen this grim future, unless…
No, Mierta denied. It cannot be true. It’s impossible. He cannot possibly know what he is going on about. My potion is clearly ineffective. His temperature must be getting worse.
“Don’t talk. Please, rest,” Mierta stated with a sense of urgency, continuing to wipe the sweat from his father’s face. Even if there was a tiny bit of truth behind what his father was saying, Mierta couldn’t allow his father to discuss it. The Rite of Wands was supposed to be kept secret.
“You must understand, my son. I once desired to be an Apothecarist like you. I studied at Poveglia in the kingdom of Aracelly. Only the brightest and most talented witches and warlocks are permitted to seek an apprenticeship there,” Mortain explained.
Mierta’s eyes grew wide. Things were beginning to make sense. He recalled when he was first welcomed into the magical community, his father had known about certain things that ordinary men wouldn’t. Mierta always assumed he had gained this knowledge serving at court, or maybe even from when his mother was still alive. But, if his father had actually participated in the Rite of Wands ceremony himself, then, that could only mean one thing.
Mierta took a deep breath before continuing to inquire. He had to know even if whatever answer he would receive would pain him. “Father,” Mierta said carefully, “are you trying to tell me you are a Magulia?”
Mortain did not respond.
“You are, aren’t you?” Mierta asked, furrowing his forehead. “What happened?”
Again, Mortain did not answer.
“Father, forgive me, I must break a rule and tell you something that I should not. Those people—it was in my Rite of Wands, too. I know I am going to die if I cannot stop the disease. I am afraid. I do not want to fail. Tell me, please, what happened to you,” Mierta confessed. When for a third time his father remained silent, Mierta lost his temper and shouted, “Tell me!”
Before Mortain could answer, another coughing fit overtook him and the feeling of something wet making contact with Mierta’s skin interrupted his concentration. Mierta gazed down to see a small glob of blood–tinged sputum lying on the top of his arm.
CARA FOREST—THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1260 CE
“YOUR MAJESTY, I strongly advise you to not go wandering off on your own!” Tierney had insisted after Déor unexpectedly announced he would be leaving the hunting party and heading into Cara Forest. He carried a white flag with the O’Connor family crest and a shield with a citrus tree in the middle. A knight’s helmet surrounded by green lace was positioned directly above the shield.
“Nae,” King Déor answered, brushing away a clump of his dark brown curly hair. He jumped down from his horse. “I must locate the young lady who is crying. She may be injured.”
“But, Your Majesty, no one is crying!” Aindrias maintained. He turned to Orlynd, who was accompanying them on horseback. He gestured with his hand. “Tell him, Orlynd.”
Orlynd was distracted by what sounded like a high–pitched moaning coming from the western side of the forest. The longer he focused on the crying, it became clearer that i
t wasn’t just crying, it was keening. Keening was a traditional form of vocal lament for the dead, often found in Iverna and Lorrina. The fact Déor could hear it too was most troubling, for the keening could be coming from a mythical spirit called the banshee. Only those families who were cursed could hear the banshee before either they were killed or someone close to them was killed.
“Orlynd?” questioned Tierney, Aindrias’s son, who had followed his father into the guard. “You’re a soothsayer. Did you hear anything? Anything at all? Orlynd?” Tierney waved his brown staff in Orlynd’s direction as he spoke.
Orlynd took in a deep breath, blinked, and lowered the hood of his brown robe. He cleared his throat. “Nae wahn is crying Yir Majesty,” he lied.
Suddenly one of the hounds found its prey’s trail again and let out a loud set of barks. “Take my horse and continue following the hounds,” Déor commanded. “I will meet with you both later.”
“Déor,” spoke Orlynd. “Be careful. Ah sense much misfortune.”
Déor smiled as he unsheathed his ever–trusty sword, Ruairí, and held it out near his side.
“Do not fear, my friend. I shall return safely soon.”
THE CRACKLING of fallen leaves and the snapping of broken twigs could be heard underneath King Déor’s feet as he wandered aimlessly through Cara Forest. The forest, which was normally full of bright red leaves for miles, was covered in a deep, misty fog. The hounds from the royal hunting party could be heard barking in the distance as they continued to search for their prey.
After a short time, Déor briefly saw the silhouette of a young woman in the fog but the figure quickly disappeared. “My lady, you should not be out here. It is not safe,” he said, carefully stepping across a small river. “Please, let me know where you are so I can help you!”
As he continued west towards the source of the crying, the louder the sound became. Soon, a woman with long silver hair appeared. She was dressed in a white gown that swirled in the grass around her feet, standing alone, with her back turned towards him.
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